Chapter Text
“Life isn’t kind,” your mother used to tell you, brushing your hair with steady hands. “It isn’t patient. It isn’t fair.”
You never understood why she said that so often. Your life with her was more than fair—it was charmed. Your childhood was filled with larger than life homes, and dozens of servants to manage it and cater to you. The highest quality foods with the best ingredients. The best schools with the most decorated educators. Custom clothes. Lavish vacations. Extravagant birthdays. And who needs an allowance when you have mama's credit card with no limit.
You were spoiled, but never rotten.
“Say thank you,” she’d scold gently when you forgot. “Sit up straight. Speak with respect.”
Celia didn’t raise you with an open checkbook—she raised you with boundaries. When you tested them, she didn’t flinch. She was mother and father both, warm and firm, a woman who worked her way up from nothing and refused to let you become the kind of shallow child she’d once loathed in her classmates.
The day you lost her, you were ten. A plane crash, they said. No survivors.
You remembered staring at the polished wood of her casket, flowers piled so high you couldn’t see the ground. And for the first time, her words made sense. Life isn't kind. It isn’t patient. It isn’t fair.
Fast forward to today, you had spent more time at the her grave than normal. You were telling her about all the things that happened since your last visit a couple months ago. Then the topic shifted to your upcoming 21st birthday in a couple weeks. Another one of your many milestones that she won't be present for. But you still tell her everything so she wouldn't feel left out. You parted ways with her after promising to tell her all about it after when you came home. But for now the cemetery was closing and you needed to get home.
You left the large bouquet of flowers you grew and assembled yourself at the center of the grave so it didn't block the tombstone. On the way back you passed your grandparents Thomas and Martha Wayne. You made two smaller bouquets for them. You didn't have too many conversations with them. Only really speaking to them on their birthdays and holidays and their death day. There isn't really many things to say or ask them.
You don't remember every aspect of your childhood with Celia. Even the rich and successful have a routine and moments of peace, moments where things are uneventful and forgetful. Though you do remember those very few moments where the Bruce Wayne came for a visit. Your father wasn’t always a stranger. Back then, every four or five months, Bruce Wayne would appear at your door.
Not as Gotham’s billionaire, not as Batman, but as “Papa Wayne.”
The silent unwilling model to show off on the runway for your many stuffed animals. The child friendly makeup caked on and smudge on his face and his once neatly styled hair filled with ribbons and bows. The nice clothes he wore that day were covered with blankets and fairy wings, one of your many beautiful "designs."
The tea parties with your very real and very expensive tea sets. The teapot and cups filled with your favorite juice. Bruce squeezed himself into your tiny chair at tea parties, sipping apple juice from porcelain cups. next to your princess dolls. Raising his voice into a ridiculous falsetto—“Why thank you, darling!”—until you laughed so hard you tipped over.
He hid too well in hide-and-seek, let you win “fights” by pinning him to the carpet, and walked beside you while you rode the pony he bought just for you.
On birthdays, he never came to the parties. Instead, he showed up late, after the guests left, with a gift tucked under his arm. He’d sit on your bed, read you a story, kiss your forehead goodnight.
And by morning, he was always gone.
When Celia died, it wasn't your own father that took you in, it was your Aunt Eva and her husband Nathan. Bruce never visited you again.
Eva and Nathan loved you to bits. But their lifestyle was far more humble than the one you were used to. Nathan worked and was a great provider for Eva, who was a stay at home wife. You lived with them in their upper class home, in their extremely nice neighborhood. But, with no servants to do everything for you, you had a pretty harsh realization that you have the survival skills of a newborn.
Walking into their kitchen, the only thing you could identify was the fridge and the stove. Your cleaning skills only involved picking things up and putting them away, and sometimes it was sloppy.
The first few months were rough. Nathan almost had a stroke when you blatantly reached into his wallet to search for his credit card. You almost had a stroke when he gave you a small bi-weekly allowance, one of the smallest among your classmates at your new private school.
Even though Eva took care of all the cooking, cleaning, and the basic maintenance, she always had you help out. She started you off with just holding and passing her things. But you quickly got the hang of things, and even enjoyed helping her with the day to day household tasks and errands. Taking the time to cook meals, pack Nathan's lunch, and clean so Eva could sleep in on weekends. You got to enjoy time with Nathan working on his vintage cars and motorcycles. Learning to change the engine before learning to drive.
Everything was simple and happy because of them. You had no idea of the turmoil they kept hidden from you, because they wanted to keep you happy. That made you love and miss them even more. When they passed when you were 16, Bruce finally took you in. But by then, the visits had stopped. The bedtime stories were gone. And the man who once let you paint his face with glitter, was now a stranger.
