Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rooftops stretched across Gotham, black and endless. Every night for two months, Bruce put on the cowl and searched.

Subway passages, docks, shipping containers, abandoned buildings — he went through them all, methodically, relentlessly. Each lead ended in silence. Each silence echoed the same truth: there wasn’t one.

The Manor fell quiet in a way Alfred had never heard before.

At first, he moved through the halls on habit — cooking, cleaning, leaving plates out that no one touched. He washed her sheets once, then felt sick with guilt and changed them back to the way they were, pillow still creased from where she’d slept. The house felt wrong without her voice bouncing through it, without the small thud of bare feet against hardwood.

Dick tried to hold everything together. He organized search grids with Selina, reviewed footage, spoke to witnesses. He was calm, efficient, the way Bruce had trained him to be — but the moment he got home, he’d retreat to his bedroom and try not to think about the empty room next to his.

Jason didn’t pretend. He threw things.

At first, it was just the training dummies. Then chairs. Then a mug that shattered against the cave wall.

“It’s over a week!” he’d shouted at Bruce once, voice cracking. “You’re the world’s greatest detective — do something!”

Bruce hadn’t answered. He’d just gone back to the monitors, eyes bloodshot, jaw locked tight enough to ache. Jason had stormed out, slamming the elevator door so hard the metal dented.

Selina stayed a few nights that first week. She slept in Bruce’s bed when he didn’t, waiting for him to come upstairs, to rest, to grieve — but he never did. His eyes were always on the screen, scanning security feeds, running facial matches, replaying the same grainy footage from the night Mia vanished.

One morning, Alfred found Selina sitting at the kitchen counter, still in her leather jacket, tracing her finger around a coffee cup she hadn’t touched.

“She wouldn’t have run off,” she’d said softly. “She was too smart for that. Too curious, but not stupid.”

Alfred had placed a hand over hers. “Curiosity is dangerous in Gotham,” he said.

“I know.” Her voice cracked. “That’s why I didn’t want her here.”

By the second week, Bruce stopped speaking altogether unless it was about leads. The rest of them — Alfred, Dick, Jason, Selina — began to speak around him, like grief had created a new gravity that everything had to orbit carefully.

Alfred tried to convince him to rest. Dick tried to bring him food. Jason tried to drag him out of the cave. Selina tried to kiss him, to break through the numbness. None of it worked.

“Every hour counts,” Bruce said once, voice hoarse.

“Bruce,” Selina whispered, “you’re killing yourself.” 

“Not fast enough,” he’d replied.

In the months after her disappearance, Bruce stopped sleeping in his bed. He’d fall asleep in the chair by the computer or not at all. Alfred would find him there, jaw slack, files spread open, Mia’s photograph in the corner of the monitor — her hair escaping its braids, her mouth open mid-complaint.

Gotham continued as it always did — half in ruin, half reborn — and Bruce stopped noticing. He lived in the spaces between sirens and footsteps, between one case ending and another beginning. Every missing child became a ghost. Every dark-haired girl, almost her.

Two months became a year.

The light outside her bedroom stayed on. Alfred dusted around it but never turned it off.

Her shoes — tiny red ones with scuffed toes — stayed by the door. Alfred couldn’t bring himself to move them.

Bruce didn’t go into her room. Not once.

No one had seen a trace of the scowling little girl with wild, dark hair.

She was three.

Over the years, she’d always be three.

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. Leads dried up. The police stopped calling. Even Gordon stopped asking. The silence grew roots in the house, deep and quiet and permanent.

Time passed in milestones, marked by everyone but him.

Dick moved to Blüdhaven and became Nightwing, and Mia was still three.

Jason graduated high school, then became the Red Hood, and Mia was still three.

He and Selina broke up, and she left Gotham, and Mia was still three.

They were never quite the same after she vanished.

Bruce told himself it was because the world demanded so much of them — the city, the symbol, the endless war against decay. But he knew better. Grief had a way of splitting things open and letting rot seep in. It turned family into fault lines.

Sometimes Bruce thought about the math of it.

He had searched for Mia longer than he’d known her.

Barely three months. Seventy-nine days. That was all the time she’d lived under his roof — and he’d spent years tearing Gotham apart, as if the city might cough up its secret if he hurt it enough. 

It didn’t seem possible — that a child could come into his life so briefly and leave such a fault line behind. But she had.

And he missed her.

He missed coming home from patrol and finding her asleep in his bed — always on his side, somehow, sprawled sideways across the blankets like she owned the place. He missed her grumbling every morning when he told her they had to brush her hair.

He missed coming home from work and hearing about her latest war with Alfred — how she gotten stuck in a tree, how she’d hidden her shoes again, how she’d been banned from the kitchen for trying to sneak crayons in the microwave. Alfred would scold her and still make her cocoa afterward.

He missed watching her do puzzles in the sitting room, head tilted, tongue poking out in concentration. Sometimes she’d look up and grin at him like she’d solved the world. Sometimes she’d hold out a piece for him to put in, and if he got it wrong, she’d sigh dramatically and fix it herself.

He missed the way Jason and Dick tried to teach her things — Jason showing her how to use a remote, Dick teaching what a diving board was despite Bruce’s worry.

He simply missed her.

He tried to remember her voice, but it always came back too small. Too young. She was still three.

It startled him sometimes, how much space she still occupied in his thoughts. She’d been in his life for only a season, but she’d filled it completely. She’d come into a house built on discipline and routine and made it loud, messy, human. She’d drawn red brooms on his quarterly reports and hid the silverware. She’d laughed at Alfred’s tea and stolen Bruce’s ties and caught birds in the yard and hated the car.

And then, one night, she was gone.

Sometimes he wondered if it would have been easier if they’d found a body. If they’d had something to bury, something to say goodbye to. Alfred said closure helped people heal. But Bruce didn’t want closure — he wanted an answer.

He wanted to understand.

He knew the statistics. He’d read them a hundred times, recited them to himself like a litany: after the first forty-eight hours, the chances dropped to nearly nothing. After two weeks, a child missing from Gotham was presumed dead.

And still, for months, he searched.

He tore apart docks, toppled warehouses, scoured subway tunnels and half-sunken ships. He interrogated anyone who might’ve seen her — smugglers, traffickers, mercenaries, the desperate and the damned. He responded to every tip that ended in a dead end. He would have traded his entire fortune for an answer.

Every night, he told himself it was because she deserved the truth. Because she was his responsibility. Because he was Batman, and Batman didn’t lose children.

But it wasn’t that simple.

He searched because he couldn’t stop. Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face — smudged with dirt, framed by dark curls, frowning at him like she was about to tell him off for brushing her hair wrong again.

He searched because stopping meant admitting she was gone.

And Bruce Wayne could live with failure, with pain, with loss. But not with that.

Not with not knowing.

When Tim moved into the Manor, he noticed the locked door at the end of the hall.

He’d asked about it once, casually — like he thought it might be an old study or weapons cache. Jason had scoffed angrily and called him the replacement for weeks afterward.

It was Alfred who told him the truth.

He’d said it gently, over tea one afternoon: “There was another child once. Younger than Master Richard or Master Jason. Her name was Mia.”

And then he told him the small things — the kind of details that didn’t belong in case files. That she loved puzzles and arguing. That she’d eat sliced cucumbers and nothing else if left to her own devices. That she called the microwave “the box” and could watch it for hours. That she hated shoes and rules and routines, and once got stuck in a tree because she’d been chasing a squirrel.

Tim never asked again. But sometimes, when Bruce wasn’t home, he’d walk by the locked room and pause — not to pry, but to listen. The air on that side of the hall felt different, quieter somehow, like a house holding its breath. Sometimes he wondered if it still smelled like crayons and dust and sunlight.

He didn’t know what to do with that kind of grief. He hadn’t lost a sibling before. But he understood the shape of absence — the way it left walls standing and people hollow. He started leaving small things for Bruce — coffee left warm, files organized, cases finished before Bruce could spiral. It wasn’t enough, but it was something.

He understood that the door wasn’t just locked. It was sacred.

When Damian arrived, Bruce thought for a moment that maybe things could be different.

Damian was young — younger than Tim, younger even than Jason had been when Bruce found him — and that stirred something in him. Maybe they could start being a family again. Maybe they could fill the spaces Mia left behind.

Damian was sharp and angry and desperate for structure. Bruce mistook that for need. Maybe love could look like that for a while.

But the first time Damian saw the locked room, he sneered.

“Why is this one sealed off?” he’d asked, tone sharp, imperious. “Are you hiding something?”

Bruce had said only, “It’s private.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

A week later, Alfred found the lock picked and the door slightly ajar. Damian stood inside, staring at the faint outlines of a child’s life — a drawing still taped to the wall, the dusty bed with the purple comforter, the oversized stuffed dog still waiting, an odd broom perched next to the bed.

He didn’t look guilty when Bruce found him. Just curious. 

“Was this yours?” he asked.

“No,” Bruce said.

Damian tilted his head. “Then why keep it? She’s gone.”

Bruce didn’t answer. He just closed the door again.

Later that night, Alfred heard shouting in the cave. Tim’s voice first — controlled but sharp. Damian’s next — dismissive, mocking.

“She wasn’t even your blood,” Damian said. “Why do you care so much about a stranger?”

Tim’s reply was quiet, but it hit like a blow. “Because she mattered to them. Because she mattered here.”

After that, they didn’t speak for a week.

Bruce tried to tell himself it was just Damian’s upbringing — League conditioning, a child raised without softness, without empathy. But sometimes he wondered if maybe it was his fault — that he’d raised so many soldiers he’d forgotten how to raise children.

He’d tried to teach them how to fight, how to survive, how to bear loss.

But he’d never taught them what to do when loss was all that was left.

Years went by, and the Manor settled into its quiet.

The halls that once echoed with running feet became still. Mia’s door stayed locked. Dust gathered. Even the bats in the cave seemed quieter now — or maybe Bruce stopped hearing them.

Sometimes Bruce would stand in the hallway outside Mia’s room with his hand on the doorknob. He’d imagine turning it, imagine the hinges creaking, the smell of old paint and sun-warmed wood. But he never did.

He couldn’t risk it. If the room had changed — if Alfred had cleaned, or time had worn away her fingerprints — then it meant she was truly gone.

If everything was just as she left it, then he’d have to face that she’d never come back.

So the door stayed closed.

He kept her photograph in the desk drawer down in the cave — not on display, but close enough to reach when he needed it.

It wasn’t an official portrait; they’d never done one. Jason had taken it — Mia darting between the lines of his ties she’d staked in the dirt outside his window. A prank she’d been ridiculously proud of. She’d spent the whole day setting it up, even convincing Selina to help her knot the fabric just right.

Some nights, when the city finally went still, Bruce would take off the cowl and pull that photo from the drawer.

He’d think about the way she’d scowl when she didn’t get her way, the way she’d cross her arms and point out a loophole in the rules. He’d think about her voice — sharp and certain — saying things like, “I don’t like pretend,” or “We’ll see.”

Memory was cruel that way. It never faded enough to let him rest.

Every anniversary came and went like any other day.

No one spoke of it, but everyone knew when it was.

Bruce worked longer hours, later into the night. Alfred polished the silver that didn’t need polishing. Dick called more often that week, but never mentioned why. Jason stayed away. Tim and Damian never understood the timing, only that the air in the Manor grew heavier, quieter.

Selina tried to call sometimes. She’d leave a message — a simple “Hey, just checking in.” Bruce never answered. She stopped leaving voicemails eventually, but she still called.

