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Chapter Text

The first time your baby gets sick is the first time you realize that you cannot truly give him the care he needs. Jason is quiet, has a rattling breath, and no desire to eat more than a mouthful of mashed potatoes. You keep him bundled up and in your arms the moment you realize what’s going on.

Your son is only eight months old, he’s sick, and you can’t afford to take him to the doctor.

The 50 dollars you get from your husband as a weekly allowance barely covers food and diapers alone. You’re surviving on bread and whatever is on sale, so you can afford the other essentials like wipes and soap.

With no other choice, you keep one terrified eye on your baby through the night until Margaret’s husband leaves for work in the morning. You don’t know much about Mr. Walker—he’s gone more often than not—but you do know from experience how much power the money earner holds in the household. You can’t afford for him to ban you from talking to Margaret.

The older woman opens the door in hair curlers and a faded night dress, looks at your panicked face dark with eye bags and your unusually quiet son, and lets you in with nothing more than a gruff, “To the kitchen.”

Margaret takes Jason from you and tuts over him gently as he squirms unhappily. She holds an ear to his little chest, runs a finger around his nose and cheeks, tuts again, and hands him back to you.

“Poor thing has a cold,” she says. “No fever yet. Nothing to be concerned about.”

You almost sob in relief at the news. You spent the entire night worried your baby was going to die in your arms when you should have been rushing to the hospital, no matter the cost.

“Hold him upright like that when he sleeps. His nose is going to get stuffy.” Margaret nods to the way you’re clutching your baby to your chest. “He’s going to run fever eventually, but that ain’t something to worry about unless it gets too high. Get yourself a thermometer to keep an eye on it. A little bit of fever reducer should help if it doesn’t go away.”

Margaret starts making a pot of coffee, politely looking away from where you’re wiping your tears away with your wrist. “And whatever you do,” she says sternly to the coffee pot, “don’t give him Tylenol. Bad for babies.”

It’s a relief that all you need to do is buy a thermometer, but you think about the next time something happens. You think about Jason getting sick with other common illnesses that need to be handled with care and supplies you don’t have, or broken arms from roughhousing accidents which will require money you definitely won’t have.

You vow to open a credit card the first chance you get. Should it come down to it, it’s better to ruin your credit than your baby not making it to adulthood.

Jason is going to survive no matter what happens to you.

Chapter Text

It’s a rough life as Catherine Todd. You get a life you never asked for, a husband you never wanted, and a baby randomly thrown into your arms. It is what it is though, and you do your best to make sure your happy, giggling baby stays that way.

Even if it means killing a man.

Even if it means aiming a gun at your husband and pulling the trigger, losing all chance at financial security.

You stare down at the shiny metal of the pistol that belongs to Willis, and in the bathroom of this ratty motel, you commit the details of the weapon to memory. You don’t know how this will end for you, but you know you must come back alive and without handcuffs for your son to be safe and happy.

There’s only so much you can do for him from prison, never mind dead.

The gun mocks you from where it rests on the bathroom counter. The chrome shines brightly even in the flickering, buzzing coming from the light above you. You remember with sharp clarity that this is what Willis threw at Jason and you in a drunken rage.

It’s going to be his undoing.

Your knowledge of guns isn’t deep. You know to check that the safety is on, you know to see if a bullet is in the chamber and whether the clip is full. You know the theory on how to aim with your arms bent slightly and the placement of both hands on the gun.

Reading teaches quite a bit more than people realize, and you? You’ve spent this entire life reading. Maybe enough to get away with murder if you don’t mess up.

But if you do—if you miss your shot—Willis will kill you, and then Jason will be left with him. You cannot afford to fail if you go through with this.

It’s almost comical how badly you’re shaking. You always were afraid of failure. Every time you think the nightmare can’t possibly get worse; you’re proven wrong. But here you are: alternating between looking at the dirty mirror to a face not your own, and a gun that promises demise.

For Jason’s sake, you will go through with this. You hope he never has to pick up a gun with the intent to kill someone.

You straighten your spine, take a deep breath, and get to work. You have the makings of a plan, but it needs refining because you aren’t going to fail. You’re going to kill Willis and get away with it because your baby needs you to.

You might also have some lingering rage at your husband using you as a punching bag. Murdering him will be downright therapeutic.

