Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bell above the door gave a small, bright jingle as Bruce Wayne stepped inside.

It wasn’t the kind of place he usually went into. The store was tucked neatly between a florist and a struggling bakery, wedged into a corner of Robinson Park that had always smelled faintly of damp earth and hot asphalt. 

The place was new. Jason had noticed the shop front on the corner of Fifth and Grant just a few weeks ago—“Jacksons' Books & Blue Cookies” painted in neat blue letters across the glass. 

Jason had been circling it in conversation for days, dropping the name like bait. “She’s supposed to be the real deal, B. Like, actually talented. Not just flash-in-the-pan bestseller talented. Everyone says she’s gonna blow up in a couple years.” He’d shrugged when Bruce glanced at him, but the look in his eyes had lingered, excited in a way that Jason rarely let slip anymore.

And then Jason hadn’t had time to go. Cases. Patrol. Nightmares. Another bruised night in Crime Alley.

Bruce couldn’t fix that. But maybe he could do this.

He glanced around the store, the warmth of it immediately unsettling him. Everything smelled faintly of cinnamon and paper, soft classical music drifting from hidden speakers. Shelves stretched high, each carefully labeled in handwritten calligraphy. Tucked away in a corner was a quaint little cafe area, with a variety of blue desserts on display. 

It was too…gentle for Gotham. Too bright. The wood floors had been polished, rugs scattered across the aisles. Someone had tried very hard to make this feel like a home, not just a storefront.

“Can I help you find something?”

The voice came from behind the counter. Bruce turned—and stilled.

The woman there was…unexpected.

Pretty, yes, in that rare, unguarded way that had nothing to do with glamour and everything to do with light in her eyes. Soft brown hair framed her face, loosely pulled back but with strands slipping free like they had better things to do than stay put. She was restocking a display table, moving with quiet efficiency, but when she looked up at him, she smiled like he was the first good thing to happen to her all day.

Genuine. That was the word. Gotham didn’t do genuine. But this woman did.

Bruce cleared his throat. “I’m…looking for something for my son.”

Her eyes softened. “How old?”

“Twenty-one.”

That surprised her—he saw the flicker of it across her face—but she nodded. “All right. Does he like to read?”

Bruce hesitated. Jason read like breathing. He’d devoured books as a kid, snatching whatever he could from library discard piles, old boxes on street corners, even the occasional neglected collection in an abandoned building. Bruce had tried—still tried—to keep up, but he always felt like he was three steps behind, like Jason’s hunger for stories was something he couldn’t quite feed.

“Yes,” Bruce said finally. “He does.”

“Good,” she said warmly, coming around the counter. She was shorter than him—almost everyone was—but she moved with a steady confidence, like she belonged here. She gestured toward a shelf. “Does he lean toward anything in particular? Fiction, non-fiction, fantasy?”

Bruce hesitated again. Jason’s reading was eclectic: Russian tragedies one week, pulpy detective novels the next. He was chasing something in every story, Bruce thought. Maybe himself. Maybe an answer no one had written yet.

“He likes…” Bruce wondered how to say this without embarrassing the clearly nice woman. “Well, he’s a huge fan of your books. I’m, uh, assuming you’re Sally Jackson?”

The smile she gave him shifted—flustered now, and almost shy. “Oh,” she said, her hand coming up automatically to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re very kind, but I don’t know about huge fan.”

Bruce inclined his head slightly, lips pressing into what, for him, was practically a smile. “That’s what he called it.”

Sally blinked, as though the words were a little too big to take in all at once. Then she laughed softly, the sound bright but not sharp. A laugh that landed gently and lingered for a second longer than it needed to. “Well. I suppose I can’t argue with that, can I?”

She motioned him to follow her, weaving between two tall shelves until they reached a low wooden case, its surface freshly polished. Neat stacks of thin books occupied the display, spines in shades of blue, green, and warm gold.

“I don’t usually put my own things front and center,” Sally admitted, crouching to straighten a pile.

Bruce studied the books. Seven titles. Two slim paperbacks stood alone, their covers adorned with whimsical illustrations—an old lighthouse, a train vanishing into a painted dusk. Beside them, five thinner volumes shared a more uniform style, each cover depicting three small, ordinary children standing in front of something impossibly large: a ship’s mast, a forest of towering pines, a cliffside with a single glimmering star overhead, a building on fire, a huge Greek statue…

“They’re short stories,” Sally explained, glancing up at him as if to apologize. “Written for middle grade readers. Well, the usual audience is pre-teens, at least. I try to write for kids with short attention spans or reading disabilities. Something easy to follow. But obviously, adults can read kids’ books too.”

Bruce crouched, scanning the titles. Jason had always liked things with weight—stories that knew life was messy and didn’t flinch from saying so. And he’d praised Ms. Jackson’s books for doing exactly that.

“I’ll take one of each,” Bruce said simply.

Her eyebrows rose. “All of them?”

“Yes. And—” he paused, then forced the words out before he could second-guess himself—“would you be willing to sign them?”

Sally’s expression wavered between delight and embarrassment. She pressed a hand lightly to her chest, laughing again but quieter this time. “Of course. I’d be happy to.” She stood and gestured toward the counter. “Come on, I’ve got a pen back there. Nothing fancy, I’m afraid. Just your standard blue ink.”

Blue. Bruce found the detail oddly fitting.

He followed her, watching as she pulled the stack gently into her arms. She carried them with care, like they mattered more than just words and paper. When she set them on the counter, she reached under it for a slim notebook and produced a pen.

“Does he…would he want his name in them?” she asked, pen poised delicately above the first title page.

Bruce hesitated. He could see Jason’s reaction already, sharp and defensive, too proud to admit he’d be touched. But underneath, yes—he would. He always did.

“Jason,” Bruce said softly. “His name is Jason.”

Sally nodded, her smile curving into something gentler now. She wrote quickly but with care, each signature accompanied by a small message. Keep reading, Jason. Every story is a doorway. Thank you for being a reader.

Bruce watched her hand move across the pages, the ink sinking into cream-colored paper. It struck him again how nice she was. Not performative nice. Not Gotham’s brittle politeness. But something warmer. Softer. It was too much for this city. Or maybe exactly what it needed, though Bruce doubted it would let her keep it.

Sally must be new here, he could tell. He dreaded seeing her light fizzle out. It wouldn’t. Not if Batman had any say in it.

When Sally finished, she capped the pen and slid the books carefully into a paper bag, folding the top twice to keep it secure. “There,” she said, offering it across the counter with both hands. “Tell Jason I said thank you. Really. Having someone read your work—and like it—it means more than people think.”

Bruce accepted the bag, his gloved hand brushing against hers for the briefest second. He nodded once. “I’ll tell him.”

Her smile lingered, and for a moment, Bruce felt something he hadn’t in a long time. Not ease, exactly, but the outline of it.

He cleared his throat, eyes flickering to the small cafe set up in a corner. “And…I’ll take a coffee. Black. To go.” He glanced toward the display case, where the blue cookies gleamed unnaturally cheerful under glass. “And two of those.”

Sally brightened. “Excellent choice. They’re our signature. Blueberry shortbread. My son’s recipe, actually.”

She moved around the counter with quick efficiency, pulling a steaming cup from the machine and slipping the cookies into a small white paper bag. The smell of warm sugar and butter mingled with the sharper scent of coffee, the combination strangely grounding.

Bruce paid—cash, crisp bills that Sally accepted without counting—and she slid everything across the counter with another smile.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr…?” she prompted.

He hesitated only a beat before saying, “Wayne. Bruce Wayne.”

Recognition flickered across her face, but it wasn’t the usual spark of greed or calculation he’d come to expect. Instead, it was simple surprise, followed quickly by something almost protective. “Well,” she said after a beat, her voice steady. “Even Gotham’s most famous citizen deserves a quiet afternoon with a good book.”

He inclined his head. “Maybe.”

She tilted hers, studying him for a moment as though she could see the weight he carried and had decided not to call him out on it. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Wayne. And of Jason, too.”

Something in Bruce tightened at that—an instinctive, quiet flinch. He gave a small nod and turned toward the door before the moment stretched too long.

The bell chimed again as he stepped back into Gotham’s gray light, the warmth of the shop replaced instantly by damp air and the faint smell of exhaust. He glanced once at the bag in his hand—five books, signed in blue ink, two ridiculous blue cookies, and coffee already cooling.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

And for Jason, sometimes something was the difference between silence and a smile.

The city air was damp, carrying the scent of rain and exhaust. But all Bruce could think about was the smell of coffee and ink, the way her voice had softened when she talked about her books, the unstudied kindness in her eyes.

He walked three blocks before he realized he was smiling.

And that—that—was dangerous.

Chapter Text

The city breathed around him.

Not the way Metropolis did—bright and steady, a song hummed in daylight. Not the way Central did, vibrating with electricity like a heartbeat. Gotham breathed in hisses and exhales, ragged and uneven, like a patient who’d long ago forgotten how to sleep without nightmares.

Batman stood on the edge of a rooftop and listened to it.

The comms were alive in his ear, his children’s voices overlapping. Dick was rambling about a new trapeze routine he wanted to try out using grapples and by jumping from Wayne Tower. Tim was countering that with the physics of rooftops and grappling hook distances and mass and weight. Stephanie’s laugh cut through, bright as it always was. Even Jason chimed in occasionally, gruff but not hostile, sparring with them the way he used to before the world cracked open beneath his feet. Damian called the plan idiotic. Cass didn’t speak, but Bruce knew she would be smiling under her mask. Tim said something about calling Duke because he’d back him up, and Babs cut in, telling the kids to let Duke get his sleep.

It was a slow night.

The city whispered beneath him, but it did not scream. Not yet.

He didn’t need to race across rooftops right now.

Bruce allowed himself a moment, scanning the streets with the kind of restless vigilance that had long ago become instinct. His gaze drifted—and caught.

The new storefront.

Jackson’s Books & Blue Cookies.

Even from here, he could see the painted navy letters, the warm light still spilling faintly from the upstairs windows. His eyes sharpened. The building was old brick, three stories, the top two clearly converted into an apartment. Windows open. Curtains drawn back. Vulnerabilities everywhere.

And yet—

He stilled, cape shifting around his boots as he stepped closer to the edge, narrowing his focus.

There.

Through the wide, square-pane second-floor window, he saw her. Sally Jackson sat on a worn couch, the fabric a faded blue that caught the lamplight like sea-glass. In her arms was a small girl, no older than five. Dark hair framed her face, and she clutched a stuffed dolphin like it was treasure. Sally bounced her gently, the soft motion carrying all the weight of comfort and routine.

Beside her stood a boy—no, a young man. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. Blonde curls fell messily across his forehead, and his eyes—bright blue, startling even from a distance—lit up with every smile he aimed at the little girl. He was saying something, grinning, coaxing smiles from both child and mother.

College. Bruce’s eyes tracked the words on his lips, piecing them together in silence. He was talking about college applications.

Beside them, sprawled across the far end of the couch, a pale boy slept, cocooned in a blanket that looked like it had been pulled straight from the dryer. His hair was black as pitch, his face slack with the kind of deep exhaustion Bruce knew too well.

It was… soft.

Too soft for Gotham.

Bruce felt it like a weight in his chest, unfamiliar and sharp. A domestic scene carved out against the skyline. The kind of thing he’d once thought he might have had, in another life. Before his parents… before all that.

The little girl squealed, wriggling as Sally shifted her to the blonde boy’s arms. He caught her easily, spinning her once before settling her carefully, his smile never faltering. Sally laughed, brushing her hair from her face, eyes crinkling at the corners with affection as she said something.

A family.

The thought pressed against him, heavy as armor and twice as cutting.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked automatically to the angles of the window. Exposed. Too exposed. Curtains wide open, an invitation to anyone who happened to look up. Or down. Gotham’s shadows were not kind. The city did not forgive softness, not when it saw a chance to ruin it.

Close the window, he thought. Please. Robinson Park isn’t as safe as you think.

But she didn’t. She was too busy smiling, too busy reaching over to tug the blanket more securely around the sleeping boy on the couch. Too busy living.

And he—he was too busy watching.

For a dangerous second, Bruce lingered. He let himself memorize the shape of the scene: the lamplight, the laughter, the fragile ease of it. He let himself imagine what it might feel like, just once, to step into a room like that. To sit on that couch, to be handed a cup of coffee still steaming, to listen to children bicker over homework instead of crime scenes.

What would it feel like, if he hadn’t let his babies into this godforsaken life? If he’d forced Dick into therapy instead of letting him be Robin? If he’d encouraged Jason to join theatre and go to college instead of training him? If he’d known about Tim’s neglectful parents and adopted him, if he’d stopped the Joker from breaking Duke’s parents, if he’d told Barbara’s father and Steph’s mother about their vigilante lifestyle and gotten them out of it? If he’d gotten Damian and Cass out of the League early enough that they could have a normal childhood—?

Something low and sharp twisted in his chest. It was all wishful thinking, though. He knew all too well that none of them would ever give up this life.

And it was all Bruce’s fault.

A burst of static snapped through his comms, cutting clean through the thought.

“Batman,” Oracle’s voice cracked, low and urgent. “Robbery in progress. Fifth National. Corner of Barrow and Edgeworth. Masked crew, armed, no known relation to any rogue. No casualties reported yet, but GCPD is six minutes out.”

Bruce blinked once, the vision before him dissolving into what it had always been: vulnerability. Exposure. Sally and her family were targets waiting for the city to notice them.

“I’m on it,” he answered, voice steady, already stepping back from the edge.

The curtains stayed open behind him, the warm square of lamplight receding into Gotham’s sprawl as he launched his grapple. The wind caught his cape, the city pulling him forward, and the pang in his chest sank deep where even he couldn’t touch it.

— — —

The cave was quiet when he returned.

That wasn’t unusual. The cave was always quiet—its silence deep enough to swallow sound whole, to make even the echoes of water dripping against rock feel insignificant. But tonight, the silence was sharper. Louder.

Bruce pulled the cowl back from his head, feeling the night’s weight loosen but not lift. He hung it carefully on its stand, peeled the gloves from his hands, and flexed his fingers. His body ached in the familiar ways, bruises settling beneath the armor, cuts stinging where adrenaline had worn thin. He’d had worse. Gotham had given him worse.

Tonight had been a breeze, really.

He glanced at the clock embedded in the stone. 3:27 a.m.

Which meant—he keyed into the cave’s logs—Dick was on his way back to Blüdhaven. Tim had returned to his Nest. Cass had signed off an hour ago with no further note, but was probably at the Clocktower with Babs as usual. Jason’s signal had blinked in and out, but now it sat steady in Crime Alley. Steph was back in her mother’s apartment, all alone. He quickly checked up on Bluebird, too—Harper Row and her brother were both safe in their home.

None of them under this roof.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. The manor had been too large even when it was just him and Alfred rattling through its halls. But now there were so many children he considered his. And when the family came together, it burst with life. But that happened so rarely.

He told himself it was a good thing. Independence. Growth. 

But he still felt a yearning. Most of his kids were too far to hold. Duke and Damian lived in the Manor for now, but… Bruce knew that Duke wanted to move out, get an apartment with his girlfriend, when he was older. Damian… Bruce wasn’t sure about his youngest, but how could he stop either of his boys from spreading their wings?

Jason would tell him he had Empty Nest Syndrome.

Bruce rubbed his forehead as he settled into the chair at the Batcomputer, the glow from the monitors spilling across his face like pale water. A pause. Then his fingers moved without thought, keying in a name.

Sally Jackson.

The cursor blinked at him. A soft, silent pulse.

Just for her safety.

He told himself that twice, then three times. Gotham was not safe. New thriving businesses drew attention, often the wrong kind. She had a child—no, three children, if both the boys were hers. Vulnerabilities everywhere.

His hand hovered over the enter key.

Dinah’s voice cut across the silence like a blade. “Bruce. You don’t get to stalk people just because you’re curious. If their lives aren’t in danger, if they’re not a threat—you leave them alone. That’s not vigilance. That’s compulsion. And you don’t get to use the mask as an excuse for that.”

His scowl deepened.

She’d said it during their last therapy session, eyes steady, voice firm in a way that reminded him of Selina on her sharpest days. He’d brushed it off then. He didn’t stalk people. He protected. He prepared. He anticipated the dangers no one else saw.

But the words lingered.

Was Ms. Jackson in danger? No. Not immediately. 

Was she a threat? No. The opposite.

He could hear Dinah’s sigh already, could see the arch of her brow when he tried to explain that he was only running a background check. Only making sure.

His fingers lifted from the keyboard.

A long breath slipped through his nose. He leaned back in the chair, eyes narrowing against the flicker of monitors. He didn’t hit enter.

However.

He keyed into the city’s traffic feed instead, fingers tapping out a command sequence he knew by heart. Camera by camera, street by street, he built a map in his head. Robinson Park. Fifth and Grant. The florist. The bakery. And there—Jackson’s Books & Blue Cookies.

A neat cluster of lenses angled toward the storefront.

Bruce worked quickly, efficiently. He rerouted permissions, secured administrative priority. In under a minute, he had unobstructed access. He could see every inch of sidewalk, every doorway shadow, every late-night pedestrian who lingered too long outside her windows.

It wasn’t… stalking, really. At least, not by a Bat’s definition.

It was protection.

If anyone tried to hurt her, if Gotham noticed her softness and decided to break it—he would know. He would be ready.

He told himself that again as he locked the feed into a secure subfolder, disguised beneath layers of code no one else in the family would notice unless they were looking very closely.

Not stalking. Protecting.

Bruce’s eyes lingered on the darkened windows of the shop, the faint reflection of the streetlamp across the glass. The apartment above was dark now too, curtains still open but no figures moving behind them. The lamp inside had been turned off. The family—her family—was asleep.

Safe.

For now.

The sound of footsteps cut into the silence.

Bruce’s spine straightened automatically, instinct bristling. But the pattern was too familiar to mistake. Alfred.

Bruce’s hands moved fast, shutting down the feeds with the speed of a child caught sneaking sweets at midnight. The screens flicked blank, the glow cutting out until only one monitor remained, open to a neutral Gotham map.

By the time Alfred descended the final step, Bruce was sitting in the chair with perfect stillness, gauntlets folded neatly on the desk.

Alfred’s gaze swept the cavern, then landed on him. His expression was calm, unreadable to most—but Bruce had grown up under that gaze. He knew better.

“Do you plan on sleeping this week?” Alfred asked mildly.

“Just checking some files,” Bruce replied, voice gruff.

Alfred hummed softly. “I assume,” he said at last, “that whatever you were not doing on the Batcomputer before I came down is not something we need to have a conversation about tonight?”

Bruce kept his face still. Years of training had honed his expression into something nearly unbreakable. Nearly.

“Of course not,” he said evenly.

“Mm.” Alfred’s lip quirked just slightly, like he was amused. “Good. Then, I suggest you take the same advice you give Master Timothy and get some rest.”

Bruce grunted in reply.

Chapter Text

The first thing Sally noticed when she woke wasn’t the sunlight pooling weakly through the half-drawn curtains, or the faint chill that seeped through the thin Gotham windows. It was voices.

Bickering voices.

Sally pressed a hand to her eyes, smiling even before she sat up. Of course. Only Nico di Angelo and Will Solace could manage to bicker lovingly like some 90-year-old couple at 19. (Though, did Nico really count as a 19-year-old?) 

She reached for her robe, sliding her arms through soft cotton, and padded toward the kitchen.

The apartment smelled of butter and batter, the air warm from the stove. Will stood at the counter in his usual golden-boy brightness, hair sticking out at odd angles from sleep but expression already alight with enthusiasm. A pan sizzled under his hand as he flipped a pancake in a practiced motion.

Across from him, Nico sat at the table with Estelle perched on a booster chair. His dark hair hung forward as he carefully divided her hair into sections, nimble fingers moving with more precision than she’d ever expect from a boy who claimed to hate “normal domestic things.”

“You don’t understand hair, Will,” Nico said, with the gravitas of someone discussing international policy. “A french braid suits her best. It’s pretty and it’s regal.”

Will rolled his eyes so hard Sally was surprised they didn’t tumble out of his head. “It’s not ridiculous to want her to look fun. We could do pigtails, or a cute little bun. Add some ribbons. She’s five, she’s supposed to have fun.”

Estelle, for her part, was blissfully ignoring both. She spooned blueberry yogurt into her mouth with sticky fingers, smearing some across her cheek.

Sally lingered a moment at the doorway, warmth rising in her chest. For so long she had lived in places where breakfast was hurried, tense, where quiet felt safer than laughter. Especially those earlier years, when Percy was growing up, with Gabe… Things were so much better with Paul, but now the Fates had ripped him away, too.

It had been a rough two years.

But now, seeing her baby daughter at a table between these two boys—young men, really, but they’d always be boys to her—arguing over braids and pancakes, was enough to make her throat tighten.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she said softly, stepping into the kitchen.

Both heads turned. Will grinned instantly, bright as Apollo’s chariot itself. Nico, predictably, ducked his head and muttered something incoherent, as though caught committing a crime.

“We’re just making breakfast, Sally,” Will said cheerfully, flipping another pancake. “You’re letting us stay here, the least we can do is—”

“Oh, none of that,” Sally interrupted with a wave of her hand. “You’re family. You’ll always have a place with us.”

She bent down to kiss Estelle’s soft curls, then brushed the yogurt from her cheek with her thumb. Estelle giggled and reached for her mother’s face with yogurt-sticky hands, and Sally laughed, dodging just in time. “Mama! Hi.”

“Hi, baby.” She pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead before straightening and turning to Nico.

He looked as though he wanted to vanish into shadow the moment she moved toward him, but he didn’t resist when she leaned down, folded him into a hug, and pressed a kiss into his dark hair. She felt his breath catch, the faintest shiver, before his body went still. A moment later, he leaned—just barely—into the touch.

Sally smiled as she pulled back.

Just a few years ago Nico used to be so small, so touch-starved. Now he was… growing. Accepting that he had a family that loved him.

Then she reached for Will, who hugged her warmly and easily, as though he’d been a part of her kitchen his whole life.

“It’s dangerous, you know,” Nico muttered as she settled into the chair beside Estelle. His dark eyes flicked toward the curtained window, then back. “This city. I can feel it. All the souls are weary. On the edge. How have you stayed here for a month? This is no place for a mortal.”

The casual intensity of his words didn’t surprise her. Nico always carried that weight, that sense of shadows pressing in. Sally folded her hands on the table.

“I haven’t been alone,” she answered. “Apollo dropped by almost every day. Artemis sent a few Hunters to keep watch, too, at least until Annabeth and Percy could manage a break from university.”

Will nearly dropped his spatula. “Wait—my dad came here? Personally? To Gotham? We picked this city for college specifically because gods and monsters don’t like to interfere here.”

Sally tilted her head. “He was weaker here, yes. But he came anyway. He wanted to be sure Stella and I were safe.”

“Of course he did,” Nico said dryly, tugging another curl into the braid. “No one can resist your enchiladas.” He poked Estelle’s cheek, letting himself smile at the girl. “Or your stupid puppy eyes.”