No one mentioned Mia’s name anymore. Not because they’d forgotten, but because saying it felt like reopening a wound that had never healed right.

Bruce sometimes thought about what she would’ve looked like by now. Four. Five. Taller, maybe. Still stubborn. Maybe she’d like ballet, or robotics, or climbing rooftops like her brothers. Maybe she’d hate all of it.

He tried not to imagine her voice grown older, because every time he did, it fractured something inside him.

“Sometimes, staring at evidence boards, he could almost hear her saying he’d missed a piece.”

Once, during a storm, he found himself outside her room. The curtains smelled faintly of dust and rain. He could almost see the small handprints she used to leave on the glass. She’d loved thunderstorms — pressing her palms to the window, waiting for lightning. Once, she’d dragged him and Alfred outside to look for a bird she’d read about in a storybook — an augurey, she’d called it — a creature that sang before rain.

He stood there until the storm passed.

He knew what the statistics said.

 He knew that Mia couldn’t be out there, because the alternative was worse.

If she was out there, it meant he’d failed — that she was alone, or hurt, or scared — and he couldn’t live with that. So she was dead. She had to be dead.

Because dead was better than trafficked.

Dead was better than hurt.

Dead was better than not knowing.

Because death was kinder than the alternative.

Bruce could live with facts.

He couldn’t live with questions.

And so, year after year, case after case, the city rotted and rebuilt itself, and Mia — somewhere between memory and myth — was still three.

Until one night, three years after she disappeared, the phone rang.

Bruce almost didn’t answer.

But he did.

Chapter Text

The house creaked when it breathed. Every stair groaned, every floorboard whispered, every door seemed to sigh in its sleep. Mia had learned which ones to step over, which ones to press her heel flat against so they wouldn’t make a sound.

Walburga hated noise.

For three years, 12 Grimmauld Place had been her entire world — a house that smelled like dust and smoke and something rotting beneath the walls. Curtains shifted when no one touched them, mirrors hid beneath heavy cloth, and Walburga’s shrill, cutting voice carried through the halls.

“You are not Mia Wayne,” she would snap whenever the name slipped out. “You are Cordelia Black. Speak the name of that filthy Muggle again and I’ll have your tongue for it.”

Mia — Cordelia — had learned to nod, to keep her eyes on the floor, to never answer back.

But she never forgot. Even if some days, she wished she could.

She remembered what home sounded like.

Wayne Manor had been noisy in a kind way — laughter echoing down long halls, Alfred’s footsteps steady in the kitchen, Bruce’s low voice drifting through the study. Even the creaks there had sounded alive.

Grimmauld’s noises were different. They whispered. They judged. The air was heavy, as if the house itself were listening.

The Manor had smelled like lemon polish, old books, and clean linen. Grimmauld smelled of damp stone and smoke and anger. There was no sunlight here, only lamplight that trembled and faded, as if it feared the dark.

At the Manor, her room had been warm. Alfred would make her cocoa and tuck her in, but most nights she’d sneak into Bruce’s room to wait for him to come home from his errands. She always fell asleep before he arrived and woke beneath his blankets, safe and warm. 

In the mornings, she’d sit on his lap at breakfast, tracing the lines of his tie with her finger and pretending they were roads leading her back home.

Now her room was small and cold, hidden beneath the roof. The wallpaper peeled in gray curls, and her blanket smelled like moths. The windows were nailed shut.

She missed the light. She missed the smell of rain that didn’t leak through the ceiling. She missed people.

Walburga didn’t like her to remember.

“She was a mistake,” Walburga had told her once, standing in the doorway, black gown sweeping the floor. “A creature stolen from the proper world and raised among filth. I am fixing what was broken.”

Mia had stared at her own bare feet and said nothing.

When Walburga was near, the air changed — sharper, colder, full of something poisonous. Mia could feel her before she even heard the click of her heels on the stairs. The old house seemed to hold its breath when she entered a room.

Dinner was a test. Every night. Mia had to sit straight, eat every bite, answer “Yes, Grandmother” or “No, Grandmother.” The one time she said “Ma’am” instead, Walburga sent a stinging hex across the table before making her stand in the corner for an hour with her hands clasped behind her back.

“You’ll learn to honor the name I gave you,” Walburga said, voice low and thin as wire. “You’ll learn obedience.”

But obedience was never enough.

Some nights, Walburga appeared at her door after supper, wand already in hand, her face cold and composed as carved marble. The first time it happened, Mia hadn’t understood. She’d only whispered her old name in her sleep. Kreacher had told her later — proudly — that Mistress had heard.

The punishment came without shouting. Just the quiet lift of Walburga’s arm, the soft hiss of magic through the air. A flash of pain, sharp and sudden, and the world went white around the edges.

Walburga’s voice followed, calm and certain: “Each time you forget who you are, I will remind you.”

After that, Mia learned not to cry. Crying made Walburga’s eyes gleam with satisfaction. Silence, at least, gave her a tiny, secret victory.

The wand frightened her more than anything — not for what it did, but for how easily it appeared. A flicker of irritation, a single word too soft or too slow, and Walburga’s hand would twitch toward it. Sometimes she didn’t even need to use it; the sight alone was enough to make Mia’s stomach twist.

She learned to keep her head down. To speak only when spoken to. To swallow her fear and answer perfectly.

But every so often, when Walburga’s back was turned, Mia pressed her palm against her chest — right over the spot where the magic had burned — and whispered the name she wasn’t allowed to say.

“Mia.”

Just to remember that she still existed beneath whatever Walburga was trying to make of her.

Kreacher was the only other living soul in the house. He muttered constantly — to Walburga, to himself, to the empty portraits that lined the walls. Sometimes he called Mia a “tainted brat.” Sometimes, when Walburga wasn’t looking, he slipped her a piece of bread or a stub of candle for light. He never looked her in the eye.

She tried not to hate him.

Once, she’d asked him when she could go home — to Bruce and Alfred. Kreacher’s eyes had gone wide and furious.

 “Ungrateful little half-thing,” he hissed. “Mistress should have thrown you out with the rest of the filth.”

That night, Walburga came storming into her room.

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing—” 

The slap came quick, bright, shocking.

“You will forget that name,” Walburga said. “You will forget everything.”

Mia had promised she would. But she never did.

At night, when the house finally slept, she would lie awake and whisper to herself — the names she wasn’t allowed to say.

Bruce. Alfred. Jason. Dick. Selina.

Sometimes she pretended they could hear her. That Bruce was somewhere outside, still looking. That Alfred still made cocoa and saved her a cup. That Jason and Dick still argued over who got to sit in the front seat.

She whispered their names into her pillow until her throat ached, until she believed the sound might somehow reach Gotham.

Sometimes, when Walburga’s voice carried through the walls, Kreacher came to her door and listened too, eyes gleaming like wet stones.

 “Mistress says you’ll be proper soon,” he told her once. “No more dirty words. No more dirty memories.”

Mia looked at him, small and trembling in her too-big nightdress. “I’m not dirty,” she whispered.

Kreacher only laughed and called her a tainted little blood-traitor.

When he left, she lifted the loose floorboard and touched the red shoes again. They were cold, but they still felt like hers.

She tried to remember what Gotham smelled like.

She tried to remember light.

Walburga died on a Thursday.

Mia didn’t see it happen — she just felt the silence that followed.

It was heavy, suffocating, unnatural. The house had gone quiet before, but never like this. This was different. This was absence.

No footsteps. No sharp voice cutting through the hall. No wand tapping against the table in warning.

Only the ticking of an old clock somewhere far below, and the sound of her own heartbeat.

She stayed in her room for hours, waiting for Walburga to come storming up the stairs and demand she polish something or recite her lessons again. But no one came.

Kreacher’s muttering drifted faintly through the walls, softer than usual. Then—nothing.

When the sun began to fade behind the grime-caked windows, Mia crept down the stairs barefoot, keeping to the edges where the wood didn’t creak. The house smelled different — the same dust and decay, but underneath it something new. Something burnt.

She found Walburga in the drawing room, crumpled beside the hearth. Her wand lay on the carpet, still smoking faintly. One of the tapestries had caught fire and burned out long ago, leaving a black scorch mark that stretched up the wall.

Kreacher knelt beside her, rocking back and forth, keening softly. His large eyes glistened in the firelight.

“Gone,” he whispered. “Gone, my mistress, my noble lady…”

Mia didn’t move. She couldn’t. The sight was unreal — the woman who had made the air itself dangerous now still and small and human.

For a moment, she thought she should feel something — relief, maybe, or triumph. But all she felt was tired.

Kreacher turned toward her then, and his face twisted into something ugly. “You!” he hissed. “You did this! You killed her!”

Mia stumbled back, shaking her head. “I didn’t—”

“You poisoned her! You cursed her sleep! Filthy blood, filthy child!”

He lurched toward her, grabbing for the fallen wand, but it clattered from his fingers. His voice rose, shrill and wild. “The Ministry must come! They’ll take you away—they’ll fix what Mistress started—”

She didn’t wait to hear the rest.

Her body moved before her mind did. Bare feet slapping against the floor, she turned and ran.

Down the hall. Past the dining room. Past the closed doors that had always been forbidden.

She half expected the portraits to start screaming, or the staircases to shift and trap her, but the house stayed silent. Dead quiet.

Maybe, she thought, it was letting her go.

She reached the front door — ancient, black, and locked with more spells than she could count. But Walburga had always opened it with a word.

Mia pressed her trembling fingers to the handle and whispered the only spell she’d ever overheard clearly enough to remember.

“Aperio.”

The lock clicked.

The door shuddered open an inch. Then another.

Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean and alive. For the first time in two years, she smelled rain that didn’t leak through the ceiling.

Behind her, Kreacher wailed — a long, broken sound that made her heart twist even as her feet carried her forward.

“Mistress will punish you! Mistress will—”

But his voice broke off, swallowed by the storm outside.

Mia stepped out into the rain.

The street was darker than she remembered from her earliest flashes of London — lamplight glowing weakly through the fog, the pavement slick beneath her toes. She didn’t know where she was or where she was going, only that she couldn’t stay there another minute.

She started to run.

Every sound startled her — every horn, every shout, every crack of thunder. But the air was free, and the sky didn’t have walls, and she could breathe.

She ran until her legs burned and her chest hurt, until the grand, suffocating shadows of Grimmauld Place were far behind her.

When she finally stopped beneath a streetlight, soaked through and shivering, she looked up at the storm clouds.

The rain wasn’t as heavy now—just a steady drizzle that blurred the edges of everything. Cars hissed past, tires slicing through puddles. The light above her flickered, buzzing faintly.

She hadn’t seen a real street like this in years. Not like this—open, endless, alive. The air tasted of metal and smoke, and the noises came from everywhere at once. It should have felt free, but it only made her small.

Her nightdress clung to her legs. Her hair stuck to her cheeks. Every step away from the house made her colder, but she couldn’t go back. She wouldn’t.

Mia walked until her feet ached, following the rows of lights because they were the only things that seemed to go somewhere. She didn’t know where somewhere was—only that it had to be far away from 12 Grimmauld Place.

At every corner she hesitated, half expecting Walburga’s voice to slice through the rain, half hoping to see the warm yellow windows of Wayne Manor waiting for her.

They never did.

When the thunder rolled again, she crouched beneath an awning, wrapping her arms around herself. The rain slid down her neck and into the thin fabric of her nightdress, cold enough to sting.

She wasn’t afraid of storms. She used to sit by the window in the Manor with Bruce or Jason or Alfred and count between the flash and the rumble, pretending it was a game. Thunder had been safe, then — something to measure, not fear.

