Chapter Text
“You need friends.”
“Says the man who spends most of his free time either fighting crime or in an underground cave with a computer as companion.”
Bruce’s eye flicks. “Believe it or not, I have friends.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Are you talking about the bats hanging on the walls or the voices in your head that tell you to kill everyone?”
Dick, behind you both, has to put a hand over his mouth to avoid his snickering to be heard — and fails miserably, as both you and your father hear him perfectly and turn your heads at the same exact moment to serve him with the best rendition of what he could only describe as The Bat-Glare. He gulps, “Man, definitely your father’s daughter,” Tim, not surprised at all, barely bats an eye. He’s used to your antics by now.
“I don’t need friends,” you hiss, “I work better alone.”
Well, doesn’t this sound familiar? “You’re seventeen. You need friends for your better development. Friends at your age help in forming social skills, boost self-esteem, lower the chances of anxiety and–”
“Oh, and are you perhaps talking by experience?” You're scary when you look like your mother, and you know for a fact that right now, Bruce is having war flashbacks about his time with Talia. “Or are you just listing the things you don’t have because you have no friends?”
Bruce raises an eyebrow in the same exact way you did earlier. “Give me your phone.”
You take it out of your pocket without any complaint — it’s not like you’ve got anything to hide on it; your mother has taught you better than that. He unlocks it — because of course he knows the password — and goes straight into the messenger app. “What’s this?” he asks, showing you the page with the contacts. You frown. “Nuisances?”
“No. Possible friends.”
You scoff, “Please, father, I don’t even know how they got my number.”
Your notifications are full of unsaved numbers — mostly your classmates, still awaiting for response. The oldest one — with still no reply and left unread — is a message from when you first started school four years ago. The only number saved is his, simply as “Father”, and neither Dick or Tim have names attached to their numbers. Not even poor Alfred was spared from this fate, and Bruce pretends not to see how all of the texts you get are basically one-sided — with anyone who reaches out to you receiving a monosyllable response in the best cases and not even getting left on read in the worst ones.
Your father rolls his eyes, scanning the messenger home page, opting to open one of the many conversations that never were. “Look– here.” He gestures for you to get closer so you can see the screen, even if he reads it out loud — fake high-pitched voice and all. “Hi, this is Betty from Chemistry! I was wondering if you wanted to go to the mall with me and Lucy, we wanted to buy a gift for her mum and thought about going to the movies next :) lmk!”
You squint, “What do double dots and a parenthesis mean? Is LMK a code name?”
Bruce facepalms. Dick looks like he’s on the verge of a psychotic break caused by the Joker’s laughing gas, while Tim has never looked more disappointed in his whole life. “She’s trying to be nice to you,” your father manages to say, asking himself how the hell you — the most skittish teenager ever — and Dick — the most social butterfly to have ever existed in the world of extroverts — manage to get along.
You wave a hand at him, “Well, she wasn’t trying to be nice to Kelly Rooks yesterday when she called her fat.”
Your father blinks, “So you do remember their names.”
“Hey!” you protest, “What kind of help would I be to you if I didn’t remember things? Besides, it’s not like I owe them anything even if I know their names.”
Dick, trying to regain his breath, tries to gently step in, wiping away the tears from his eyes as he puts a hand on your shoulder. “See, that’s the thing,” he starts, “you don’t owe any of them anything. You don’t want to be their friend? Fine, we can’t be friends with everyone. But at least try to understand who you want to be friends with, who you want to spend time with and who you like the most.”
“I don’t like any of them and I sure as hell don’t want to be friends with any of them.” At this point, Bruce looks too close to a midlife crisis for the debacle to continue without any screaming — Dick, out of you all, would surely know.
Tim steps up, “B, maybe she could come with me to the Teen Titans HQ — the others could help her out. I know people at the Academy can be rude, so maybe a change of scenery is all she needs.”
You cross your arms, frowning, “I don’t need any help.”
Bruce shakes his head, “Too risky, Tim. If anything were to happen, she wouldn’t be able to cooperate with the others.” He scratches the stubble on his chin, deep in thought, until he suddenly jumps upright on his seat, throwing your phone back at you — not like you’d ever have problems catching it, anyways. “Tim, could you update her on the terms kids your age use? I need to make a call.”
Later that night, you all sit at the dinner table — a rare occurrence — as Dick and Tim try to explain acronyms and such to you. “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, Drake, I know what acronyms are — JLA, CIA and FBI are all things I know very well. But now tell me, how am I supposed to know what IYKYK means?”
You can tell that Dick’s having a hard time too, even if he tries to support Tim the best he can. “You just know,” the latter tries again, “and if you don’t, you keep guessing until you get it right. If you know, you know.”
“Can’t I just google it?” Grayson asks, and suddenly you wonder if this is a lesson for you or for him. He’s young, but not that young that he understands people your age effortlessly — honestly, you don’t understand them either, but you were raised by assassins. You have an excuse. Meanwhile, he has spent the last, what, ten years mingling with anybody that would cross the street? You think he’d know better.
Tim frowns. “That’d be embarrassing."
“Yeah, but if no one knows…”
“You’d know. How would you live with yourself after, huh?”
As Dick stays stunned for a few moments, the door to the dining room opens, “Master Bruce, there’s Mr. Kent waiting for you in the tea room. He said you two had important matters to discuss.”
Bruce rises from his seat and gestures to the three of you to sit back down, “This is not League-related business. Just finish dinner, I’ll be back in a few.”