You didn’t even know your last name was Wayne until you moved into the manor. The paperwork was waiting for you in a neat stack—birth certificate, social security card, school records—all of them stamped with the name Celia had never used.
When the reporters found out, you didn't even finish unpacking. They swarmed the gates, cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward like weapons.
“Miss Wayne, was your mother in love with Bruce?”
“Did they hide you out of shame?”
“Why reveal yourself now?”
Bruce and Alfred had their story rehearsed: Celia and Bruce, secret lovers; you, the “accidental pregnancy”; the choice to live apart so you wouldn’t grow up with the wrong idea about love.
It was neat. It was clean. It was a lie.
When they turned the questions on you, you told pieces of the truth. The bedtime stories on your birthdays. The tea parties. The pony. You never mentioned the silences between visits, the way he vanished by morning, or how he’d stopped showing up altogether after Celia died.
It was easier that way.
Wayne Enterprises wouldn’t crumble under scandal, but you didn’t want to be known as that secret kid who dragged Gotham’s golden billionaire through the mud. So you swallowed it. Let them believe the fairy tale.
The headlines called you Gotham’s “hidden heiress." But inside the manor, nothing changed. Bruce stayed polite, and distant. Your siblings stayed busy.
And you stayed with Bruce. Even after your 18th birthday. You didn't care for your family. But you loved living in Wayne Manor, you loved Alfred, and you loved all the benefits and notoriety that came from being a Wayne.
But at the same time, it bothered you that the only thing louder than the press outside, was the silence inside.
"Miss {Y/n}, welcome home," Alfred greeted you as you walked into the manors massive kitchen. He stopped loading the dishwasher and glanced at his watch. "You're back a little later than usual. Is everything alright?"
You perched on a stool, tired but smiling. “Just had a long talk with Mom. My birthday’s coming up.”
“I remembered,” Alfred said with the faintest grin. “I always remember your special day.”
"I know. It's just exciting to think about, y'know? My friends planned a two week vacation for me."
"Yes I remembered," Alfred closed and started the dishwasher.
But still, he listened—really listened—as you rambled about the legendary aquarium in Central City. Diving with whales. Swimming with sharks. Petting the penguins. Feeding the sea lions. A private tour and lunch. The your mother's botanical gardens and butterfly pavilion in Star City. He’d heard it all before, but he leaned against the counter like it was new to him. Like it mattered because you did.
Even though you've already talked about your trip extensively, Alfred let you talk. He knew your whole itinerary for your two week trip. He even memorized the exact dates and times of each activity you and your friends planned. But seeing you so excited felt like sunshine in his soul.
To be fair, Alfred feels this way about the whole Wayne clan, and it made you feel like you were part of the family in some way. Alfred didn't show any kind of favoritism. He knew you inside and out like he did everyone else. He took care of you the same way as everyone else. It's nice to not feel different. He's the only one that doesn't make you feel different.
Bruce has little to no interest in you. Your siblings are a more or less the same story.
Richard "Dick" John Grayson-Wayne. The first adopted son, the first Robin now Nightwing, current police officer in Bludhaven. The golden boy and best big brother ever. At least that what he would have everyone believe. And to your other siblings, he probably was. But for you it felt like you ended up a prisoner in the conversations you have with him. Somehow every conversation (a term you use very loosely) turns into another episode of Dick Grayson: The Series. He would ask very specific questions regarding a topic he wanted to talk about. A topic involving him.
When your answers were abrupt, as usual, he took that as you have nothing going on. So he talked about everything going on in his life.
On one occasion, you were halfway through an essay when Dick dropped onto the couch beside you, wearing his usual smile that made it seem like he was always in the middle of a commercial shoot.
"How's school sis," he asked, leaning just close enough to peek at your laptop.
"It's going well."
"That’s good. Anyone bothering you? Someone you need your police-officer big brother to take care of?"
Other than him?
"No not at all," you dragged a picture into the document—only for half the text to shift out of place.
"Well when I was at Hudson University there was the absolute ass in my dorm that had it out for me for no reason! He was jerk to everyone. But me? Enemy number one! But guess who pulled him over last week for a DUI. And guess who was resisting arrest."
You gave him the occasional “Wow” or “That’s crazy” while fixing your essay, but he never noticed. He talked for thirty minutes straight, every story orbiting around his favorite subject: Dick Grayson.
When he finally left, the silence in the room felt like oxygen, you could breathe easy again. You finished your essay, ate alone, and went to bed. Dick was a nice guy in general. But to you, he was never a brother—just another Wayne with bigger priorities than you.