But here, it wasn’t safe. Here, it sounded like footsteps in the hall, like shouting, like the house itself coming alive again.

She shivered until her teeth hurt. Her fingers were numb. The streetlight above her flickered, humming softly, and she pressed her back against the wall to keep the wind off her face.

She didn’t know what to do next. She didn’t know how to find Alfred or Jason or Bruce or Selina. She didn’t even know where she was — only that Gotham had to be nearby. Gotham meant home. If she just kept walking, she’d get there. She had to.

A group of people hurried past, umbrellas blooming like dark flowers. They didn’t look at her. Nobody did.

She pushed herself to her feet and crossed the street, her bare feet slapping against the wet pavement. The cold bit through her, sharp and merciless.

A man was locking up a shop nearby — light spilling from the doorway, warm and yellow. His face was lined and kind, and before she could lose her nerve, she called out:

“Exccuse me.” Her voice cracked, barely a whisper.

The man turned, startled. “Good Lord—are you all right, love? You’re soaked to the bone!”

Mia blinked up at him, blinking rain from her lashes. “Which way is Gotham?”

He frowned. “Gotham?” He hesitated. “You mean Gotham City?”

She nodded quickly, desperate. “That’s where I live. I need to go home.”

The man stared for a long moment, confusion knitting his brow. “Sweetheart, Gotham’s across the ocean. It’s in America.”

She just stared back, shivering. Across the ocean didn’t mean anything. She only knew it wasn’t here.

The man’s expression softened. “Where are your parents?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came. 

Every name had meant trouble. Every one had earned her pain.

She bit her lip and shook her head instead. “I—I don’t know.”

The man’s eyes flicked down to her bare feet, her drenched nightdress, the small trembling hands clutching at nothing.

“Let’s get you somewhere warm, yeah?” he said quietly. He shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, the weight of it almost too much.

She didn’t understand what “warm” was supposed to mean anymore, but she followed him inside.

The shop smelled like coffee and paper and something sweet. There was a small heater humming under the counter, and he guided her toward it, pulling up a chair.

“Sit here,” he said gently. “You’re freezing.”

She sat, teeth chattering, watching the steam rise from his coat as the heat began to touch it.

“What’s your name, love?” he asked softly.

She froze. The words tangled in her throat. There were too many names, and none of them felt safe.

Cordelia Black? Mia Wayne? Euphemia Black?

Her lips trembled, but no sound came.

The man smiled kindly, not understanding the fear that made her silent. “It’s all right,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me yet. We’ll ring someone to help you.”

She didn’t know what ring meant. She only knew that she was cold, that the rain had stopped, and that for the first time in a long time, no one was shouting at her.

She tucked her hands into the oversized sleeves of his coat and stared at the door. Somewhere far away, she thought, there had to be a way home.

The bell above the shop door jingled when the police arrived.

Two officers stepped inside — a woman with kind eyes and a man carrying a clipboard. Their voices were soft, careful, the way adults spoke when they didn’t want to startle a frightened animal.

“She was just outside,” the shopkeeper explained quietly. “Barefoot, soaked through. Said she was trying to get to Gotham.”

The officers exchanged a glance. The woman crouched down beside Mia, her coat brushing the floor.

“Hi there,” she said gently. “My name’s Officer Daniels. You must be freezing.”

Mia didn’t answer. The woman’s voice wasn’t sharp like Walburga’s, but years of being punished for speaking out of turn made silence safer.

“Can I sit here?” the officer asked. When Mia didn’t respond, she sat anyway, keeping her movements slow. “You said Gotham was home, yeah? Are you on holiday here with your parents?”

Mia shook her head.

“Do you live with your parents?”

She hesitated, words catching in her throat. Then, quietly, “Bruce.”

Officer Daniels blinked. “Bruce?”

Mia nodded, clutching the edge of the coat around her shoulders. “Bruce.”

“That’s good,” Daniels said, keeping her tone light. “Do you know Bruce’s phone number?”

Mia shook her head.

“That’s okay. What about an address?”

Mia frowned, thinking. “It’s a big house.”

The other officer scribbled something on his clipboard. Daniels smiled softly, though the worry in her eyes deepened. “I’m sure they want you home, sweetheart. We can help find it if you tell us your name.”

Mia went still. Her fingers tightened around the coat sleeves.

“Which one?” she whispered.

Daniels blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“I…” Mia’s throat tightened. “I have a lot of names. I’m not allowed to use my old ones.”

The man with the clipboard looked up sharply. Daniels’s expression didn’t change, but her voice grew even softer. “That’s all right. You can tell me any of them. Whatever you like.”

Mia looked down at her bare feet, at the puddle spreading slowly across the tile. “She said I couldn’t. That I’d be punished.”

“Who said that, love?”

Mia’s hands trembled. She pressed them together to keep from shaking. “The woman.”

Daniels hesitated. “What woman?”

“The one who said I wasn’t Mia anymore.” Her voice broke on the last word. “She said I was Cordelia. She said Bruce was bad, and that I was bad, and that if I talked about them she’d—”

She stopped herself, biting down hard on her lip.

Daniels exhaled slowly. “Hey, hey. You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you, okay? You’re doing really well.”

But Mia couldn’t stop trembling. Even the soft hum of the heater sounded too loud. Her mind kept expecting a voice — sharp, cold, angry — to come from the shadows. “I want to go home,” Sse sniffed.

The male officer lowered his clipboard and murmured something into his radio. Daniels stayed where she was, her hands open on her knees. “We’re going to take you somewhere warm,” she said. “There’ll be blankets and food. You don’t have to talk until you’re ready.”

Mia nodded, though she didn’t understand most of what the woman said.

Daniels reached into her pocket and pulled out a small foil packet. “They had these at the station — hand warmers. Here.”

She shook one and pressed it gently into Mia’s hands. The heat startled her. She hadn’t felt warmth like that in years.

“Better?”

Mia nodded again, a quick jerk of her head.

“Good,” Daniels said softly. “We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

The man returned from the counter, speaking low. “We’ll contact the embassy — cross-check for missing child reports. Kidnapping fits the profile.”

Mia didn’t catch the words, but she saw the way their faces changed. The way their eyes softened even more.

They helped her stand. The coat slid down her shoulders, heavy and damp, but she didn’t let go of the hand warmer.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The air smelled clean and sharp, like the beginning of something new.

When the police car pulled away, Mia sat in the backseat, her breath fogging the window. The streetlights passed in long golden lines, and she pressed her palm against the glass, watching the glow blur beneath her hand.

She didn’t know where they were taking her. She didn’t know what would happen next.

But for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t afraid of being found.

Chapter Text

The phone rang at 2:14 a.m.

Bruce barely heard it over the hum of the cave. He was still half-suited, cape folded across a chair, the glow from the monitors painting his hands blue. Alfred’s voice carried faintly from the manor above — a quiet murmur that made Bruce’s stomach tighten before he even knew why.

Moments later, Alfred appeared at the top of the stairs, still in his robe, the cordless phone clutched in one hand.

“It’s the embassy, sir,” he said. His voice was steady, but something in his face wasn’t.

Bruce turned from the monitors. “Which embassy?”

“London. It’s about Miss Mia.”

London. The word made his chest feel hollow.

He swallowed hard. “What did they say?”

Alfred hesitated. “They… believe they’ve found someone.”

The silence that followed was a knife.

Bruce’s hands clenched. “A body?”

“No, sir.” Alfred stepped down one stair. “A child. Alive.”

That word — alive — didn’t land right away. Bruce just stared at him.

“They said a young girl was found wandering the streets during a storm,” Alfred went on carefully. “Six years old. Dark hair. American accent. She said she was looking for Gotham. The police took her in, and she mentioned a man named Bruce.”

For a moment, Bruce couldn’t breathe. His chest felt like it had caved in.

“She—” He forced the word out. “She said my name?”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked down at the table, at the open files spread across it. His hands hovered over the drawer for a moment before pulling it open.

Inside, beneath a stack of old reports, was the photograph. The edges were worn soft from handling — a little girl with wild dark hair, caught mid-laugh outside. Jason had taken it. Bruce had tucked it away years ago, telling himself it was safer there, out of sight.

But he’d never been able to throw it out.

He stared at it for a long moment, the paper bent slightly where his thumb had pressed it too often.

Three years. He’d stopped counting after the first, but somehow it still felt like yesterday.

He set the photo down beside the phone, face-up this time, and waited for the voice on the other end of the line to keep talking.

He exhaled, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “It’s another false lead.”

Alfred didn’t contradict him right away. “Possibly. But the embassy has requested verification. They said she also used the name Mia.”

Bruce closed his eyes, willing his pulse to slow. “People read the file. They see the name. They want attention. It happens.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred said softly. “But not every missing child bears the resemblance.”

The words sank in slowly, like water seeping through stone.

Bruce rubbed a hand across his face. “Put them through.”

Alfred descended the remaining steps, handing him the phone. Bruce took it, forcing his voice to stay level.

“This is Bruce Wayne.”

“Mr. Wayne, this is Sarah Whitaker with the U.S. Embassy in London,” a woman’s voice said — calm, professional, careful. “We’ve been contacted by the Metropolitan Police regarding a child they located earlier this evening. She matches several details from your foster daughter’s file.”

Bruce stared at the cavern floor. “You’re certain?”

“We’re not certain, sir,” Whitaker admitted. “But she gave the name Mia unprompted and referred to a man named Bruce. She was found asking for directions to Gotham. She appears frightened and malnourished, but unharmed.”

Alive.

His throat tightened. “Where is she now?”

“She’s at a police station in Kensington, under supervision. They’re waiting for formal identification before releasing further information.”

He swallowed hard. “Send me a photograph.”

“Yes, sir. As soon as possible.”

He hung up before she could say more.

The cave felt impossibly still. The only sound was the faint whir of the computers.

Alfred waited. “Sir?”

“They said she’s alive.” His voice came out rough, almost hoarse. “They’re not sure it’s her.”

Alfred let out a slow breath — the kind that sounded like he’d been holding it for three years. “Then we’d best prepare to confirm it.”

Bruce nodded once, already moving toward the computer console. “I’ll need the most recent files — dental, medical, DNA if we still have samples. Cross-reference them with the embassy’s contact.”

“Yes, sir.” Alfred’s hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his cufflinks. “Shall I call Master Richard and Master Jason?”

“Not yet.”

He didn’t want to say it until he knew.

He’d seen too many false hopes, too many ghosts that turned out to be nothing. He couldn’t — wouldn’t — put them through it again. Not until there was proof.

He sat down at the console, opening old case folders one by one. The photo on his desk caught his eye again.

Alive.

He wasn’t sure he believed it. He wasn’t sure he could.

But for the first time in three years, he wanted to.

The email came less than an hour later.

Bruce had been standing at the console the entire time, motionless except for the faint twitch of his fingers against the keyboard. He’d gone through every procedural step — sent the embassy the identification packet, cross-referenced old records, re-opened case files he’d sworn he’d closed. But none of it felt real.

When the notification pinged, he hesitated.

Alfred, hovering a few feet behind him, took a step closer. “That’ll be them, sir.”

Bruce opened the message. The photograph loaded slowly — one line of pixels at a time, grainy in the low light of the cave.

A small face appeared first. Pale. Thin. Hair longer now, tangled and damp. Grey eyes half-hidden beneath dark curls. She looked older, but not by much — still small enough that she had to tilt her head up toward whoever had taken the picture.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Every scar, every bruise, every mark he’d trained himself to forget came rushing back — and all of it fell away when he saw her. The same gray eyes. The same stubborn tilt of the mouth.