Estelle giggled. “I like ‘pollo.”

“Of course you do,” Nico almost cooed.

Nico di Angelo. Baby-talking. Sally wished she could take a photo of that and send it to Percy and Annabeth.

Will placed the first plate of pancakes in front of Estelle, who clapped her hands. Nico tied off the braid neatly, patting her head with a faintly awkward affection.

Sally glanced at Nico then, letting her mother’s instinct sharpen her voice. “Oh, by the way—don’t think I didn’t notice how you arrived last night.”

Nico froze.

“You shadow-traveled here,” Sally continued, “from camp. With Will. And your bags.”

Will set down the spatula with a loud clatter. “That’s exactly what I said!”

Nico rolled his eyes, cheeks coloring faintly. “It was fine. We made it.”

“It was not fine,” Sally countered gently, though her tone brooked no argument. “You’re welcome to come any time, you know that, but don’t risk yourself like that. Shadow-traveling is exhausting. You were asleep for eleven hours.”

“I’ve gotten a lot better at it,” Nico argued. “So I have to keep practising and I’ll get even better.”

“No shadow travelling while you’re in college,” Sally told him in her Mom voice, the one that made even Annabeth listen to her.

Will nodded emphatically, as though Sally had just voiced his own private frustrations. “Thank you. Finally someone agrees with me.”

Nico waved them both off with a scowl, clearly not eager to be double-teamed. “I’m here now. That’s what matters.” He shifted the topic with practiced ease. “How’s the bookstore doing?”

Sally sighed, then smiled faintly. “Better than I expected, given Gotham. The regulars have been nice, and the cookie recipes have been a bigger draw than I imagined. I think people like a place that feels warm.”

“Of course they do,” Will said, pouring another ladle of batter into the pan. “You’re the warmest person I know. Besides my dad and my mom, I mean.”

“Flattery,” Sally teased, but her chest warmed at his sincerity.

The conversation wandered after that, weaving through ordinary things—college classes, camp stories, Estelle’s insistence that Nico needed to do her doll’s hair too. Sally soaked in the sound of them, the little community that had formed around her table.

And yet, under it all, she felt that same tug of unease Nico had voiced. Gotham pressed differently than New York. It wasn’t just crime, though the sirens outside their window spoke of plenty of that. It was a heaviness, a weight in the air that settled into bones.

She had lived through gods and titans and wars. She had seen what no mortal should. But Gotham was something else entirely.

Still, she looked at her daughter laughing as Will shaped a pancake into a lopsided heart. At Nico leaning back, pretending he wasn’t pleased that Estelle loved being around him. At Will pretending not to notice Nico’s smile.

And she thought: this, for now, was enough.

— — —

Bruce stood outside Jason’s apartment door for a full minute before knocking. His hand hovered, dropped, hovered again. Ridiculous. He’d faced metas, madmen, armies, even gods—but the thought of knocking on his son’s door left him paralyzed.

Jason had been more open to the family in these last two years, he’d been slowly growing more comfortable, but Bruce still felt that sharp, cutting anxiety.

Because if Jason didn’t open it, if Jason turned him away—? Bruce wasn’t sure he could withstand that kind of rejection, not again.

Finally, he forced his knuckles to rap twice against the wood. The sound was softer than he intended, betraying his nerves.

There was a muffled rustle, then the door swung open. Jason stood there in sweatpants and a wrinkled t-shirt, hair sticking out in every direction. He squinted at Bruce like the light itself had offended him.

“What do you want,” Jason muttered, voice gravelly with sleep.

Bruce nearly stepped back. He caught himself, steadied his breathing. He could hear something faint from inside—music? No. A child’s voice, high-pitched and sing-song, from the television. He recognized the cadence after a moment. Cocomelon.

Which meant Roy and Lian were here.

Bruce straightened, held out the package in his hand. Neatly wrapped, ribbon tied. He’d spent an hour making sure it looked perfect. His palms were too warm against the paper. “I brought you something.”

Jason blinked, his eyes narrowing in confusion. For a second, Bruce thought he might shut the door in his face. Then Jason sighed, rubbing at his temple, and stepped aside.

“I’m making breakfast,” he said. His voice was casual, but not unfriendly. “If you wanna. You know. Eat.”

Bruce’s chest loosened with quiet relief. He allowed himself the smallest smile. “Thank you.”

He stepped into the apartment.

It smelled faintly of coffee, laundry, and pancake batter. The couch faced the TV, where Lian sat cross-legged with her stuffed rabbit clutched in one arm, utterly transfixed by the bright colors on the screen. Her tiny mouth moved as she sang along to the tune.

Jason walked past her, reached out to ruffle her hair. “Hey, trouble. Grandpa Bruce is here. Say hi.”

Bruce froze, the word landing with unexpected force. Grandpa. He hadn’t expected—hadn’t dared hope—that Jason would ever attach him to a title like that.

Lian twisted in her seat, eyes wide. She was still small enough that every adult seemed impossibly tall to her. “Hi!” she chirped.

Bruce crouched slightly, softening his voice. “Hello, Lian.” His heart melted in a way that battles and missions never prepared him for.

The sound of running water drifted from the bathroom down the hall. Roy must be in the shower. On the counter sat a mixing bowl half-filled with batter, whisk abandoned mid-stir.

Jason set the gift down on the table, then glanced back at Bruce. “You want coffee? Or are you gonna stand there looking like you wandered into the wrong house?”

“Coffee’s fine,” Bruce said. He tried to keep his tone even, but there was a faint tremor of amusement.

Jason poured him a mug and slid it across the counter, then lingered over the package. He tapped it once with his thumb. “You want me to open it now?”

“If you’d like.”

Jason hesitated, then tore into the paper with rough fingers. When the last of the wrapping fell away, he stilled.

Inside lay a boxed collection of books—Sally Jackson’s entire bibliography, hardbound, each one signed. And on the inside of one cover he found a note—

“Keep reading, Jason. Every story is a doorway. Thank you for being a reader. –S. Jackson.”

For a long time he said nothing. His eyes moved over the neat signature, the curve of the handwriting. He swallowed once, harshly, before glancing back at Bruce.

“Why am I getting a present?” he asked, voice breaking.

Bruce shifted his weight, hands folding behind his back in habit. He wanted to say a hundred things. I’m sorry. I missed too much. I don’t deserve to give you anything, not after what I took. Instead, he said the truth he could manage.

“I know you wanted these,” Bruce said quietly. “But you never had the time. I thought… it was something I could do.”

Silence stretched, filled only by Cocomelon’s obnoxiously cheerful sounds in the background.

Then Jason set the books carefully aside and stepped forward. Before Bruce could brace himself, Jason pulled him into a hug.

It wasn’t long. It wasn’t gentle, either. Jason’s arms wrapped around him with a tight, almost desperate strength, as though he’d regret it if he let it linger too long.

Bruce closed his eyes, let the contact burn into him. His hand rose halfway, settled on Jason’s back.

Then it was over. Jason pulled away, muttered, “Sit down,” and turned back to the stove.

Bruce obeyed. His chest ached in ways that had nothing to do with age.

The bathroom door opened a moment later. Roy emerged with damp hair, towel slung around his neck, already dressed in a fresh t-shirt and jeans. He leaned down to kiss Lian’s head before noticing Bruce.

“Well, look who’s here,” Roy said, grin crooked but not unkind. “Morning, Bruce.”

“Roy,” Bruce acknowledged.

“Coffee?” Roy asked.

“I already made him one,” Jason called from the kitchen.

“I meant for me, babe.” He flopped onto the couch beside Lian, who immediately clambered into his lap without taking her eyes off the TV.

Bruce sat back, letting the domesticity of it wash over him. Jason at the stove, Roy on the couch, Lian humming along with her cartoon. It was a life Bruce never imagined his son would carve out for himself. Something fragile, warm. Human.

Jason plated the pancakes a few minutes later. He set one stack in front of Roy, another before Lian, then placed two plates at the table—one for himself, one for Bruce.

“It’s not Alfred’s,” Jason murmured as he sat. “But. Well. Deal with it.”

Bruce looked down at the slightly uneven stack of pancakes, golden with a few darker spots. It might as well have been a banquet.

“It’s perfect,” Bruce replied, voice warm.

Chapter Text

Bruce wasn’t entirely sure when his car had made the turn, or when his hands had decided to steer him away from Bristol and down toward Robinson Park. His day had been uncharacteristically free of emergencies—no alarms from the Cave, no urgent signals from the League, no meetings at WE. It was rare, almost unnatural, for Gotham to leave him unneeded for even a few hours.

Maybe it was some good karma for starting out the day with Jason.

He’d told himself he was going to use the time to rest. Maybe sleep. Maybe even catch up on the paperwork Lucius had been pestering him about. Instead, here he was—pulling up to a storefront that had nothing to do with crime, or business, or duty.

The blue lettering across the window glowed faintly in the grey-tinted morning light. Jacksons’ Books & Blue Cookies.

It was ridiculous. He knew that. He shouldn’t be here. He wasn’t the kind of man who strolled into bookstores for leisure. He wasn’t the kind of man who dropped by to see someone just because he… wanted to.

But he remembered the way Sally Jackson had smiled at him last time—genuine, unguarded—and the thought of that smile had been enough to push him through the door again.

The bell above the frame jingled softly as he stepped inside.

The warmth hit him first. Not just the temperature—though the air was thick with the gentle heat of ovens running somewhere in the back—but the feel of the place. Laughter mingled with the quiet murmur of voices. Shelves stood tall, lined with spines in every color, some well-loved, some crisp and new. Rugs softened the floor, muffling footsteps, and couches in the corner sagged under the weight of middle schoolers curled with books.

Families sat in the café, children swinging their legs as they nibbled on cookies dyed a startling blue. Parents leaned against the counter, sipping coffee and chatting in low tones. It was busy, but not chaotic. The place carried a hum, a steady life-force that was entirely foreign to Gotham.

For a moment, Bruce just stood at the threshold, absorbing it.

Then a Southern-tinted voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Hey there. Need help finding something?”

Bruce turned.

The blond boy from the apartment—blue eyes bright, smile easy—was stacking books on a display near the entrance. Today, he wore a faded Lil Nas X hoodie and jeans that had paint stains across the knees. His arms balanced a small tower of hardcovers effortlessly, and he didn’t look remotely bothered to be a working teenager.

Bruce inclined his head. “No. I was… mostly here for the coffee. And the cookies.”

The boy’s grin widened. “Good choice. You lucked out—Sally’s in the kitchen right now finishing a new batch. You’ll get them straight out of the oven.” He slid the last book onto the shelf, dusted his hands on his jeans. “Want something to read while you wait? That’s kind of the point here.”

Bruce hesitated. He hadn’t planned on staying long. But the boy’s open expression disarmed him, the same way Sally’s had. “Anything,” Bruce said. “Your choice.”

The boy didn’t hesitate. He reached behind him, plucked a worn copy from a stack. “Here. ‘Wuthering Heights.’ Haven’t read it myself—I’m dyslexic, and that’s a lot of words—but I’ve got a buddy who loves that book.”

Bruce blinked at the book in his hand.

“…Thank you,” he said at last.

The boy nodded cheerfully and turned back to his shelving.

Bruce drifted toward the café counter. The smell of coffee was richer here, mixing with the faint sweetness of sugar and something that might have been cinnamon.

The boy behind the counter—dark-haired, pale, sharp-eyed—looked up as Bruce approached. He recognized him instantly from that rooftop glimpse: the one who had been curled on the couch, now upright, dressed in black from hoodie to boots.

“What’ll it be?” the boy asked, voice flat but not unfriendly.

“Black coffee,” Bruce replied.

The boy moved with quiet efficiency, pouring the drink and sliding it across without small talk. His hands were deft, precise, like he’d done this a thousand times. There was a weight to his gaze, an awareness that felt sharper than Sally or the blond’s. Something more expected in Gotham.

Bruce accepted the cup with a nod. “Thank you.”

The boy gave no reply, just turned back to wiping down the counter.

Bruce found a corner table near the window, set the novel beside him, and sipped his coffee. It was stronger than he expected. He let the bitterness settle on his tongue, grounding him as he opened the book.

He didn’t read much—just a few paragraphs, enough to let the rhythm of the prose wash over him—but it was strangely calming. He almost forgot where he was until the kitchen door swung open.

Sally Jackson stepped out, balancing two trays heavy with cookies. The smell hit the room like a wave: warm sugar, butter, and the faint tang of food coloring that somehow didn’t ruin it.

Children immediately perked up, parents nudging them toward the display case. Sally’s smile was radiant as she slid the trays into place, answering questions, promising everyone would get some.

Bruce found himself smiling too, unguarded. He hadn’t meant to.

The dark-haired boy slipped into the back room silently, leaving her to the front.

When the children had dispersed, Bruce stood, and crossed the room.

“Hello again,” he said.

Sally glanced up, recognition lighting her face. “Mr. Wayne. You came back.”

“Jason appreciated the books,” Bruce said. He hesitated, then added, “And my youngest, Damian, he liked the cookies. Enough that I came to buy more.”

Sally laughed lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, if Damian liked them, I must be doing something right. Kids can be brutally honest.”

“They are,” Bruce agreed. A corner of his mouth tugged upward.

Bruce’s gaze drifted toward the blond boy, who was crouched on the rug chatting animatedly with a group of younger kids.

“Is he yours?” Bruce asked before he could stop himself.

She laughed again, shaking her head. “No. That’s Will. The dark-haired one you saw earlier—Nico—is mine. Will’s his boyfriend. They’re staying with me while they start college here.”

Bruce absorbed that quietly. His detective’s instincts filed the information away even as something gentler in him relaxed.

“I do have three more children, though,” Sally went on easily. “Percy—he’s my oldest. Tyson, my second. And my baby, Estelle. Four, if you count Annabeth, Percy’s girlfriend. I do. Rachel and Meg, they don't count themselves as mine, but they’re both family.” Her eyes softened in a way that told Bruce she meant every word.

He found himself… relaxing. Truly relaxing, for the first time in days. Talking about children, about family, in the middle of a bookstore that smelled like sugar and safety—it chipped away at something inside him.

“I have more children as well,” Bruce admitted. His voice was low, cautious. “Six, officially, and more who have bedrooms in the house. They don’t all live with me anymore, but… they’re mine.”

Sally’s smile widened. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

“I do,” Bruce said simply. He didn’t add that his children were scattered across rooftops at night, or that most of them carried scars deeper than flesh. He didn’t need to.

For a moment, it felt like a normal conversation. Two parents, chatting about their kids in a café.

But even as warmth spread through him, another part of Bruce tensed. She was too open. Too trusting. She didn’t know him—didn’t know Gotham—and yet here she was, sharing details of her life with a near stranger.

It was dangerous. Reckless. He wanted to tell her to stop, to draw the curtains, to lock the doors. To guard herself the way he guarded everyone he loved.

Instead, he swallowed the words.

Sally slid a bag of cookies into his hands, the warmth of the package seeping into his palms. “Here you go. Fresh from the oven. Tell Damian I said thank you for being such a good taste-tester.”

Bruce inclined his head. “I will.”

Their eyes met for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he stepped back, nodded once more, and left.

The bell jingled behind him, swallowed quickly by Gotham’s ever-present hum.

— — —

Bruce returned two days later, on a slow morning.

The storefront looked the same as always—blue-painted trim around the windows, the hand-painted sign above the door, and the faint trace of sugar drifting through the cracks. A place that seemed immune to Gotham’s gray skies, standing as though it belonged somewhere far from here. Somewhere warmer. Somewhere kinder.

He told himself the only reason he came back was because he had an hour between meetings. Alfred would call it an indulgence. Dick would tease him. Jason—Jason would probably roll his eyes and say something sharp about Bruce stalking some poor lady because he didn’t know what else to do with himself.

And maybe they’d all be right.

The little bell chimed when he stepped in.

This time the blond boy wasn’t there. Neither was the pale, dark-haired one. Bruce noticed immediately—he’d grown used to cataloging details, filing away absences and presences like pieces on a chessboard. No boys stacking books, no one at the espresso machine. Only Sally behind the counter, scribbling away in a notebook.

And on the couch near the back, a little girl sat curled up with an iPad almost too big for her. Cartoon voices filtered faintly from the speakers, and Bruce figured she must be Estelle, the “baby” Sally had mentioned. She looked four, maybe five. Small, with a mop of dark brown hair. She giggled at whatever was on screen and reached for a half-eaten cookie beside her.

Bruce turned his gaze away before the sight could soften him too much.

He stepped up to the counter. Sally looked up, and her smile widened. Not the polite, restrained sort she gave strangers. Something warmer. Familiar.

He almost forgot how to breathe.

“Back again?” she asked, her tone easy, light, like they’d known each other longer than three chance meetings.

Bruce managed a nod. “Coffee.” He hesitated. “Black.”

“Of course.” She reached for a mug.

For a moment he let himself watch the way she moved—efficient, unhurried, the faint blue smudge of flour still on her apron. The picture of someone who lived in rhythm with her own pace, untouched by Gotham’s constant, frantic heartbeat.

And then, before he could stop himself, he asked: “Would you… like to have one with me?”

The words surprised even him. Too abrupt. Too raw. He hadn’t meant to say them aloud.

Sally froze, then let out a soft laugh. “Are you buying me a coffee in my own café?”

Bruce blinked. The corner of his mouth twitched. “That… wasn’t very well thought out, was it?”

She tilted her head, smiling with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “Not really.”

He cleared his throat, stepped back, recalibrating. “Sorry. I meant—” He almost aborted the thought, but years of combat taught him once you committed, you didn’t retreat halfway. “—dinner. Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”

That wiped the smile right off her face.

It wasn’t rejection, not immediately. More like hesitation. Her lips parted, then pressed together. A flicker of something passed across her eyes—uncertainty, guilt. Bruce’s trained instincts cataloged it all in a split second. He knew when someone was weighing choices. When someone was remembering someone else.

He wondered if it was a husband she’d never mentioned. The father of her children.

He almost took it back. Almost told her to forget it, that he shouldn’t have asked.

But then Sally exhaled, slow and steady, like she’d reached a decision. “Okay.”

The word hung in the air, delicate and surprising.

Bruce’s chest loosened just slightly. “Tonight?” he asked, careful, measured.

She gave a small, rueful smile. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

“No,” Bruce admitted. Time was something he’d learned never to waste. He’d already impulsively asked her out, so why not go all in?

She glanced toward Estelle, who was now happily singing along with the cartoon. “I’m sure the boys would babysit her. So, yeah. Tonight could work.”

“Where would you like to go?”

Sally shook her head quickly. “Nothing fancy. I don’t do well with too much… glitter.”

Bruce inclined his head. “Something simple, then. I’ll show you around Gotham.”

For the first time, he saw her eyes brighten with a touch of curiosity rather than guardedness. “You sound like a tour guide.”

“Just someone who knows the city,” Bruce said quietly.

Someone who belonged to it. Someone who couldn’t leave it behind, no matter how often he tried.

He set money on the counter for his coffee, refusing to let her wave him off. Then he added a small box of cookies, because Damian would expect them now, though the boy would never admit it. And then, of course, they exchanged phone numbers.

As Sally rang him up, he found himself asking—silently, inwardly—why he was doing this.

Why he kept driving across the city just to step into this bookstore. Why he asked questions about her family. Why the warmth in her smile made him forget, for a fleeting second, the ache that had lived inside him for decades.

Why he felt like a man who had stumbled onto something fragile, something he didn’t deserve, and couldn’t stay away from.

When he finally left the shop, the cup warm in his hand, Bruce still couldn’t answer his own question.

Chapter Text

Bruce had always been good at keeping secrets. He had trained himself to partition entire parts of his life away from the world, to mask intent, to build layers upon layers of walls. 

Tonight felt no different. 

He had left Wayne Manor without a word to Alfred or the kids, though Alfred’s sharp gaze had followed him as he’d grabbed his keys. Bruce didn’t need to hear the inevitable, knowing comment: “You look rather underdressed for a board meeting, Master Bruce.”

It wasn’t shame that made him conceal it. Not really. It was… preservation. This was something he wanted to hold close for a little while, something untouched by the noise of Gotham, of tabloids, of crime reports and the endless, heavy mantle of the cowl. He wanted one evening where he wasn’t Batman or even Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy. He wanted to be just a man, sitting across from someone who made him want to breathe a little deeper.

He had spent nearly two hours researching restaurants—a fact that embarrassed him even as he admitted it to himself. Alfred could have chosen in ten minutes. Dick would have told him to stop overthinking. But Bruce needed to get this right. Sally deserved comfort, not spectacle. Warmth, not press coverage.

The pizzeria on the pier had been his solution. It was small, family-owned, casual but not cheap. The scent of garlic and baked dough hanging in the sea air, carried by the breeze off the bay. Bruce had gone there once before, years ago, with Dick and Tim; he’d never forgotten the thin-crust Margherita pizza. It was the opposite of the high-rise rooftop dining Bristol was famous for, and that was precisely the point.

Now, as he parked along the curb outside Jacksons’ Books & Blue Cookies, his nerves surprised him. He tugged at the cuff of his jacket, adjusted the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. He had chosen black jeans, a plain white shirt, a leather jacket—not Bruce Wayne’s tailored armor. He looked like any man, which was exactly what he wanted.

He couldn’t have any paparazzi spotting them tonight.

He texted her—I’m outside—and then leaned back against the driver’s seat, waiting.

When the shop door swung open, he forgot how to think.

Sally stepped out, the early evening sun catching strands of her hair, which she had let down tonight. She wore jeans, a teal turtleneck, simple earrings. Nothing ostentatious, nothing designed to impress, but she still looked radiant. Effortless, grounded, wholly herself. And Bruce, who had seen goddesses and demons and everything between, thought she looked like the most arresting thing in Gotham.

He got out quickly, moving around the car to greet her. “You look like a goddess,” he said before he could stop himself.

Color rose to her cheeks. She laughed, shaking her head as though brushing the words aside, but her eyes softened. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

Bruce gave a half-smile, faint but genuine, and opened the passenger door for her. She slid in, tucking her purse onto her lap. For a moment Bruce stood there, steadying himself. He had fought assassins and negotiated with billionaires, but his pulse had rarely raced quite like this.

He circled back to the driver’s side and got in. The engine hummed to life, and they pulled into the slow evening traffic.

For several minutes, neither of them spoke. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence—more like the pause before a conversation, a space to breathe. The city passed by in fractured snapshots: neon signs flickering on, streetlights buzzing awake, people heading home or heading out. Bruce found himself hyperaware of the small details—her fingers brushing against the seatbelt, the faint scent of caramel when she shifted, the way her gaze lingered out the window like she was memorizing the city.

Finally, Sally broke the quiet. “So… where are we going?”

“A place on the pier,” Bruce said. “Good pizza. Comfortable. Nothing flashy.”

“That sounds perfect,” she said, with such simple sincerity that he felt tension ease from his shoulders.

“You haven’t been to the pier yet?”

“Not really.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Between the store and Estelle, I don’t get much free time.”