Dick discreetly leans over to Tim, “Is this a glorified booty call?”
He groans loudly, “I don’t wanna know. Keep me out of this.”
Grayson hums thoughtfully and nods to himself, “It looks to me like it is. That’s definitely a glorified booty call.”
You blink, a roasted potato halfway through your mouth. “What’s that?”
While Dick tries to explain in the gentlest way what the term booty call entails — and Tim tries to bury himself under the carpet out of pure shame — Bruce joins Clark in the tea room in under five minutes, finding his friend staring blankly at the fine china pieces resting in the various cupboards (some of those sets could probably buy the Kent’s farm and then some, he thinks). “Sorry for the wait,” your father takes a seat on the couch in front of him, “thanks for coming here on such a short notice– I wanted to discuss that arrangement I told you about over the phone.”
“Yeah, about that…” Clark doesn’t look too convinced, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, Conner’s barely self-sufficient as he is. I think that your daughter joining the Titans is a great idea, but pairing them up…”
Bruce waves a hand in his face, “It will teach her to stay humble, hopefully, so just bring him here tomorrow and we’ll introduce them to one another.”
His friend looks concerned, “To stay humble?” he mutters, “I don’t think Kon even knows what that means.”
Your father deadpans. “You’re saying that because you’ve never heard my daughter talk about this house.”
(He’s biased. If he went from living in a palace with a thousand servants at his beck and call 24/7, with halls covered in gold and gemstones, to a boring mansion whose blueprint was inspired by the gothic period, he’d be thinking he reached poverty, too.)
The next day, Alfred interrupts your morning training with practiced ease, a tray with tea on it carefully balanced on his arm. “Miss Wayne, your father has requested your presence in the Batcave. He’d like to introduce you to an important guest.”
You frown — it’s not usual for your father to introduce you to his superhero friends, and if he does, it’s just because you’re present while they crash some mission. There’s something off about this ordeal, and you know it, but you can’t help the littlest bit of pride from seeping into your chest — finally, your father sees your worth and wants you to fully embrace his world, enough to introduce you to his fighting companions.
So you put your towel over your neck, grab a tea cup and follow Alfred to your grandfather’s study, where you proceed to descend the stairs to the Batcave. And, honestly, you really shouldn’t be surprised when, instead of a dignified hero with years of experience, you’re presented with someone who looks like a teenager in that ugly rebellion phase where he spends all his time yelling at his parents and listening to metal.
“This is Conner,” Clark introduces him to you — how the hell are they related, by the way?
Like, sure, they look identical. Conner is like a mini version of Clark, clad in his suit with the big S over his chest, but at the same time, they couldn’t look more different. He just looks like a teenage Clark who instead of country music liked punk, with those ugly sunglasses and leather jacket on.
The guy raises a hand, his smile smug, “Hey, you didn’t tell me Tim’s sister was hot–”
You blink, unfazed. “I am not his sister–“
Superman slaps him on the back of his head, his smile not faltering. “He’ll be responsible for you during a trial period in the Titans’ ranks.”
Conner blinks, looking as clueless as you, “…I will?”
”You will,” your father says menacingly.
Superboy — who you recognise Conner to be — doesn’t look too thrilled over the prospect of talking back to The Batman, so his mouth stays shut. “Ask him if you need anything during your time at the Tower, and refer to him for missions. He’s in charge of your wellbeing until you learn the art of teamwork.”
You squint at Conner, who’s smiling nervously at you — somehow he already knows that his chances of getting a date with you have gone down to zero — then glare at your dad. “You’re assigning me a babysitter?”
The supes back down a bit — and while bat-glares scare them more than Kryptonite, neither you nor Bruce look close to stepping down on your staring battle. “I did,” the latter replies, unashamed. “You will join the Titans, but not at the cost of any of their lives. Superboy’s basically indestructible, has super hearing and super strength that I’m sure he will not hesitate to use on you if needed. Learn common social interactions quickly, and he’s out of your hair. Don’t learn them, and expect all your solo actions to be stopped.” Read: Superboy’s expendable.
The yelling starts before your guests can even predict it. By the look on Alfred’s face, this must be a common recurrence between you two.
Kon side eyes Clark, whispering, “And you didn’t think of telling me any of this?”
Superman doesn’t even look guilty, “Please, don’t tell me you’d ever say no to spending time with a pretty girl, because we both know that’s a lie.”
Superboy looks back at you, squaring you up and down, then nods like he’s critiquing some kind of important artwork. “Nah, you’re right. I am a bit worried about the downsides of it, though. How many pounds of Kryptonite does Batman have, again?”
Clark pats his back, but it’s not very reassuring. “Enough to kill the both of us and Zod.”
The kid thinks about it for a moment, holding his chin between two fingers, then nods, pretty convinced. “Yeah, seems worth it to me. When do I start?”
“With immediate notice.” Superman glances at you and Bruce, still yelling obscenities at each other, “I mean… as soon as they stop screaming.”
The both of them flinch as you guys just start throwing hands at each other — meanwhile, Alfred stands to the side, unmovable, tea tray still in hand. He looks at the Kents like this is an everyday occurrence, “It’s just their way of saying they love each other,” he explains, while you yell ‘You’re so insufferable!’ to your father over his statement, “…or a way to establish dominance. We have avoided trying to stop them since Master Dick broke his nose while doing so. Tea?”