You’re too tiny and weak to even think about moving a body without equipment, so you’ll have to leave it out in the open. Willis is used to people trying to kill him, so a distraction will be essential. You’ll need to burn whatever clothes you wear, so choose the ones you hate the most.

This is happening, so you may as well get rid of all the things you hate in one fell swoop.

Chapter Text

You’re crying on the couch, grieving for yourself after receiving a cancer diagnosis. It’s not that you’re skipping past the denial stage; you just left it, matter of fact. You’ve been denying there’s something wrong with your body for over a year now, but denial doesn’t make the problems go away.

After everything you’ve suffered through, after all the heartache and pain, you finally found happiness. You were going to watch Jason grow up and leave this awful little alley behind. You were going to work on getting your own degree once your baby left for college. It feels like the world is out to get you, like you’re being punished for your sins.

The heavens will have to try harder though. You’re even more thankful you killed Willis. Now your baby won’t be left alone with him.

Either you fall asleep, or you pass out. All you know is that you wake up roughly thirty minutes before Jason gets home from school with the words, “Bruce Wayne is Batman” on your lips.

You remember.

You remember everything.

You know why Gotham City with its freaks in costumes seems so familiar. Why you cut out articles of Batman and Robin from the newspaper and place them in a book on the junky little thing you call a bookshelf.

And maybe, just maybe, you know how to gather the funds for your cancer treatment.

You splash water on your swollen eyes to remove the worst of it before cutting up an onion for tonight’s dinner. Jason doesn’t need to know about your breakdown. He’s still your baby you need to protect from the harshness of the world. More so, even.

You can’t afford to die and leave him to think Sheila Haywood is a suitable replacement for you.

Not even over your dead body.

Blackmailing Bruce Wayne is, well—it’s quite fun. You wait until the next day, when Jason is at school, to make your way to the gates that separate Wayne Manor from the world. You hold up a picture of Batman that you painstakingly drew using Superman as a template with the words “THIS IS YOU” on it to the camera.

The sassy butler is the one who comes through over the intercom with, “I’m afraid the mental hospital is on the other side of Gotham.”

“Fine,” you say blithely, “I’ll just tell everyone about the cool, new cave system I found that appears to head this way.”

The gates open without another word.

Bruce sends you to one of the best doctors this side of the country. It’s almost insulting that all you need is one surgery to rid yourself of the illness that wants to kill you, and unlike the doctor who gave you the diagnosis, this one signs you up for the procedure immediately.

The hysterectomy will put the cancer into remission, hopefully completely so by the prognosis. If it’s partially, there are other ways to treat the rest of it. Your chance of living now that Bruce is paying your medical bills is exceptionally high.

The difference money makes, you think bitterly.

You’re not sure how you can even begin to pay him back, but you have time to figure it out. Now that you’re on his radar, Bruce won’t let you be no matter where you run.

In return for the stalking, the spyware phone he gave you, and the cops showing up randomly with questions about your husband’s death, you bully Bruce into meeting up at restaurants aimed at poor people for dinner. You bring along Jason, and—

Your baby takes one look at the fake mustache, the big muscles bulging discreetly against a rather nice shirt, and immediately goes into guard dog mode.

You can only watch with silent laughter as Jason tears Bruce apart with his eyes before hissing threats under his breath. You have no interest in dating anyone, but Jason never believes you. It’s the only reason you don’t put a stop to his behavior whenever a man comes sniffing around.

On the third dinner, Bruce attempts to steal a fry from Jason out of petty revenge. He is bitten for his crime hard enough to draw blood, and you are conveniently looking out the window when it happens.

“People who get to eat whatever they want when they want don’t get to touch,” Jason growls out while Bruce wraps his finger in a napkin.

Jason receives both an apology note and a gift card the next day. You are both surprised and not. No matter how much he makes you want to push him into the dirt, Bruce is a good man. He wouldn’t be Batman otherwise.

Despite having Bruce Wayne in your contacts list, you never do more than take him out to eat on your own dime. While it’s amusing to mess with him and watch him try to figure out your motives, you mainly do it to so Jason can have a good male influence in his life.

There are many good women who interact with Jason—from you, to Margaret, to the random women who keep an eye out for children on their way home from school, to librarians and teachers—but the only thing he sees of men is their absence and abuse.