Bruce nodded. He wanted to ask more, but forced himself not to dig too deep, too fast. Tonight wasn’t about interrogation. Tonight wasn’t about data.

The drive took fifteen minutes, long enough for the city to soften into the bay’s quieter rhythm. The pier lights glowed in the dusk, reflecting off the rippling water. The smell of salt mingled with cooking food from clustered restaurants. Bruce parked near the pizzeria and offered his hand automatically as Sally stepped out. She accepted, her palm warm against his.

Inside, the place was already half-full—families with kids, couples leaning close over wine, a group of college students splitting a large pie. No one gave them a second glance, which Bruce counted as a victory. The sunglasses and casual clothes were doing their job.

They were shown to a booth near the window. Sally slid in first, Bruce following. A small candle flickered between them, its flame bending every time the door opened.

The waitress handed them menus, but Bruce barely looked at his. He remembered the options. He was more interested in the way Sally studied hers, her brow faintly furrowed in concentration.

“There's so many options,” she said after a moment, lips tugging in a small smile. “What's your favorite?”

Bruce almost chuckled. “Margherita.”

“Of course.” She smiled. “Simple and perfect.”

They placed their order and, once the waitress left, silence settled again. Bruce found himself searching for words, but they came slowly. He was not a man who revealed himself easily.

Sally saved him the effort. “So, Mr. Wayne. Or do you prefer Bruce, when you’re not wearing a suit?”

“Bruce,” he said.

“Alright, Bruce. Tell me—what made you pick pizza for a first date?”

He hesitated, then answered honestly. “Because it’s… nice. Because I’ve spent too many dinners at places where the food is more about presentation than taste. I didn’t want that tonight.”

Her expression softened. “That’s… surprisingly thoughtful.”

“I try.”

“Do you?” she teased lightly, her eyes glinting.

Bruce met her gaze and, for once, allowed the smallest, almost boyish grin. “Sometimes.”

The pizzas arrived, and conversation grew easier between bites. She told him stories of the bookstore, of Estelle’s habit of sneaking cookies when she thought no one was looking, of how her son Percy and his girlfriend Annabeth were coming over in a few months. Bruce shared little pieces about his children—cautious, careful, but enough to make her laugh. He spoke of Damian’s newfound obsession with the blue cookies, of Dick’s tendency to hog the remote, of Jason’s dry sense of humor. He didn’t say Batfamily, didn’t say mission. He didn’t have to.

It was just… them.

By the time they finished, the candle had nearly burned out, and outside, the pier lights shimmered against the water.

Bruce realized he hadn’t thought of patrol, of the cave, of anything but this for the past two hours. And that, perhaps, was the rarest gift of all.

— — —

The evening air was cool as they stepped out of the pizzeria, the kind of breeze that carried the briny tang of the harbor and the faint clatter of rigging against masts. Gotham Harbor looked softer here, less sharp than the rest of the city. The pier stretched out under strings of warm lights that flickered lazily in the dusk, and people strolled along in couples and families, laughing, stopping for photographs, or feeding bits of bread to gulls that swooped and cawed above.

Sally found herself smiling without realizing it.

They weren’t walking hand-in-hand—though once or twice their shoulders brushed, and the small, accidental touch sent a little warmth curling through her. She hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected to want that.

Bruce was talking in that calm, steady way of his, explaining something about the layout of the harbor. “This part of Gotham Harbor is safer than most,” he said, his deep voice rolling like the tide itself. “It’s more commercial. Less turf wars. My son lived here for a while—by the water. In a boathouse. Just a few miles up the road.”

Sally tilted her head at him, her interest piqued. “Really? That sounds… nice. I would have thought city life doesn’t allow for that sort of thing.”

A faint smile crossed his face, so subtle she might have missed it if she hadn’t been watching him carefully. “It wasn’t perfect. Gotham never is. But it gave him space. And he needed that.”

The gentleness in his tone struck her. She didn’t know this son’s name, didn’t know his story, but she could hear the undercurrent of care, of concern. Bruce Wayne might be a billionaire, might have the kind of reputation tabloids never tired of chewing on, but there was something about the way he talked about his children. It wasn’t detached. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was real.

Sally tucked her hands into her pockets as they walked, trying to steady the swirl of emotions inside her. Guilt, hesitation, warmth, hope. She hadn’t been on a date since Paul. Hadn’t wanted to be. Two years had passed, and she had thought herself content to let life move quietly forward.

But grief didn’t disappear. It lingered. Paul’s absence was a dull ache stitched into her ribs, one she’d learned to live around. She knew—she truly believed—that Paul would have wanted her to move on eventually. He had been good, steady, kind. He wouldn’t have wanted her to trap herself in the past.

Nico had told her once, in that quiet, blunt way of his, that Paul’s spirit had passed on to rebirth. That he was gone from the Underworld, gone to whatever life came next. It was oddly comforting. Paul had earned that new beginning. He deserved another chance, preferably somewhere far, far from gods and monsters. That knowledge made it easier to breathe, but it didn’t erase the ache. Nothing could.

So tonight felt… strange. Like standing on a shifting line between memory and possibility. She felt guilty for enjoying herself, for laughing, for noticing Bruce’s quiet steadiness, the strength in his frame, the rare softness of his smile.

But she was glad she had said yes. Glad she had given herself this chance.

They paused near the edge of the pier, the water below them rippling black and silver under the lamps. Sally leaned on the railing, gazing out. “You said your son lived here,” she said. “Do all your children stay close by?”

Bruce leaned beside her, hands resting against the wood. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes scanned the water in that way of his, like he was always assessing, always guarding. “Some. Not all. I wish they all stayed closer.”

She glanced sideways at him, hearing the wistfulness in his tone. “Families scatter. It’s part of growing up. Percy—my oldest—he’s in California most of the time now. Annabeth’s with him. I don’t see them as often as I’d like.”

At the mention of her son, Bruce’s gaze shifted, softening further. “That must be hard.”

“It is,” Sally admitted. “But it’s also… what I wanted for him. A chance to build his own life. His own family, eventually. That’s all a parent can really hope for, isn’t it?”

Bruce was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s all.”

The way he said it—low, deliberate—made Sally’s heart twist. She wondered what ghosts he carried behind that word.

They started walking again, slower now. The crowd around them had thinned. A couple holding hands passed by, their laughter light, and Sally caught Bruce glancing after them briefly. She almost teased him for it, but stopped herself.

Instead she asked, “Do you always pick places like this for dates?”

That earned her a very rare, very faint smile. “No.”

“Then why this one?”

Bruce hesitated, then said simply, “Because I wanted to be able to hear you. Most of Gotham’s too… loud.”

Sally blinked at him, caught off guard. Warmth flooded her cheeks before she could stop it. “That’s… a very good answer.”

“It’s the truth,” he said.

And there it was again—that unexpected caring, the kind that made her want to lean closer, the kind that chipped away at the walls she hadn’t realized she still had up.

They walked the pier for another half hour, talking about lighter things—Estelle’s new obsession with cartoons, Bruce’s favorite cities to visit, their mutual dislike of pretentious restaurants. Sally found herself laughing more than she had in months, the sound bubbling out of her with surprising ease.

By the time Bruce drove her back to the bookstore, the city was quieting, night pressing in close. He pulled up smoothly at the curb, the headlights casting long shadows across the storefront. Estelle’s night-light glowed faintly from the upstairs apartment window.

Bruce got out first, circling around to open her door again. Sally stepped onto the sidewalk, tilting her face up to him.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For tonight.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

They stood there for a moment, the silence stretching—not awkward, but full of something unspoken. Sally found herself wishing, absurdly, that she was twenty years younger, that her heart was unscarred, that she could leap headlong without hesitation. But life had taught her caution, and she wasn’t ready to let go of that.

Still, she didn’t want this to be the last time.

“Will I see you at the store tomorrow?” she asked, trying to sound casual, though she felt her pulse quicken.

For a moment, Bruce only looked at her, his expression unreadable in the shadows. Then his mouth curved in the smallest of smiles. Not an answer, not really—but enough.

Sally found herself grinning as she stepped back toward the door. “Goodnight, Bruce.”

“Goodnight, Sally.”

She slipped inside, the bell chiming softly above her. And as she climbed the stairs toward the house, she realized she was still smiling.

Chapter Text

Steph was late.

On her first day of college.

The worst part? This was all Cass’s fault.

Her wonderful girlfriend had wrapped herself around Steph that morning like a sleepy octopus and murmured, Five more minutes. Five more minutes had turned into forty, and Steph hadn’t had the heart—or frankly, the physical strength—to peel Cass off.

Now she was barreling through the front doors of Gotham University’s medical wing, sneakers squeaking on polished tile, hair pulled back in a rushed ponytail that was already threatening to fall apart. The halls were nearly empty—everyone must be in class already.

Steph yanked out her crumpled schedule and groaned. Psychology 101, Room 314. Which was… where?

She slowed down only when she realized she was drawing stares from the rare few stragglers still in the hallway. Okay, so maybe sprinting like Batman was after her wasn’t the best way to make a first impression. She shoved her schedule back into her bag, muttering under her breath, “Room 314, wherever the heck that is…”

That was when she noticed she wasn’t alone.

Down the corridor, near a bulletin board plastered with half-ripped flyers for student clubs, stood a boy about her age. Blonde hair—which could only be called sunny—stuck up in several directions like he’d either just rolled out of bed or fought a wind tunnel on the way here. He wore a white shirt under his blue flannel and was frowning hard at a large, unfolded campus map, as if it was written in freaking Greek.

They spotted each other at the same time.

“Hey!” they both blurted, stepping forward.

Steph raised her schedule like a white flag. “Do you know where 314 is?”

The boy lifted his map, resignation flashing across his face. “Oh fuck the gods, I was about to ask you the same thing.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, almost simultaneously, they both sighed.

“You’re lost too?” Steph asked, incredulous.

“Totally,” the boy admitted, shoving the map toward her. “Please tell me you’re better at this than me.”

Steph took it automatically, already scanning the paper. Her eyes darted over the color-coded sections and arrows. “Actually,” she said, surprised, “this is super helpful. See? We’re here in the south wing, but Room 314’s in the north wing. We just have to cross the courtyard and go up a flight of stairs.”

The boy let out a strangled laugh. “You got all that in, like, ten seconds? I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes trying not to throw this thing away.”

Steph raised an eyebrow at him. “Fifteen minutes? Dude, it’s literally a map.”

He ran a hand through his hair, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah, well… reading’s not exactly my strong suit.”

Steph tilted her head, curiosity piqued. “Wait. You mean you can’t read maps, or you just didn’t want to?”

“Neither. I’m dyslexic.” He said it matter-of-factly, no shame, just honesty. “Letters, words, numbers—they don’t like to sit still for me. They kind of… wriggle. So yeah, me and maps? We’re not friends.”

“Oh,” Steph said, then winced, realizing how flat that sounded. “Sorry. That sucks.”

He shrugged. “Eh. You get used to it. Kind of. Eventually.”

Steph glanced back at the map, then at him. “Psych’s gonna be fun for you, then. Lots of textbooks.”

The boy laughed—a genuine, bright sound that bounced easily off the tiled walls. “Yeah, I’ve already made peace with living off of audiobooks and begging smart people for help. But I want to get into med school, so… no pain, no gain, right?”

Steph blinked. “You’re pre-med? Me too.”

That lit up his face again. “Seriously? That’s awesome. Okay, we have to be friends now. It’s like, fate.”

“Or just really bad timing,” Steph muttered, but she was smiling anyway.

Together, they set off down the hallway, crossing into the open courtyard. The morning sun caught the edges of the university’s old brick walls, and staff hurried past with sling bags and coffee cups. Steph checked the map again, steering them toward the right stairwell.

“So,” she asked, glancing at him sideways, “what’s your name, Blondie?”

“Will,” he said. “Will Solace. What about you, Blondie?”

“Steph. Brown.” She smirked. “By the way, you’re more blonde than me. Like, literally, does your hair just never tan? Or do you just bleach it?”

That made Will snort. “Nope. Just great genetics, I guess.”

They both laughed, falling into an easy rhythm as they climbed the stairs. Steph hadn’t expected to click so fast with someone—especially not on the first day, especially not while sprinting around like a chicken with her head cut off—but Will had this open, sun-bright energy that was hard not to like.

By the time they reached the third floor, they were still chatting, still laughing—and slightly out of breath. Though—Steph was really pretending to be out of breath. For Will’s sake. She couldn’t have the kid questioning why she was so fit.

She couldn’t help but notice, however, that Will didn’t seem really fazed, either.

“Okay,” Steph panted, checking the number stenciled above the door. “Here it is. Room 314. We made it.”

Will groaned in relief. “Thank Hades. If I had to wander around for another ten minutes, I would’ve dropped out on the spot.”

Hades?

…Eh. Gotham’s weird. No biggie.

Steph chuckled, pushing the door open.

The lecture hall was already full. The professor stood at the front, gesturing at a slide on the screen, mid-sentence. Around fifty heads turned toward the newcomers as the door squeaked.

Steph froze.

So did Will.

The professor, a sharp-eyed woman with iron-gray hair, narrowed her gaze at them. “Ah. Our first latecomers. Please, do come in. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the first lesson in punctuality. I don’t care if your other professors let you skip weeks of class. If you’re not present every day of the week, I take points off your final grade. The only exception is if you have an excused absence slip.”

Steph’s face burned. Will muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse—in some foreign language.

They shuffled quickly inside, both murmuring, “Sorry,” and “Won’t happen again,” as they climbed the steps to the back. A few students snickered.

Steph spotted two empty seats together and made a beeline for them, dragging Will in tow. They collapsed into the chairs, dropping their bags with audible thuds.

“What is this?” Will murmured. “Freakin’ high school all over again?”

Silence fell around them. Then, as the professor resumed her lecture, Steph glanced sideways at Will. He was grinning, his eyes dancing with suppressed laughter.

Steph bit her lip, trying to keep a straight face. It didn’t work. She started snickering too.

They lasted maybe ten minutes before Steph leaned toward him and whispered, “So, how much trouble do you think we’re in?”

Will stifled a chuckle. “First day. Maybe she’ll find some kindness in her heart.”

Steph snorted, earning a dirty look from the girl in front of them. She pressed her lips together, fighting to keep it down.

Will leaned back, stretching casually. “At least we’ll have a good story for later. ‘How did you two meet?’ ‘Oh, you know, by humiliating ourselves in front of, like, four dozen people.’ Classic.”

Steph grinned. “Better than meeting in the library over flashcards. At least we aren’t cliche blue-eyed blondies.”

Will flashed her a grin. “Dude, my boyfriend’s gonna cry when I tell him that my first friend in Gotham’s, like, the girl version of me.”

Boyfriend? Yay! Steph couldn’t help the way her chest felt lighter at that. So he was a fellow gay—that meant she could actually talk to him about shit!

“You’re actually the boy version of me,” she said, echoing his smile. “I have a girlfriend. We’re literal mirror images.”

They were grinning like idiots for a full minute.

Then she caught on to what he just said—”Wait, so I’m your first friend in Gotham? Did you just move here?”

“Yup,” Will said, popping the ‘p’. “Mostly for college.”

Steph blinked. “Wait, seriously? You moved to Gotham? For college? To study medicine? You do realize like… seventy percent of our rogues are doctors, right?”

Will just grinned wider. “Yeah, I’ve heard the stories.”

A pause. Then, “No offense, dude, but why would you do that?”

“Well,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, it’s cheaper here, firstly. I got a Wayne scholarship for GU, so that was a pretty big motivator. And, well… I mean, it’s complicated.”

Steph’s eyes softened. “It’s cool, dude, you don’t have to tell me your full backstory. I was just curious.”

“That’s fine,” Will said, smiling again, but didn’t continue his explanation. 

The rest of the lecture dragged. At least, Steph thought it did. She managed to scribble down some half-legible notes while also doodling Cass in the margins of her notebook—complete with little cartoon hearts around her head—but she suspected Will was having some trouble. Every now and then she glanced sideways to catch him staring at the professor with wide-eyed concentration, only for his pencil to hover above a blank page like it had no idea where to land.

At one point, he leaned over and whispered, “What does that word say?” while pointing to the projector slide.

Steph squinted. “Neurotransmitters.”

“Ugh.” He slouched back with a dramatic sigh. “I’m doomed.”

Steph bit back a grin. “Nah. Lucky for you, you’re already besties with me. I’ll tutor you.”

“Besties after, what, forty minutes of knowing each other?”

“Hey,” Steph whispered, deadpan serious, “surviving humiliation in front of a lecture hall full of strangers creates an unbreakable bond. It’s, like, a sacred rule.”

Will nodded solemnly. “True. Trauma bonding. Shit, wait, I meant bonding over trauma, not trauma bonding.”

They both snorted, earning them another glare from the girl in front of them. Steph had to clamp her lips shut for the rest of the lecture to avoid laughing out loud.

Finally—mercifully—the professor dismissed the class.

Steph stretched her arms over her head, groaning softly. “Freedom.”

“Thank the gods,” Will muttered, cramming his notebook into his bag. “I thought my brain was going to melt and slide out of my eyes.”

They filed out with the rest of the students, a mass exodus of backpacks and shuffling shoes. Steph tucked her schedule under her arm, intending to check it as soon as they got outside the crowded hallway.

“So,” Will said once they cleared the door. “What’s next on your agenda?”

Steph yanked her crumpled paper free and scanned it. “Chemistry. Room 220. You?”

Will pulled his own folded sheet from his pocket, still looking like it had gone a few rounds in a washing machine. “Chemistry. Room 220.”

They stopped mid-step and stared at each other.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Steph said.

“Nope.” Will held up his schedule like proof of fate itself.

“Let me see that.” She snatched it and lined it up with her own. Sure enough—same professor, same class, same section number.

“Oh my god,” Steph breathed. “We really are twinning.”

“Seriously twinning,” Will agreed, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

Steph narrowed her eyes. “Wait. What’s your major?”

“Biology,” Will said.

Steph’s jaw dropped. “Same.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.” She jabbed him in the shoulder with her finger. “Are you messing with me right now?”

Will threw up his hands, laughing. “I swear on the gods, I’m not. Biology major, psych minor. Cross my heart.”

“Oh my god, same.” Steph groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “I swear, if you tell me your favorite color is purple and your go-to coffee order is a caramel latte, I’m going to lose it.”

Will’s grin widened. “Uh. Blue, actually. Baby blue. But I love me a caramel latte.”

Steph lowered her hands, suspicious. “Convenient answers.”

“Honest answers,” Will countered.

They exchanged a long, mock-suspicious look, then both burst into laughter again.

“Okay, okay,” Steph said, still giggling as they turned down the stairwell. “But seriously, what if we leaned into it? Like, full send. We should show up tomorrow wearing the same outfit. Mess with people’s heads.”

“Oh my god,” Will said, eyes bright. “Yes. Jeans and a flannel. Classic. Nobody will know who’s who.”

Steph snorted. “Except you’re like, two shades blonder than me.”

“Details, details.”

“You could wear a wig, though. And borrow my heels.”

Will grinned. “What makes you think I don’t have my own heels?”

They pushed through the doors into the main quad, where sunlight spilled over the old stone buildings and students streamed between classes. Steph breathed in, letting some of the tension roll off. 

“So,” she said, glancing sideways at Will. “You said earlier you just moved here, right? You don’t know much about Gotham?”

Will shoved his hands into his pockets, shrugging. “Yeah. My mom freaked when I told her. She’s like, ‘You’re moving where? With all the crime?’ But honestly, it’s not so bad. Yet.”

Steph barked a laugh. “Key word: yet. Give it a week, ‘til the next Arkham breakout. But hey—” She slowed her steps a little, biting her lip in thought. “Do you and your boyfriend want to go on a double date with me and my girlfriend? We could show you guys around. Like, Gotham starter pack. Best coffee shops, best rooftop views, safest alleys. Y’know. The essentials.”

Will stopped walking, blinking at her. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” Steph said, trying to sound casual. “I mean, it’ll be fun. And it’ll save you from wandering into the sketchy parts of town alone. Sketchier, I mean.”

For a moment, Will just stared. Then his face split into the widest, brightest grin Steph had seen all day. “Steph Brown, you are officially my favorite person in Gotham.”

Steph smirked. “I’m your only person in Gotham.”

“Semantics.” He nudged her with his shoulder. “Seriously though, that’d be awesome. My boyfriend’s name is Nico. He’s… uh, kind of the opposite of me. Dark clothes, dark vibes, dark humor. He lowkey loves and hates Gotham at the same time.”

Steph’s eyebrows shot up. “Dude, my girlfriend’s basically the same. Cass loves black hoodies and silently staring at everyone in the room. They’re gonna get along like a house on fire.”

“Or they’ll glare at each other in silence for three hours,” Will said, amused.

“Also a possibility.”

They both laughed again, falling back into step as they crossed the courtyard.

Steph checked her watch. “Okay, we’ve got like… ten minutes to get to chem. You ready to suffer through another hour of science?”

Will groaned theatrically. “Not even remotely. But at least I’ll have my twin with me.”

Steph rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin. “Come on, sunshine. Let’s go blow something up.”

Maybe college wouldn’t be a total disaster.

Chapter Text

The bell above the bookstore door gave a little jingle as Bruce stepped inside.

He’d been here enough times in the last few weeks that the sound was familiar—welcoming, even. The smell of paper and dust and freshly brewed coffee hit him next, a comfort he hadn’t realized he’d begun to associate with Sally Jackson. This place had grown on him. It was quieter than any of Gotham’s glittering clubs, calmer than Wayne Tower, less demanding than the endless swirl of gala invitations and shareholder meetings.

Here, there were just shelves, books, and Sally’s smile.

Only—today, the smile wasn’t there.

Bruce glanced up at the counter and found himself facing a boy instead. Black hair, cut unevenly like he’d hacked at it himself. Dark clothes, all layered as though the bookstore might suddenly turn into an ice cave. 

Nico.

Sally’s son.

The kid looked up from the battered paperback he’d been reading, froze for half a second when he saw Bruce—and then his eyes narrowed.

“You,” Nico said flatly.

Bruce stopped a few feet inside the door, caught off-guard by the sheer weight of the boy’s glare. It wasn’t the kind of wary, shy defensiveness he’d seen in children before. No. This was colder. Sharper. Calculated, in a way that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

“I—” Bruce started, only to falter. He hadn’t prepared for this. He could handle hostile mob bosses, assassins, metahumans with godlike powers. But his date’s kid? Somehow that was harder.

Nico tilted his head. “You’re the guy Sally went out with.”

There was accusation in his tone.

Bruce felt his jaw tighten. The boy’s words weren’t untrue, but they landed like a charge in a courtroom: Guilty.

For a moment, Bruce considered deflecting. He could have lied, said he was only a customer, just a passerby. But Nico’s stare was unrelenting, too sharp for such obvious evasions. He reminded Bruce—uncomfortably—of Damian at his most cutting.

“Yes,” Bruce said finally, voice steady. “I took your mother out to dinner.”

Nico’s eyes narrowed further, his body tensing at the words. He closed the paperback carefully, setting it down on the counter with deliberate precision. 