Conner blinks, “I mean, I could use a glass of Coke,” he says, at the same time that Clark replies “No, thanks, we’re fine,”
Superman glares at him, clearly wanting to remind him of all the lessons about manners he’s had to sit through, and Kon resigns to not drinking anything in favour of politeness — it’s not like the other times he’s come to the Manor for Tim he didn’t eat and drink like he owned the fucking fridge, anyways.
Obviously, you come out of the scuffle as the loser, but relatively unscathed. Bruce, on the other hand, sports a few ugly red spots on his arms that will surely bruise and scratches on his cheek that look like he fought freaking Cheetah, and not a teenage girl that looks like she wouldn’t hurt a fly. Kon and Clark look at each other, silently agreeing that while B refrained from hurting you, you really didn’t seem to care enough to spare him the same courtesy.
So, you relent. You accept the babysitter your father got you and spend the next hour with him breathing down on your neck — you heard Superman saying something about ‘seeing if they get along’. Apparently, his kid’s weird way of socialising is following you around the cave like a duckling without saying anything and staring at your ass whenever he thinks you’re not looking.
(Not like you should be one to talk, by the way. You’re the one who has yet to make a friendly conversation with anyone that crosses your path.)
At some point between looking into the Riddler’s file for clues about his last heist and making some coffee, Kon finally speaks. “Hey,” he says, his voice hushed as Bruce and Clark finally spark into attention — the first movement in forever, they’re both thinking. A miracle she has yet to pull out some Kryptonite and end him, really.
You look up at him — because of course the fucker has to be built like a streetlight. “Yes?”
He drops his voice even lower, putting a hand in front of his mouth to mislead the two gossip-hungry men who are clearly listening in — does he forget that Clark has superhearing or what? “Promise you won’t get mad.”
You raise an eyebrow, suspicious, “Is there any reason I should be?”
“Well, many people would find it flattering,” he muses.
A sigh, “Just tell me,”
Somehow, his voice drops even lower, “I was wondering if, like, hypothetically, not now and maybe later on the line, you’d ever let me hit.”
Clark flinches like an abused child and slaps a hand over his face. Bruce hasn’t heard what his clone said, but from his face, he definitely understood the theme of the question. “It is true that parents get softer on the second kid,” Superman mutters, thinking of what Ma Kent would’ve done to him if she ever heard him ask such a thing to a girl.
You, however, don’t look angry at all, and Clark realizes a terrible thing — you’re clueless. Your eyebrows raise up in surprise before your nose scrunches up in the same way your mother’s does before she’s about to kill someone, “You wanna fight?”
Kon blinks, “What? No, I just–”
“Sounded like a yes to me.” you grab the collar of his jacket, and just as he thinks that maybe you’ll drag him down and kiss him — in front of your father and his biological donor? Weird, but he’ll take anything you’ll give him — you hoist him up and fucking throw him on the other side of the room, against a bunch of boxes full of utilities and holy batarangs. “Sloppy!” you yell at him, running to the side and opening a… secret opening in the wall? Just how many secrets does the Batcave have? “You’ll never manage to hit me like that!”
Conner is too stunned to either reply or get up. Lying upside down between now disorganized boxes and pretty sure that a batarang is trying to stab him in the ass — not good, that’s my best asset — he stares at Batman and Superman, who just stare back, equally stunned but not too surprised. He manages to get himself back up again only when you charge at him again with — are those katanas? Why the hell does Batman keep katanas in his supposedly no-killing basement?
He did the right thing by hopping up, because the box where his head was lying just a second ago is now sliced in half, clean cut. He stares at the box, then at you, then loudly yells, “WHAT THE FUCK?”
You don’t seem to care, and continue to charge at him, “Come here and fight like a man! You asked me for this, and my honour compels me to not let you hit me!”
“It was in the figurative sense!” he screams like a little girl as one of your blades cuts in two the sunglasses that have just slipped from his head, “C’mon, I’m sorry! I didn’t think you’d take it this bad! I’m dumb, how was I supposed to know?!”
A high-pitched yelp when you manage to cut his jacket, and he realises that you’re aiming to kill, “Why do you guys even have swords around here? I thought Batman had a no-kill rule!”
“Do I look like Batman?” you sound offended, like you’re not the one trying to murder him, “I had killed entire legions of men before Lex Luthor even started to think about cloning Superman and making you!”
Clark sends a glance at Bruce, “I’m still working on her manners,” he grumbles. “At least he’s invulnerable — last time she tried to kill me, Dick had to fill in for Batman for three weeks. She’s improving. Still boasting about all the people she’s killed, but that looks like improvement to me.”
Finally, you manage to hit Conner — and he waits for the pain to arrive, but it never does. Instead, a metallic sound rings out throughout the cave as the katanas break in half when they touch his skin — ah, right. Sometimes he forgets he’s invulnerable.
It’s like time stops. You regain a normal stance in favour of your fighting one, looking at the swords like they just betrayed you, and just as Conner is about to say something — anything to break the terrible tension that just came up — you drop the remaining parts of the katanas, your shoulders slumping as you cover your face in your hands and start sobbing uncontrollably.
Horrified, he looks behind him to see a very disappointed Clark and an unmovable Bruce. Kent kindness wins, as always, against survival instincts, and he takes a step forward to try to console you — you just tried to kill him, but you’re a girl, and he’s not the kind of guy who likes to make girls cry. “Hey, hey– c’mon, don’t cry, I’m sorry…”
The next thing he knows is unfathomable pain, right in his family jewels.