Not all men are like that, of course. Many don’t have a choice in the matter and are desperately working their lives away to keep a roof over their children’s heads and food in their stomachs. Many stay away to keep from scaring the women working the streets and the children who are terrified of strangers.

You want Jason to learn not all men are like Willis, who was a decent man until his crimes broke him.

It’s with gentle nudging that you get your baby to open up at the dinners, to talk about topics close to him. You bring up the nature of social inequality and justice, something Bruce can’t help but respond to, and watch as Jason quickly forgets all about his wariness of men to engage with things children his age can’t understand, who may never understand as education is as poor in Crime Alley as wallets.

You notice when Bruce becomes less reluctant to come to dinner, when the weekly meetups become biweekly. You can’t pay for the extra meals, but you aren’t expected to when it’s Bruce sending the invitations out to 1-star restaurants.

No doubt so Jason can be comfortable.

Be it destiny or your baby’s sunny disposition, Bruce falls and falls fast.

It’s why you don’t pause to consider the strings attached when Bruce offers to enroll Jason into private school a few days after a heated discussion on America’s education system. The offer’s not for your benefit; it’s for Jason’s.

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You do tell Bruce that he has to get rid of the fake mustache though. Jason’s worried Bruce is secretly a pimp—albeit a decent one—and paying for his schooling won’t help him think otherwise.

This is how Bruce ends up in your house, eating the spam casserole you’ve gotten good at making.

“You? You’re Bruce Wayne? The billionaire?” Jason says in disbelief after the mustache comes off.

“I am,” Bruce says, somehow managing to look like he belongs amongst your mismatched, worn furniture.

Jason looks at Bruce then to you. You can see the gears moving in that smart little head of his and knows he’s about to put the clues together only to reach the wrong conclusion.

“My mom’s worth more than you can afford,” your baby says with absolute certainty. “I can introduce you to someone in your price range who doesn’t care if you can’t get it up.”

Bruce chokes while you smile in pride.

Your baby is the cutest.

Jason loves his new school even if he has to take both a bus and the subway to get there. He also has to go through the extra effort of changing in and out of his uniform outside of Crime Alley to avoid being jumped. You fear for him each day, not knowing if he’ll come home in one piece.

Maybe your worry is too obvious, but a year of too many close calls that Jason tries to hide justifies your paranoia.

The ever-growing pile of knives you buy for your baby might be a touch too much though. In your defense, the butterfly knife was cheap for being high quality and only lightly used. The throwing knives were buy one get two free, and combat knives have many uses.

It goes without saying that Bruce doesn’t approve of you spending all your spare time and money on obtaining weapons for your son. Something he continuously brings up to you despite the fact you never mention your shopping habits.

You’d think it was stalking if you didn’t know Jason talks to Bruce behind your back using a shiny new phone that suddenly appeared one day. You have no problems with either the talking or the phone other than making sure your baby knows not to wave such an expensive device around.

You just didn’t know how close they’ve become until you come home from work to find Jason waiting for you in the kitchen with an untouched bowl of mac n’ cheese.

“You know, it’d be easier to get to school and back from Bruce’s place,” he says in too casual a tone to be anything but.

He’s got his homework spread out on the table, and his school blazer haphazardly thrown over a chair next to him. Considering Jason’s been home for hours and the blazer should still be stuffed in his backpack, you know a setup when you see one.

“You know what would also be easier to get to from Bruce’s place?” you ask rhetorically. “The newspapers.”

Jason is unable to refute that statement, but he continues to highlight the benefits of living with Bruce as if you don’t already know how much better it’d be, stressing the safety and health only the wealthy can afford.

“Baby,” you say to stop the rambling, “I won’t be able to work from out there.”

“But you won’t have to!” Jason exclaims as if the thought should be exciting.

“That’s Bruce’s money, not mine,” you remind him.

Jason grows quiet, and you think it’s the end of the discussion. Moving to a nicer portion of Gotham is all you dream about, but you’ve worked hard to get where you’re at. You can’t go back to relying on someone else to provide for you, wondering if it makes you a bad person.

You also don’t feel like letting Bruce have so much power over you. You barely got him to stop asking about how you knew his secret identity by threatening to cut him off from Jason. Without that—well.

Best not to think about it.