(Bruce caught that the book was written in some foreign language. Greek? But Bruce could read Greek. This… this, he couldn’t entirely understand.) 

But his eyes flickered back to Nico when the boy leaned forward, elbows braced on the wood, his glare never breaking.

“If you hurt her,” Nico said, voice soft but cold enough to frost the air, “even death won’t be an escape.”

The words sank into the room like shadows.

For the briefest instant, Bruce felt it—an actual chill racing up his spine. Not fear, exactly. He’d faced death more times than he could count. He’d stared into the abyss and seen it blink back. But there was something different here.

This wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t an empty teenage threat.

Something about the boy’s presence—the conviction behind his voice, the utter lack of hesitation—made it feel… real.

Bruce studied him more closely, frowning inwardly. Most kids his age postured. Nico didn’t. His body language was too still, too controlled. And his eyes—black, fathomless—gave nothing away but the promise he’d just made.

Who is this kid?

It was absurd, of course. He was Batman. He’d trained with masters of every weapon, fought creatures that should not exist, battled men who thought themselves gods. And here he was, unsettled by a teenager.

Bruce forced his shoulders to ease, lowering his voice. “I understand your concern. But I need you to believe me—I care about your mother. I would never hurt her.”

Something flickered in Nico’s expression at that—something Bruce couldn’t quite identify. Skepticism? Anger? Maybe just the weary, bone-deep distrust of someone who had lost too much already.

But Nico didn’t respond. He just kept glaring.

Bruce cleared his throat lightly, trying to steer the conversation back. “Is she here right now?”

Another beat of silence.

Finally, Nico said, flat and clipped, “She’s out.”

Bruce frowned. “Out?”

Nico’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes. Out. Now. Do you want to buy anything?”

The boy’s tone was pure dismissal, as cold and impersonal as the register he leaned against.

For a moment, Bruce considered pressing—where exactly had she gone, how long would she be, when was she coming back? But he caught himself. The last thing he needed was to end up interrogating his date’s teenage son for no good reason.

He sighed quietly, shaking his head. “No. I’ll come back later.”

Turning, he let himself out, the bell above the door jingling again as if mocking him.

But he didn’t drive away. Not immediately.

He slid behind the wheel of his car, shut the door, and just sat there, staring through the windshield.

She’s out.

Two words, spoken with such finality. No details, no reassurance, just a statement that left far too many gaps.

Bruce drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. He told himself he was overreacting. Sally was a civilian. A bookstore owner. Of course she had a life outside of the bookstore, but the thought of her out there—alone, unprotected—stirred something restless in him.

This was Robinson Park. Normal on the surface, but Bruce knew better. Beneath its canopy, crime thrived. Drug exchanges, muggings, the occasional rogue encounter. More than one body had been dumped in those gutters over just the last few weeks.

And he hated saying it, but—but she was an attractive woman and there were too many creeps in these alleys.

He didn’t like the idea of Sally walking through there.

Jaw tightening, Bruce flicked on the console screen of his car. The WayneTech system whirred to life, quiet and efficient. He keyed in a quick command and set a search.

A few seconds later, Sally Jackson’s face appeared on the screen—captured by a nearby street camera. She… wasn’t in danger.

She was pushing a grocery cart down an aisle at the corner market two blocks away.

Bruce exhaled, tension easing—but not fully.

He watched the footage as long as he dared, following her movements as she checked produce, loaded a bag of apples, bent to grab a box of pasta. Mundane, ordinary things. Civilian things.

Safe things.

And yet, something tugged at him.

He wanted—no, needed—to go to her. To walk the aisles beside her, offer to carry her bags, make sure nothing touched her.

But Bruce Wayne had no business being in a neighborhood grocery store. Not here. Not in this part of Gotham, where his polished shoes and tailored coat would look like an alien intrusion. If Sally saw him there—after he’d just been at the bookstore, after Nico’s suspicious glare—she’d think he was following her.

A stalker.

Bruce’s mouth twisted. He’d built an entire life on surveillance, on shadows and watching. But here, with her, it felt wrong. Unfair.

He closed the console with a sharp tap.

Instead, he started the engine. Pulled away from the curb.

Drove home.

But even as the city blurred past, he couldn’t shake the image of Sally alone in that grocery store. Couldn’t shake the thought that Gotham had a way of swallowing innocence whole.

He would have to be careful.

For Sally. For Nico.

— — —

Sally hated grocery shopping in Gotham. The lighting was harsh, too white, flickering in a way that reminded her of interrogation rooms she had only seen in crime dramas. The floor tiles were never quite clean enough, and the carts always had at least one wobbly wheel. But the little store down the street from the bookstore was convenient, and she needed to restock before Will came home from college, so she could make the boys something nice.

Plus, Percy had IM-ed. There had been a certain uncontrollable-gold-eating-horse related incident that had ended with an entire building being blown to bits, and now everyone at New Rome University had a two-week break while they fixed everything up.

Meaning Percy and Annabeth were coming home! 

She steered her cart past a display of canned tomatoes, muttering to herself as she ticked items off her list. Eggs, milk, pasta, olive oil, and—most importantly—blue food dye. She could never forget that. Even now, so many years after Gabe, the color blue meant so much to her and Percy.

She turned down the baking aisle, eyes scanning for the familiar row of Wilton dyes. Red, yellow, green. She passed them all with a quick glance. Where was blue?

Then the air shifted.

It wasn’t anything she could put into words. One moment, she was in a too-bright grocery store, half-tuned into the hum of freezers and the squeak of her cart’s wheel. The next, everything froze. A woman reaching for flour in the next aisle was caught mid-motion, her arm suspended in the air. The music piping weakly through the overhead speakers cut off.

The silence was immediate.

Sally closed her eyes. She didn’t have to turn around to know what was coming. She could smell it already—the sharp, briny tang of salt, the faint undercurrent of seaweed, like the spray of ocean mist carried inland. Waves crashed somewhere in the distance. Even here, under buzzing fluorescent lights, the presence was unmistakable.

Her fingers tightened on the cart’s handle, but when she opened her eyes again and turned, her smile was already there, soft and a little resigned.

“Poseidon,” she said, her voice low, fond but edged with warning. “What are you doing here? You know you shouldn’t be in Gotham.”

The man who stood before her looked almost ordinary, if you didn’t know better. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sun-tanned skin and lines around his eyes that spoke of laughter and storms alike. He was wearing his usual Hawaiian shirt and wore a fishing hat, but his eyes—green and fathomless as the deep sea—were anything but human.

He raised an eyebrow at her, smirking faintly. “So you let Apollo visit, but not me? Ouch. That stings, Sally.”

Her smile thinned. “I couldn’t stop Apollo. You know him. But you should have more sense than to step foot here.”

“Because this literally godforsaken city tries to eat us alive, yes, yes,” Poseidon said with a roll of his eyes. “I can feel it, thank you. Gotham does not welcome gods. Believe me, I noticed.”

Sally sighed, the sound more tired than annoyed. She didn’t want this—any of this. She was trying to build a life in Gotham, away from Olympus, away from the endless tug-of-war between divine pride and mortal consequence. The city was dangerous, yes, but its dangers were human. Tangible. She could understand them. Manage them. So could the kids. And that was exactly why she had chosen it.

So when she looked back at Poseidon, her voice had steel under the softness. “Then why are you here?”

He tilted his head, studying her, before finally speaking. “I heard about your date.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

Of course. She should have known. Nothing stayed secret when the gods were involved. Sally had thought—hoped—that Gotham’s atmosphere kept their interference at bay. But she’d underestimated their reach.

Her hands curled into fists on the cart handle. “This city was supposed to be a refuge. A place far away from all of you. You promised no one would bother us here.”

Poseidon held up his hands as if to calm her, though his eyes glimmered with a wry humor that irritated her all over again. “I did not break my word, Sally. I did not come because I wished to meddle. I came because…” He hesitated, then smirked again, half sheepish. “Well. Some fish told me.”

Sally blinked. “…Fish.”

He spread his hands wider, as if that explained everything. “There are always fish near a pier. You walked with him there, did you not? Bruce Wayne?”

Sally dragged a hand down her face. “Oh, kill me already.”

“And fish gossip,” Poseidon went on, unbothered by her exasperation. “They chatter. A salmon hears something, tells it to a school of herring, and by nightfall it’s all over the Pacific. And you’re my ex! You would not believe how fast rumors travel through the ocean. By the time it reached Atlantis, some octopi thought you’d dumped me for him! As if that could ever happen!”

Despite herself, she found herself laughing at the absurdity of it all. “You know, I hate how easily I’ve come to accept shit like this.”

Poseidon’s mouth twitched upward in the faintest smile, but then his expression shifted. The amusement drained away, leaving behind something sharper, something more dangerous.

“This Bruce,” he said, his voice lower now, more serious. “He seems… decent. From what I’ve heard, at least. But understand me, Sally Jackson: if he does not treat you as you deserve—if he forgets for even a moment that you are a queen in your own right—I will come down here myself. I will drag him to the depths until he begs me for mercy.”

The words weren’t a threat, not exactly. They were a promise, raw and ancient, spoken with the weight of tides behind them. The hairs on the back of Sally’s neck rose despite herself. She had seen Poseidon like this before, long ago, when anger made storms rage across oceans.

But she wasn’t the starry-eyed girl who fell for him anymore.

Sally crossed her arms, meeting his gaze steadily. “Dial it down, will you? He’s just a man. And I don’t need you threatening to drown him in the Atlantic every time I go out to dinner.”

Poseidon’s stare softened, though only slightly. “You deserve better than ‘just a man.’”

Sally rubbed a hand over her face, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “Okay. Okay, fine, then. I still have my gun and all those weapons Tyson makes for me, and I still have Medusa’s head. I can handle myself, okay?”

Poseidon’s lips pursed, but he sighed. “Okay. Fine. I suppose the king of Gotham might deserve a shot with you. But if he looks at you wrong? Shoot him. Non-lethally. Then dump his ass in the sea and let me handle the rest.”

A pause.

Then Sally sighed. “I’m glad you’re okay with this. Really.”

That silenced him for a moment. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue. 

The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but weighted with memory. Once, long ago, there had been something fragile and impossible between them. A spark, brief and bright, but never built to last. She had known it even then. And yet, standing here, she could still feel echoes of it in the salt-stained air.

Poseidon was the one to break it. “Uh. Amphitrite asked me to extend an invitation,” he said, almost carefully. “Dinner. Tyson too. He would like to see you. And Percy.”

Her throat tightened at that. Tyson. Sweet, gentle Tyson. She’d tried to adopt him far before she knew he was Percy’s brother. It had been too long since she’d seen him.

“Dinner,” she repeated slowly. “That… sounds nice. Tell Amphitrite I miss her.”

Poseidon gave a short nod, as though the decision had been sealed.

Then, without warning, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. The embrace was brief, a tide pulling close and then receding. He smelled of salt and storms, of sea spray and kelp. Familiar. Unchanging.

When he pulled back, there was something in his eyes she couldn’t name. Longing, maybe. Or sorrow. Or something too deep to fit in mortal words.

“Take care of yourself, Sally,” Poseidon said quietly. “You know I love you.”

Then he closed her eyes with a hand. And Sally complied, because she knew the consequences of gazing upon a god’s true divine form. She felt a blinding light on her skin, and then it was gone.

The air shifted again. The hum of freezers returned. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The woman in the next aisle resumed reaching for flour, her arm continuing its motion as though nothing had happened. Somewhere, a cart squeaked. The world picked up right where it had left off.

Sally opened her eyes. 

She stood alone in the baking aisle, her hand still hovering over the cart handle. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and only then noticed the row of dyes on the shelf in front of her.

There it was. Blue.

She plucked one bottle off the rack, staring at it for a long moment. Just a bottle of food coloring. Just a small thing for her son.

But her fingers tightened around it all the same, as if anchoring herself back to the ordinary world.

She pushed the cart forward again, shaking her head. Gotham was supposed to be her sanctuary. And maybe it still was. But apparently, even here, the sea could still find her.

Chapter Text

The bell above the bookstore door jingled as it swung shut behind Nico, leaving him and Will in the late afternoon sun. The street was busy enough to drown out silence but not loud enough to be distracting; cars idled at the light, a couple walked past with coffee cups, someone’s dog barked from across the road.

Will nudged Nico’s hand with his elbow, brushing their fingers together. “Hey,” he said, his voice deliberately light. “It’ll be fun. Trust me. Steph’s really cool.”

Nico scowled, eyes narrowed the way they always were when Will suggested something “fun.” He pulled his hoodie sleeve further over his hand and muttered, “It’s bad enough dealing with one peppy blonde.”

Will grinned, used to this by now. “Peppy blonde, huh? You wound me.”

“I mean it.” Nico gave him a flat look that almost hid the faint pink creeping onto his cheeks. “One of you is already… a lot. Two’s going to be unbearable.”

Will laughed, tilting his head back, letting the sound come free in a way he knew made Nico roll his eyes. “You’ll survive.”

Before Nico could argue back, movement caught Will’s attention. He looked up and spotted a blonde girl walking toward them—bouncy, sure of herself, the kind of person who seemed to pull sunlight along in her wake. Her hand was linked with someone else’s: a shorter girl with sharp black hair, the poise of a dancer, eyes quick and watchful.

Will’s grin widened before he could stop it. “That’s them.”

Nico followed his gaze, and his frown deepened.

Steph spotted Will and broke into a bright smile, the same easy, open kind that Will himself wore. She waved, and then she was jogging the last few steps to throw her arms around him.

“Will! Hi!” she said, squeezing him tight.

Will hugged her back, laughing. “Steph! Man, this is wild—even our partners look like each other!.”

“Right?” Steph leaned back, mock-serious. “It’s so uncanny! I guess we just have the same type. ‘Cause we’re freaking long-lost twins!”

While the two blondes laughed, Nico stood stiffly at Will’s side, shoulders pulled taut, eyes narrowed at the newcomer. His body language screamed don’t talk to me, the same way it always did when Will introduced him to new people.

But the black-haired girl—Cass, Will guessed—had turned her attention on Nico. For a beat, she studied him with a steady, unblinking gaze. Then she smiled softly and lifted her hand in a small wave.

Something shifted. Nico froze, his scowl faltering, his frown melting into something caught between awkward and uncertain. He glanced away and scuffed the toe of his boot against the sidewalk.

Will’s grin widened. Progress.

“Okay, okay, enough staring,” Steph said, looping her arm through Cass’s. “This is Cass.”

Will brightened. “Hey, nice to meet you, Cass. I’m Will, and this grump here is Nico.”

Cass nodded once, still smiling at Nico. “Hi.”

Nico cleared his throat, eyes flicking to her before darting away again. “Hi.”

It was about as warm as Nico got with strangers on a first meeting. Will was genuinely surprised he wasn’t being outright hostile.

“So,” Will said, glancing at Steph. “I thought you’d drive here.”

“Normally, yeah,” Steph said, shrugging. “But our aunt Selina lives close by, so we were already at her house. Figured we’d just walk.”

“Both of your aunt?” Nico was the one who spoke this time, eyes narrowed.

Cass’s lips quirked. “Both of our aunt. She is… not related. But she is our aunt now.”

“Oh, cool,” Will said, thinking of how Sally was every demigod’s mom, at this point. “That works.”

Cass added quietly, “We are… looking for an apartment here.” Her words were clipped but confident, and she glanced at Steph for backup.

Steph jumped in without missing a beat. “Yeah, we’re planning to move to Robinson Park soon. It’s a good spot. Close to GU and Cass’s ballet school, close to some better-rated restaurants with nonlethal food, and we have a lot of aunts that live ‘round here.”

Will whistled. “Nice. It seems like a good neighborhood.”

“We’ve been here for a week, Will,” Nico said, rolling his eyes. “And I’ve seen three muggings already. From the bedroom window.”

“Considering Gotham, that’s literally nothing.” Steph snorted.

Cass smiled again. Will could get the feeling that she was quiet but a sweetheart.

And Nico—his shoulders had uncurled just slightly, his grip on Will’s hand less tight. He wasn’t really glaring anymore—just being his usual sarcastic self. That, by Nico’s standards, was practically enthusiasm.

Steph clapped her hands together. “So! Ice cream?”

“Ice cream,” Will agreed, already tugging Nico’s hand gently to get him moving. “There’s a place just down the block, right?”

“Yep,” Steph said, tugging Cass along. “I scoped it out earlier. Best sundaes in the neighborhood.”

The four of them fell into step together. Will ended up behind the girls with Nico, Steph and Cass in front. The sun was dipping lower, casting the street in gold, and for a moment it almost felt like a double date straight out of some cheesy romcom. Two blondes leading the way, their dark-haired partners trailing along.

Conversation sparked easily between the girls. Steph was chatty, quick to fill the air, while Cass spoke sparingly, only when she had something to add. But when she did, her words carried weight, and Will noticed how Steph leaned closer every time, attentive in a way that made Cass soften visibly.

Will liked that. It was adorable. If Kayla and Austin or any of the Aphrodite cabin were here, they’d be squealing. 

And, more than that, he liked how Nico didn’t seem so tense anymore. Around these two, Nico wasn’t on edge the way he usually was in crowds. (Crowds meaning anything more than two, by the way. Or one, if the other person wasn’t Will.)

The ice cream parlor was a tiny place with pastel-painted walls and little round tables by the window. Steph marched them straight inside, declaring, “We’re getting the giant sundae.”

“The giant what?” Nico asked, instantly suspicious.

“The giant sundae,” Steph repeated, pointing at a picture on the menu board. It showed an enormous glass bowl piled high with scoops of six flavors, bananas around it, topped with chocolate syrup, whipped cream, sprinkles, and at least four cherries.

“That looks like diabetes in a bowl,” Nico muttered.

“Exactly,” Steph said, grinning. “You clearly need some sugar.”

Will snorted. “I’m in.”

Cass leaned slightly toward Steph, eyes sparkling. “Yes.”

“Majority rules,” Will said, giving Nico’s hand a squeeze. “Sorry, Death Boy.”

Nico glared at him, but it lacked heat. “Fine. Whatever. But I’m not eating the cherry.”

“Noted,” Steph said, already bouncing toward the counter to order.

They ended up crammed into a booth, four spoons clinking against the giant glass bowl when the sundae arrived. Will laughed as Steph immediately dug in, Cass following with more grace but equal enthusiasm. Even Nico took a tentative spoonful, though he tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal.

“I prefer McDonald’s ice cream,” Nico commented, but didn’t stop eating the sundae.

Cass laughed softly at that, so did Steph.

Will poked his boyfriend. “I know you love it. Just admit it.”

“Go fuck yourself, Tesoro.”

Will grinned at that. Nico had told him, long ago, that Tesoro was Italian for dumbass, but he’d searched it up on his new phone the moment he got to Gotham, when monsters finding them was no longer a problem.

Tesoro meant darling.

And Will had always known, deep down, that Nico was a romantic at heart.

Steph scooped up a huge spoonful of ice cream and held it out toward Nico with mock generosity. “Here—try this flavor. It’s ‘Jokerized surprise’. Good test of bravery.”

Nico made a face. “I don’t test my bravery on ice cream flavors.” He drew back his spoon, then paused. Took a small bite. “Okay. Not… bad.” He pulled a pout, trying to look annoyed, but Will caught a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Steph clapped. “Good job, Emo Boy. Most people don’t even go near Jokerized-anything.”

“Emo Boy,” Will repeated, giggling. “I’m gonna steal that from you.” He turned to Cass, who was quietly picking at the chocolate part of the sundae. “What about you, Cass? Want a bite of this monstrosity?”

Cass’s expression was more serene than indulgent; she allowed herself a sweet moment, letting the warmth of the ice cream melt on her tongue, then nodded. “It’s good. Slightly too sweet, but good.” 

Will grinned. “So happy for both of you. Glad you ate it before I did.”

Steph banged a spoon lightly on the table. “Okay, confession time. I want to know something real weird about both of you.”

Nico raised one eyebrow. Will tilted his head in questioning.

Steph looked at Will first. “What’s your most ridiculous, ‘Why did I even do that?’ moment in your life?”

Will swallowed a mouthful of ice cream, eyes lighting up. “Oh! When I—okay, so I tried to impress this girl in elementary school. I made her cupcakes because she said she liked desserts. But I used salt instead of sugar by mistake. I didn’t taste it until after I gave them to her. She… took a bite, had this weird expression, then tried to say it was fine. I think I died inside.”

Cass laughed, tilting her head. “That sounds… embarrassing.”

Will just gave her a self-deprecating grin.

Then it was Nico’s turn. Steph turned her spoon toward him. “You. What’s your most ridiculous moment?”

Nico stared at her for a full minute, deadpan. “Being in love with a much older straight boy for a full three years and watching him date everyone but me. And then realizing he’s not all that. Then getting adopted by his mom. He’s my brother now.”

…silence.

Then Steph burst out laughing. “...oh, God. Seriously?”

Nico’s lips quirked in a small smile.

“You’re adopted too?” Cass asked after a moment. “Me too. And most of my siblings.”

“I dated Cass’s little brother in freshman year,” Steph added, for absolutely no reason. “He’s an absolute dumbass. Love him though.”

After a beat of comfortable silence, Will leaned forward, eyes flickering to Cass.

“Okay, don’t take this the wrong way,” he said slowly, “but… have I seen you somewhere before? Like—TV, a magazine? You look familiar.”

Steph glanced at her girlfriend, as if silently asking her if she wanted to tell them.

Cass shifted under their combined attention, shoulders tightening the way Nico’s always did when people looked too closely. She tapped her spoon against the glass bowl, considering. For a heartbeat, Will thought she might ignore the question altogether.

But then she lifted her chin, calm as ever, and said: “You… may have. I’m Cassandra Wayne. Bruce Wayne’s daughter. I, um. Have to be at galas sometimes. So I’m sometimes on the news.”

Will blinked. Nico’s spoon clattered against the side of the bowl, his hand jerking slightly. The two of them exchanged a quick glance across the booth, wide-eyed in perfect unison.

Steph caught it immediately. Her brows shot up. “Wait. What’s that look about? What? What?!”

Will’s mouth opened. He scrambled, words tangling in his throat. “No, no—it’s nothing! Not about you, Cass, seriously, you’re great, we just—”

Nico cut him off flatly, his voice slicing through the scramble: “Bruce Wayne went on a date with my mother yesterday.”

Silence.

The hum of the tiny shop’s AC seemed louder in its absence. Outside, car horns honked, muffled through the glass.

Steph’s jaw dropped. Then— “OH. MY. GOD.” She practically shrieked it, startling an old man two booths over.

Cass blinked, startled too, then—almost mischievously—smiled.

Steph slapped her palms against the table, vibrating in place. “Do you realize what this means?! Do you? This is—this is insane! Like, cosmic-level coincidence! Like, sitcom pilot coincidence!” She clapped her hands together. “I have to tell everyone about this!”

“Please don’t,” Nico muttered, burying half his face in his hoodie. His ears were pink.