It was Mia.

Alfred’s hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder. “It’s her,” he said softly, as if saying it out loud might make it more real.

Bruce didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

He reached out instead, fingertips brushing the screen. His hand dwarfed her face.

She’s alive.

He had imagined this moment so many times — the call, the confirmation — but now that it was here, it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like the first breath after nearly drowning.

Behind him, Alfred was already moving. Years of habit kicked in. “I’ll call her caseworker at the Department of Child Services,” he murmured. “We’ll need official clearance to bring her home. I’ll have the jet fueled and ready for departure within the hour.”

Bruce still didn’t speak.

“She’ll need clothes,” Alfred went on, half to himself now. “Something warm. It’ll be cold in London. We’ll have to prepare a room again. I expect the boys will want to—”

He paused, glancing back at Bruce.

Bruce hadn’t moved. He just stood there, staring at the screen like he could memorize her face all over again.

“Mia,” he whispered finally. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t disbelief anymore, either. It was a name that had lived like a ghost in his mouth for three years, suddenly real again.

Alfred’s voice gentled. “We’ll have to tell them, sir. Master Richard, Master Jason… and the others. Miss Kyle as well. She’ll want to know.”

Bruce didn’t answer. His throat wouldn’t let him.

He lifted the photo window, zoomed in until her face filled the screen. The resolution was poor, but it didn’t matter. He could see her eyes clearly now — tired, frightened, but alive.

That was all that mattered.

The cave was silent except for the soft hum of the computers and the distant flutter of bats above.

Bruce’s hand dropped to the desk, steady but shaking. “Get the jet ready,” he said quietly.

Alfred nodded once. “Already in motion, sir.”

He started up the stairs, listing tasks as he went — calls to make, paperwork to expedite, logistics to arrange. The practical rhythm of a man who’d spent a lifetime cleaning up after grief.

When he was gone, Bruce sank into the chair, the light from the monitor reflecting in his eyes.

He didn’t think. He didn’t plan.

He just looked at her.

For the first time in three years, Gotham felt almost quiet.

By dawn, the jet was waiting on the tarmac — engines humming softly against the fog. Bruce moved through the motions without speaking: boarding pass, security clearance, the duffel slung over his shoulder. His movements were automatic, but his mind was somewhere else entirely — on the photograph folded carefully inside his jacket pocket.

Alfred followed close behind, phone pressed to his ear. “Yes, Master Richard,” he was saying as they climbed the steps. “We’re heading to London now. I need you to keep an eye on the boys until we return… No, we’re not certain yet, but there’s reason to hope.” He paused, listening. “Yes, Jason too, if you can find him. Tell him—tell him it’s about Mia.”

He ended the call with a quiet sigh and took his seat across from Bruce.

Neither of them spoke as the engines began to roar. The jet lifted slowly into the pale morning sky, leaving Gotham’s skyline shrinking behind them.

Bruce sat rigid, eyes fixed on the horizon, hand resting over the folded photograph.

For the first time in three years, he wasn’t flying toward another dead end.

He was going to bring her home.

Chapter Text

They said she was safe now.

That was what the woman at the police station kept repeating.

“You’re safe, sweetheart. You’re going somewhere better now.”

But safe didn’t sound right. Safe was a word people used before things got worse.

Mia sat small and rigid in the backseat of the car, her fingers twisted in the fabric of her borrowed coat. The engine’s low growl made her stomach clench. Every bump in the road sent her heartbeat into her throat.

She didn’t like cars. She remembered them — flashes of noise and movement, Dick sitting in the front seat trying to distract her, Bruce making her stay buckled into her carseat. She remembered the radio, the lights, and Alfred. She remembered Alfred falling.

She thought he’d died. She’d seen him fall.

Her breath hitched, and she pressed her fist to her chest, trying to rub the building ache away.

The woman beside her — Officer Daniels — kept her voice gentle. “We’re just taking you to some nice people at the embassy, all right? They’re going to help find your family.”

Mia nodded, though the words didn’t make sense. Embassy. Family. Find.

Every place so far had started with kind words. The police station. The shop. Before that, even Walburga had used kind words sometimes. You’ll be proper soon, my dear. Kind words always came before the hurt.

Outside, rain streaked the window. London blurred into gray — buildings stacked too close together, streets too narrow. It wasn’t Gotham. Gotham had space. Light. Alfred’s garden.

She’d asked, once, if she could go home now. The officer had said they were trying. But trying wasn’t the same as going.

Mia pressed her forehead to the cold glass. Her reflection looked pale and tired, eyes too big for her face. The window vibrated softly with the hum of the car, and she counted each breath, like Bruce had taught her when she couldn’t sleep. In. Out. In. Out.

She wanted to be brave. She’d promised herself she would be brave. But her throat felt tight and hot, and her chest hurt, and her fingers kept trembling no matter how hard she tried to stop them.

When the car finally stopped, the woman said, “We’re here.”

The building was tall and white, with flags hanging outside. There were guards near the door, but they weren’t like the muggles Walburga used to talk about. These looked bored, not cruel.

Still, Mia hesitated when the door opened. Her legs wouldn’t move.

“It’s all right,” Officer Daniels said softly. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

Mia nodded, but her hands wouldn’t let go of the coat.

Inside, the air smelled different — clean, like soap and paper. There were people everywhere, talking, typing, walking past without looking. Every sound felt too loud.

A woman in a suit crouched down to her level. “Hello, Mia,” she said, smiling like she should recognize him. “My name’s Mrs. Whitaker. You’re at the U.S. Embassy now. Do you know what that means?”

She shook her head.

“It means you’re with people who’ll take care of you. You’re American, right? From Gotham?”

The word Gotham made her chest twist. She nodded fast. “That’s home.”

“That’s good.” She smiled again. “We’re going to help you get back there. You just have to answer a few questions, all right?”

Her mouth went dry. Questions meant traps. Questions meant wrong answers. Questions meant hurting.

“What’s your full name, sweetheart?” he asked gently.

She hesitated. Which one?

She thought of all of them — Cordelia Black. Euphemia Black. Mia Wayne. Each one had a punishment attached. She didn’t know which one was safe anymore.

When she didn’t answer, the woman tried again. “It’s okay. You can tell me any name you like.”

Her voice cracked. “I don’t know which one I’m allowed to use.”

Something changed in her face then — the same look the police officer had given her earlier. Sad. Careful.

“That’s all right,” she said softly. “You don’t have to choose right now. We’ll figure it out together.”

She nodded to one of the women behind him, who brought over a blanket and a cup of cocoa.

It smelled like Alfred’s, but it didn’t taste right. Too sweet. Too thin.

They led her down a hallway lined with photographs of places she didn’t know — New York, Chicago, Washington — names she couldn’t pronounce. Her shoes squeaked against the tile floor.

She kept expecting someone to shout. To grab her. To drag her back.

She didn’t understand why no one did.

They brought her to a small room with a couch and soft yellow lights. A woman knelt to her eye level.

“Mia, can you tell us who you lived with before you came here?”

Her throat closed.

Walburga’s voice hissed through her memory. You’ll forget them, or you’ll be punished.

Her hands shook so badly the cocoa sloshed onto the floor. “I can’t,” she whispered.

“That’s okay,” the woman said quickly. “You don’t have to. You’re safe here.”

Safe. There it was again. The word that didn’t mean anything.

Mia curled into the corner of the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She stared at the door, half-expecting it to open and reveal the dark silhouette of that house — the cold corridors, the sound of heels on stairs, the wand in the air.

She wanted to go home. But she wasn’t sure where home was anymore.

Hours later, when exhaustion finally won, she fell asleep on the couch — small and pale under the too-large blanket, cocoa stains on her sleeve.

The embassy staff kept their voices low as they stepped out into the hallway.

“She keeps asking for Gotham,” one said. “And a man named Bruce.”

The other nodded. “The description matches. We’ve sent the file to the Wayne Foundation contact.”

Inside the room, Mia stirred and whimpered in her sleep.

Her fingers tightened in the blanket, like she was still holding onto someone’s hand.

The car barely stopped before Bruce was out of it.

The afternoon air in London was gray and cold, mist curling against the pavement. Alfred followed close behind, coat drawn tight against the wind. They’d come straight from the airport — no rest, no change of clothes, not even time to breathe.

The embassy loomed ahead, pale stone and polished glass. Security met them at the entrance, startled at the sight of Bruce Wayne striding through with purpose that brooked no interruption.

“I’m here for Mia Wayne,” he said, his voice low but hard enough to cut through the hum of the lobby. “Where is she?”

The receptionist faltered. “Mr. Wayne—Sir—the child is being evaluated. There are procedures—”

“I’m not interested in procedures,” Bruce snapped. “Where is she?”

A woman appeared from an adjoining hallway — the embassy liaison, Sarah Whitaker. She looked composed but cautious, her folder already open in her hands. “Mr. Wayne, I’m glad you made it safely. We were just about to reach out—”

“Where is she?”

Whitaker glanced at Alfred, then back at Bruce. “She’s resting in a secured room. The police are still confirming the identification. Until we have official—”

“It’s her.” Bruce’s voice rose, sharp enough that people nearby flinched. “I know Mia. I saw the picture. It’s her. I want to see her now.”

Whitaker hesitated. “Sir, please understand—these protocols are for her safety as well as yours. She’s been through trauma. We have to ensure—”

Alfred stepped forward, his tone perfectly polite but cutting all the same. “We’ve assumed the worst for three years,” he said. “Surely there’s no protocol in existence that should keep a father from seeing his child.”

“Legally,” Whitaker began carefully, “Mr. Wayne isn’t—”

“She will be,” Bruce interrupted. His eyes were cold, unyielding. “My lawyers are filing the paperwork now. I want to see her.”

Something in his voice left no room for argument.

Whitaker exhaled, looking between them. The hard line of Bruce’s shoulders, the quiet certainty in Alfred’s face — there was no mistaking that this wasn’t bluster. This was grief turned into steel.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said finally.

She disappeared down the hall, speaking quickly into her phone.

Bruce didn’t move. His jaw was tight, hands fisted at his sides. The exhaustion of the flight, the years of waiting — none of it showed, except in the small tremor at the corner of his mouth.

Alfred stood beside him, calm and composed. “You’ll need to be gentle, sir,” he said quietly. “The child has been through quite enough.”

“I know.” Bruce’s voice was hoarse.

“She may not recognize you at once.”

Bruce swallowed. “I’ll wait as long as she needs.”

“Good,” Alfred said softly. “Because I suspect she’ll need you quite a lot.”

Down the hall, a door opened. Whitaker returned, gesturing for them to follow.

“She’s awake,” she said. “You can see her now.”

Bruce didn’t thank her. He just nodded once and started forward, every step measured, deliberate — like approaching something fragile enough to break if he moved too fast.

For the first time in three years, the impossible was real again.

The room was small and bright, the kind of brightness that hurt after too long in the dark. A couch sat against one wall, a few plastic toys scattered nearby that Mia didn’t dare look at. She sat on the edge of the cushion, blanket clutched tight around her shoulders, eyes darting to the door every few seconds.

She’d stopped asking questions hours ago. Every time someone said “you’re safe now,” her stomach twisted tighter. Safe was a lie. Safe was what Walburga said before the wand came out.

When the door finally opened, she flinched.

A tall man stepped inside — dark coat, jaw tight, eyes too sharp to be a stranger’s. Behind him stood another man, older, familiar in a way that made her chest ache.

For a second, no one spoke. The world felt like it was holding its breath.