The thing about Conner is, he’s only half kryptonian. And if your guess is right, a well-aimed kick in the most vulnerable part of the male human body should do the trick — and it does, as he’s now writhing on the floor, curled on himself in pain, tears in his eyes. “That… kinda… hurt…” he manages out.
“Who’s supposed to be crying, asshole?” there’s not a single trace of a tear in your face — damn. Did he really just lose over crocodile tears? “Like I’d ever shed tears over you!”
Clark’s jaw fell open as soon as he saw the kick. “I… did she really…?”
Bruce nods solemnly, “She learned that one from her mother.”
Superman blinks. “And you know because…?”
The deadpan his friend gives him is the only reply he needs — if he stares hard enough, he’s sure he can see a flashback of the pain your father had felt. “What do you think?”
He tries to imagine Talia al Ghul kicking Batman in the balls after he tries to console her from a fake breakdown. “I mean… definitely looks like a Talia move, yeah.”
Bruce takes a sip of his coffee and looks at you like you became his biggest nightmare as you stand victorious over Kon’s defeated, curled up body. “Definitely is.”
“Father, his form is sloppy,” you declare, nudging the poor guy with the sole of your foot, “he’s going to need a lot more training if he intends to hold me back.”
Bruce sends Clark a glance, and the latter sighs, “Like you said, ‘I’m working on it’.”
And so, yet another Superbat combo — after Bruce and Clark, Barbara and Kara and Tim and Kon — is born.
If there’s anyone who’s more unhappy than you about this whole team up thing with Superboy, that’s got to be Tim.
He’s the same guy that created the Young Justice team — who later on just became the new Teen Titans — just because he got mad at Bruce that one time and couldn’t really vent to anyone about Batman, so of course his first train of thought was to create a new group of superheroes his age. He’s also the first guy you tried to kill as soon as you arrived in Gotham, so you think that maybe he’s still just a little petty about that.
Your first day with the team goes as bad as it can — nobody but Superboy is really listening to Robin as he tries to introduce you, and Bart Allen (Impulse) only springs into attention when he notices that you’re a girl– which is about twenty minutes after you enter the Tower. He must be one of the smart ones. “Hey, Rob, since when do girls talk to you?” he asks, speeding in circles around you.
You sigh, “Believe me, I wouldn’t talk to him if it wasn’t necessary.”
Tim glares, “Hey, who do you think you’re talking about?”
Wonder Girl and Arrowette are yelling about someone’s hairbrush in one of the conference room’s couches, and it’s honestly a surprise they have yet to rip each other’s hair out. Cassandra’s the only one who’s listening quietly, but then again, it’s not of much use since you guys already live together and once shared the mantle of Batgirl before she started her crusade as Black Bat. She sends you a thumbs up anyways.
“B worried about me not being able to play the team game,” you grumble to Tim, “but it doesn’t look like your friends are too keen on each other to me, Drake.”
He glares again, “Yeah, like you’d know how to handle a group of teen heroes.”
You shrug, “I directed a whole lot of assassins back in my days with the League. I’d run this place like the navy.”
He facepalms, “That’s the perfect way to get overthrown.”
“Nothing I can’t handle,”
Kon and Bart look at each other for a brief moment, then nod like they’ve just come up with something real smart. “Just ask, we’ll do whatever you want.”
Robin raises an eyebrow at his best friend, “Hey, weren’t you supposed to be the one to assure that she didn’t get in trouble?”
Conner whistles like he’s got no idea what he’s talking about, a hand scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know, man, have you seen her?”
“She tried to kill you. She’ll try again as soon as you give her the chance.”
Kon thinks about it for a moment, “I don’t know, man, to me it looks like it’s kinda worth it.” He’s talking like he isn’t still suffering from the after effects of your kick and doesn’t flinch anytime you take a step closer to him.
You stare, unphased, at the bunch of undisciplined heroes in front of you. “How long have you been running this team for, again?”
“A few months,” the supposed leader grunts.
You scoff. “I know monkeys who could’ve done better.”
“Like you?”
The smirk you give him is a mean one. “No. Detective Chimp.”
Safe to say, the first mission goes downhill fast.
The worst thing is that it’s not even against someone worthy of mention — who cares about Toymaker? Does anyone really ever think about Kite Man? And what the hell did Condiment King have to do with them, out of all people?
That’s a two-person job, tops. A two-person job you had to share with six. Other. People. Six other people who don’t seem to know the first thing about hand-to-hand combat, and constantly bicker between themselves, or are too busy dragging you around in the sky instead of making you actually useful (cough, cough, Superboy, cough).
“I knew how to handle myself just fine! And instead you had to stump me throughout the whole way, you dimwitted moron–”
“Stop it,” Tim hisses, “we’re a team, so it’s everyone’s fault when a fight goes south. The important thing is that they’re back behind prison bars, where they belong, and not crawling around in Jump City like they were.”
Your eye twitches. “Everyone’s fault?” you repeat, then yell, “Everyone’s fault?!”
You point to Arrowette and Wonder Girl, “You two were still fighting over that stupid five-dollar comb and got slimed in the first twelve minutes!”
They protest, but you go on, pointing at Impulse — still buzzing around in the kitchen while looking for food, “Your fatass stopped at every crashed food store he could find to eat and then you started drinking the ketchup Condiment King was shooting! Are you out of your mind? What if it was poisoned? A fart has more survival instincts than you!”