Steph ignored him. “OH MY GOD.” She kicked her feet under the table, practically squealing. “Your parents—yours and yours—are dating. Which means, like—if they get married, you two are—oh my god. Nico and Cass would be step-siblings! And Will! You and I would be in-laws!!”

Will choked on his spoonful of whipped cream, coughing until Nico thumped his back with all the sympathy of a wet rag.

“That’s not—what—” Will wheezed, trying to catch his breath. “Steph—don’t—you can’t just—oh gods.”

Steph cackled, delighted with herself. “I can and I will! This is too good! Nico, you’re the perfect image. You look like every kid Bruce adopts. Dark-haired, depressed. You’re meant to be his kid eventually. This is fate. FATE!”

Cass tilted her head, her smile still faint but warmer now. She looked at Nico, not Steph, as though her words were meant for him alone. Like she could see his anxiety. “It’s okay. Bruce is good.”

The words landed harder than anything Steph had shouted.

Nico stilled, caught mid-sulk. He met Cass’s gaze, dark eyes wary. But she didn’t look away. Didn’t press, didn’t demand. Just offered a quiet certainty, like she was passing him a truth she knew in her bones.

To Will’s surprise, Nico didn’t scoff. Didn’t fire back with his usual biting retort. He just… considered. And then, with the tiniest exhale, he nodded once.

Will blinked. That was it? Nico—Mister distrust everyone until proven otherwise and then still distrust them for a year—actually believed her? Just like that?

Steph noticed too. Her grin softened at the edges, though she still looked like she might explode with energy.

Will nudged Nico’s leg under the table, murmuring, “Wow. That might be the fastest I’ve ever seen you trust anyone.”

“Shut up,” Nico muttered, but his voice lacked venom. He reached for another bite of ice cream instead, focusing very hard on the melting swirl in the bowl.

Steph, of course, wasn’t about to let it go. “This is THE BEST THING EVER,” she declared, throwing her hands up. “I mean—do you realize the chaos potential here? We’re gonna have awkward family dinners together! All of us and your brother!”

“I have too many kind-of siblings, not just a brother,” Nico said with a ghost of a smirk, though there was something mournful in his eyes. Will knew he was thinking about Bianca. “Estelle, Percy, Tyson. Annabeth, kind of. Reyna. Hazel. Jason—”

Steph screamed.

Cass just grinned at them and explained, “I have a brother named Jason too.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Will wheezed.

“Fate,” Steph whispered again, staring at the half-melted sundae.

Will finally found his voice again. “Okay, hold on—back up. Cass, you’re saying the Bruce Wayne. Gotham billionaire, playboy, probably on the cover of Forbes every other week—that Bruce Wayne is your dad?”

Cass nodded once, unfazed. “Adopted.”

“Still,” Will said, shaking his head, laughing under his breath. “That’s… wow.”

Steph leaned forward, practically vibrating out of her seat. “You think that’s wow? Try wrapping your head around this: Nico’s mom and Cass’s dad are DATING. In Gotham. Right now. And they both look so similar. And they both have a brother named Jason. And they’re both dating an amazing blonde who they love very much. This city is literally going to implode.”

“Honestly?” Will said, chuckling. “I kind of love it.”

Nico shot him a look.

“What?” Will said, hands up in mock defense. “Come on. It’s funny. And kind of cute. Also, Sally deserves to be happy, and Bruce—”

“He’s annoying,” Nico cut in. “He keeps coming by the bookstore and keeping up the line just to see Sally.”

Cass’s lips twitched. “He is… complicated. But kind.”

Nico slumped further into his hoodie, muttering something in Italian that Will was ninety percent sure was an insult.

But still—he wasn’t storming out. Wasn’t clamming up the way he usually did when conversations turned personal. Will noticed his boyfriend sneaking another glance at Cass, quiet but thoughtful, like her words had carved out a crack in his walls.

Steph, sensing victory, smacked her palm on the table again. “This is officially the wildest double date of my life. And I am so texting the group chat about it later.”

Cass shook her head softly, though her eyes glimmered with amusement. “This is going to blow up, honey.”

Steph grinned. “Exactly.”

They spent the next few minutes exchanging stories—about Bruce, about Sally—and coming up with hypothetical scenarios about their dates and why they were perfect for each other. And by the end of it, even Nico seemed kind of convinced that Bruce was okay.

Will couldn’t stop grinning. This was the best date he’d ever been on, hands down.

Chapter Text

The Cadillac coughed before it purred to life. It always did. Percy swore it added character, like the car was announcing itself before deciding to work. Annabeth, in the driver’s seat, gave the dashboard a little pat like she always did. “You’d better hold it together this time,” she muttered, as though threatening the car into obedience.

“Hey,” Percy said, clicking through an old iPod Classic connected to the stereo. “It’s fine. She’s got personality. Like a warship that leaks but still sails.”

“Ships aren’t supposed to leak,” Annabeth said without missing a beat.

Percy grinned. “C’mon. She’s been with us for years now.”

This car had been Percy’s ‘congrats, you got into college’ gift from Poseidon, and it had stayed by his side for the last few years. Even after Blackjack and Scopio landed on its roof. Even after Travis and Connor filled its hood with glitter. Even after the Minotaur (back from Tartarus, again) threw it across the street.

Leo had offered to fix it up out of pity, but that would mean being apart from this car. And Percy loved his baby too much for that.

Lana Del Rey’s name flashed on the screen. Percy had already queued up “Born to Die” and “Summertime Sadness”. Annabeth approved with a little nod, one hand steady on the wheel, the other tapping the gearshift.

Behind them, the car doors slammed shut.

“Middle seat is yours,” Jason announced grandly, as if bestowing a gift.

Reyna scoffed. “Why me?”

“You’re taller.”

“That’s why I shouldn’t sit there. Elbows. Long legs.”

Jason sighed, adjusting his glasses. “I’m not sitting in the middle, Rey. I’m kinda tall too, if you haven’t noticed.”

Hazel, still outside the car, called through the open window, “Guys, calm down, I’ll sit in the middle.” She was still standing chest-to-chest with Frank, who looked torn between keeping her at camp and letting her leave.

Frank shuffled awkwardly outside the window as Hazel buckled in. He gave Percy and Annabeth a wave. Percy leaned across Annabeth, rolling the driver’s window all the way down.

“You sure you don’t want to come with?” Percy asked.

Frank’s answer was steady, but his eyes flicked toward Hazel, like the idea of letting her drive off alone wasn’t his favorite. “Somebody has to stay behind and take care of the legions. Both praetors can’t leave.”

“C’mon,” Percy pressed. “There’s room—”

“Not really,” Frank interrupted, looking at the already-cramped car.

“Yeah, but you could—” Percy started.

“—turn into a small animal and ride on someone’s lap,” Annabeth cut in, matter-of-factly.

The two of them froze, mid-thought, and looked at each other. Percy’s mouth slowly closed.

“…Okay, that’s actually better than my idea,” he admitted, shrugging sheepishly.

Annabeth quirked a brow. “What was your idea?”

“The trunk,” Percy confessed.

Hazel’s eyes went wide. “You are not putting my boyfriend in the trunk.”

Reyna tilted her head like she was weighing the pros and cons. Jason muttered, “I mean, it could—”

“NO.” Hazel’s glare cut across all of them.

Frank let out an awkward laugh and scratched the back of his neck. “It’s fine. Really. You guys go. Just…be safe. And IM when you get there.”

Hazel’s voice softened. “I’ll IM every day.”

He nodded, leaning in to kiss her cheek before stepping back. “Then…goodbye. For now.”

Percy gave him a mock salute. “Hold down the fort, Zhang.”

The Cadillac rattled as Annabeth shifted gears. Hazel twisted around in her seat, watching Frank shrink into the distance as they rolled down the gravel road leading out of Camp Jupiter.

The air in the car shifted—lighter, now that the goodbye was behind them. Reyna finally stretched her legs out, nudging Hazel’s shin. “Well. Let’s hope nothing else burns down while we’re gone.”

Jason laughed, though it was more nervous than amused. “It can’t get that bad.”

The way he didn’t sound convinced made Percy snort. “With our luck? Yeah, it can.”

They merged onto the highway, Annabeth focused on the road. Percy leaned back, throwing his feet up on the dashboard until Annabeth swatted at his ankle without looking. He dropped them with a grin.

Jason cleared his throat. “So…realistically, it’ll take us a few days to reach New Jersey. Maybe longer if—”

“—if monsters,” Percy said flatly. “There’s no ‘maybe.’ There will be monsters.”

Hazel sighed, already resigned. “Then where’s Grover going to sit once we pick him up? Because we’re packed as it is.”

Percy’s answer was immediate. “On my lap.”

He said it like obviously, duh.

Annabeth didn’t even blink. “Yeah, where else would he sit?”

The other three stared at them. Jason blinked. Reyna looked from Percy to Annabeth and back again like she wasn’t sure if this was a joke. Hazel just pinched the bridge of her nose.

Finally, Reyna muttered, “Whatever you say.”

The Cadillac rattled along, stereo filling the car with Lana Del Rey’s melancholy croon. Percy drummed his fingers on the window in time with the music, Hazel hummed under her breath, and Jason…looked carsick already. Reyna noticed and didn’t comment, though her smirk deepened every time his face paled a little more.

They passed long stretches of highway, broken only by convenience stores and the occasional diner. The sun dipped lower, staining the horizon orange. For once, there were no monsters. Just silence, music, and the familiar rhythm of bickering friends.

Hazel broke it first. “So when we get to New Jersey…what’s the plan?”

Annabeth said, eyes still on the road. “I mean, find Sally. And Nico and Will. Obviously.”

“And,” Percy added. “Hunt down Bruce Wayne.”

Jason blinked. “…The billionaire? I think I’ve heard Piper talk about him.”

Percy nodded solemnly. “Yep. The guy my mom is apparently dating now.”

Jason sat up straighter. “Wait—what?”

Percy’s grin widened dangerously. “Yeah. My mom. Bruce Wayne. Gotham City’s favorite rich dude.”

Reyna leaned back, closing her eyes with a sigh. “And let me guess. You’re gonna threaten him.”

Percy shrugged like he hadn’t been thinking the same thing since he found out. “I mean. I’m not gonna threaten him or anything. I want my mom to be happy. After everything, she deserves it.”

A pause.

Then he sighed. “I’m just gonna find out if he’s worth it. He can’t replace Paul.”

“I don’t think Sally would date anyone who isn’t really good for her,” Annabeth murmured, eyes flicking to Percy. “We have to trust her, Perce.”

“Yeah.” Percy leaned back in his seat, and stared at the nearly-empty highway ahead of them.

Silence.

Then Hazel said after a moment, “Um. I can’t wait to see Nico again.”

“Yeah,” Jason replied, clearly glad for the distraction. “Wonder how he’s doing.”

“Probably happy.” The corners of Reyna’s lips quirked. “I mean, he’s with his boyfriend, in Gotham. The city where no gods except Pluto and Letus can thrive. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“I don’t get how people can live there if my father’s realm is so powerful in that city,” Hazel muttered.

“We can ask them when we get there,” Annabeth said, pulling onto the side of the highway. “We’ve got company.”

Everyone perked up.

Because there, on the other side of the highway, were three Empousai, holding up a “Need A Ride To Colorado” sign. Clearly planning on eating whichever mortal picked them up.

Percy slumped into his seat for a moment, taking a deep breath. Thirty minutes. They’d gone thirty minutes outside of camp without a monster encounter.

That was lucky, really.

Then he uncapped Riptide and opened the car door, sighing. “C’mon. Let’s deal with them and get going.”

— — —

The Nest’s screens glowed a sterile blue, filling the underground space with the hum of machines. Tim sat at the main terminal, surrounded by towers of monitors stacked like a workaholic teenager’s fever dream. Half a dozen windows were open at once—news clippings, blurred photographs, public records he’d half-legally accessed. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, tapping in a rhythm only he understood.

He wasn’t nervous. Not exactly. But he was keyed up in that way that meant he’d skipped a few too many hours of sleep.

The door creaked.

Jason strode in first, leather jacket slung over his shoulders, helmet tucked under one arm. He leaned against the wall without a word, crossing his arms.

Damian followed close behind, muttering something under his breath before settling into the nearest chair, scowl firmly in place.

A few minutes later, Dick and Duke came together, voices echoing down the stairs.

“…No, seriously, it’s like he’s been living down here lately,” Duke was saying, eyebrows raised as he looked around at the mountains of coffee cups, snack wrappers, and discarded case files littering the Nest.

Dick winced good-naturedly. “Not judging, Baby Bird. Just…maybe consider some sunlight?”

Tim ignored them, swiveling his chair just enough to face the group. “Thanks for coming.”

Jason snorted. “Didn’t know it was optional. I can’t access anything on any of my devices except for a message saying MEET AT NEST.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Do you know why I called you here?”

Jason tilted his head. “Because you’re bored and lonely and decided to inflict your paranoia on the rest of us?”

“Because you’re finally going to admit you need help staging an intervention for your coffee problem?” Dick added, grinning.

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. This is about Bruce’s new girlfriend.”

That shut them up for about half a second.

Then Dick’s face split into a smile. “Oh yeah! I read Steph’s text about that. I’m happy for him.”

Jason barked a laugh. “Still can’t believe B’s dating Sally Jackson. Like, the Sally Jackson. She’s my favorite author ever.”

Tim’s glare was sharp enough to cut glass. “Well. I did a little research about this Sally Jackson.”

The click of his mouse lit up the monitors. A title card appeared in bold white letters against a black background:

‘SALLY JACKSON: WHO IS SHE REALLY?’

Complete with dramatic PowerPoint transition effects.

Duke immediately burst out laughing. “No way, dude. You actually made a PowerPoint?”

Tim’s expression didn’t waver. “Sit down.”

Duke chuckled again but dropped into a chair, muttering, “You’re a little dramatic, you know?”

To Tim’s right, Damian stood. Arms crossed, jaw tight, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“I also looked into her,” Damian announced, chin tilted upward. “And what I found was…concerning.”

Jason blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dick looked between them, brows raised. “Wait—you two coordinated?”

Tim bristled. “We did not coordinate. This is my presentation.”

“Then sit down,” Jason drawled, “and let the kid do his little speech first.”

Tim shot him a death glare. “No.” He clicked to the next slide. “Now. As I was saying—Sally seems normal. But—”

He tapped the keyboard again, and a timeline appeared.

“Her first husband: Gabriel Ugliano. Dirtbag. Abusive. She was with him for almost ten years before he mysteriously disappeared.”

Jason’s arms dropped from his chest. “Oh, so she got rid of him. Good for her.”

Tim ignored him. “Shortly afterward, she sold a statue called The Poker Player.”

A grainy image of a lumpy, vaguely human statue appeared on the slide. The figure was frozen mid-sit, cards in hand, face twisted in something between pain and anger.

Tim gestured. “Look familiar?”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “Looks like every drunk at a poker table in Gotham.”

“It looks suspiciously like Gabriel Ugliano,” Tim pressed. “And she never made another statue after that.”

Jason leaned forward, eyes flashing. “I don’t blame her. If the guy was abusive, he deserved to end up a garden gnome. I won’t take this slander.”

“Jason,” Tim snapped, “this isn’t about blaming her. It’s about recognizing patterns.”

“Patterns of her having a shit life and breaking free of that,” Jason shot back.

Tim grit his teeth, moving to the next slide.

“Her second husband: Paul Blofis. English teacher. Stable, good, by all accounts normal. Married for three years. Then murdered.”

Silence. Even Jason frowned at that.

Tim folded his arms. “Notice the trend?”

“That’s a coincidence.” Jason spread his hands. “Why would Sally Jackson kill her good husband?”

“This is exactly why we can’t take it lightly.”

Damian finally cut in, voice sharp. “Her son is the more suspicious one.”

Tim whipped around. “Excuse me, this is my presentation.”

“I’m simply telling them what matters,” Damian said coolly.

Tim glared at him, then turned back to the computer. “As I was saying—” He clicked again.

The screen filled with headlines.

‘TWELVE-YEAR-OLD BOY BLOWS UP ST. LOUIS ARCH’
‘MISSING CHILD FOUND AFTER GUNFIGHT WITH KIDNAPPER’
‘TEENAGER ACCUSED OF SCHOOL DESTRUCTION’
‘DISAPPEARANCE OF PERCY JACKSON BAFFLES AUTHORITIES’

“Percy Jackson,” Tim said. “Her only biological son. At twelve, suspected of terrorism after the St. Louis Arch exploded. Turns out he was kidnapped—”

Jason cut in, eyebrows up. “Kid was twelve. Give him a break.”

“At thirteen,” Tim continued over him, “he destroyed part of a school gymnasium and possibly murdered some transfer students. At fourteen, accused of murdering cheerleaders before being proven innocent. At sixteen, disappeared off the grid. Witness sightings all across Europe, usually coinciding with explosions, collapsed buildings, and destruction.”

The screen flashed with grainy security stills: a teen boy with messy black hair, sometimes holding a something—it flashed between baseball bat and sword—blurry as though caught mid-motion.

“And now,” Tim concluded, “he’s supposed to be in college in California. But he’s not enrolled anywhere in the US. I checked. Extensively.”

The room went still.

Even Jason didn’t have a quip ready this time.

“There is more,” Damian said, and flashed Tim a glare when he tried to interrupt. “Sally Jackson has more children. A biological daughter, Estelle. She seems harmless enough because she is three years old. She has adopted two boys—Tyson Jackson and Nico di Angelo. Tyson has no background. He was picked up by CPS eight years ago, adopted by Sally a few years after that. He was there when Percy blew up the gymnasium.”

He took a breath.

“di Angelo, on the other hand, is far more interesting. He did not exist in the legal system until three years ago, when Sally suddenly adopted him. And the adoption papers went through in just a day. And furthermore, I found one other person matching his name in records from 1932. Perhaps it is a coincidence, perhaps he is related.”

Tim rubbed a hand over his face. “What Damian’s trying to say is, they’re all sus. All of them. And they randomly moved to Gotham and opened up a bookstore and now Sally’s suddenly dating Bruce. This is sus!”

Everyone stared at him for a moment.

Duke finally broke the silence. “Okay. But…why aren’t Steph and Cass here? Shouldn’t they also hear this?”

Tim’s jaw tightened. “…Because both of them have made friends with the Jacksons. They’re emotionally compromised.”

Jason let out a low whistle. “Unbelievable.” He shoved his chair back and stood. “You know what, Tim? Go to hell. I still think Sally Jackson’s cool. And if she did turn her scumbag ex into a statue? Extra points.” 

He stalked out, boots heavy on the stairs.

Dick rubbed the back of his neck. “…Look. I get it. You’re worried. Bruce does have a long history of dating supervillains.”

“He does,” Tim snapped. “Which is exactly why we need to protect him before we have another repeat of Talia.”

“Do not talk about my mother like that, you harlot!” Damian unsheathed his sword, and Dick scrambled to hug the kid.

“No, no, Dami,” Dick held him tight, prying him away from Tim. “Sword down. We don’t attack our siblings, remember? We love Tim.”

Tim took a step back, eyes narrowing. “Fine, not like Talia. But B’s certainly made a ton of bad choices before. We need to help him.”

Duke sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “You know what? Forget this. I’ll just go meet Sally myself. Draw my own conclusions.” He stood, shoving his chair back, and headed for the exit.

The door slammed again.

Silence hung over the Nest, broken only by the hum of computers.

Tim looked between the two people still left: Dick, frowning, and Damian, standing stiff as a statue.

Finally, Dick exhaled. “Well. Guess it’s just us. We could keep an eye on things.”

“Fine.” Damian nodded once, sharp. “Father’s judgment is often clouded where women are concerned. We’ll need to intervene before this escalates.”

Tim turned back to his screens, fingers already flying over the keyboard. “We just need to find out what’s up with the Jacksons.”

The PowerPoint slide flicked to black.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t a date.

At least, not technically. Bruce told himself that as he pulled the car up to the curb, glancing at the storefront sign with its whimsical painted letters: Jacksons’ Books & Blue Cookies. The words still felt foreign on his tongue when he said them aloud, but he liked the way they looked, warm and unpretentious. A family business, built on love and small joys. 

Something real in a way Batman or Wayne Ent. could never be.

No, this wasn’t a date.

It was just…a rare day in Gotham where the sun had bothered to show itself. A sky without rain, without clouds, a stretch of clear blue that made the city almost look like it belonged to someone else. Usually Bruce would spend sunny days down in the cave, but today, Alfred had placed a picnic basket in front of him—full of warm bread, butter, jams, fruit—and told him, “Go enjoy the sun, perhaps with the lady you fancy.”

Bruce had ignored Alfred’s small smile. But not the suggestion. Because it was a great day today.

And Bruce just happened to own one of the largest tracts of untouched forest within the city. Miles of trails, streams, and quiet groves. One even Poison Ivy had personally approved of. Wayne Estate was huge, but Bruce still remembered that one spot his parents used to take him to when he was little. A small patch of grass by a creek. Bruce and his father had built a picnic table there, a long, long time ago. As a bonding activity.

He had a feeling Sally would love it.

Bruce pulled his phone from his pocket before stepping out of the car. A notification blinked across the screen: a message from Barbara:

“Look out today, B.”

He frowned, thumbs moving quickly. “What happened?”

No response.

For a moment, his instincts sharpened, the old paranoia creeping in. Barbara didn’t send warnings lightly. If she said “look out,” she meant it. He should check the feeds, comb the surveillance grids—.

But then his gaze lifted.

Through the bookstore window, he caught Sally’s eye.

And just like that, the sharp edge of his focus dulled. He found himself smiling, the unguarded kind that came too easily around her. He almost forgot the phone in his hand until he slipped it into his pocket again. Whatever Barbara meant, he would deal with it later.

The door swung open with the soft chime of a bell. Sally came around the corner, wiping her hands on a folded cloth. The faint dusting of flour on her sleeves made her look even more at home in the sunlight.

“Bruce,” she said, her eyes crinkling in a smile. “I was just about to close up. We shut early on weekends.”

“I know,” Bruce said. His voice came out softer than intended. “That’s why I came now.”

Her smile tilted. “Oh? You came to help me close shop?”

The easy banter nearly disarmed him. Almost.

“Actually,” he said, steadying his tone, “I came to ask if you’d like to go on a picnic.”

He caught the slight widening of her eyes, the flicker of surprise.

“A picnic,” Sally repeated.

“Yes.” He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how stiff he sounded. “I’ve had…everything prepared. Alfred made us some food. Alfred, he’s my. Um. Butler. More like a father, really.”

He paused.

“I mean, it’s a sunny day in Gotham. That’s… rare. And I’d like to spend it with you.”

For a long moment, Sally studied him, and Bruce could read her hesitation. Then she asked, softer than before, “Is this another date?”

The question hit harder than it should have.

Bruce paused. His mind did what it always did: calculate. Was this wise? Did he want to invite Sally deeper into his orbit, closer to the shadows he lived in? The closer she came, the more danger she was in. She was going to get hurt, at this rate.

But the thought of pulling back—of saying “no, this isn’t a date”—felt wrong.