Bruce stopped halfway across the room. He looked older than she remembered — sharper, thinner somehow — but his eyes were the same.

Mia froze. Her fingers went still on the blanket. Her breath came shallow and fast.

He didn’t speak at first. He just looked at her, like he wasn’t sure she was real.

“It’s all right,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “You’re okay now.”

Mia didn’t answer. Her lips trembled. The blanket slipped off her shoulders.

He took one slow step forward. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

Her chin wobbled. “I want to go home.” The words cracked apart as she said them. “I tried to go home, but she wouldn’t let me.”

“I know.” His voice broke just slightly, and he swallowed it down. “I know, Mia.”

He crouched, lowering himself until they were eye level. Close enough that she could see the small scar at his temple, the faint shadows under his eyes. “I’m not angry,” he said quietly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Mia’s fingers twitched. She wanted to reach for him, but something in her chest locked up. Walburga didn’t let her touch people. Walburga said hugs were childish. That love was weakness.

She stood frozen, trembling.

Bruce didn’t move closer. He stayed there, steady and patient, letting her decide. “It’s me,” he said softly. “You can.”

Something inside her cracked. A broken sound escaped her, and before she could stop herself, she stumbled forward and pressed her face against his shoulder.

He caught her immediately, arms wrapping around her in a hold that was solid and certain but not tight. Like he was afraid to scare her away.

“It’s all right,” he said again, quieter this time. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

She cried — the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep and hurt, the kind she couldn’t stop.

When Alfred stepped into the room, she didn’t notice at first. But then she heard him.

“Oh, Miss Mia…” His voice shook.

Her head jerked up. For a heartbeat, she just stared — eyes wide, disbelieving.

“You—” Her voice caught. “You died.”

Alfred smiled weakly. “No, my dear. Not quite.”

That broke her. She sobbed harder, the sound raw and desperate, clinging tighter to Bruce’s coat.

Bruce kept one hand on her back and reached the other toward Alfred without looking, gripping his arm — a silent thank you, a silent she’s alive.

Alfred came closer, kneeling beside them. “You’re safe, Miss Mia,” he murmured, steady now. “You’re coming home.”

Mia reached one shaking hand toward him, curling her fingers around his sleeve like she used to.

Alfred covered her hand with his own, thumb brushing her knuckles.

For the first time in years, she didn’t flinch.

Bruce closed his eyes, head bowing against hers. The sound of her uneven breathing filled the room, small but real.

He didn’t say anything else. There wasn’t anything left to say.

She was here. She was alive.

And for the first time in three years, he believed it.

Jason heard the voicemail halfway through breakfast.

He hadn’t checked his phone after he’d gotten in from patrol last night — hadn’t wanted to — but when Alfred’s name flashed across the screen, something in his chest twisted.

“Master Jason,” Alfred’s voice said, even and composed as ever, but softer. “There’s news about Miss Mia. Master Bruce and I are on our way to London. Please… stay close to the Manor. We’ll call as soon as we can confirm.”

The message ended there.

Jason didn’t bother finishing his coffee. He was already grabbing his jacket.

The drive to the Manor blurred past. He didn’t remember parking, didn’t remember slamming the door behind him, didn’t even remember crossing the foyer until he was halfway up the stairs, boots echoing against the marble.

It was empty — too empty. Tim and Damian were at school, and the silence felt wrong without Alfred’s voice or Bruce’s pacing steps to fill it.

For a moment, Jason just stood in the hallway, breathing hard. Then his eyes drifted to the door at the end.

Mia’s door.

He hadn’t opened it in three years. None of them had.

His hand hovered over the knob, hesitation warring with instinct. Before he could decide, he heard a low hum from inside — not music, but the steady drone of a vacuum.

Jason frowned, pushed the door open.

Dick was standing in the middle of the room, the vacuum still on but motionless in his hands. He wasn’t cleaning. He was staring.

The broom — Mia’s broom — was propped against the wall next to her bed.

Jason froze. “Dick?”

Dick didn’t look up. His shoulders were tight, his jaw working like he was holding something back. “I wanted to… I don’t know.” His voice cracked a little. “Get it ready for her to come home.”

Jason stepped inside. The air smelled like dust and old linen, the way it always had. But it felt different now — lighter somehow. Like the house knew before they did.

“It’s really her?” he asked, and his voice didn’t sound like his own.

Dick finally looked at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he wasn’t crying. “They haven’t called since they boarded the plane,” he said quietly. “But Alfred sounded sure.”

Jason nodded slowly, his throat tight.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The hum of the vacuum filled the silence until Dick finally shut it off.

“Rememember how mad she got,” Dick murmured, glancing at the broom. “When Bruce made her leave her broom in the car when we went to the zoo?”

Jason gave a rough laugh. “Yeah. She nearly got him arrested for it.”

They both fell quiet again. The broom sat where it had been left years ago, the sunlight from the window falling across the handle.

Jason leaned against the doorway. “You think she’ll even remember us?”

“I don’t know.” Dick’s voice was almost a whisper. “She was three.”

Jason swallowed hard. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll remind her.”

Dick’s lips twitched — not a smile, exactly, but close. “Yeah.”

The silence stretched. Dust motes drifted through the beam of light cutting across the room.

“She’s coming home,” Dick said finally, like he needed to hear it out loud to believe it.

Jason nodded once, jaw tight. “Yeah. She is.”

They stood there a while longer — two grown men in a little girl’s room, surrounded by ghosts — waiting for the sound of a phone that might finally bring them back their sister.

The embassy had cleared a small office for them — plain walls, one table, a few chairs. It was meant to be comfortable, but everything about it felt sterile and too bright. They were trying to make it comfortable, but Bruce could tell — the space still felt like an interrogation room.

Mia sat in the corner of the couch, knees drawn to her chest, the blanket back around her shoulders. Alfred had brought her cocoa again, but it sat untouched, cooling in her hands.

She was different.

Thinner than he remembered — her wrists sharp against the sleeves of the too-big sweater someone had given her. Her hair was longer, somehow even darker now, falling in uneven curls that half-hid her face. She was taller by maybe two inches, but somehow smaller. Like she’d learned how to take up less space.

The last time he’d seen her, she’d been a storm of motion — all questions and arguments, constantly testing limits. She used to run barefoot across the law just to see how far she could push before one of them made her come back inside.

Now she sat still. Silent. Like noise itself had become dangerous.

Bruce’s chest ached just looking at her.

He hadn’t thought he’d ever see her again. Not alive.

He remembered the months after she vanished — the searches, the false leads, the photographs that were always almost her. Every time, he’d let himself hope a little less. By the end, he’d stopped imagining what her voice would sound like if she called his name again. He’d stopped imagining her at all.

And now here she was.

Alive.

He should have felt relief. Gratitude. Something bright. But what rose in his chest instead was something quieter and heavier — grief for the three years he hadn’t seen her grow, hadn’t heard her laugh, hadn’t been there to stop whoever had hurt her.

He studied her the way he used to study case files, cataloging details automatically. Her posture was defensive — shoulders drawn, head down. Her hands trembled when she lifted the cup, but she never spilled. Her eyes darted to the door every few seconds. Always checking for escape routes. Always waiting for someone to come through.

Mia shouldn’t have known how to do that.

Alfred sat beside her, his voice gentle but firm, like he was trying to coax a frightened bird closer. “No one is angry, my dear. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re safe now, truly.”

She didn’t look up.

Sarah Whitaker tried to take over, her tone soft. “Mia, can you tell us how you got here? Did someone bring you to England?”

Bruce bit back his retort: How else would she have ended up across an ocean, away from home?

Mia’s fingers tightened on the mug. Her shoulders hunched.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper. “I was good.”

Alfred’s expression softened painfully. “Of course you were.”

She nodded quickly, as though afraid he’d disagree. “I was good,” she said again.

Bruce’s throat tightened. He leaned forward slightly, careful not to startle her. “No one’s angry,” he said quietly. “We just want to understand. The people who took you—do you remember their names?”

Her head snapped up. For a moment, he saw the flash of the girl she used to be — fierce, defiant — but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by pure fear.

“I didn’t say it,” she blurted, shaking her head. “I didn’t say it, I promise. I didn’t—”

Her breath hitched, and then she was shaking, hands trembling so hard the cocoa sloshed onto her blanket.

Alfred immediately moved to her side, kneeling in front of her. “It’s all right,” he said gently. “You’re not in trouble, Miss Mia. No one will hurt you again. You don’t have to say a word.”

Bruce felt something break inside him. He’d interrogated countless victims before — he knew trauma when he saw it — but knowing didn’t prepare him for watching it play across her face. His daughter’s face.

“She said if I talked, she’d make me forget,” Mia whispered.

“Who?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

She flinched so violently that Alfred’s hand shot out to steady her. Her breathing turned ragged.

Bruce froze. The word who felt like a gunshot in the room.

Whitaker quietly signaled for the embassy staff to step out. Alfred rose slowly and turned toward Bruce, voice soft but edged with command. “That’s enough, sir.”

Bruce nodded, unable to speak.

Whitaker gathered her notes wordlessly and left, closing the door behind her.

The room fell into silence, broken only by Mia’s unsteady breaths.

Bruce stood, his movements mechanical. He wanted to reach for her, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He didn’t want to frighten her more.

“Mia,” he said softly, crouching again but keeping his distance this time. “We’re done for today. No more questions.”

She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the cocoa spreading across her blanket.

He hesitated, then added quietly, “We’ll go home soon. I promise.”

Her voice came out small and shaking. “I was good.”

Bruce’s chest constricted. “I know,” he said quietly. “You were.”

She nodded, like she needed permission to stop defending herself.

Alfred took her hand then — carefully, gently — and guided her to her feet. “Come along, my dear. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She followed him without a word, the blanket dragging behind her.

Bruce watched them go until the door closed. Then he sat heavily in the chair she’d just left. His hand went to his chest, pressing over his heart as if trying to steady it.

She was here.

She was alive.

But the little girl he’d lost wasn’t the same one sitting across from him anymore.

He’d gotten her back — but not unscathed.

And as much as he wanted answers, he knew now that some questions might never be worth asking.

The hotel room was quiet, too clean, too white. Bruce had drawn the curtains halfway, trying to soften the light, but it still felt like a place meant for strangers.

He’d signed the paperwork in a blur — embassy officials, legal counselors, statements, signatures — words that barely registered. It had taken more than paperwork to walk out of that building with her. Years of favors called in, quiet deals struck, the kind of pity that made Bruce’s stomach twist. He would’ve burned down every rulebook on the planet if that’s what it took.

Now it was just the two of them.

Alfred had gone out to get “essentials.” Bruce was certain that meant half a department store — clothes, snacks, stuffed animals, enough things to fill the silence.

Mia stood against the wall near the window, her shoulders pressed flat to the plaster, as if she needed something solid at her back. The blanket from the embassy was still wrapped around her.

“We can order food from the hotel,” Bruce said quietly. He kept his voice low, soft enough not to startle her. “Do you remember how much you liked sliced cucumbers?”

Mia didn’t move.

She kept her eyes fixed somewhere near the floor, her small fingers twisting in the blanket. She didn’t know if this was a test. At Grimmauld Place, there were no choices. Whatever Kreacher brought, she ate. Speaking up, asking for something else — that had earned punishment.

Bruce watched her, the silence stretching thin between them.

“Maybe pasta?” he tried again. “You always liked pasta.”

For a moment, it almost looked like she was going to answer. Her mouth opened, her lips forming the beginning of a word — and then she shut them again.