“Besides, think about how Bruce would feel about a strange woman mooching off of him,” you make the mistake of saying to cheer up your baby’s downcast expression.

You warm up your portion of mac n’ cheese and make a slice of toast to go with it, paying no attention to the rapid tapping of Jason’s phone. Twenty minutes later, Bruce is letting himself into your house with a bag of chicken using the spare key you very much did not give him. You don’t even have a spare key.

“What are you doing here, Bruce?” you ask, trying not to sigh. Get out, you want to say. Unfortunately, the chicken is a good bribe, and he knows it.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Bruce lies while helping Jason set out the dishes, “and thought I’d drop by.”

It seems your baby isn’t alone in wanting to move to Wayne Manor.

You prepare yourself for the oncoming struggle. Conversations with Bruce are like a battle with nothing to lose but pride. Normally, you find them quite fun, but normally you’re not in danger of losing your house.

“Jason tells me you think I’d take offense to the two of you moving in. I’d love nothing more,” is what Bruce says. Hurry up and give me your son is what he means.

“And what brought this on when I have a perfectly good house?” No.

“It’d make his transit to school shorter, easier, and safer.” You are a bad mother if you don’t agree.

“It would, but I’m afraid I’m not the easiest roommate to have.” I will make your life hell.

“Come now, there’s plenty of room in the manor,” Bruce laughs mockingly. “Too much even. I have to hire help just to keep the dust under control.” I’m rich, and I’d barely even notice your presence.

“It’s a shame to have that much space and still be alone,” you smile, “but I’m sure having your privacy is worth it.” Enjoy being Batman and all alone forever.

A terrible screech cuts the friendly conversation short. Jason stops scraping the fork against the plate once he has your attention. He gives Bruce and you an unimpressed look before eyeing the chicken like a starving wolf.

“Mom. Bruce. Can we eat before you get into it?” he asks.

“Of course,” both of you answer at the same time, and Jason pretends not to notice when you start glaring at each other.

You know it’s inevitable that you will end up living in Wayne Manor. Even if you fear that all it will do is put your baby in even more danger down the road, you will uproot yourself for his happiness. Jason won’t let himself have a good life if you don’t allow yourself one too.

There’s no reason you can’t make Bruce regret your presence in his house though.

You smile coldly at Bruce, and he smiles back with teeth. May the best parent win in this unspoken contest.

The winner will be you, of course.

Chapter Text

You’d say you settle nice and quietly into Wayne Manor, but the truth is you’re caught moving in by the press. Bruce, with absolutely no hesitation, names you his new live-in maid with hiring documentation to back it up. Since all the paperwork uses your maiden’s name—Bruce filed it that way without your say-so—Jason is free from being “the son of Wayne’s maid that lives there too” should anyone go digging.

You don’t think Bruce expected you to actually take to the role of being a maid, but being employed makes you feel less like an ungrateful mooch and more like someone who earns the right to bully their employer for his trespasses against his employees.

Because boy, do you love to bully him. He makes it too easy.

You escape retribution now that you’re helping Alfred maintain the manor. Alfred forgave you for the blackmail when it became clear you weren’t going to actually use it—only Bruce hasn’t realized yet—but he’d never been more than politely distant. It all changed the moment you received the old Wayne maid uniform and became one of the staff.

You are untouchable as long as Alfred says so. Considering your favorite thing is to make Bruce take care of himself—one of the things he hates to do the most—you’re practically invincible.

Bruce isn’t the only one uncomfortable with your new position though.

“I object,” Jason tells you once he sees you in your new uniform. “You can’t go out in that. Go quit.”

“Why?” You blink down at yourself. “Not modern enough?” The uniform is old, but the material is light and breezy; the skirt is long but easy to move in. You don’t see anything wrong with it, but you straighten your apron anyway.

“Yes. No. Argh,” Jason huffs. “I don’t want Bruce getting ideas. Can’t you lose the frills?”

“Alfred says I can lose the apron once I graduate to Housekeeper,” you say instead of What ideas, this uniform makes me look like a Victorian wraith. If there’s something sexy about the outfit, you don’t see it.

“Just keep a knife on you,” Jason demands as if you aren’t the reason he has a knife collection to begin with.