Because the truth was, she made him feel safe. In a way Gotham never did. In a way even the mask never could. No one—not Talia, not Selina—had felt safe to be around like this. Both of them, the only two women he’d ever loved, were hardened. Distant. Their ghosts clashed with Bruce’s too many times.

Clearly Sally had her troubles too, but she felt like home. Being around her felt like taking a gulp of fresh air after spending days in hell, and Bruce was getting addicted to it.

So he let out a breath and answered, “Yes. If you want it to be a date, I mean.”

Her lips curved. She hesitated too, just for a heartbeat, then said, “Yes. I’d like that.”

The warmth in her voice was enough to settle something restless in his chest.

“I’ll just wrap up,” she added. “Give me ten minutes to close things down and change into something not covered in flour.”

Bruce nodded once, his practiced stoicism slipping back into place, though the faintest hint of a smile lingered at his mouth. “I’ll wait.”

She disappeared behind the counter, humming softly as she moved through the shop. The sound carried faintly out the open door, threading through the late afternoon air.

Bruce leaned back against the car, gaze turning upward. The sky was still startlingly blue, and the warmth of the sun pressed against his shoulders. For once, the world didn’t feel like it was on fire.

Still, his thoughts flicked back to Barbara’s message. “Look out today.”

Was it a coincidence that her warning had come on the calmest day of his week? Was it one of those moments where his life—the life of Batman—collided with the fragile, ordinary piece of happiness he was daring to touch?

He exhaled slowly. For now, he chose not to chase it. For now, there was Sally, and sunlight, and the possibility of a date that felt real.

Five minutes later, Sally emerged, locking the shop door behind her and sliding her keys into her bag. She wore a sundress with a soft cotton jacket now, and her hair was pulled back in a braid.

“I’m ready,” she said, smiling.

Bruce opened the car door for her without a word.

And as she stepped in, he allowed himself one rare, quiet thought:

Maybe today, I don’t have to be Batman.

— — — 

Bruce didn’t usually feel nerves behind the wheel. Driving was a muscle memory he could do half-asleep, every shift of the gear and angle of the turn practiced through years of high-speed chases and midnight escapes. But today… today he was acutely aware of every small thing. His hands on the steering wheel. The way the sunlight broke through the windshield in bright golden strips across Sally’s arm where it rested on the window. The way she turned to him with that soft, searching expression that said she was paying attention to more than just his words.

“So,” she asked, her tone light but edged with curiosity, “where exactly are we going?”

Bruce cleared his throat, adjusted his grip on the wheel. “Wayne Estate.”

She blinked. “As in… your house?”

Technically, yes. But that sounded far too intimate, too forward, like he was asking her into something he hadn’t even fully accepted yet. Bruce’s jaw tightened before he clarified, “Not the house itself. There’s a spot on the grounds—far from the manor. A patch of grass, a small creek, an old picnic table. My parents used to take me there when I was little.”

He risked a glance at her, watching the faint surprise soften into something gentler.

“I think you’d love it,” he finished, quieter than he’d meant to.

“That’s… very thoughtful,” she said, and her voice was warmer now, shaded with something like gratitude.

Bruce should have left it there. That would’ve been safe. But something about the sunlight, something about the way she was looking at him—without expectation, without calculation—unlocked a part of him that was usually locked tight.

“I think my mother would have liked you,” he said before he could stop himself.

The words slipped out raw, unguarded. He almost took it back.

Sally blinked, color blooming across her cheeks. “That’s…” She let out a soft breath that could’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so tender. “That’s kind of you to say.”

The air thickened between them, comfortable but charged, as though they’d both stepped too close to something private.

After a long, long moment, Sally’s voice came again, lower this time. “Do you… miss them? Your parents?”

Bruce’s hands flexed on the wheel. For a second, all he could hear was the crunch of tires on gravel, the hum of the engine, the far-off call of some bird skimming over the Gotham treeline.

“Yes,” he said simply. His throat was tight, but he didn’t try to mask it.

“I miss mine too.”

That startled him. He turned his head slightly, brows furrowed. “You’re…?”

She gave a small, wistful smile. “An orphan too, yeah.”

For a moment, he just stared, stunned at the parallel.

“What happened?” The question came out softer than he intended, but he needed to know.

Her gaze went distant, fixed somewhere on the horizon. “Plane crash. I was a teenager. My uncle took me in after that, but… he got sick when I was in my senior year. Cancer. I ended up taking care of him instead of going to college. And then he died too.” She paused, drew in a shaky breath, but didn’t stop. “After that, I met Percy’s father. And then Percy was born and… well, that changed a lot of my plans.”

Bruce stayed quiet for a long time, letting her words settle. They sounded too familiar, in their way—life redirecting itself through tragedy, obligations reshaping every dream.

“Were you married?” The question slipped out before he could catch it, and he immediately regretted it. Too personal. Too pointed.

But Sally didn’t snap. She didn’t bristle. She just fell quiet.

Bruce hesitated, then added, “There’s a line on your finger. Like a ring used to be there. And you… hesitated when I asked you out.”

This time her smile curved sad, bittersweet. “You notice everything, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Yes,” she said at last, her voice hushed. “Percy’s father and I… we broke up a long time ago. But later, I married Paul. Estelle’s dad.” Her smile softened then, bright and tender even in its sorrow. “He was an angel. He loved Percy like his own. He… he never even got to see our daughter take her first steps.”

The mood in the car dimmed, though the sun outside was stubbornly brilliant. Bruce felt it—the weight of her grief, the familiar sting of memories turned into ghosts.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it.

Sally shook her head gently. “Paul wouldn’t want me to stay frozen in place. He’d want me to move on. To… live.” She turned her face toward the passing trees, the dappled light. “That’s why I came here. Gotham. Too many memories back in New York. Bad ones. I know it’s ironic, considering Gotham’s, well… Gotham. But here, none of that shit can touch me or my kids.”

Bruce looked at her for a long moment, at the strength under her softness, at the way she spoke of surviving like it was just another day of breathing. And inside his chest, something shifted—something that made him vow, silently and fiercely, that nothing would touch her here. Not while he still drew breath.

The rest of the drive was quiet. Not strained, not broken—just hushed, as though both of them were sitting with the ghosts of their past.

When the high iron gates of Wayne Estate loomed into view, the automatic mechanisms sweeping them open, Sally straightened in her seat, eyes widening slightly.

“You weren’t kidding,” she murmured. “This place is… beautiful.”

The paved road curved inward, swallowed by thick stretches of old growth forest. Sunlight dappled through towering oaks and maples, their branches arched like a cathedral roof overhead. The path narrowed into a wilder track, less manicured, until it felt like they were leaving Gotham entirely.

Bruce let out a slow breath as the wilderness wrapped around them. “Almost there,” he said quietly.

The car crunched to a stop along the narrow dirt road, half a mile shy of the picnic spot. The forest pressed close around them here—towering trees, their branches knit tight above like an old vaulted ceiling, with dappled sunlight streaking through in golds and greens. Bruce turned off the engine and let the stillness settle. No city noise. No hum of traffic. Just the sound of birdsong, and the wind moving like a low whisper through the leaves.

He reached for the picnic basket before Sally could move.

“Bruce,” she said, her tone half-protest, half-laugh. “You don’t have to carry everything.”

“I’ve got it,” he said simply, lifting the heavy basket with one arm as though it weighed nothing. It wasn’t just pride—though Dick would tease him about that—it was instinct. If there was a burden, he’d take it. If there was weight to carry, it belonged on his shoulders, not on anyone else’s. Not on hers.

Sally sighed in a way that wasn’t entirely displeased. “You’re impossible.”

He only glanced back at her, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “So I’ve been told.”

The path narrowed into something wilder, no longer gravel but soft earth and old roots. Sunlight broke more freely here, gilding the moss and painting Sally’s hair with shifting threads of light. Bruce kept finding his eyes drawn sideways, stealing looks at her as they walked. He couldn’t help but think that she looked at home here. The curve of her smile, the relaxed way she breathed, the small sound of wonder she let out when a flash of bluebird darted across the path.

“It doesn’t feel like Gotham anymore,” Sally murmured after a while, as if reading his thoughts. She gestured faintly at the towering trees, the wildflower patches scattered like coins in the grass. “This could be… anywhere else.”

Bruce slowed his steps just enough to catch her words, then gave the smallest smile. “That’s the idea.”

The estate forest had always been a refuge, one of the few places in Gotham that seemed untouched by the city’s grime and endless shadows. For him, it was memory made physical. For them… maybe it could be sanctuary.

The path dipped, and the sound of water whispered ahead. The creek was close. The last few steps took them over a tumble of rocks, slicked dark with moss. Bruce stopped, shifted the basket into one hand, and extended his other toward her.

“Here,” he said, simple, steady.

Sally hesitated a fraction of a second, then placed her hand in his. Warm. Certain. Her hand was smaller than his, but sure, and he guided her down the uneven rocks with careful patience.

Though she didn’t seem to need it.

And when they reached the bottom, when their feet found the grass again, neither of them let go.

The creek opened before them—a ribbon of clear water rushing over stones, sunlight catching on its surface like scattered glass. The picnic table stood a few feet away, weathered but sturdy, its legs rooted into the earth. The sight tugged at something in Bruce’s chest, that odd mix of nostalgia and grief that never left him when he came here.

He set the basket down on the table, adjusting it with precision he didn’t need. “My father and I built this,” he said at last, the words slipping out quieter than he intended. “Or—he built it. I was seven. I… supervised.”

That earned a smile from Sally, soft and fond. “I’m sure your moral support was essential.”

His lips curved, brief but real. “He said it was.”

For a moment they just stood there, the creek rushing behind them, the sunlight pooling on the grass. Then Bruce drew in a breath, turned slightly toward her.

“I haven’t really brought anyone out here before,” he admitted. His gaze flicked down, then back up to meet hers. “But with you… it felt right.”

Something in Sally’s face shifted at that, her expression tender and complicated all at once. She didn’t answer immediately. When she did, her voice was softer, threaded with hesitation.

“Bruce… I need you to know something.”

He stilled, listening.

“I’m not into flings,” she said, her tone quiet but steady. “I can’t… I won’t do that. If this is going to be anything, it has to be serious. Otherwise—” She broke off, shook her head faintly. “Otherwise it’s just… I can’t do that.”

Bruce’s chest tightened. For a heartbeat, a dozen thoughts swirled—his life, his shadows, the danger that followed him like a second skin. There was so much she didn’t know. But under all of it was something else. Something that had been building, slow and relentless, since he first met her.

“I’m serious about this,” he murmured, the words rough, like they’d been dragged from somewhere deep in him. And as soon as he said them, he realized how true they were.

Her eyes widened a little, searching his face as though weighing the weight of those words. The silence stretched, filled only by the sound of water, the rustle of leaves overhead.

Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

The hug was warm. Tight. Human in a way that nearly undid him. Bruce stood frozen for half a second before he let the control slip, his arms coming up around her, holding her close. He could feel her heartbeat against him, her head on his chest, the way her breath pressed in and out. He nearly crumbled under the simplicity of it—being held not because he was broken, not because someone needed comfort in return, but because she wanted to hold him.

He leaned down, his voice rough over her head. “Can I kiss you?”

She drew back just enough to meet his eyes, her hands still resting against his chest. Her smile was small, almost shy. “Yes.”

Bruce leaned down, tilting her chin up with two fingers, and slowly pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss was soft. Softer than anything he’d ever known. Not hungry, not desperate—just gentle, like sunlight brushing skin, like the slow exhale after holding breath too long. Bruce closed his eyes and let it anchor him, let it steady the constant storm inside him. When they parted, it was with a sense that something had shifted, subtle but irreversible.

They were both in this.

And it felt comforting, not scary.

The rest of the afternoon unfolded in quiet ease. They unpacked Alfred’s carefully prepared spread—fresh bread still faintly warm, slices of cheese, small jars of jam and butter, fruit cut with precision. Sally laughed when she realized Alfred had even tucked in cloth napkins and silverware.

“He planned this very thoroughly,” she teased, shooting him a glance.

Bruce gave a wry huff. “Alfred takes picnics seriously.”

They ate slowly, talking in low voices, letting silences stretch when they wanted to. Sally told him about the bookstore—about the customers she loved, the small victories of running it. Bruce listened more than he spoke, content to watch the light play over her features, the way she gestured with her hands.

At one point, Sally tore off a piece of bread and tossed it toward the creek. A fish darted up, snagged it, and disappeared with a flash. She laughed, bright and surprised, and Bruce found himself smiling back before he could stop it.

When the food was gone, they stayed seated at the table, shoulders brushing, eyes on the creek. The water moved steady, unbothered by time. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Bruce felt still too.

The sun shifted overhead, shadows lengthening across the grass. Neither of them moved to leave.

They just stayed there, hand in hand.

Together.

Chapter Text

The bell jingled, too sharp in the quiet.

Nico’s head jerked up from the screen of his phone. For a second, his mind didn’t process what the sound was, because he had been so absorbed in the duel on his display—the way Anakin’s saber flashed blue against Dooku’s red. Ever since they’d moved to Gotham and monsters had become a nonexistent threat, Nico had been making full use of the mortal instrument called a mobile phone. He loved it. Watching Star Wars when he was practically alone was his favorite thing to do. And today, Will was working on an assignment at Steph’s, Sally was out on another date with that himbo billionaire, and Estelle was babbling to her Woody and Buzz Lightyear toys in a corner.

And now someone had come in.

“We’re closed,” he called automatically, not looking up yet. His voice came out flat, practiced. He’d learned quickly that most Gothamites weren’t persistent if you sounded like you’d stab them for pushing.

But the footsteps didn’t retreat. They came closer, deliberate. Nico sighed, pressing pause on his phone. Anakin froze mid-swing. He finally lifted his gaze.

The intruder was a boy, maybe a year or two younger than him, though his broad shoulders and confident stance made him look closer to an adult than a teenager. He had short dreads, neat, his posture relaxed as though he belonged here. Which he didn’t. He was smiling. That was suspicious enough.

And his soul—it felt like light the same way Will and his siblings’ souls did. But this boy was definitely not a demigod.

“Sorry,” the boy said, hands raised halfway like he was showing he wasn’t a threat. “I just wanted to meet you.”

Nico stared. No expression, no warmth. The look people described as a “death glare.” He didn’t do it on purpose; it was just his face.

The boy didn’t flinch. “I’m Duke,” he continued, like the name was supposed to mean something. “Cass is my sister. Your mom’s dating my, uh… guardian. So. I figured we could chat.”

The explanation clicked—sort of—but Nico’s instinct was still to shut it down. He didn’t chat. And he didn’t particularly feel like chatting with some random Gotham kid who thought dropping Cass’s name would open doors.

He leaned further back in his chair, crossing his arms. “What do you want to talk about?” His tone made it sound less like a question and more like a dare.

But Duke took that as permission. He came further inside, the bell jangling faintly again as the door closed behind him. He crossed the bookstore with ease, like he’d been here before, and leaned on one of the café tables that Nico had just cleaned. The casualness grated on Nico’s nerves.

“Not much,” Duke said. “Just wanted to introduce myself. You looked like you could use company.”

Nico snorted under his breath. Everyone kept saying that. Will said it when he dragged Nico into conversations he didn’t want. Jason said it when he forced Nico into sparring rounds at camp. Even Reyna, who should’ve known better, told him sometimes he’d feel better if he opened up.

The only people Nico would admit he loved spending time with were his little sisters—Hazel and Estelle.

“Nico di Angelo,” he said anyway, voice clipped. A concession.

Duke’s eyes flicked at that. “Nico di Angelo?”

Nico’s spine stiffened at the way the boy stressed it, like it was strange. He rolled his eyes, deadpan. “Yeah. Not Jackson. I’m adopted.”

Duke tilted his head. “Most of my siblings are adopted too. Bruce is my foster parent.”

There was something disarming about the ease with which he said it. No defensiveness, no edge, just fact.

Nico blinked once, then muttered, “Cass mentioned it.”

Duke smiled faintly, like he’d scored a small victory. Then he launched into easy conversation. Questions about Gotham—did Nico like it here? What was the weirdest thing about living in a bookstore café? What was New York like?

Nico gave short, reluctant answers at first. One-word replies. Shrugs. But Duke was persistent in a way that wasn’t grating—open, almost too open. He filled silences easily, kept things light. Eventually Nico’s replies stretched longer, two words, then whole sentences.

“Gotham’s growing on me, I suppose,” Nico admitted at one point, shrugging. “It’s… different.”

“Yeah,” Duke said, nodding slowly. “I love and hate Gotham. Most people do.”

The conversation drifted, shallow but not unpleasant. Nico found himself answering without as much hesitation. Duke seemed to have that effect—he made it easy.

Then Estelle’s voice cut across the café, shrill and excited.

“Ico!”

Nico turned immediately, his whole body tensing until he saw her standing by the front window, pointing out with all the urgency of a commander spotting enemy troops. Her curls bounced as she shouted again, “Ico! Kitty!”

Nico blinked. “What?”

He crossed the café quickly, Duke trailing behind. Estelle was pressed against the glass, toys abandoned on the floor, finger smudging a little circle as she pointed.

Sure enough, outside the window, a tiny kitten sat in the grimy alley by the sidewalk. Its fur was ragged, matted, and patchy, gray where it wasn’t dirty brown. Its body was thin, frail enough that Nico could feel the way death clung close around it. It was so, so close to ending up in his father’s realm.

Something in his chest tightened.

“Yes,” Nico said softly, ruffling Estelle’s hair. “That’s a cat.” 

“Kitty,” Estelle repeated solemnly. “She needs a hug.”

Nico’s throat felt dry. He didn’t know how to explain to a three-year-old that hugs couldn’t fix everything. That sometimes death pressed too close, and nothing you did could shove it back.

Duke leaned in, squinting through the glass. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That cat could use a hug.”

Nico shot him an annoyed look. “You’re not helping.”

“Ico, I wanna give her a hug.”

Nico sighed. “Stella—”

But Estelle’s wide eyes were insistent, and Nico had never been able to say no to her for long. 

With a sigh, he moved toward the door.

The bell jingled again as he stepped out into the cool evening air. The kitten startled at the sound, backing up a step, its body low, tail puffed with what little fur it had.

Nico crouched slowly, letting the shadows curl at the edges of his senses. He reached out, careful, murmuring under his breath in Italian.

“Va bene, piccola. Non ti farò del male. Sto cercando di aiutarti.”

The kitten hissed, a tiny sound, weak but defiant. She swiped with a paw, claws catching air.

Nico’s heart squeezed tighter. Even this close to death, she fought.

He moved carefully, gathering her up into his arms. She was all bones and trembles, fur rough under his hands. She writhed, trying to scratch, desperate to get away. He murmured again, switching between Ancient Greek and Italian, nonsense soft words, trying to soothe her. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t.

Nico had never been good at comforting anyone.

Behind him, the door jingled. Duke stepped out, Estelle clinging to his hand. Nico almost wanted to snap at him for letting his baby sister out in the street without her shoes on.

“Kitty!” Estelle squealed again, reaching forward.

Duke bent quickly, intercepting her. “Hey—hold on, kiddo. Alley cats can be dangerous when they’re scared. Even the sick ones.”

Estelle pouted, lower lip trembling. “But hug!”

Duke crouched down to her level. “I know. But hugs will have to wait until she’s feeling better. Okay?”

Estelle frowned, but after a long moment, she nodded reluctantly.

Nico tightened his hold on the kitten, feeling the frailty in its tiny body, the way its heartbeat fluttered like a trapped bird. Sadness weighed heavy in his chest, the kind he knew too well.

Maybe Will could help. Maybe there was still time.

He held the kitten closer, ignoring the scratches against his arms, whispering again that it would be okay.

Then he felt another soul approach—and this one felt like death.

Death, but dripping with some sickly green goop that made Nico want to stab someone.

The guy was built like a refrigerator, Nico thought immediately. One of those old, humming, rusted refrigerators that took three grown men to haul out of a basement. 

Kind of like Ares or Hephaestus.

His shadow stretched long over the cracked Gotham pavement as he stopped in front of them. Nico had Estelle pressed against his leg, the kitten slowly losing fight in his arms, Duke standing nearby still wearing that disarming, too-friendly grin.

“You must be Nico,” the man said. His voice was smooth but sharp-edged, like a knife kept just sharp enough to cut. “Cass told us about you.”

Nico glared at him. Scowled, really. He was good at that particular face—the one that had shut down gods, monsters, and mortal teachers alike. But the refrigerator-man didn’t flinch. He just kept talking.

“I’m Jason. Jason Todd.” His eyes flicked toward Duke, then back. “Came looking for my little brother here.”

“Not little,” Duke muttered automatically.

Jason ignored him.

Nico’s scowl deepened. “Estelle needs to go in again,” he said flatly, not bothering to disguise his dismissal.

He turned on his heel without waiting for a reply, shepherding Estelle inside the store with a gentle nudge and carrying the kitten like it was made of glass. The poor thing was limp now, breathing shallowly against his chest. Too close to the edge.

Jason and Duke followed anyway. Of course they did.

Inside, the bookstore smelled faintly of dust and coffee and lemon cleaner. The lights hummed overhead, and Estelle immediately made a beeline for her toys in the corner. She paused long enough to throw her arms out toward Duke—who, naturally, scooped her up like they’d been best friends forever.

Nico didn’t trust that. He didn’t trust any of this.

Jason kept talking, voice too casual. “So, Sally Jackson’s your mom, huh? I gotta say—she’s my favorite author. Ghosts by the Sea? Masterpiece. Read it three times.”

Nico stiffened. His grip on the kitten tightened. He didn’t like people talking about his loved ones—not unless they meant it. “She is amazing,” Nico said finally, the words clipped but sincere.

Jason grinned. “Yeah, exactly. Still don’t get why she’s dating Bruce, though.”

That earned an involuntary bark of laughter out of Nico—short, sharp, shocked out of him before he could strangle it. “Right? Thank you.”

Jason and Duke both snorted. Jason shook his head, still grinning.

Even Estelle perked up at that, patting Duke’s cheek. “I like you,” she declared.

“Thanks, kid,” Duke said, bouncing her slightly on his hip.

Nico rolled his eyes and headed toward the café’s kitchen. “If you’re going to follow me around, at least make yourselves useful.”

They trailed after him like shadows, their footsteps thumping against the wood.

Almost like they wanted him to hear them.

The kitchen was cramped, warm, and smelled like coffee beans. Nico set the kitten on a folded towel on the counter, trying to ignore how small it looked, how fragile. Its ribs shivered with every breath. He grabbed a shallow dish and poured some milk in, sliding it carefully toward the kitten.

Jason leaned against the doorframe, all broad shoulders and casual posture. Duke hovered closer, trying not to look like he was hovering.

Nico shot them both a look. “Why are you both here, anyways? On the one day I finally had some time alone?”

Duke shrugged. “Wanted to meet you.”

“Cass told me you were interesting,” Jason added, smirking.

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Stop.”

Jason chuckled under his breath. Duke didn’t seem fazed either. It was infuriating.