“It’s okay,” Bruce said quickly, before she could shrink back. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

He didn’t move closer. He’d learned enough over the years to recognize fear when it had shape and breath.

Her voice came small, shaky: “Do I get to go with you now?”

Bruce looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Do I get to come home?”

There was something about the way she asked it — the hesitation, the doubt — that split him open a little.

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Of course you do. We have to stay here for a few days, but then we’ll go home.”

He didn’t care that the paperwork was still being processed, that lawyers were negotiating custody under international law. He’d make it happen. He’d burn through every court in the world if he had to.

Mia nodded once, her eyes darting to the window.

She didn’t smile.

He hesitated, not sure what to say next. “Do you remember home, Mia?”

She nodded again, quick, automatic.

“That’s good,” he said, because there was nothing else to say.

He didn’t tell her that home wasn’t what it used to be. That Dick and Jason had moved out. That there were two new boys in the Manor — one who asked too many questions and one who fought too hard. That Selina wasn’t there anymore. That he wasn’t, either, not really.

She didn’t need to hear that. Not tonight.

Bruce stood, crossing to the small desk where the hotel’s menu sat. His fingers hesitated over the phone. “I’ll order you something to eat,” he said finally.

Behind him, he heard the faint rustle of the blanket and the softest whisper of a voice:

“Thank you.”

He froze. It was the first thing she’d said that wasn’t out of fear.

He didn’t turn around. He just closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly.

Mia sat at the small desk by the window, the hotel lamp casting soft yellow light across her plate. The pasta was barely touched. She ate mechanically — tiny bites, slow, careful — never enough to fill her, but enough to make it look like she was trying.

Bruce watched her from across the room. It took him a few minutes to realize why she wasn’t getting up when she finished. She wasn’t done because she was waiting — waiting for him to tell her she could be.

That realization hit like a blow.

When the knock came, Alfred let himself in. He carried several paper bags, setting them down on the bed with practiced efficiency. “We’ll procure more when we arrive home,” he said, “but I found what I deemed essential.”

He began unpacking as he spoke. “Toothbrush. Shampoo. Nightclothes. A small puzzle. And, well…” He paused, producing a small stuffed animal — a soft gray dog with slightly uneven stitching. “She might prefer something for comfort.”

Mia’s eyes flicked to the toy, then away again.

“I’m going to check in with the boys,” Bruce said, stepping toward the adjoining room.

He didn’t miss the way her gaze followed him, quick and nervous. Her small hands tensed against the edge of the desk as he reached the door.

“I’ll be right in the other room,” he promised gently. “If you need me, you can come in. Alfred will be here.”

She didn’t answer, but she blinked, quick and tight — the smallest nod.

Alfred stepped closer, voice soft. “Perhaps you’d like to look through the bags, Miss Mia? You can pick out your sleepwear.”

Mia didn’t move. She only glanced at the plate again and hunched her shoulders, as though trying to take up less space.

Bruce hesitated, one hand on the doorframe. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said quietly.

No response.

He forced himself to step through the doorway anyway.

The bedroom light was dimmer. He closed the door partway, leaning his hands against the edge of the dresser until his breathing steadied. Then he pulled out his phone.

Dick answered on the second ring. “How are Tim and Damian?” Bruce asked, skipping any greeting.

“Is it really her?” Dick asked instead. His voice was quiet, wary — like he was afraid to believe it.

Bruce exhaled. “Yes,” he said simply. “It’s her.”

There was a pause on the other end. He could almost hear Dick thinking, could picture him rubbing at the back of his neck, still trying to process it.

“Jason’s here,” Dick said finally. “I’m putting you on speaker.”

Static crackled for a moment. Then Jason’s voice, low and rough: “It’s her?”

“Yeah,” Dick murmured. “Bruce says it’s her.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — full of everything they’d all buried for three years.

“How is she?” Dick asked at last.

Bruce hesitated. His eyes drifted toward the other room, where he could just make out the sound of Alfred’s voice — soft, soothing — and the faint scrape of a chair against the floor.

“Quiet,” he said finally. “We’re working on the paperwork to bring her home. It’ll take a few days. Maybe a week.”

Jason swore softly under his breath. “She’s okay?”

Bruce’s hand tightened around the phone. “She’s alive,” he said. “That’s all I know for sure right now.”

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Then Dick said, almost to himself, “Tell her we’ll be ready. When she’s home.”

Bruce nodded, even though they couldn’t see it. “I will.”

“And she can call us,” Jason added. “If she wants.”

When the call ended, he stayed there a while, the phone still in his hand.

Through the door, he could hear Alfred unpacking quietly, murmuring something about toothpaste and pajamas, and Mia’s barely audible replies — soft, hesitant sounds that barely reached the air.

Bruce sat down on the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

She’s alive.

He’d repeated it a hundred times in his head since the embassy, and somehow, it still didn’t feel real.

He didn’t know what healing would look like for her — or for any of them. But tonight, for the first time in years, there was something fragile and bright threading through the quiet.

Something like hope.

The hotel room was warm, the air thick with the faint scent of lavender from the bath Alfred had insisted on running. The curtains were drawn, muting the city lights outside. It should have felt safe.

It didn’t.

Mia stood beside the bed, still in the oversized T-shirt Alfred had found at a nearby shop. She glanced at the sheets, then down at the carpet, her fingers worrying at the hem of her shirt.

“Alfred’s in the room next door,” Bruce said quietly. “And I’ll be here.”

Mia’s gaze lifted, uncertain. “You’ll stay?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Bruce nodded once. “Yes, I’ll stay.”

She blinked fast, like she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right, then looked away again.

Alfred crossed the room and turned down the bed, moving slowly, carefully. He placed the small gray dog on the bedside table — the toy she hadn’t touched all evening. “Come, Miss Mia,” he said gently. “Time for bed.”

Mia hesitated, staring at the blankets as though they might hide something beneath them. Then, finally, she climbed up, sitting stiffly before lying back.

Alfred pulled the comforter up — not tucking her in, just smoothing it over her legs — and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. His touch was light, practiced, reverent. “You were very brave today, Miss Mia,” he murmured. “And you’ve been missed.”

Mia’s lip quivered. “I want to go home.”

Bruce stepped closer, the words catching somewhere deep in his chest. “Soon,” he promised. “Dick and Jason are waiting for us.”

Her eyes snapped up. “They are?”

Bruce nodded. “Of course. We can call them tomorrow, if you want.”

She hesitated, eyes flicking toward him again. “And Selina?”

Bruce paused. He still hadn’t called Selina — hadn’t found the words for it yet. “Her too,” he said quietly. “She’ll want to see you.”

For a moment, that seemed to calm her. Then her eyes went back to the lamp. “Do you want the lights on or off?” Bruce asked.

“They go off,” she muttered quickly, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “They have to go off.”

Something in her tone made both men still. Bruce glanced at Alfred, but neither pressed.

“Off, then,” Bruce said softly. He crossed to the switch and dimmed the lamp until the room was nearly dark. The only light left came from the crack beneath the door.

He turned back to her. “I’ll be in the living room,” he said. “I’ll check on you.”

Mia’s voice was small, uncertain. “You won’t leave?”

Bruce shook his head. “No. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Mia nodded, still unsure, curling on her side beneath the blankets.

“Do we go home tomorrow?” she whispered.

“Not tomorrow,” Bruce said gently. “Soon.”

She nodded again, but her eyes stayed open long after he and Alfred stepped into the next room.

Bruce lingered by the doorway, listening to the quiet — the sound of her breathing, fragile and uneven, but real.

For the first time in years, she was within reach. And still, she felt a thousand miles away.

Bruce hadn’t slept.

He’d turned off the lamp hours ago, but the room still glowed faintly from the city lights outside, gray and restless. The sound of traffic filtered through the curtains — soft, distant, unending.

He’d checked on Mia three times since midnight.

Each time, he found her exactly the same: curled small on her side, the blanket pulled to her chin, the stuffed dog pressed against her chest. She hadn’t moved much — if anything, she’d folded in on herself, smaller than she’d been before. The covers hardly stirred with her breathing.

He stood in the doorway now, watching her in the dark. The urge to reach out, to touch her hair or trace the curve of her shoulder, was almost unbearable. But he didn’t. He was afraid she’d wake and flinch.

After a long moment, he backed away, closing the door with quiet precision.

The clock read 2:47 a.m.

Alfred had gone to bed hours earlier in the next room, but Bruce stayed on the couch, elbows on his knees, phone in hand. His body was exhausted, but his mind wouldn’t stop. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her sitting at that embassy table — small, shaking, repeating I was good like a confession.

He scrolled through his contacts until he found her name.

Selina.

It rang twice before she answered.

“Bruce?” Her voice was rough with sleep, but alert. “Is something wrong?”

He swallowed. “She’s alive.”

A pause. Then, sharper: “What?”

“Mia,” he said quietly. “They found her. She’s alive.”

Another pause — longer this time. He could hear her breathing on the other end, the sound unsteady. “Where?”

“London. We’re here now. She’s… she’s with me.”

Selina exhaled, a shaky, disbelieving sound. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

The word came out almost hoarse. “It’s her.”

He leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “She’s different. She’s—” He stopped, searching for words that didn’t exist. “She’s not the same.”

“No,” Selina said softly. “Of course she isn’t.”

Bruce rubbed a hand over his face. “She barely eats. She won’t meet my eyes. She doesn’t move unless it’s to flinch. I don’t know what they did to her, but…” He trailed off.

Selina’s voice was gentler now. “You don’t have to know. You just have to be there.”

“I am,” he said. “I will be.”

“I know.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The line hummed softly between them.

“How’s Alfred?” she asked finally.

“Pretending he’s fine,” Bruce said. “He’s not.”

Selina gave a quiet, rueful laugh. “He never is, not when it comes to any of you.”

Bruce’s eyes drifted toward the closed door to Mia’s room. “We’ll bring her home in a few days. I’ll call when we land.”

“I’ll be there,” Selina said immediately.

He hesitated. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she interrupted. “She loved me once. Maybe she still does. Maybe that matters.”

Bruce closed his eyes. “It will.”

The line was quiet again.

“Get some rest, Bruce,” Selina said softly. “She’s safe now. You both are.”

“I’ll try.”

But they both knew he wouldn’t.

When the call ended, he sat in the dark a while longer, staring at the sliver of light under Mia’s door.

He’d seen too much in his life to believe in miracles. But tonight — for the first time in three years — he wasn’t sure what else to call it.

Chapter Text

Mia woke before dawn.

For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. The room was too soft, too warm, too quiet. No cold drafts creeping through stone walls, no Walburga screaming down the hall, no footsteps she had to listen for. Just silence.

Her heart thudded as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The curtains were still drawn. The air smelled faintly of lavender and something clean — not smoke or dust.

Then she saw him.

Bruce sat slumped in a chair in the corner of the room, coat still on, chin tucked against his chest. His breathing was slow, even — the steady sound of someone finally at rest.

For a long time, Mia just watched him.

She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. Walburga used to get angry if Kreacher had to come wake her up. But before that — before everything — Bruce had always been the one awake first. He’d come in quietly, coffee in hand, squeezing her shoulder and telling her it was time to wake up.

Now she didn’t know what the rules were.

So she sat up in bed, pulling her knees to her chest, and waited.

It didn’t take long for him to stir. He shifted slightly, rubbing a hand over his face before straightening. When his eyes opened, they went first to the clock — habit — then to the bed.

He froze when he saw her sitting there, small and still, watching him.

“Good morning,” she said softly.

Bruce blinked, his voice hoarse. “Good morning.” He glanced at his watch. Still early. “Were you… waiting for me to wake up?”