Jason Peter Todd-Wayne. Second adopted son, the second Robin now Red Hood. He had already been dead and revived and made up with Bruce when you came to the manor. From your understanding he's a crime lord…but also a hero…and has his own hero team…or something. You're sure he's not an overly complex person that's hard to get to know. But there hasn't been enough interactions between you two to have a firm opinion. Jason rarely came by the manor. When he did, he carried himself like someone halfway between a guest and an intruder—at ease in the kitchen one second, gone the next.
One evening, you passed him in the hallway. He gave you a polite nod, pausing long enough to exchange the kind of small talk you’d have with a stranger at a bus stop.
“How’s life?” he asked.
“Fine. You?”
“Busy,” he said, like that explained everything.
It was… comfortable, in its own way. No forced smiles, no attempts at fake bonding. Just two people passing through the same house. You weren’t close, but at least with Jason, the silence wasn’t awkward.
Timothy "Tim" Jackson Drake-Wayne. Third adopted son, third Robin now Red Robin, and current majority shareholder of Wayne Enterprises. He is a workaholic to his core. He lives in the manor, but it was like living with a ghost. You’d see him hunched over a laptop at three in the morning, his eyes red from staring at spreadsheets or surveillance footage. This is something you have in common with Tim. You both fill your time with your work and responsibilities, a lot of times they come first.
But he works for your fathers multi-billion dollar empire. You don't work at all. Being twenty years old you have long since gained access to the trust funds left for you. One from Celia, the other from Eva and Nathan. On top of still getting your large allowance from Bruce that transfers into your bank account every week like clockwork, because he didn't cancel it after you turned 18. But you do go to college.
At night he operates as the vigilante Red Robin. You work on your homework, socialize with others, but also work on your passions. You’ve always loved art. The amazing works that made you think, and the ugly ones that made you laugh. It inspired you to use your wealth to make statues out of pure gemstones. You've created everything for fun and only selling them anonymously for charity sake. Some of your smaller works are even displayed in the manor. But Tim doesn't know any of this.
Once, you caught him standing in front of a statue you’d carved—a foot tall blue-diamond figure of you walking your old horse, Diamond. The same one Bruce got you all those years ago. You tried to ride Diamond one day and realized she didn't seem up for it, but she was reluctant to let you go for the day. So you took a long walk around the private lake.
Although the details weren't quite right. You can tell it was a horse and girl but the face didn't show a specific person, someone would have to ask who it is for them to know that was supposed to be you. Tim saw the statue and was looking over it when you happened to walk by.
"Hey {Y/n}," you stopped a few feet away from him. "Do you know where this statue came from? I've never seen anything like it. Especially not in the manor."
“It’s mine,” you replied.
"Oh," he acknowledged. "So why is it in the hallway? Shouldn't it be in your room?"
"It's better out here. Adds color to this drab and dreary castle we live in."
He nodded and walked away. Since then, you noticed him noticing the other statues scattered through the manor. But he never asked again, never wondered about the person behind them. If he did then you would tell him that leaving the statues were proof that you existed in the house where you're ignored. The tech genius who knew everything about everyone seemed to know nothing about you—and worse, he didn’t care to.
Stephanie Brown. Fourth Robin, former Batgirl currently Spoiler. While Bruce didn't write up any adoption papers for Stephanie, and she lives with her mother and not at the manor, you've seen her at the manor plenty of times throughout the years. Stephanie was always friendly enough. When you crossed paths, she’d wave or strike up a casual chat. But those chats ended as quickly as they started, because she was usually there for the others, not you.
“Cute shoes,” she told you once, tugging off her Spoiler mask after patrol.
“Thanks.”
Then she disappeared down the hall after Tim. That was Stephanie in a nutshell—kind, polite, but never yours.
Cassandra Cain-Wayne. First adopted daughter and fourth adopted child. Former assassin, former Batgirl currently Orphan. Cassandra was physically unable to talk to you in the beginning when she arrived at the manor. No one introduced you to her formally. You met Cass by accident. You’d come home from class and found her in the library, curled in an armchair with a book, silent as stone.
You thought she was a trespasser. “Alfred,” you’d said, “someone broke in.”
“Oh, that’s' Miss Cassandra Cain. She lives here now,” Alfred explained. “She’s your sister.”
Back then, Cass didn’t speak, just stared at you with eyes sharp enough to cut glass. You’d told her once, half-joking, half-serious: “You keep staring like that in Gotham, someone’s gonna pick a fight.”
She only nodded.
Monts later, when she finally learned to speak, she still didn’t say much to you. A word here, a word there. You both waited for the other to approach, but neither of you ever did.
The two of you lived in the same house, but never in the same world.