The kitten nosed at the milk weakly, managing a few laps. Relief loosened the knot in Nico’s chest just a little.

Estelle leaned over Duke’s shoulder, wide-eyed. “She’s better,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Duke said softly. “She’s trying.”

“She needs a hug,” Estelle insisted again.

Nico reached up and ruffled her hair. “She needs food more.”

Jason’s gaze softened on the little scene, though he covered it fast with another smirk. “You’re a good big brother, you know? It’s adorable.”

Nico turned the full force of his glare on him. “Don’t.”

Jason held up his hands. “Just saying.”

Nico didn’t know what it was—Jason’s troublemaker smirk or the sickly green death wrapped around his soul—but he wanted to punch the man. Hard.

The kitten lapped at the milk again, then curled back into a tiny ball. Nico brushed a finger lightly over its head, whispering in Italian before he could stop himself. Words meant to soothe, to anchor. The kitten didn’t understand. But maybe it felt something.

Jason tilted his head. “That Italian?”

“Yes,” Nico snapped.

“Cool.”

“Stop talking.”

Jason snorted again, unbothered.

Duke bounced Estelle on his hip as she giggled, tugging at his hoodie strings. “So, you live here? With Sally and your sister?”

Nico narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re really good at this whole ‘friendly’ thing, huh?”

Nico muttered something dark under his breath.

Estelle, still clinging to Duke, announced: “He has to stay.”

Nico turned sharply. “What?”

Estelle nodded seriously, pointing at Duke. “He’s nice. He has to stay.”

Duke laughed, clearly delighted. The light around Duke’s soul flared warmer as he laughed. “Sorry, guess it’s official now.”

“No,” Nico said flatly.

“Yes,” Estelle countered.

Jason was outright laughing now. “Kid’s got good taste.”

Nico glared at all of them in turn. It had no effect.

The kitten eventually curled tight into itself, chest rising and falling in small, uneven motions. Nico let it be, resisting the urge to hover. Space was what it needed, quiet and warmth. He folded the towel around it a little better, then left it in peace on the counter. 

It would hold out until Will came back. Will could fix things. Will always fixed things.

The café felt smaller with people in it, noisier, though most of the noise came from Estelle. She’d migrated to her corner and roped Duke in, naturally. He was kneeling on the floor now, gangly frame folded awkwardly but with a grin on his face, letting her crown him with a plastic tiara from her toy box. Nico almost smiled at the sight. Almost.

Jason, meanwhile, had drifted toward the shelves. His heavy boots creaked on the floorboards as he scanned rows of spines.

“So,” Jason called over his shoulder, “you work here, right?”

Nico raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “Obviously.”

Jason plucked a book down, thumbed it open, then slid it back with care. “Which books do you like best?”

The question landed heavier than it should’ve. Nico blinked. His mouth pressed into a thin line. Finally, he said flatly, “I don’t read.”

Jason turned, brow raised. “You work in a bookstore but don’t read?”

Nico’s glare deepened, defensive heat prickling under his collar. He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m dyslexic.”

Jason froze for a second, surprise flickering across his face before softening into something else. Something Nico didn’t expect. He nodded slowly, no pity in his eyes, just understanding. “Got it,” Jason said. “Fair.” Then, more lightly: “Audiobooks are always an option, though.”

Nico snorted, the sound sharp and derisive. “I have ADHD too. Could never pay attention long enough. Waste of time.”

Jason gave a low whistle. “Dang, kid. You got a bad hand.”

That made Nico bristle—and yet, for some reason, words slipped out before he could stop them. “Estelle’s my only sibling who doesn’t have ADHD or dyslexia.”

Jason looked at him, studying the hard edge in his tone, the twitch of his jaw. He didn’t push, didn’t joke this time. “Yeah,” Jason said after a pause. “My daughter’s got ADHD, too.”

Nico’s head snapped up. “Your daughter?”

Jason smirked at his shock. “Yeah. Her name’s Lian. She’s the same age as Estelle.” His eyes softened in that same unguarded way Nico had seen earlier. 

The green around his soul seemed to recede when he talked about her.

Nico had to process that. Jason Todd—the refrigerator man, all sharp sarcasm and loud presence—had a daughter. And not just that. He cared. The affection was plain in his voice, like it slipped out without him meaning it.

Jason kept going, casual as ever. “Point is, I’ve figured out what keeps her interested when I’m reading a story out loud to her. How to make it… not boring. Maybe, y’know, if you wanted, I could read to you sometime. Doesn’t have to be a big thing.”

The words hit Nico like a sucker punch. His face went hot. Embarrassment, indignation, a tangled mess he couldn’t sort through.

“You’re not my brother or something,” Nico snapped, harsher than he meant to. “I have enough of those, okay?! You can’t just— ugh. No. Why would you even— just no.”

The air hung tight for a moment.

Jason didn’t snap back. Didn’t bristle. His mouth ticked into a small, crooked grin instead. “Fair enough,” he said simply. “Didn’t mean to step on your toes.”

Nico blinked, caught off guard again. He was used to people getting defensive, or angry, or worse, pitying. Jason just… took it in stride, like he knew exactly how to walk around barbed wire without getting cut.

He decided to take a strategic retreat from Jason. He made his way back to the cafe to finish cleaning up the last few tables.

Jason didn’t follow.

But all the time, Nico could feel their souls. These two boys had strange souls. One glowed, and one felt like sick green death.

These were not regular mortals.

Cass and Steph’s souls had seemed pretty normal (if a little tired), just like Bruce’s, but Jason and Duke were just not normal.

But who was Nico to speak of normal?

But he’d just keep an eye on them. Just to be safe.

Chapter Text

Barbara Gordon sat in front of her wall of monitors, bathed in the glow of Gotham’s most advanced surveillance network. She had one hand propping her chin while the other clicked through feeds. The soft hum of computers filled the Clocktower like white noise, a steady backdrop to her life.

Beside her, Cass perched on the edge of the table, balanced as easily as if it were the ground. Her dark eyes didn’t leave the screens.

One monitor showed grainy camera footage from a tucked-away corner of Wayne Estate. Bruce sat on the creekside bench with Sally Jackson at his side. His arm brushed hers, their fingers intertwined. Occasionally, they leaned in and kissed, soft and almost tentative.

Another screen tracked a blinking red dot moving through a digital map overlay. Damian’s tracker. He was making steady progress across Wayne grounds, moving like a hunter closing in. On his dad and his new girlfriend.

Cass tilted her head, the faintest wrinkle in her brow. Finally, she said, “Baby brother is stupid.”

Barbara couldn’t help but laugh. A short bark, tired but genuine. “Yeah,” she agreed. “That about sums it up.”

Cass’s expression didn’t change, but her tone was blunt as ever: “You warned Bruce too vaguely.”

Barbara leaned back, spinning her chair half a turn to glance up at her. “Oh, come on. I gave him fair warning. I told him to look out. He just didn’t read between the lines, but, it’s not like his life’s in danger.”

Cass gave her a look that said she wasn’t buying it.

Barbara sighed and gestured to the map. “If I’d told him straight out that Tim and Damian and Dick were cooking up another grand suspicion-fest about his girlfriend, he’d have gone stomping off to lecture them. Then Tim would’ve launched a counteroffensive. And we’d all be stuck in another hacking war. Do you really want to watch that mess?”

Cass tilted her head the other way, considering. “You would win.”

“Obviously.” Barbara clicked through another camera angle, watching Bruce and Sally share a piece of bread from the picnic basket. “But winning means dedicating a week of my life to counteracting this shit. And then Dick would jump in with his ‘we shouldn’t be mean’ talks. Jason would just light something on fire to make a point. Duke would try to be reasonable but end up taking a side. Steph would throw glitter bombs at everybody. And Damian—well, Damian’s already proving the point.”

Cass blinked slowly. “…Bat-cult prank war.”

Barbara pointed at her. “Exactly. You know what I don’t need in my life? Another Bat-cult prank war. Do you remember the last one?”

Cass’s lips twitched upward, a rare flash of amusement. “The Redbird.”

Barbara groaned, rubbing her forehead. “Filled. Entirely. With rubber ducks. I’m still not sure how Jason got that many. And I still have glitter stuck in my keyboard from Steph’s revenge prank.”

Silence settled again, broken only by the faint clicking of keys as Barbara adjusted feeds.

On the third monitor, another live camera feed rolled. This one wasn’t Wayne property—it was the camera outside the Jacksons’ bookstore café. Both Duke and Jason’s motorcycles were parked outside.

Cass’s gaze shifted to that screen. Then she murmured, “I should go there.”

Barbara paused, finally glancing up at her. “Go where?”

“Jacksons’,” Cass said simply, nodding toward the monitor. “Nico is anxious. He… does not know Jason. Or Duke. Too much. He might… get overwhelmed.”

Barbara was quiet for a moment. Then she started, “You realize the Jacksons are very suspicious, right?”

Cass nodded once. “Yes.”

“Good,” Barbara said, satisfied. “Because it’s not just Tim’s paranoia talking. Weird things happened around them. Strange gaps. Unexplainable incidents. Sally Jackson’s history isn’t clean, and her son? He’s got a rap sheet of explosions, murders, disappearances, and conveniently timed rescues. It doesn’t add up. Even for Gotham.”

Cass met her eyes squarely, unflinching. “They are good. I can see.”

Barbara studied her for a long moment. Cass’s instincts were rarely wrong. She read people the way Barbara read code—clean, precise, cutting through the noise. If Cass said they were good, then there was truth there.

Finally, Barbara sighed and leaned back in her chair. “All right. I’ll trust you on that.” She flicked her hand toward the screen. “Go. Keep an eye. Make sure the boys don’t scare the poor kid into locking himself in a coffin.”

Cass rose smoothly from the table, landing silent as a shadow. “Jason will try to adopt him. I will bet on that.”

“I’m not betting against you, Cass,” Barbara chuckled to herself as the elevator doors slid shut behind her. 

She turned back to the creek feed just in time to see Bruce smile—a real smile, unguarded—for the first time in longer than she could remember.

The old Bat was stupidly in love, wasn’t he?

And then her fingers flew across the keyboard again, rerouting cameras to keep an eye on Damian’s little crusade. Because if that kid actually thought he could sneak up on anyone without her noticing?

Well. Then he was the stupidest of them all.

— — — 

The sky was turning gold and pink as the last of the sun slid down behind the trees, long shadows striping the dirt path. Bruce tightened his hand around Sally’s, half as a reassurance and half as a selfish anchor—if he let go, he might wake up and discover this whole afternoon had been some elaborate dream. Her presence beside him was warm, real, grounding in a way that surprised even him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gone out anywhere simply because he wanted to, rather than because he had to.

They were nearly at the car when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. A weight in the air shifted, subtle, but unmistakable. His training screamed someone’s watching. He halted mid-step, his hand still clutching Sally’s.

“What is it?” Sally asked softly. Her gaze swept the trees, brow furrowed, alert without panic.

Bruce’s eyes scanned the treeline, and then he saw it: the briefest glint of steel, reflecting the dying sunlight. His jaw set. He knew that blade, knew it better than he wished he did.

“Damian,” Bruce called out, voice low but firm. “Why are you following us?”

There was a pause — the kind of hesitation only his son would have, weighing whether to stay hidden or submit to the inevitable. Then a figure stepped out from the trees, the movement as deliberate as it was reluctant. Damian Wayne al-Ghul, twelve years old and already carved sharp by training and lineage. He was in civilian clothes, thankfully—but the katana at his hip was glaringly out of place. His green eyes narrowed, fixing on Sally first with a glare that could have felled lesser people.

To her credit, Sally Jackson didn’t flinch. She stood her ground, even as Bruce instinctively shifted in front of her, protective to the core.

Bruce repeated, sharper this time, “Why are you following us?”

Damian’s hand twitched near the sword hilt, not in threat but in habit, the same way others might adjust their glasses. He tilted his chin up and said flatly, “I was keeping an eye on your latest date.”

Sally’s brows rose, but she said nothing.

Bruce’s frustration surged. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. The one afternoon he had allowed himself, and of course…

“Damian.” His voice was low, stern. “This behavior is unacceptable.”

Before the boy could respond, Sally’s hand brushed lightly against Bruce’s arm. When he turned, her expression was calm, almost sad, though her eyes carried kindness rather than mockery.

“I get it,” she said simply. “It isn’t easy, seeing your parent with someone new.” She offered Damian a little smile, gentle but steady. “My son Percy blew up too, when I told him about Bruce and me. I think it’s normal.”

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course Sally would defuse it, gently leveling the ground between herself and his son instead of widening the divide. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or worried that she was already stepping into family skirmishes with such grace.

Damian, however, didn’t soften. He crossed his arms, glaring between them, jaw tight. He looked… uncertain, though he would never admit it.

“Maybe introductions are in order,” Sally said, pivoting lightly, as though she hadn’t just stepped into a miniature battlefield. She smiled at Damian. “My name’s Sally.”

Damian grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

“We didn’t catch that,” Bruce said, his tone less harsh now, nudging him toward civility.

Damian’s eyes flicked up, meeting Sally’s. His shoulders straightened, and he repeated, clipped but clear: “I am Damian Wayne.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Damian.” Sally’s smile softened, genuine. “Bruce mentioned you liked my cookies.”

For the first time, Damian’s glare cracked. His eyes widened just a fraction, surprise breaking through his carefully crafted armor. “Those were yours?”

Sally nodded.

A beat passed. Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…They were acceptable.”

Bruce almost groaned. That was Damian’s version of a glowing review. But to any normal person it would seem so stuck up—

But Sally didn’t seem fazed. She chuckled lightly. “Well, I’m glad. Tell you what — we’re heading back to my house now. How about you come with us? I can make a fresh batch, if you’d like.”

Damian blinked, clearly caught off guard. He glanced at Bruce, searching for some kind of angle, some hidden trap. Then, almost too quietly, he said, “Only if you agree to show me how you made them.”

Something tugged deep in Bruce’s chest. This was the boy’s version of an olive branch.

Sally’s eyes warmed. “Of course.”

Bruce exhaled, tension bleeding from his shoulders. He gestured toward the car. “Let’s go, then.”

He opened the passenger door for Sally, giving her a soft smile as she got in. Then his eyes flickered to Damian again. “Leave the katana in the trunk.”

“No.” Damian got in the back seat, carefully placing his katana beside him.

How was Bruce supposed to explain to Sally why his son carried a sword around?

Bruce wanted to bang his head on the nearest tree, but he contained himself. Inside the car, Sally was already complimenting Damian’s katana.

So Bruce just climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the car on.

The drive back into the city was an exercise in restraint. Bruce kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight, hands steady on the wheel, even though every instinct in his body screamed at him to lecture, scold, interrogate—or, failing that, bang his forehead against the steering wheel until he knocked himself out.

Sally, bless her, filled the silence with casual questions aimed at Damian.

“So,” she said lightly, as though she hadn’t just walked straight into a minefield of Wayne family drama. “That’s a very pretty sword.”

“Katana,” Damian corrected immediately, his voice sharp as a blade.

Bruce winced.

“Katana,” Sally echoed, unbothered. “Do you know how to use that?”

Damian gave her a sidelong look, measuring her for mockery. But she only looked curious, warm. He shifted in his seat. “Yes. I practice every day. Discipline is paramount.”

“Sounds like you take it seriously,” she said, and Bruce could hear the smile in her voice. “Do you have a favorite subject at school?”

“Art.”

“Art?” Sally brightened. “That’s wonderful. What kind?”

“Sketching,” Damian muttered. “Ink. Sometimes painting.”

“I’d love to see your work sometime.”

Damian glanced away, clearly unsettled by how easily she was dismantling his armor. Bruce had to fight not to smirk; Sally Jackson was either fearless or stubborn—or both.

“And do you like baking?” she asked after a pause.

Damian considered the question like it was a trap. “…It’s an acceptable pastime.”

Sally chuckled, satisfied. Bruce, meanwhile, was counting down the minutes until they reached the bookstore.

When they finally pulled up outside Jacksons’ Books & Blue Cookies, Bruce spotted the three bikes leaning against the wall. He recognized them instantly, and his temples began to throb. 

Jason, Duke, and Cass were there. Perfect.

Had they also been stalking Sally?!

Bruce killed the engine.

Sally frowned faintly. “Looks like Nico has company.”

Of course she wasn’t fazed. Of course.

They piled out of the car. Sally opened the door and called warmly, “Nico?” Her voice carried through the bell-jingled entrance.

Bruce followed her inside, Damian at his shoulder, eyes scanning the room like he expected assassins behind the shelves.

Instead, they found Duke in the corner, a sparkly plastic tiara perched on his head while little Estelle gleefully ordered him to move blocks around in some complicated pattern. Jason was sprawled on a couch, a thick paperback in hand, looking perfectly at home.

Both boys glanced up when Bruce entered. And then, with identical innocent smiles that fooled no one, they waved at him.

Bruce’s urge to slam his head into the nearest wall intensified.

Nico emerged from the kitchen, towel slung over his shoulder, scowling. “They won’t leave.”

Cass trailed behind him, her shoulder brushing with Nico’s—Bruce could tell she was trying to comfort the boy with her presence. The sight warmed his heart.

“...I didn’t mean Cass,” Nico amended his words. Then glared at Duke and Jason. “They won’t leave.”

Sally laughed softly, like the sight of Jason lounging and Duke playing dolls was the most natural thing in the world. “I assume you’re Bruce’s children too.”

Jason closed his book with a deliberate snap and stood, his grin sharp. “Jason Todd. Big fan of your work. I just don’t know why you’re dating Bruce, of all people.”

Bruce leveled a glare at him that promised consequences. Jason, naturally, looked delighted.

Sally only smiled, eyes crinkling. “Nice to meet you, Jason. I’m flattered, really.”

Duke adjusted Estelle on his hip—she had wrapped herself around him like a koala and clearly had no intention of letting go. “He’s not my dad,” Duke offered, nodding at Bruce. “But I’m Duke. Hi.”

“Hi, Duke.” Sally’s warmth didn’t falter. “Estelle seems to like you.”

“She won’t let go,” Duke said helplessly, though his grin gave him away. 

Estelle tugged at his jacket and said, “Pick up Woody.”

Duke obliged.

Cass just waved at Sally, mirroring her smile. “Cass,” she said simply.

“Nice to meet you, Cass.”

Damian had gone very still, deliberately avoiding both Jason’s and Duke’s gazes. Bruce recognized the tension in his posture—the stubborn refusal to show vulnerability in front of older brothers who’d make fun of him.

Nico, towel twisting between his hands, turned his glare on Bruce. The message was clear: Control your kids.

Sally cut in before Bruce could respond. “Nico, sweetheart, why didn’t you invite them upstairs?”

The boy froze, eyes narrowing. He glared at her for a long, weighted moment, as though deciding whether arguing with her was worth the effort. Finally, with a muttered, “Sorry,” he spun on his heel and stalked back into the kitchen. Cass followed him, her hand coming up to brush Nico’s hair.

Nico didn’t pull away from her.

Sally clapped her hands lightly. “I didn’t know there’d be so many people over today. But it’s perfect timing. Damian and I were just about to make cookies.”

Damian’s scowl intensified.

Jason’s grin widened like a wolf’s. “Cookies? Little Demon’s gonna bake?”

Damian’s hand flew to his katana hilt. “Say another word, Todd, and I’ll gut you.”

“Wow, okay, that’s not how most people respond to baked goods—” Jason dodged the swat Bruce aimed at the back of his head.

Sally was unruffled. “Come on up.” She headed toward the stairs that led to the living space above the store. Duke was in step with her, already talking to her, Estelle still in his arms.

Bruce followed, the picture of grim dignity despite the circus unfolding around him.

Jason fell into step beside him, smirking. “So. Romantic afternoon ruined yet?”

“Not a word,” Bruce growled.

Jason spread his hands innocently. “Hey, I’m just here for the cookies.”

Behind them, Damian hissed something under his breath about usurpers and imbeciles.

By the time they reached the apartment above the store, Bruce wasn’t sure if he was walking into a family dinner or a hostage situation. Sally ushered them all inside with unflappable cheer, directing Damian toward the kitchen counter with the calm authority of someone who had wrangled far worse.

“Wash your hands first,” she told him gently.

Damian bristled, but complied.

Jason leaned against the counter, arms folded, smirk firmly in place. “Can’t wait to see this.”

“Silence,” Damian snapped.

“Jason,” Sally said, tone mild but cutting in a way that made even Bruce blink. “If you can’t be polite, you can sit outside.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up. For the first time, he looked caught off guard. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, and instead mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.”

Bruce felt an unexpected surge of gratitude. Sally had managed in two minutes what years of fatherhood hadn’t: Jason Todd, willingly staying quiet.

After a long few moments, Jason spoke again: “Can I help? I’m not half bad at baking.”

“As long as you’re nice to your little brother,” Sally said, giving Jason a small smile.

Damian tried not to look too smug. “Yes, brother.”

Jason huffed softly, but started washing his hands too.

Bruce didn’t know what to do with himself, and the kitchen was getting crowded, so wandered out.

The living room was way smaller than the manor’s sitting rooms, but it felt alive in a way those cavernous halls rarely did. Books stacked on the end tables, art supplies spilling from a basket near the window, the faint smell of sugar and flour drifting from the kitchen. Bruce lowered himself with a sigh.

Duke sat cross-legged on the rug, Estelle nestled against his side. When she noticed Bruce sitting, her eyes went round. She peered at him over Duke’s shoulder, unblinking.

For a long moment, she just… studied him, with the sort of frankness only children had.

Finally, she tugged on Duke’s sleeve. “Who’s that?”

Duke snorted softly, amusement flickering across his face. “That’s Bruce. The guy you saw downstairs. You know—your mom’s friend.”

“Her boyfriend,” Jason’s voice chimed from the kitchen doorway, far too smug. Bruce ignored him.

Bruce offered Estelle the gentlest smile he could manage, which felt stiff on his face. What did one say to children?

“I like your bracelet,” he said eventually, nodding at the braided thread and mismatched beads circling her wrist.

Instantly, her shyness evaporated. She held up her wrist, a grin breaking across her face. “Mama helped me make it!”

“It’s beautiful,” Bruce said, and meant it. There was something refreshing in how proudly she presented her creation.

He gestured toward the refrigerator, where colorful drawings were magnet-pinned in uneven rows. “And whose are those?”

Estelle puffed up like a balloon. “Mine! That one’s Percy and Annie swimming, and that’s Mama, and that’s me and Percy and Ico and Ty!”

Bruce leaned forward, studying them carefully. The crayon strokes were bold, the colors bright. The kind of art made with confidence, not hesitation. “You’re a good artist,” he said gravely.

It was then that the door creaked open.

Cass came in first, holding the door open.

Then Nico stepped inside, his dark hair mussed from the evening air. But what caught Bruce’s attention immediately was the absence of his aviator jacket—the boy clutched it against his chest instead, bundled awkwardly in his arms. A shape inside shifted weakly, a faint sound escaping.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. He recognized the ragged fur, the shallow rise and fall of a tiny chest.

