Chapter Text
. . .
The manor has this way of swallowing sound when it wants to. With it’s thick walls and old money. I’d started to get used to it, and even began to like it.
Always thought it was better than the creaking floorboards of a shitty apartment. The constant drip of water plopping into a bucket set up beneath a leak in the roof. Or the way the heater used to groan and moan in an attempt to keep us from freezing to death. For a long time, that was my normal. That and slamming cupboards and screaming matches that never really ended.
I can’t say I miss those times, but I also remember what it felt like to be held in my mothers arms. For the press of a kiss to my forehead from my father in those rare moments between the storm.
The silence now just feels like I could scream and nobody would even hear. Like I could disappear and no one would notice.
Bruce hasn’t said a word to me.
Not since Ethiopia. Not since the warehouse.
I get it. I don’t need him to explain it. I already know where I went wrong—every step, every bad decision. I chased a fantasy. I disobeyed orders, and it got my mother killed.
Biological mother. That distinction matters now, apparently.
I rub my thumb against the seam of the mattress, picking at a loose thread until it frays. Alfred would hate that. Another thing to add to the list of reasons I’m a disappointment. He hasn’t come by either. Probably for the best. I wouldn’t know what to say if he did. “Sorry I proved Bruce right?” doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.
Robin’s gone.
Not just the suit, although that was a tattered mess itself. No. I mean the title. It wasn’t taken from me in the way a disapproving parent takes away your device as punishment. It was more like it was always conditional. Like it was always on a loan.
Never mine to begin with.
Which is fair.
I don’t deserve it.
Bruce told me—before I went and made an irreversible mistake—that he wasn’t my father. That he didn’t need my teenage rebellion. It wasn’t an insult, I know that now. He was merely correcting a misunderstanding.
I don’t know how I got it so wrong. Just because he adopted me, doesn’t make me his son. It doesn’t make us a family.
That’s what Ethiopia was. Me trying to fix my expectations. Looking for someone who actually wanted me. Someone who wouldn’t replace me the second I screwed up.
Turns out I have really shitty luck when it comes to mothers.
I laugh a little at that. It comes out wrong.
I pull my knees up to my chest, and I listen. Listen for any footsteps in the hall. But there are none. Figures.
Dick’s off-world. But even if he wasn’t, he’d be too busy doing better things than babysitting the screw-up Robin who couldn’t follow orders and paid for it in blood.
Blood that wasn’t just mine.
Trailing my fingers against the patterns in my comforter, I remember what it felt like waiting at home for Willis to come through the door. Days could pass before I’d even catch a glimpse of him. Always so anxiety ridden that today was the day he wouldn’t come home. Or how Catherine would promise she’d quit, and she’d do better, but the next day she’d slip away again. Always chasing the next high so she didn’t have to be around me.
I remember thinking if I’m good enough, they’ll stay.
But they never did.
And I was stupid enough to believe this time would be any different.
The nightmares are the only proof anything happened at all. Same images, same smells, same weight on my chest. I wake up already bracing for a lecture that never comes. No grounding. No yelling. No “are you okay?”
Just silence.
This is my fault.
Bruce ignoring me is better than him looking at me like I’m something he failed to fix. Losing Robin is the natural consequence of getting someone killed. I should be grateful I’m still here at all.
I tell myself I can change. I tell myself maybe I already did, and that’s why nobody needs me anymore. The thought settles heavy in my chest.
I stay in my room.
I wait.
He’ll talk to me eventually.
He has to.
Right?
. . .
I shouldn’t be here. I know that. I’ve lost the right. The Batcave is Robin’s territory, and Robin is… well, retired.
But it still feels wrong, being locked out of this place. Like being told I don’t belong in my own skin anymore.
Bruce stands at the console, cowl on. He hasn’t said anything about me being here, and somehow that’s worse than if he’d yelled. Anger would mean I still mattered.
I step closer, fingers worrying at my cuticles until they sting. “I can help,” I say. My voice cracks, just a little. “If—if you need it, I can talk through the comms. Or keep watch. Or—”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at me. But his hand tightens where it rests on the edge of the console.
My chest aches like I’ve been punched. Tears blur my vision, hot and humiliating. I bite them back hard, because crying would make this worse.
He can’t stand me anymore.
I back away before I do something stupid—like beg.
He doesn’t want me around. I should give him space.
. . .
The kitchen smells like coffee and something sweet—scones, maybe. Alfred’s standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up, moving slower than usual.
This place was where I could sit on the counter and steal cookie dough and get scolded gently for it. Where Alfred would ask how my patrol went and actually listen to the answer.
“Alfred?”
He doesn't look up.
“Um.” I try again, somehow quieter. “I was just—”
His shoulders sag, like my mere presence is added weight. He rubs a hand over his face with a sigh.
Oh.
He’s exhausted. He’s tired. And here I am, hovering, and being needy. Making it worse.
I swallow hard. “N-Never mind.” I say quickly. “It’s nothing.”
The kettle on the stove whistles softly, growing in pitch. Alfred just stares for a moment, before turning off the stove.
“I’ll—sorry.” I add, already backing away. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I leave before he can say anything. Retreating to the hallway, far enough away that when I press my back against the cold wall, no one will bother me.
I let the cool seep through my shirt. My hands shake, and I shove them into my pockets. Alfred already has enough to deal with. He doesn’t need me adding more on top of it.
It seems like everyone wants that.
For me to leave them alone.
. . .
I go back to hiding. In my room. In the library. Anywhere I won’t get in the way.
Days pass, or what feels like days. No one comes looking for me. Or calling my name. Or asking where I’ve been.
And suddenly I start to think how easy it is to believe that this is all that I’ll ever be. Always meant to fade into the quiet. Out of sight and waiting.
I’m back to being nothing again.
This time it’s okay though.
It’s deserved.
I’m not a little kid anymore.
Actions have consequences.
. . .