Five years in Wayne Manor, and you’d become a background character in their life. They weren’t cruel. They weren’t abusive. They just… didn’t see you. And sometimes, that hurt worse than hate ever could. You're the only one with no crime fighting background, no tight suit at the ready hidden in your bat-themed armored vehicle. Even if you wanted to join the family you caught bits and pieces of their conversations with each other. Arkham this, stakeout that, investigate here, drug bust there. Even in a normal conversation you saw a closeness, a comradery that made an invisible force field around them that kept you away.
How would you approach them? What would you even say? What would you talk about? You know there wouldn't be a warm welcome, it would just be cumbersome.
On family movie nights Alfred invited you. But you sat in the back of the home theater, in the seat closest to the exit. While the rest of the family sat close to each other in the front and middle seats. Sometimes they noticed you, but most of the time they didn't.
Holidays were lonely for you. The others planned months in advance on what to have for dinner, and what shelters and charities to volunteer at. You always spent that time doing your own thing or being with friends and their family. At least they wanted you around.
Though it always hurt. Even if it was just a little it hurt. Growing up with a family in a home filled with care, warmth, and love. To living in the shadows of people who clearly saw you as an extra mouth to feed. They didn't hate you, you knew that. But sometimes you wish they did. It would give you a reason as to why they treated you the way they did.
Some people would be ecstatic to have all this wealth and luxury and wouldn't mind having a neglectful family.
And you get that, really you do. But it's not supposed to be either or. You're supposed to have the money and the love. The other members get it so easily. So you should to.
Alfred was always a source of love and support. Obviously Alfred had his own life and responsibilities but, he when had time he would come to your extracurricular activities, if he wasn't there he would ask you about it later. When bake sales needed food, it was Alfred in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up. Every fundraiser check “from Bruce Wayne” had Alfred’s handwriting on it. He was there for your high school graduation and college orientation.
He knew your friends, your crushes, your hopes, your fears. He knew all of your favorite movies, favorite foods, and he asked about your classes like the answers mattered.
Sometimes you wondered if, in another universe, he really was your father—or better yet, if you were his only child. But in this life, in this house, Alfred was your butler and your grandfather-figure. And that was enough.
The next day was uneventful. You made your coffee while Alfred cooked breakfast for the rest. He offered to make you something to go but you declined and headed to Gotham University. You went to your morning class, had lunch with some friends, went to your afternoon class, and finally worked on a group project with a few classmates at the university library.
Not wanting to go home just yet you went to you childhood best friend, Brooke's, penthouse in downtown. The moment you stepped through the door, the warmth hit you—soft lamplight bouncing off polished floors, the faint trace of her jasmine candles curling through the air.
You two started off doing your homework and studying. Sprawling on Brooke's white leather couch with your laptop balanced on your knees. Textbooks and notes scattered in a messy halo around you. Pens scratching, highlighters bleeding neon across the pages. But the homework didn’t last long. Soon the books were forgotten, and you were laughing about nothing—about professors, about Gotham traffic, about the way Brooke's doorman clearly had a thing for the landlord.
Laura and Dani blew in an hour later into the apartment had already settled into that easy rhythm only best friends can create. They came armed with bottles clinking in plastic bags, the sharp scent of expensive vodka and fruity syrups cutting through the room.
You weren’t planning to drink, but they shoved a glass into your hand, and before long you were all buzzing. The music louder, the jokes dumber, the giggles tipping into full-on cackles.
At some point, all four of you spilled onto the street, stumbling under the glow of neon signs and car headlights. A food truck’s sizzling grill filled the air with the smell of grease and spices. You stood in line giggling uncontrollably, devouring gyros with sauce dripping down your hands, chasing each bite with more laughter. By the time you staggered back upstairs, bellies full and cheeks aching, the night had unraveled into nothing but bright fragments—inside jokes, messy snapshots on Brooke’s phone, the warmth of being wanted.
For a moment, you thought: This is what family feels like.
You drifted off in one of Brooke's guest rooms, the muffled laughter of your friends still echoing faintly down the hall. Sometime past midnight, your phone buzzed on the nightstand—Alfred’s name glowing on the screen. You missed the first call, and then the second. A moment later, a gentle text appeared, waiting patiently for you to read it when you woke.
Grandpa Alfred [12:09am]
Miss {Y/n}, I trust all is well. When you return home, you’ll be meeting your younger brother, Master Damian. He is… unlike the others, and I felt it only fair to prepare you. Please don’t be alarmed if his manner seems… sharp. It is simply his way. Still, I would urge patience. For both your sakes. Do let me know you are safe when you have a moment. Goodnight.
The glow of the screen lingered for a moment in the dark room before fading to black, leaving only the quiet hum of the city and your steady breathing.