A kitten. Street-born, by the look of its thinness and matted coat.

“Do we have any cat food?” Nico called, his voice flat, but there was an undercurrent of urgency there. His eyes flicked to Sally, already half-turning toward the kitchen.

Sally appeared in moments, wiping flour from her hands. She took one look at the bundle in Nico’s arms and her expression softened. “Baking’s going to have to wait a few minutes,” she said firmly, glancing toward Damian and Jason, who had been lingering near the kitchen counter.

While Sally searched through the pantry, Damian stepped closer. His sharp eyes scanned the bundle, posture taut. Animals had always slipped beneath his defenses in ways people couldn’t.

“It looks very sick,” Damian said, his voice clipped but laced with concern.

Nico nodded once, his mouth pressed thin. “I know. The best we can do is try to help.”

Bruce watched the shift in his son’s demeanor—the way Damian’s scowl softened, his gaze steadying on Nico not as an opponent or rival but as… an ally. In that moment, Bruce knew: Damian had decided Nico was a good person.

Cass saw it too, clearly. Her lips tugged in a soft smile and she stepped closer to Damian, pulling him in a loose hug. 

Sally returned with a small can and a dish. “Here.” She knelt, setting them on the coffee table, the metallic clink of the can opener punctuating the room.

Jason raised a brow. “Why do you just have cat food lying around if you don’t even have pets?”

Sally laughed, shaking her head as she scooped food into the dish. “Because my children keep bringing animals home. If I wasn’t prepared, they’d all starve before the vet appointments.”

Damian turned sharply toward her, eyes wide in a way Bruce rarely saw. “What animals?”

“Oh, plenty,” Sally said with a wave of her hand, as though this weren’t a ridiculous statement. “Percy has a hound named Mrs. O’Leary. He and Tyson are… well, let’s call them friends with some fish and horses. And Nico here—” she smiled, reaching up to nudge Nico’s shoulder “—likes rehabilitating strays.”

Nico’s ears pinked, but he didn’t look away from the kitten. “Will does it too,” he muttered.

Damian shuffled nearer, gaze flicking between Nico and the tiny creature curled in his jacket. His tone was formal, almost reverent. “May I visit again? To see the kitten. And… perhaps also the hound.”

Bruce blinked. Damian rarely asked for anything without an edge of demand. But here, his voice carried something closer to hope.

Nico hesitated—then, surprisingly, he smiled. Just a little, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Okay.”

It was such a small thing, that smile. But Bruce felt it settle in the room like a dropped pebble, rippling outward. Damian’s shoulders eased. Sally’s face warmed. 

“I will come by too,” Cass said after a moment, her hand brushing Nico’s arm.

Nico looked down at the kitten. “...you can come whenever. You’re chill.”

“And I’m not?” Jason leaned against the couch, arms crossed, though there was an amused glint in his eyes. “C’mon, kid, I thought we were bonding.”

Nico glared at Jason, but a pat from Cass made him reluctantly mutter, “Fine. You too.”

He glanced at Estelle, who was now falling asleep in Duke’s arms. “You ever planning on letting him leave, Stella?”

The girl blinked blearily when her name was called, her fingers curling into Duke’s jacket. “...no.”

“Aww,” Duke ruffled her hair. “I’m not going anywhere, then.”

“Steph and Will are coming home soon,” Cass added. “You all should meet Will. He is… nice.”

Nico sighed, accepting his fate. His fingers brushed through the kitten’s matted fur as he put it on the coffee table, sliding the cat food towards it. Damian encouraged it to eat. Sally and Jason made their way back to the kitchen.

Bruce’s lips pressed into a line. 

Four of his kids were sprawled around the Jacksons’ living room, teasing, smiling. And Sally was in the middle of it all, handling their chaos easily, making everyone feel at home.

She was… amazing.

Chapter Text

Bruce made the kids pile into his car. He knew the three older ones had driven here on their own bikes, but he knew that if he let them go home on those same bikes, they’d avoid the talk. And they needed to have a talk.

So now here he was, ferrying them all to the Manor.

The quiet was deafening.

Cass sat beside him in the passenger seat, posture relaxed, but Bruce could see the subtle tension in her shoulders. She didn’t need words to say what she was thinking—her hands rested loosely on her lap, her fingers occasionally twitching in a rhythm. Behind them, Damian sat stiff and uncomfortable, like he knew what was coming. Duke leaned against the window, tapping his foot, and Jason—Jason was sprawled, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward the window like he was already plotting an escape route.

They were too quiet. Which meant they were hiding something.

Bruce let it go for three blocks.

Then Duke cleared his throat.

“I like Sally.” His voice cracked slightly, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, uh. It’s cool that you met her, B.”

Bruce’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel.

Jason immediately chimed in, his tone too quick, too forced. “Yeah. What he said. She’s… yeah. Nice. Don’t know how you scored her, though.”

Damian’s voice was quieter but edged with his usual self-importance. “She is an acceptable match for you, Father.”

Cass didn’t speak. Instead, she turned slightly in her seat and gestured with a sharp flick of her fingers toward the three boys: He knows. Stupid.

Bruce sighed, the sound heavy in the enclosed car. He could feel their eyes on him—Cass steady and observant, Damian smug, Duke trying to gauge the mood, Jason trying too hard to look like he wasn’t invested.

“It’s good,” Bruce began slowly, carefully, “that you all met Sally. That you had a good time. But what the hell were you all doing at her house?!”

The sharp edge in his voice made Duke wince. Jason, however, had the nerve to smirk.

“Steph’s friends with Nico’s boyfriend,” Cass said quickly, her voice clear and calm. “So she and Nico are friends. So…” She tilted her hand in a neat little therefore gesture.

Bruce let out another sigh, softer this time. He trusted Cass’s instincts more than most people’s words. If she said the connection was legitimate, it was legitimate.

But that didn’t explain the others.

At the next traffic light, Bruce turned, fixing his sons with the full weight of his glare. Damian glared right back. Jason leaned back further, like he thought putting distance between them would soften the blow. Duke gave up pretending and stared at the floor mats.

Jason broke first. “Okay, fine. We just wanted to meet her and her kids.”

“Just to talk,” Duke clarified quickly, trying to sound diplomatic. “We… y’know, wanted to see what they were like.”

Damian sniffed, crossing his arms. “I thought she was suspicious. Her sudden appearance, the way you seemed smitten… it was only logical to investigate. But she is… tolerable. I am willing to overlook my suspicions.”

Bruce could feel a headache building at his temples. His children had snuck behind his back—not on a mission, not against a villain, but to scope out the woman he was seeing.

His grip on the wheel tightened.

And then Cass, still watching him, signed two words: “Tim’s plan.”

Bruce very nearly let his forehead drop against the steering wheel.

Of course it was.

“I should’ve known,” he muttered.

Jason had the nerve to grin, but it faltered when Bruce shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.

“Text him,” Bruce ordered, his voice low, dangerous. “Call him. I want him at the Manor. Dick too. Now.”

Jason opened his mouth to argue—probably to say something flippant about Tim being “busy” or “unavailable.” But Bruce didn’t even need to raise his voice. The steel in his tone left no room for debate. Jason pulled out his phone with a groan.

“Fine, fine. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Duke was already typing, thumbs flying across his screen. Damian sat straighter, expression cool but eyes glinting—like he was pleased Tim was about to face judgment.

The car rolled forward as the light turned green. Bruce let the silence hang, heavy as lead. His mind raced—he couldn’t decide whether to be more irritated with Tim for orchestrating this whole mess or with the others for going along with it.

He was so wrapped in thought he almost didn’t notice the car driving alongside them.

It was a Cadillac. Banged-up, heavily dented in places (especially its roof?), with the gleam of wear and rust along the edges. Nothing remarkable at first glance. But as it drew even with them, Bruce felt the hairs at the back of his neck rise.

There were six people inside.

He couldn’t see the three people in the back clearly, but in the passenger seat sat a brunette boy with a trimmed goatee, posture nervous, eyes sharp. He wasn’t sitting in the seat properly—he was perched on the lap of the boy beneath him. That one had black hair with a stark white streak, tan skin, and startlingly green eyes. 

The boy looked insanely familiar.

“What the hell?” Jason murmured from behind him, clearly seeing the same thing Bruce did—the boy’s eyes were too green to be natural. And the white streak—

The driver looked over at them, then. She was a blonde girl with a similar white streak through her hair, her eyes an uncanny shade of gray. She kept her hands steady on the wheel, but when her gaze flicked toward Bruce’s car, it lingered.

For the briefest two seconds, all three of them stared directly at him. And he could feel the three in the back staring too.

Not at the car. Not at his kids. At him.

It wasn’t a glance. It wasn’t curiosity. It was recognition.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. His foot pressed harder on the accelerator without him realizing it.

“Uh…” Duke leaned forward slightly, peering out the window. “B? You saw that?”

Jason shifted in his seat, eyebrows raised. “Yeah. Real friendly stares. We got fans?”

Damian’s hand twitched toward his katana before Bruce shot him a warning look.

The Cadillac moved on, slipping ahead, its dented bumper catching the fading sunlight. Within seconds, it was gone, swallowed by the flow of traffic.

Bruce didn’t say anything. Neither did his children. But from the way Cass shifted in her seat, from the way Damian’s fingers hovered near his weapon, from the way Jason kept glancing in the side mirror—he knew they’d all felt it too.

Something was up with those people, whoever they were. Something to look out for.

Chapter Text

The door hadn’t even swung fully open before Percy barreled forward.

“Mom!”

Sally barely had time to step back before her son’s arms wrapped around her, squeezing tight, lifting her slightly off the floor. She laughed through her breathlessness, pressing a kiss to his temple, then another to his forehead, smoothing his perpetually windswept hair.

“My baby,” she murmured warmly.

“Mom, I’m not—” Percy started to protest, but Sally kissed his forehead again just to prove her point.

Annabeth rolled her eyes from the porch, though her smile betrayed her fondness. “You’re definitely still a baby.”

“Shut up,” Percy muttered, cheeks red.

But then Sally turned to Annabeth and pulled her into just as fierce a hug, catching her off guard. Annabeth stiffened only for a second before melting against Sally’s shoulder. There was a tenderness to the way Sally kissed her forehead too, because Annabeth was just as much her child.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Sally said, pulling back, her voice warm as fresh bread. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“You too,” Annabeth admitted softly.

Then she turned to the third person in her doorway—Grover. The boy (or man, really) looked nervous. Probably because of Gotham.

"How do you feel, Grover?" Sally asked, pulling him in for a hug.

Grover gave her a brief hug and a shaky smile. "Uh, Gotham's— you know. Not very good for monsters or satyrs. I'll be heading back to Long Island tomorrow."

"Oh, honey," Sally murmured.

Behind them stood Jason Grace, Reyna, and Hazel—battle-worn, road-weary, and visibly uncertain about intruding. Sally gave them all a smile bright enough to thaw even Reyna’s cool reserve.

“Come in, come in! I’m so glad you all made it. You must be tired. Put your things down, relax.”

Jason and Reyna exchanged a glance before stepping inside, polite and restrained. Hazel followed quickly, her excitement bubbling under her careful manners.

“Percy!” Estelle’s small voice carried from the living room, and Percy’s face lit up instantly.

“Hey, kiddo!” He swooped her up and spun her in circles, Estelle squealing with laughter, her little arms wrapping tight around his neck.

“You’re back!”

“I told you I’d visit,” Percy said, grinning wide.

“Annie and Grover too!” Estelle cried, already reaching for them.

Annabeth accepted her into her arms with surprising gentleness, balancing her easily against her hip. Estelle’s curls bounced as she buried her face against Annabeth’s shoulder. Grover came up behind them and booped Estelle on the nose.

Across the room, Nico lingered by the hallway, Will behind him. Nico was trying very hard to look unimpressed. That facade cracked the second Hazel spotted him.

“Nico!” Hazel darted forward, arms flinging around her brother. For once, Nico didn’t shy away. His hand came up, tentative at first, then stronger as he hugged her back.

Reyna added her arms into the mix, then Jason, grinning like they hadn’t just faced nightmares days earlier. Percy joined too, throwing one arm around Nico’s shoulder and giving him a brotherly squeeze.

Nico’s pale cheeks flushed pink, and after a few minutes of too much warmth, too much closeness, he muttered something about “needing alone time” and slipped down the hall.

Will, predictably, trailed after him.

Sally’s smile softened, unspoken understanding in her eyes. She turned back to the others, clapping her hands lightly.

“Alright. Kids, let me show you to your rooms, so you can settle in.”

The house had more rooms than they expected. The two stories above the bookstore were the house part—the living room and kitchen on the first floor, along with three bedrooms, and even more rooms on the second.

Sally showed Percy and Annabeth to their room first: a cozy space with a soft bed, blue quilts, and a dresser already holding a few small touches—fresh flowers in a vase, an extra blanket folded neatly.

“You didn’t have to—” Percy began.

Sally cut him off with a smile. “Of course I did. You’re home.”

Annabeth looked around approvingly. “It’s nice. Really nice.”

Sally’s smile widened, and she guided the group down the hall, pointing out four other rooms—one each for Grover, Jason, Reyna, and Hazel. Nobody’s rooms were large, but they were bright and comfortable, with fresh linens and space to breathe. Hazel squealed softly at the sight of hers, immediately sitting on the bed and bouncing slightly.

“This is wonderful,” Reyna admitted, ever composed but clearly relieved to have a space to herself. “Thank you, Sally.”

Jason just grinned and dropped his bag. “Better than half the places we’ve stayed.”

"I'm sleeping," Grover murmured.

Eventually, Percy and Annabeth found themselves wandering down toward the kitchen, Estelle once again in Annabeth’s arms, clutching her necklace of beads. The little girl drifted to sleep as they walked.

The kitchen smelled faintly of onions, garlic, and spices, though nothing was cooking yet. Sally was already pulling ingredients from the pantry, her movements fluid and practiced.

“It’s great you got such a big house here,” Annabeth said, settling Estelle on a stool by the counter. The little girl immediately grabbed a wooden spoon and began drumming a rhythm against the counter.

“It used to be a lodging inn, but I figured it would be perfect for all the people who might drop by here.” Sally laughed, shaking her head. “Honestly, the prices on this side of Gotham are surprisingly low.”

“Yeah,” Percy muttered, leaning against the doorway, “because of all the crime.”

That earned him a sigh. Sally set down a cutting board and knife, turning onions into neat slices with practiced ease. “You don’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” Annabeth said, rolling her eyes. “But noooo, he has to be all macho about it.”

Percy shot her a glare. “I’m not being macho. I’m just worried about my mom.”

That made Sally pause, her hands stilling just a moment before she resumed chopping. A small smile tugged at her lips.

“I appreciate that,” she said softly.

The onions hit the skillet with a satisfying sizzle. The smell spread quickly, homey and comforting.

But Percy’s mind wasn’t letting him relax.

“So… uh. Mom.” He shifted, arms crossed. “What’s up with that, um, guy you’re seeing?”

Annabeth sighed, but Sally could see the curiosity in her eyes as well.

Sally’s knife slowed. She set it down deliberately, already bracing herself. “I knew this would come up.”

Percy straightened. “Bruce Wayne, right? Gotham’s resident billionaire playboy? Rachel says he’s the world’s biggest himbo.”

Sally snorted, unable to help herself. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Annabeth leaned her chin on her hand, skeptical. “Isn’t he, like, notoriously… shallow?”

“He’s not,” Sally said firmly. Her voice carried the kind of conviction that made both young adults pause. “Bruce is… amazing. We just… click. He’s kind, caring, and no—he’s not an idiot.”

Percy and Annabeth exchanged a look. Neither looked convinced.

“And his kids,” Sally continued, “are absolute sweethearts.”

Annabeth tilted her head. “Kids? As in… plural?”

“Six of them,” Sally said with a little smile.

“Six?!” Percy nearly dropped the spoon he’d been fiddling with. “What, like a whole daycare?!”

“I haven’t met all of them, but they’re wonderful,” Sally said with a note of finality. “And they’ve been very kind to Nico and Estelle. In fact, they were here just half an hour ago— oh, you could’ve met them.”

Percy looked away, looking slightly guilty.

Annabeth finally broke the silence. “We… might’ve driven past him. On our way here.”

Sally froze for just a heartbeat, spatula hovering above the skillet. Then she set it down with deliberate calm.

“Oh?” she asked lightly. “Did you?”

“Yeah,” Percy said slowly. “Big fancy car. Him, and—” He frowned, trying to remember. “Four  kids?”

“They seemed wary of us,” Annabeth added. Her tone was sharper than Percy’s, analytical.

“Babe, we were staring at them on purpose to psych them out.”

Sally pressed her lips together, smoothing her expression before turning back to the stove.

“Percy,” she said after a moment. “You were trying to psych out my boyfriend and his kids?”

Percy winced guiltily again.

Sally sighed. “What am I gonna do with you?”

— — —

The Manor's study was quiet, except for the tick of the grandfather clock and the faint hum of the HVAC behind the oak-paneled walls. Bruce sat in the high-backed armchair, his shoulders broad, his hands steepled against his chin. The single lamp on his desk cast sharp shadows across his face, making the lines at his eyes deeper, his mouth harder.

Across from him sat the culprits. Dick had his hands folded tight in his lap like a schoolboy caught with a stolen candy bar. Tim perched forward on the edge of the seat with his laptop bag at his feet, every muscle in his body screaming that he was ready to defend himself.

They had been sitting there in silence for five full minutes. Bruce hadn’t said a word. He didn’t need to. The weight of his stare did all the work.

Finally, Dick broke. “We’re sorry,” he started, his voice soft, eyes dipping down toward the rug. “We shouldn’t have—”

“Why isn’t Damian here?” Tim cut in, quick and sharp. “He was involved too.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, his glare cutting across the desk like a blade.

“I already spoke to Damian,” Bruce said flatly.

Tim’s lips pressed together, but he didn’t back down. His fingers twitched against the laptop bag at his feet, itching to pull out his evidence, his slides, his “proof.”

The silence returned, heavier now. Bruce leaned back in his chair, his hands falling to the armrests. His jaw flexed once, twice, before he finally spoke.

“I care about Sally,” he said, low and deliberate. “And I can’t—will not—have your stupid actions ruin this for me.”

Dick winced at the sharpness in his father’s voice. “We weren’t trying to ruin anything,” he said quickly. “We were… worried.”

Bruce’s eyes snapped to him. “Worried.”

Dick swallowed. “Because you have a tendency to—uh—to fall for women who… aren’t exactly… safe.”

The glare Bruce leveled at him could have burned a hole through his head.

“I didn’t mean—” Dick stammered, holding up his hands. “I just—look, Selina’s great, okay? She’s family. But… Talia? Jezebel Jet? Silver St. Cloud? You’ve got a pattern, Bruce. We just wanted to make sure this wasn’t another—”

“That’s enough.” Bruce’s voice was soft, but the finality in it silenced even Dick.

Tim, however, seized the opening. He snapped open his laptop with a decisive click and spun it around on the table.

“Okay, but just—look at this.”

Bruce didn’t. He crossed his arms, leaning back further into the chair. “I’m not interested.”

“You should be,” Tim pressed. His voice quickened, his words tumbling out in the way they always did when he was chasing an idea too hard. “I put together a profile—on the Jacksons. All of them. You can’t tell me it’s not weird that a family this… strange just happens to move to Gotham, right when you—”

“Tim.”

Bruce’s voice cut like steel.

Tim ignored it. He clicked to the first slide. It said boldly: ‘SALLY JACKSON: WHO IS SHE REALLY?’

Bruce closed his eyes briefly, counting to three in his head.

“I want to respect Sally’s privacy,” he said firmly, opening them again. “She has been nothing but good. To me. To her children. To my children.”

“Good doesn’t mean safe,” Tim shot back. He jabbed a finger at the laptop. “Look at this. Just—look.”

“I said no.”

Tim’s jaw tightened. He flicked through several slides, his voice rising. “Fine. Skip the overview, her past husbands, the weirdness around Nico Di Angelo—that kid has no history at all, by the way, he’s a freaking ghost—just, look at this one.”

He stopped on some newspaper clippings and a grainy photograph. The captions read: 

‘TWELVE-YEAR-OLD BOY BLOWS UP ST. LOUIS ARCH’
‘MISSING CHILD FOUND AFTER GUNFIGHT WITH KIDNAPPER’
‘TEENAGER ACCUSED OF SCHOOL DESTRUCTION’
‘DISAPPEARANCE OF PERCY JACKSON BAFFLES AUTHORITIES’

Bruce’s eyes opened wider, despite himself.

The boy in the photograph was maybe 12 or 13. He had dark hair, sea-green eyes, a face still round with youth but already carrying something… too familiar. He wore a rumpled T-shirt, stood half-smiling with his arm thrown over the shoulders of someone else who was cut off. It was a photo taken right before Percy had, apparently, fought his kidnapper and then gotten the crowd to donate enough money to buy him and his fellow victims a ticket home.

Bruce leaned forward unconsciously.

He had seen Percy before. He just couldn’t place where.

Tim’s head snapped up, triumphant, as he recognized the look in Bruce’s eyes. “You see it, don’t you?!”

Bruce’s brow furrowed, the image tugging at something he couldn’t place.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said finally, pushing the laptop back across the table. “It’s an old incident, nothing more. Things like these happen to people sometimes.”

Tim’s mouth fell open. “I know you can see that this is weird—”

“Enough,” Bruce cut in, his tone final. “You two have crossed a line. You stalked Sally. You invaded her family’s privacy. You interrogated my relationship. That ends now.”

Tim bristled. “We’re trying to protect you—”

“You’re trying to control me,” Bruce snapped. “And I won’t allow it.”

The room went still. Even Dick, who had been silently wishing for the floor to swallow him, looked up at the sharpness in Bruce’s tone.

“You two are going to your rooms,” Bruce said. “You’re going to think about what you did.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Tim laughed—short, disbelieving.

“You’re grounding us? Bruce, we’re adults. You can’t just—”

“Yes,” Bruce said flatly. “I can.”

Tim sputtered, half-rising out of his chair. “This is ridiculous. We’re not—”

“C’mon, Timbo.” Dick’s hand closed firmly around his arm, tugging him up before the argument spiraled further. “Let’s go.”

“Dick, you can’t just—”

“Yes, I can,” Dick said with a weary sigh, steering him toward the door. “Trust me, I’ve been through this more times than you. Just take the loss and walk away.”

Tim groaned, dragging his feet but letting himself be pulled. His laptop snapped shut under Dick’s hand as they crossed the threshold.

“And Alfred wants you down for family dinner at seven!” Bruce called after them. His voice echoed down the hall, leaving no room for negotiation.

Dick raised a hand in half-hearted acknowledgment. Tim muttered something about “tyranny” and “evidence ignored.”

The study door clicked shut.

Bruce leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers against his temple. The silence rushed back in, thicker than before.

That photograph still burned in his mind. The boy’s face. The way it had tugged at something he couldn’t quite place.

He told himself it was nothing. Just another strange coincidence in a city—and a life—full of them.

But he didn’t entirely believe it.