Mia didn’t answer. Her fingers twisted in the blanket.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, keeping his tone even. “Mia,” he said quietly, “you won’t get in trouble for speaking. You remember that, right? You’re allowed to ask things. To talk. Always.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “Not always.”

Bruce stilled. The words hit harder than he expected.

He took a slow breath. “With me,” he said finally, his voice steady, “always.”

Mia nodded once, small and quick, eyes dropping to her lap. “I was good.”

Bruce bit the inside of his cheek, forcing his voice to stay calm. “You were,” he said. “You were very good.”

He stood, straightening his shoulders like he was preparing for patrol, not parenthood. “Let’s get ready, all right? Brush teeth, brush hair, get dressed — then breakfast.”

Mia nodded again, obediently.

Bruce hesitated only a second before moving toward the bathroom. He reached out to switch on the light, casting the small space in a soft golden glow.

Mia slid out of bed and followed him wordlessly, her bare feet silent against the carpet.

He held the door for her. “Go ahead,” he said gently.

She stepped past him, small and cautious, glancing up only once — as if to make sure he meant it.

When the door closed behind her, Bruce stood there for a long moment, staring at the light spilling through the crack at the bottom.

He’d gotten her back. She was safe. Alive.

But the girl inside that bathroom — quiet, shrinking, obedient — wasn’t the same one who used to argue about brushing her hair or insist on sitting on his lap at breakfast.

She was here.

And he had no idea how to help her remember what that used to mean.

The bathroom light hummed quietly behind the door. Bruce could hear the faint rustle of movement — the soft scrape of something shifting on the counter, the tap of feet against tile. Then silence.

He waited. He didn’t want to rush her.

After a minute, the door opened just enough for Mia to peek out.

She hesitated, fingers gripping the edge of the doorframe. “I can’t—” Her voice was almost inaudible. “I can’t reach the sink.”

Bruce straightened immediately. He didn’t move closer yet; he didn’t want to crowd her. “That’s all right,” he said gently. “We can fix that.”

Mia bit her lip, glancing toward the floor. “Kreacher always… he just…” She stopped herself, shoulders tightening.

Bruce nodded once, careful not to ask. “Okay,” he said simply. “Come on.”

He crossed to the closet, pulled out one of the hotel’s spare towels, and folded it tight into a thick square. When he placed it in front of the sink, he stepped back, giving her space. “Try standing on that,” he said quietly. “It should help.”

Mia stepped forward, hesitant, the hem of her T-shirt brushing her knees. She tested the towel first with her toes, as if she expected it to collapse or disappear. Then she climbed on top of it.

Now she could just reach the counter. Her reflection in the mirror startled her — she stared at it for a moment like she wasn’t sure it was really her.

Bruce leaned against the doorway, keeping his tone light. “Better?”

Mia nodded once. “Better.”

“Good.”

She turned the tap, watching the water run over her hands. The motion seemed to calm her a little — something familiar in the rhythm. She brushed her teeth silently, every movement careful, precise.

When she finished, she looked up again, eyes flicking to his reflection behind her. “I did it,” she whispered.

Bruce smiled faintly. “I saw.”

Mia climbed down from the towel, standing in the doorway now, uncertain again.

“Breakfast next?” Bruce asked softly.

She hesitated, then nodded.

He reached for the room phone, giving her a small smile. “All right then. Pancakes and cucumbers?”

That earned the smallest, almost invisible flicker of a smile. “Just cucumbers,” she said.

“Cucumbers it is.”

Bruce placed the order, his voice steady, practiced. But when he hung up, his hands shook just slightly.

She’d asked for something. A choice.

It wasn’t much. But for the first time, it felt like a beginning.

Breakfast had just arrived — oatmeal, fruit, and, as promised, a small plate of sliced cucumbers. Alfred was fussing gently with the tray, cutting the fruit into smaller pieces, making the table look less like room service and more like home.

Mia sat perched in one of the chairs, still in her oversized T-shirt, hair sticking up in soft curls. She hadn’t eaten yet, but she was watching Alfred arrange the plates with quiet curiosity.

Bruce’s phone rang.

The sound cut through the calm like a blade.

He stepped aside to check the caller ID. The Embassy.

His stomach tightened.

“I’ll take this outside,” he said quickly. He glanced at Alfred, then Mia. 

Alfred gave a small nod, though his brow furrowed in question.

Bruce slipped into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. “Wayne.”

“Mr. Wayne,” came Sarah Whitaker’s voice — the embassy liaison. She sounded uneasy. “I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but we need you to bring Mia back to the embassy immediately.”

Bruce frowned. “What? Why?”

“It’s important,” she said. “There’s been… a development regarding her case.”

He went still. “She just woke up,” he lied evenly. “You can tell me now.”

“Mr. Wayne…” There was hesitation on the other end, and then she tried again, carefully. “Miss Black—”

“That hasn’t been her name in years,” Bruce cut in sharply. “She’s Mia Wayne.”

“Yes, of course,” Whitaker said quickly. “But her custody—it seems it’s more complicated than we initially believed.”

The silence that followed was short, heavy, and dangerous.

“What does that mean?” Bruce asked, his voice low.

“It would be best to discuss in person,” Whitaker said. “There are jurisdictional concerns, and the British Ministry of—” She caught herself. “Authorities, I mean. They’ve raised questions about who she was living with and under what conditions. Until we have clarity, we’ve been instructed—”

“By whom?”

“Mr. Wayne, please,” Whitaker said, her tone tightening. “You need to bring her back. Immediately.”

Bruce’s jaw locked. “No,” he said. “Not until I know exactly what’s going on. My lawyers are drafting the adoption paperwork as we speak. She’s under my care now.”

“Mr. Wayne—”

“I’m not handing her back over to anyone until you tell me what’s happening.”

There was a pause, long enough that Bruce could hear the faint click of another line connecting — someone listening in. When Whitaker spoke again, her tone was strained.

“Sir, I’m asking you as a formality, but if you don’t return her voluntarily, we’ll have to send someone to escort you.”

Bruce’s pulse spiked. “You’re threatening to take her?”

“I’m not threatening anything,” Whitaker said quietly. “But there are agencies involved that won’t wait for paperwork. Please, Mr. Wayne. Don’t make this harder for her.”

The line went quiet except for the sound of Bruce’s slow, deliberate breathing.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm — too calm. “I’ll call you back.”

He hung up before she could answer.

For a moment, he just stood there in the hallway, motionless. He could hear the faint clatter of cutlery from inside the room — Alfred’s voice, low and steady, Mia’s small reply.

He forced his hands to unclench before opening the door.

Alfred looked up immediately. “Sir?”

Bruce shook his head once, expression unreadable. “Nothing,” he said quietly. “Eat while it’s warm.”

But the tension in his shoulders gave him away.

Mia glanced between them, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. She didn’t know what had changed, only that it had.

Bruce crossed the room and sat down across from her, his phone still in his hand.

He smiled — or tried to. “Eat your cucumbers,” he said softly.

But his mind was already racing, calculating, planning.

Whatever they thought they could do, they weren’t taking her again.

Not now.

Not ever.

Alfred closed the door behind them and let the hotel room’s thin privacy seal them off from the bright, tentative quiet where Mia was getting dressed.

Bruce’s hand went to his phone and didn’t leave it. He was thinking faster than he’d allowed himself to think since the embassy call — legal contingencies, exit strategies, who to trust, how fast a judge could move — and under all of it was the raw, stupid urge he’d felt the moment he’d seen her photograph: get her, go, don’t let anyone take her again.

“I could take her,” he said finally, the words flat, dangerous in the hush. “Get on the next flight out. Lawyers can fix it afterward.”

Alfred’s face, in the dim hallway light, registered something like pity and the memory of too many nights like this. He’d expected the line weeks ago; hearing it now made his shoulders droop. “It hardly seems productive to kidnap her a second time,” he said, but Bruce could tell — from the way the older man’s voice softened on the last word — that he half-wished they could.

“She’s coming home with us.” Bruce’s voice dropped to the same low level he used in the cave. “I’m not negotiating that. She’s coming back.”

“Of course,” Alfred said. The word was automatic, faithful. “But we must play their game first. There are forms, regulations, an investigation, and—” he glanced at the phone in Bruce’s hand, “—unhelpful officials. We do this properly and we keep her.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. The part of him that had been trained to respect process and evidence recognized the truth in Alfred’s caution. The part that had watched a child disappear and never return wanted to ignore every rule ever written.

“She is not to be left alone,” Bruce said, each phrase a small order. “One of us with her at all times. No exceptions.”

“If they allow us,” Alfred ventured. He wasn’t asking; he was cataloguing obstacles.

“No,” Bruce replied. “We don’t ask for permission. We don’t let her out of our sight. Never again.”

There was a pause, the kind that filled itself with small, practical imaginations: rooms prepared, schedules altered, calls to make. Alfred let out a breath that was almost a laugh, sharp with dry amusement and exhaustion. “Oh, sir. University would be fun.” He shook his head, picturing dormitory discipline and parental meetings that would make the legal department weep. “A teenager and two grown men trailing her.”

Bruce allowed a fraction of a smile, and then it was gone. “We’ll make it work,” he said. “We always do.”

Alfred’s expression turned practical, the old valet-physician-politician sliding comfortably back into place. “Very good. I shall contact the lawyers to expedite custody paperwork and speak with Miss Whitaker—discreetly—about the her concerns. I will also arrange immediate notifications to Master Richard and Master Jason. If you insist on boarding the plane without their approval, I will, reluctantly, remind him that international law can be...unpredictable.”

“You’ll be on the plane,” Bruce said simply.

Alfred gave him a look that was half-reproach, half-resignation, and wholly devoted. “Naturally. I will not have you acting with unnecessary theatricality. We leave in the proper order, with our paperwork as presentable as possible.”

Bruce pocketed his phone. The plan wasn’t clean, and it wasn’t immediate. Legal maneuvering would buy some cover; decisive action would buy safety. Both would be needed.

“Never leave her alone,” Bruce repeated, quieter, as if the words could be a vow.

“Never alone,” Alfred agreed.

They moved toward the bedroom door, the small sounds of Mia’s movement inside — a soft rustle, a quiet intake of breath — carrying through the wood. Bruce paused in the hall and looked back once, as if committing the image of the doorway and the hotel’s muted light to memory.

“Ready?” Alfred asked.

He always was. Bruce nodded.

They opened the door together and walked back into the room to be guardians in the only way either of them knew: steady, deliberate, and prepared to do whatever it took to keep her there.

The drive back to the embassy was quiet. London’s morning light was thin and gray, the city waking slow and indifferent around them. Mia sat between Bruce and Alfred in the back seat, her small hands folded in her lap. Every turn of the car made her shoulders tighten.

Bruce watched her from the corner of his eye. When they turned onto the street leading to the consulate, her fingers began to tremble. He didn’t say anything—just reached out, slow enough not to startle her.

For a moment, she hesitated. Then she slipped her hand into his.

It was small and cold, but she held on.

He didn’t let go.

“Stay with me or Alfred,” he said quietly. “No one else.”

Mia nodded, barely perceptible, her grip tightening.

By the time they reached the front gates, Miss Whitaker was already waiting on the steps. Her posture was composed, but the way her eyes darted toward the street betrayed her nerves.

“Mr. Wayne,” she said, stepping forward as they exited the car. “Thank you for coming back so quickly.”

Bruce gave a short nod. “You said there were complications.”

“Yes,” Whitaker said carefully, her voice low. “There have been some… questions raised by the Ministry’s representatives. They insisted on meeting with you personally.”