You turn to look at Cass — sat on the sofa, pristine. “And you just decided to leave everything to us and hide! I– I’m so mad at you I don’t even want to talk to you,”
She ponders for a moment, then shrugs. “Fair.”
“Well, it’s not like you were any better,” Cissie argues back, “just what did you do to make yourself useful, huh?”
“Well, sorry, missy, but I couldn’t do anything!” you gesture to Superboy, who’s shrugging off his mustard-covered jacket, “Because your friend here just thought that it was a great idea to carry me around in the air like a toddler while he followed Kite Man and then promptly just let me go when he got struck down!”
Arrowette gasps, “He’s not my friend!” she screams, “Never assume anything like that again!”
“Hey!” Kon protests, “That’s not nice! Also, I dumped you in the fullest trash bin I could find– you barely even got a scratch from it, unlike this guy right here–” he gestures to his torn suit, “–who got thrown into the concrete!”
“It’s not my fault you’re incompetent in the only thing you should be good at– flying!”
“I was protecting you!”
“From what? Guns charged with sauce?” you let out a frustrated noise, going for the Zeta-Tubes, “Forget it– I’m out of here! And you–” you look at Tim, “I’m telling father about all of this!”
Robin glares at you, “Don’t be such a bi–”
He doesn’t get to finish, because you enter the Zeta-Tube and find yourself back in the Cave.
Alfred is already there, humming, “I had figured you wouldn’t have lasted long, MIss,” he says, a tray of tea and sandwiches in hand, “I made your favourite — tuna and mayo sandwiches and noomi basra tea.”
You look at the same dish that you usually demolish in five minutes and retch. “I don’t want to hear anything about mayonnaise or any other food additive for the next month.”
He doesn’t even blink. “Sure. Would you like your suit washed?”
You stare down at your boots, covered in God knows what concoction of sauces and dumpster remains. “…Please do.”
Later that day, during dinner, Bruce is making one of his rare appearances at the dining table as you and Tim glare each other into the grave — hopefully. “Heard the mission didn’t go too well,” he tries to start, tasting the roasted duck Alfred cooked up.
Your glare shifts to him. “I can’t believe you trained such an incompetent, good-for-nothing–”
“Oh, so now I’m incompetent? You didn’t do anything–”
“–spoiled, compelled brat–”
“–shut that trap, you’re the one who’s spoiled–”
“–he doesn’t even know the basics needed for a good leadership–”
“–you spent the whole mission getting dragged around in the air–”
Bruce sighs and lets the two of you argue over each other — just when he thought that you had finally started seeing eye-to-eye. “Okay,” he mutters, more to himself than anything, “maybe school will help a little.”
Out of all the words in your vocabulary, your father’s favourite is one you didn’t even know prior to coming to Gotham: compromise.
Compromise means being able to fight alongside him, but not being allowed to kill. Compromise means being able to keep your sword collection, but using it just for display. Compromise means making your father happy by switching schools and abandoning Gotham Academy for some crappy private school in an easily forgettable county between Metropolis and Gotham.
“This place reeks of poor people,” you grumble, anything but happy. Conner, who you’re sure has never had a real education in his entire life, raises an eyebrow from beside you. “You mean, of people making more than six figures a year?”
“What’s the difference?”
The hypno-glasses Clark made just for him are downright ridiculous — they’re basically as big as his face, and if he almost looked somewhat like his own person without them, it’s as clear as day that he’s a clone now. He notices you staring and smirks, “What, can’t stop staring? I can give you a picture if you want, it’ll last longer.”
You deadpan. “I was actually wondering if Clark was laughing while making you those glasses, because they look like a real joke on you.”
The pout he makes stays on for the rest of the day, but honestly, your father’s monthly allowance is not nearly enough for you to pretend to care — even if you might start faking interest if he ever suggests a bonus payment to fund emotional support.
Changing school doesn’t exactly turn your socializing situation around — actually, it just makes it worse. If at the Academy you could pass the whole day in silence, now you have a constant chatterbox beside you who’s interested in talking to anyone about anything, and you nearly rip your hair out when he starts whistling a song during lunchtime.
“What do you have for lunch?” he asks you during the midday break, joining you in your — once — solitary bench in the courtyard, taking out of his bag a Superman themed lunchbox. “Ma gave me a salad, three muffins and four whole turkey sandwiches,” he rummages through his backpack again, “she also sneaked in a muffin and a piece of pie for you.” he hands you the tupperware, “Wanna try it?”
You knit your eyebrows at him, already deep in your packed lunch with grilled asparagus and baked chicken. “I don’t eat sweets,”
He hums through his bites, spitting a bit in his lap, “Why, you afraid of sweetening up a bit?”
“No. It’s because you’ll start with one slice of pie, then you’ll eat a muffin, then a cookie or two, and before you know it your life is being ruined by calories and sugar.”
He blinks, mid-bite in his sandwich. “You explained it like it’s some kind of… I don’t know, form of terrorism or something.”
You’re as serious as ever. “Because it is.”
In the following weeks, you start to understand that Kon’s presence isn’t really a compromise — it’s psychological warfare. You can’t go anywhere without him per Bruce’s last ultimatum after the last Titans’ mission went even worse than the first one (something you didn’t think possible until it happened) so either you stay at the Manor or find yourself with a clone of Superman who’s supposed to babysit you — but really, who is he kidding? The guy barely knows how to eat ice cream without staining his shirt. If anything, you’re the one keeping an eye on him.
And the worst part is that, despite it all — his absolute idiocy and the horrendous attempts at making you laugh — you find yourself inexplicably warming up to him.
Things go downhill five days before Christmas.
You’re sitting in front of the Batcomputer, looking into some files regarding the last Gotham Bank’s robbery when Bruce brushes behind you, in a daze. You frown, turning to look at him, while Tim skillfully ignores him and continues looking at his computer. “Yes?” you press when your father just stares at you.
“Why don’t you take the night off?” he asks suspiciously — so much so that even Tim suddenly looks very interested. “Call Kon and see if he can take you to Metropolis — they just launched the new luna park, didn’t they?”
You stare at him, perplexed. “Are you okay?” you ask, at the same time that Tim questions, “Are you really trying to set them up for a date?”
Bruce deadpans, thinks for a moment, then relents. “I… listen, I’ll be honest with you. Recent attacks uptown already had the name of the League plastered all over them — the thing is, your mother has contacted me.”
Your heart’s pounding in your ears — you haven’t talked much to your mother ever since you went to live with your dad. At least, there hasn’t really been a civil conversation after you, in her words, ran away: it all just consisted of mostly screaming matches and near-fatal encounters. “She wants to meet me. And considering she just kidnapped the mayor’s wife, I don’t think I have much choice. I’d like you to be somewhere else while I deal with it — it may be best for the both of us.”
Tim’s gaze is burning a hole into your face, you’re sure. “Damn, thanks for the trust,” you mutter, going back to the Batcomputer. “I can compartmentalize perfectly, for your information. I don’t care what business you and Talia might have.” Actually, you really don’t want to know. Grayson has already told you too many horror stories about that.
Awkwardly, Bruce shuffles out of the Batcave, and as soon as the Batmobile is out of your sight you get up, almost scaring Tim in the process. “Who does he think he is?! Trying to throw me out of my own home just because him and my mother can’t handle things like commonly divorced couples–”
“Technically, they aren’t divorced,” Tim reminds you.
You groan out in frustration, going for the changing rooms — who knows, maybe you’ll really call Kon just to get a breather. “Don’t even remind me!”
(It’s not like your father could ever really divorce your mother — legally, they aren’t even married. It’s just one of those old traditions of your family that says that the woman’s consent is enough for a marriage to be considered legitimate. But alas, it’s not like your family ever did anything the legal way. They did raise you and your brother to be human weapons.
Your brother. Sometimes it still feels weird to live life acting like he doesn’t exist. Still, you were also raised to lie.)
“I’m going out,” you announce to Tim, exiting the changing rooms in civilian clothing while writing a text to Conner, “I’ll let you handle the whole Talia fallout. I don’t care.”
He rolls his eyes. “Gee, thanks. First you steal my best friend, then you try to give me your responsibilities.” Then, lower, he mutters, “At least give him something more concrete to brag about — he’s been talking about that time your shoulders accidentally touched for three months.”
You throw a slipper at him — one that reaches him on the back of the head in no time. “Suck it, loser.”
Conner doesn’t even try to act nonchalant. He’s at the Manor twenty seconds after you send him a text asking him if he’s free this evening, feet bare, pajamas on and toothbrush in his mouth, full of toothpaste and foam. Just outside the Manor’s porch, you stare at him, unamused, and ask, “You couldn’t even get some decent pants on?” all the while pointing at his horrendous boxers with lipstick kisses all over them. He looks down at the boxers, up at you, then garbles, “Gimme agh minuth,”
He zooms away in a way that reminds you a lot of Bart and is back in less than ten seconds — shoes tied, ripped jeans and coat on, as well as his hypno-glasses. “So!” he exclaims, chest puffed with smugness, “Where do you wanna go, princess?”
You puff a breath in the air, playing with the snow on the steps with your feet as you put your hands in the pockets of your fur coat. “Is it true that there’s a fair in Metropolis?”
He looks surprised — he probably didn’t expect it from you, of all people, as you always seem downright allergic to fun. “Yeah, I already went with Lois and Jon when Clark couldn’t take them. Why, you wanna go there?”
Kon finds himself wondering if your cheeks are red from the cold or from embarrassment, but the way your face scrunches tells him everything he needs to know. “I do not ‘wanna go there’. I’d just like to understand why people are so attracted to what’s basically a playground accessible to adults, too.”
His smile is lopsided. “So, you wanna go there.”
You blink at him, unmovable. “You know you’ll never make me say it. Just take me there and shut up.”
He doesn’t protest, but his smirk says everything you need to know. He wraps his arm around your waist, pressing you closer than needed to like always, and in a moment you’re up up and away in the direction of Metropolis. It’s not the first time you’ve flown with him but it is the first time you do it as a civilian, and you wonder if Conner knows how to make a subtle landing.
“You know, usually it’s the guy who asks the girl on a date,” he teases you, glasses slipping over the tip of his nose. You raise an eyebrow and push them back to the bridge of it, snorting, “Don’t get your hopes up, Kent. I just don’t want to be in Gotham with my mother around.”
You don’t exactly hate her — you could never, she is your mother, after all — but you don’t long to be in her presence either. Plus, the temptation to ask about Damian would be too much, as it always is, and mentioning him in front of Bruce is out of the question. Conner’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, “Your mother’s in town? I thought you didn’t see her anymore.”