“The Ministry of what, exactly?” Alfred asked, tone deceptively mild.

Whitaker hesitated. “They’re with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, as far as our records show,” she said. “But they’ve been rather insistent about—well—proprietary custody matters. I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne, this isn’t how we normally handle reunifications.”

Mia pressed closer to Bruce’s side, her hand tightening around his fingers.

“It’s fine,” Bruce said evenly. “We’ll handle it.”

Whitaker’s eyes flicked to Mia, then away. “They’re waiting inside,” she said. “If you’ll follow me.”

Bruce nodded once and gestured for Alfred to stay close.

They moved through the corridors of the consulate, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The sound of shoes against tile echoed too loud in the narrow hall. Mia stayed quiet, her hand still in Bruce’s, but when they passed a security guard, she flinched.

Bruce felt the movement instantly and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Just enough to remind her: he was there.

Whitaker stopped in front of a conference room door. “They’re inside,” she said, her voice a shade too polite.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “They?”

“Two representatives,” she said. “One from the Ministry and one—well, I believe the other is an observer.”

“An observer from where?” Alfred asked.

Whitaker’s throat moved as she swallowed. “They didn’t say.”

That was enough to put every muscle in Bruce’s body on alert.

He bent slightly, his voice low near Mia’s ear. “Remember what I said. Stay with me or Alfred.”

Mia nodded, her hand still wrapped in his.

Whitaker opened the door.

Inside, the air felt too clean, too controlled. Two people waited by the table. One was a woman in a sharply tailored coat, golden tied back so tightly that Bruce assumed it hurt. The other was a broad man, scarred and severe, his eye shaded as if from habit; it sat too still, like a piece of glass in a face that had seen too much.

Bruce’s body went tight. Protective was a state he moved into without thinking now — a physical arrangement: one hand on Mia’s, the other hovering near the small of her back, positioning himself so she couldn’t be reached from either side.

“Mr. Wayne,” the woman said, stepping forward with the calm of someone used to leading. “Amelia Bones. This is Mr. Moody.”

Moody gave a low, curt sound that was almost a grunt — not quite greeting, not quite assent. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. He watched Bruce as if measuring for danger.

“You didn’t give me much choice,” Bruce said, the words folding tight and low around his hand in Mia’s.

Amelia inclined her head. “Our office handles cases with atypical jurisdictional issues,” she said, careful and precise. “The child in question was registered under another name some years ago — Euphemia Black. That registration remains on our records.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “She hasn’t gone by that name in years. She’s Mia Wayne.”

Amelia’s voice softened only a fraction. “We understand that. However, there are questions about guardianship and certain traditional authorities that have an interest in this matter.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed — a tiny shift, almost imperceptible, the old valet’s reflex to every shade of policy and pretense. He didn’t speak, but Bruce noticed: the way Alfred’s fingers flexed once on the strap of his bag, the near-imperceptible hitch in his breath. The room hummed with things being catalogued.

Moody crossed his arms, the motion more protective than casual. “It’s not as simple as you might think,” he said, voice rough. “Old lines, old claims. Some people don’t take kindly to interference.”

There was an edge to it that read more like warning than statement of fact. Bruce’s grip on Mia’s hand tightened until she stilled.

“She was taken,” Bruce said. “From my home. That makes it simple enough.”

Amelia exchanged a look with Moody, but her professional mask didn’t slip. “Records indicate she was recovered by individuals who asserted familial rights,” she said. “We’re here to verify welfare and confirm documentation before jurisdiction is finally determined.”

“Documentation,” Bruce echoed, the word tasting like challenge. “What documentation?”

“Her time in care, her condition upon recovery, and—” Amelia chose the next word with care — “heritage records.” It was bureaucratic euphemism; Alfred’s lips thinned at it. He’d heard that language before, the phrasing that hid meanings officials weren’t willing to say aloud.

Moody’s mouth tightened. He let the chair creak against his weight, then, quieter, leaned forward a fraction so Amelia couldn’t monopolize the room. His tone shifted, less varnished, more blunt. “We’re not here to wrestle a child away from a good home, Mr. Wayne. Not in our interest. But there are other actors who will press harder if we don’t handle this correctly.”

Bruce’s gaze locked on him. The exchange between them — two predators seeing another’s readiness — was quick and not entirely friendly, but in the way Moody spoke there was an allegiance forming: pragmatic, useful, cautiously on Bruce’s side.

“I’m not surrendering her,” Bruce said. “You can inform whatever department you need to inform.”

Amelia’s hands folded in front of her. “We’re asking for cooperation. Sit. Let us explain the elements involved.” Her voice was steady, but the tremor in the air suggested this was not a simple request.

Bruce didn’t sit. He stayed where he could see every exit, where Mia’s small hand was always within reach. Alfred shifted by his side — a small microgesture: one hand smoothing down his tie, the other curling around the legal folder he’d stashed under his arm. Ready. Calculating. Protective in its own quiet way.

“All right,” Bruce said finally, low and even. “Start explaining.”

Amelia turned her attention to Mia for the first time. “Mia,” she said gently, folding her hands on the table. “We work for the Ministry. Do you know what that means?”

Mia’s small shoulders tensed. Her eyes flicked up at Bruce, uncertain, before she looked back at Amelia. She gave a tiny nod.

“She said…” Mia’s voice was small, dry from nerves. “She said you’re weak. That it’s run by blood traitors.”

Bruce didn’t know what that meant, but he caught the flicker in Amelia’s expression — a quick, startled crack in her composure — before she smoothed it over.

“Yes,” Amelia said finally, her tone quieter. “I imagine a woman like your grandmother would say something like that.”

“Her grandmother?” Bruce’s voice cut through the room, sharp enough that Mia flinched. “You knew where she was?”

Amelia’s eyes lifted to his, regret flickering beneath her professionalism. “You really have no idea who she is,” she murmured.

“Amelia,” Moody said sharply.

She exhaled and nodded. “We knew that a girl — Cordelia Black — was taken in by Walburga Black three years ago and declared heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Until we received notification of Walburga’s death two days ago, we didn’t realize that Cordelia was actually Euphemia Black.”

“That’s not her name,” Alfred repeated Bruce’s statement, his voice calm but with a steel edge.

Amelia glanced at him, acknowledging it with a small nod.

Mia’s hands twisted in her lap. “Was Kreacher upset? That I left?” she asked softly.

“Don’t worry about the elf,” Moody grunted, his tone unexpectedly kind beneath the roughness. “He’s locked himself in that big house. He’ll be fine.”

Mia nodded, unsure.

Amelia turned back to Bruce. “Walburga left very strict instructions regarding Cordelia’s guardianship,” she said carefully. “Legal protections. Automatic transfers. Luckily for Mia, Cordelia was never her name in any binding sense.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. He could tell Amelia was telling him only what she was allowed to — but there was something else behind it. She wasn’t his enemy, but she wasn’t free to speak either.

“My lawyers are filing the adoption papers as we speak,” he said firmly. “She’s staying with me.”

Amelia’s shoulders dipped with a quiet sigh. “Yes, but the simple fact is that it isn’t up to your government where Mia is placed.”

Bruce’s voice was low, dangerous. “Then who is it up to?”

“That’s… complicated,” Amelia admitted. “Given that Mia’s closest living relative is currently imprisoned, her next eligible family would be her cousins — Andromeda Tonks and Narcissa Malfoy.”

Moody made a noise that could have been a snort or a curse. “And I told you,” he growled, “she’s not going anywhere near a Malfoy.”

Amelia inclined her head in agreement. “Andromeda is the elder sister. But she’s also been disowned by her family.”

“You’re not telling us everything,” Alfred said quietly. His tone wasn’t accusatory, just factual — the kind of observation that made people uncomfortable because it was true.

Amelia hesitated. “We can’t. Not until Mia’s custodianship is settled.”

“When,” Bruce corrected flatly.

Amelia’s eyes softened, the faintest sigh escaping her. “If she’s allowed to remain under your care, Mr. Wayne, there will need to be a broader discussion about what that truly means.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but the air around him seemed to still. “What does that mean?”

Amelia glanced toward Moody, then back to Bruce. “It means,” she said carefully, “that raising Mia may involve… elements you aren’t prepared for.”

Moody’s single, dark eye twitched toward Mia — an unspoken warning, not at her, but for her.

And Bruce understood one thing very clearly:

Whatever world had taken Mia from him wasn’t done trying to reclaim her.

Bruce’s patience finally slipped. He shifted his weight, the subtle tension in his posture radiating through the room. “Then tell me what I need to do,” he said, voice low and sharp. “What forms, what hearings, what signatures. Whatever you need — I’ll sign it. But we’re done sitting here.”

“Mr. Wayne—” Amelia began.

“I want to take her home,” Bruce interrupted, his tone cutting through the careful diplomacy. “To Gotham.” Gotham was safe. In Gotham, he could control what happened.

Amelia hesitated, her composure thinning for the first time. “It’s not quite that simple.”

“It never is,” Alfred murmured under his breath.

Amelia folded her hands on the table, leaning forward slightly. “There are those within our… institution who believe that would, ultimately, be the best course of action. That Mia remaining with someone like you — someone grounded, outside our sphere — would be in her best interest.”

Her phrasing was delicate, but Bruce heard what she meant. Someone like you. Not one of them.

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “Then let me take her. Let me get her home.”

Amelia’s expression turned regretful. “They’re working to make that possible. But until certain jurisdictions agree—”

“Jurisdictions,” Bruce repeated bitterly. “She’s six. You’ve known where she’s been all this time and you all had three years to decide whose jurisdiction that is.”

“Mr. Wayne,” Amelia began again, but Bruce’s voice overrode hers, low but shaking with force.

“Do you know what we’ve been through?” he said, the words slipping out before he could temper them. “Three years. We thought—”

He caught himself, breath stalling as he glanced down at Mia. Her small hand was still locked in his, her eyes wide and uncertain. He swallowed hard, forcing the words back into control. “We missed her. We mourned her. She needs to come home.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to feel physical.

Moody shifted, the chair creaking under his weight. He gave Amelia a look — one that told her to stop circling and start speaking plainly.

She hesitated, then sighed. “There’s a man who’s… taken a particular interest in Mia’s case,” she said carefully. “He’s working to ensure the decision falls in your favor. But it will take time.”

Bruce’s lips thinned. “And while this man works behind the scenes, I’m supposed to leave her here?”

Moody straightened, his tone suddenly firmer, more certain. “You won’t have to,” he said.

Amelia glanced at him in warning. “Alastor—”

“No,” Moody growled. “If the old man wants her with Wayne, she’s staying with Wayne.”

Bruce frowned. “What old man?”

Moody’s expression softened just a touch — a rare moment of respect. “Let’s just say he’s one of the few people left who still knows how to do the right thing, even when it’s unpopular.”

He leaned forward slightly, meeting Bruce’s eyes. “If he says the girl belongs with you, she’ll be with you. He’s never lost a fight that mattered.”

Amelia sighed, resigned but not disagreeing. “You’ll have to remain available for communication while the process is reviewed,” she said. “You’ll be contacted shortly with the appropriate clearances.”

Bruce nodded once, the motion tight and restrained. “Fine. But we’re leaving London. Today.”

Amelia didn’t argue. “I’ll see what strings can be pulled.”

Moody gave a short, approving grunt. “Good. The sooner she’s off this island, the better.”

Bruce’s hand found Mia’s again as he turned toward the door. Her fingers slipped back between his automatically, small and certain.

He didn’t look back.