“I try,” you grumble, “it’s not my fault she’s everywhere I go, somehow.” She's toned it down the last few months, but the claim still stands.
The fair is already bustling with people when you get there after landing in a deserted alley with no cameras whatsoever. You’d describe it as weird — so many people for a few games, some greasy food and a ride on a rollercoaster? People do enjoy simple things, then. The only thing that could make you laugh since you were old enough to comprehend anything has been seeing people you hate get what they deserve.
(You try not to do that anymore, as Bruce insists that it’s sociopathic. He’s not the one who should judge, because he wasn’t the one raised in a remote facility in the mountains where the most exciting thing that could happen was to fall into one of the traps your mother set for you to avoid.
Also, watching the Joker getting beaten up by an angry mob that one time was actually really funny.)
You frown at the line in front of every ride, watching couples and families wait patiently for their turn as others get slammed up, down, left and right by the rollercoasters. “You tell me those people are paying to get the treatment we get from villains during missions?” you ask Kon, bewildered.
He chuckles. “That’s definitely not the treatment we get during missions,” he muses, “they have belts and safety protections. We have expectations, some hope and Robin.”
The glare you give him is enough for him to correct himself, “And of course, you.”
You huff a little presumptuously, “That’s what I thought.”
You and Conner move through the crowd with a bit of difficulty, and you try not to jump when he reaches for your hand and holds it steady in his palm. “Wouldn’t want to lose you with all those people around,” he yells over the loud and different music coming from the various attractions, mixed with the chatter of the visitors. He points to a stand, his hand still holding yours, “Hot dog?”
You wouldn’t say that holding hands with him is a bad thing — but certainly new. Nobody’s ever gotten this close to you with all their limbs attached, aside from the Al Ghuls. Your mind goes to Damian — your little, little brother. He’s going to turn ten next year — January 5th, in less than a month from now. You wonder if you’ll finally get to be there for once or he’ll refuse to see you like he’s done for the past four years. He’s the only person you’ve ever held hands gladly with in your entire life — you still have to understand if you like Kon’s warm palm or not.
“You people eat dogs?” you find yourself asking the vendor as you two come up to his stand, eyebrows pinched in utter disbelief. You read the menu — hot dog with hot sauce, hot dog with mustard, hot dog with mayo, hot dog with pepperoni. What did dogs do to them?
The poor guy behind the counter stares at you, bewildered, but Conner barely laughs and squeezes your hand, “We’ll take two — one with mustard, the other with mayo.”
You glare at him, “I’m not going to stain my honour by eating– by eating–” your head turns around wildly, and you point to a sausage dog with an orange fur jacket walking happily with its owner, “that thing! How can you people sleep at night?”
The vendor blinks and goes to hide in the kitchen, and your friend (he hopes you see him at least as that) quickly explains, “It’s not dog meat — it’s usually pork, or beef, or both. It’s good. You’ve never tried it?”
Embarrassingly, no. Late night fast food runs were reserved to Tim, Dick and Bruce. Both you and them had always taken for granted that you wouldn't have liked it, and you always stuck to eating Alfred’s Michelin Star rated cooking instead.
In the end, the hot dog isn’t too bad, you guess. Or maybe it’s just Conner’s hand still in yours stifling your senses, or the fact that neither of you have pulled away from the hold. The only thing you’re sure of is that, if Dick were to catch you in this predicament, you’d never hear the end of it. You hope that if anyone has to see the two of you right now, it’s Tim — just because the heart attack he’d suffer would be unrecoverable from.
“Good?” Kon asks, a sprinkle of mustard on the corner of his mouth.
You frown, still munching on your food, and finally take your hand away from his hold just to wipe the sauce away from his mouth. “Mediocre,” you concede, hand going back in his palm like nothing happened — like your gesture was just a reflex — like his whole face doesn’t feel on fire by such a small contact. For a guy who’s always so mouthy, he sure hasn’t got anything to say now.
But that doesn’t really matter, because the real fun’s about to start now — and as soon as you gulp down your last bite, he tugs you to the first ride of the evening grinning like a mad man. “C’mon,” he says, holding you close by the hand and pointing at the rollercoaster in front of you, “this is going to be fun.”
You raise an eyebrow, but a snort — close enough to laughter for your standards, he decides — leaves you. “‘The Eternal Death Penalty Circuit’? What is this, Gotham? I thought Metropolis was supposed to be all sun and smiles. I bet it’s nothing — I mean, we have definitely survived worse.”
The Eternal Death Penalty Circuit is not like anything you have survived up until now, because you end up vomiting as soon as you get up. You vomit three other times as the night and rollercoasters go on, and it’s kept at that just because Conner — tired of you challenging the extreme version of a train to the point of nauseating yourself — finally manages to drag you away from the rides side of the park and back to the food court.
“I will get my revenge,” you grumble, still a bit nauseous, as Kon thrusts a cone of vanilla ice cream into your hand, “Just eat that for now, before you vomit all over my shoes again. Do you know what it takes for me to be the responsible one? A lot.”
You’ve stopped glaring at him a while ago, but that doesn’t mean he’s out of the doghouse — where he’s been sitting ever since you met him, by the way. To his surprise, and against the previous statement about you not eating sugar, you destroy the two-dollar ice cream like it owes you money. He chuckles, “Thought you didn’t like sweets,”
You shrug, “I said I didn’t eat them, not that I don’t like them.” Actually, you’re dangerous around sugar when you let yourself have even one little cookie. It must come from a childhood of sacrifices to build the perfect musculature — or whatever disorder Bruce thought your mother had caused you to have. You remember one of the servants sneaking sweets from the kitchen for you and Damian when you had a hard day.
You see Kon perk up, his head leaning to the side, like he’s listening out for something. You nudge him, “Go,” whatever robbery or emergency surely needs him more than your digestive system does, “I’ll still be here when you come back.”
He looks hesitant at first, but soon, a smile reaches his face. His hand comes up to brush your bicep gently, and you can’t help but think that nobody ever really touched you like that — like you could break if too much pressure is added. Your mind tells you that you should feel angry, because you’re all but weak, but you can feel your body basically purr by how pleased it is to finally have someone be soft with it. “I’ll be back in ten, okay? Avoid the rollercoasters for a while.”
As he quickly disappears back into the crowd, you lean back on the wall of the ice cream stand, looking at your half-eaten, half-molten dessert.
Why hadn’t you gone with him? Just a few months ago you would’ve fought tooth and nail to prove yourself and the others that you were superior to him — and all the Titans, for that matter. Who knows what Talia would think about you missing the opportunity to show everyone your abilities — but you can’t seem to shake the feeling in your heart.
You’re content.
You have been content before — not happy, never really happy; but that feeling where suddenly everything doesn’t seem heavy as it usually does, where everything seems to slow down for just a moment to let you breathe, is something you know. You hadn’t felt it since your father first took you in, and before that, since you spent your days with Damian, before he was old enough for your mother to turn him against you.
And now, out of all the people you know, you’re feeling it with Conner.
You can’t help but think that really, to be content with him is kinda degrading — but for some reason, every insult for him you try to come up with now ends up being half-assed. For every bad thing you think of him, a nice one balances it out, and it’s maddening because this has never happened to you until now.
Your phone buzzes — a message from your father. I better find you in the Batcave when I come back. We have to talk.
You roll your eyes, “Not with that attitude, no,” you grumble. You’ve been exceptionally good at his compromises the past few weeks, so you’re sure that whatever he’s mad about, it’s probably vigilante related– did you beat Scarecrow a tad bit too much last week? Did he just find out about all the batarangs you broke? And if that’s not the case, then what exactly did your mother tell him?
The fair is already behind you when you call out, “Superboy!”
The guy is in front of you in a second, no hypno-glasses over his face, full suit on, face covered in ash and hair tussled. “Need help?”
You show him your phone. He pales. “Give me a moment– I’ll handle the fire and I’ll take you back home.” he flies away again, leaving a couple of gaping passers-by stunned — but by the way no one else reacts, you have to guess that the Lois Lane exposure treatment is working pretty well for the metropolitans.
The flight home is tense — and while you’re not really worried about what it could be, having already taken for granted that Talia probably told him something you did, Conner is drenched in cold sweat. “Did you leave your room in a mess?” He asks, trying to lighten up the mood.
At first, you don’t reply. “No. I think my mother told my father about one or two of the war crimes I may have committed in my time with the League.” she surely would be able to — go off and snitch on you like she didn’t commit triple the atrocities.
Kon can’t hide his grimace, and he manages to wipe it off his face only when his ears catch something. “An explosion,” he explains as he speeds up his flying, already over Gotham City. “In the Cave.”
“The Cave?” you repeat, stomach twisting. “That’s impossible. Our security system…” you trail off.
Talia. An explosion. The Cave. You swear, if you find out that your mother’s just blown up the Batcave, this might just be the day you repudiate the Al Ghul name.
(If only you knew it was much, much worse than that.)
As Conner slides into the entrance usually reserved for the Batwing, you notice that thankfully, the Batcave did not explode — not fully, at least. Superboy scans around for other explosives, but seems to find nothing as he carefully lands on the platform in the middle of the Cave. “Nothing’s– God, is that Tim?”
Lo and behold, his friend is laying against what remains of Jason Todd’s Robin suit display case, the costume shredded and burnt at the edges — and if Bruce doesn’t know the memorial got desecrated, he surely will be mad about it once he finds out. Actually, scratch that, he will be fuming.
Running to his aid, you and Superboy stare in disbelief as Tim Drake — the same guy who you saw survive a gunshot to the head multiple times — lies battered in the glass shreds, barely conscious. The only thing he seems to register is your presence, and as Kon tries to take him in his arms, he raises a trembling finger to point at you. “You,” he mumbles, barely understandable at all, “this is your fault– ‘s always your fault.”
You click your tongue, “What, even while dying, you want to blame me for it? I thought we were past that, Drake.”
“He’s not dying,” Conner intercedes.
“Sure feels like I am,” Tim croaks, “all because of your fucking clone.”
You frown. “What do you mean, clone?” Conner hisses at him, “Dude, you know we don’t joke about clones around here–”
“Sister.”
The voice makes you freeze. Maybe it’s just an inkling, or maybe it’s your mind playing tricks on you, but it sounds like Damian — like you had imagined his voice to sound once he grew up. Slowly, you turn, and it takes you everything you have not to puke again here and then.
You are right. Damian’s standing in front of you, his stance a little too proud for someone so small, his arms crossed and covered in blood. “Sister,” he repeats, as serious as ever, “miss me?”