“Will do,” you say, fighting to keep a straight face. Alfred’s helping you with a meal plan to bring you up to a healthy weight, but you’re still very tiny. You’ll never be able to take on someone like Batman with anything less than a tank.

It’s almost charming how children believe their parents to be stronger than they are.

You’re in no rush to tell Jason about Bruce’s secret identity, but you’re curious when he’ll figure it out. Because he will figure it out. Bruce is utter garbage at keeping his identity secret from those who live with him. Batman is just too ingrained in him to pretend otherwise.

The amount of times you have to chuck something back into the cave before you go to bed almost makes you think he’s doing it on purpose, but no. Bruce genuinely zones out when working and makes the most ridiculous mistakes in the safety of his own home.

Naturally, Jason catches Bruce in the act of coming out of his clock only two months in. You don’t know how Jason managed to persuade Bruce into taking him on as a sidekick within mere minutes of the discovery, but you threaten to shorten your uniform’s skirt if your baby goes out before he’s sixteen. Bruce pretends to gag, and Jason refuses to talk to you for days afterwards.

Your threat works though. Jason will be training and only training until he’s older.

Maybe you can convince him to pick up a new hero name.

That idea goes out the window once Dick Grayson decides to grace the manor with his presence. He storms in, ready to yell at Bruce for one reason or another, takes one look at you, and immediately begins apologizing for Bruce’s sinister nature. Jason, nearby and helping you dust, hears this and decides Dick is worthy of his hero worship.

Why the two of them won’t believe you about Alfred giving you the outfit, you don’t know. Putting aside the fact Bruce wants to push you in front of the Batmobile, the maid uniform is literally designed to be unattractive.

After an intense yelling session using the vaguest phrases you’ve ever heard—the closest to coherency being “Stop bribing my friends, Bruce” and “You do not need my help, you liar”—Dick decides to stay over for an unspecified amount of time. He tries to come off as a normal rich boy who ignores the help, but he quickly gives up in favor of playing with Jason.

You’re putting the laundry away when the truth comes out. Dick wasn’t expecting you or your shadow to barge into his room and left his Nightwing gear out in the open.

“You know?” Dick chokes as he tries and fails to hide the main costume behind his back.

“We know,” you say, going over to the dresser in the room.

“Bruce kept forgetting to lock the door to his study,” Jason says cheerfully while holding up the basket of clean clothes for you to put away.

You ignore most of the conversation to focus on the clothes—Alfred showed you, but it’s difficult to remember the exact order they go in—and only tune back in to hear Jason declare his intent on becoming Robin.

“You’re going to what?” Before Dick can finishing exploding into a ball of anger and angst, Jason beams up at his second favorite hero and diffuses him effortlessly.

“I’m going to be just like you and put that old man in his place!” he says.

There’s a beat of silence as Jason’s words sinks in.

“You know,” Dick says slowly, “he is getting kind of old. He’s probably making all kinds of mistakes without me there.” There’s an evil undercurrent to his voice; the kind that comes from planning the misfortune of others. “There’s a few unwritten rules Robin has that Bruce doesn’t know about.”

You don’t know if it’s your baby’s sunny disposition or the possibilities of getting back at Bruce that crumbles Dick’s resolve to be mean.

You grab the laundry basket and leave, deciding to stay out of it.

From there, vigilantes whirl into and out of your life. It’s almost eerie how normal it feels to open the door to a faceless man and not slam the door on him. Not even Superman makes you blink: he really is just some guy from Kansas when out of the suit.

Then again, you do live with Batman. Everyone feels sane in comparison.

The vigilantes that Batman don’t approve of become your new friends. You come to adore them even if your intentions of befriending them are less than pure. The obvious advantage, of course, is pissing off Bruce, but the real reason is to know someone who will help you hide the bodies.

Just in case.

Barbara’s sudden accident only proves your point about needing to be prepared. It is just that: an accident caused by a grapple gun breaking mid-swing. You don’t know what you did to cause it, but there’s no doubt in your mind this is the rise of Oracle.

Barbara Gordon, you’ve come to find, can out stubborn Bruce. She won’t quit no matter what kind of damage she’s sustained, but you’re faced with a new dilemma.

If history is set to repeat itself then—

You won’t have your baby killed because you couldn’t off one single clown.

While everyone is at the hospital waiting for Barbara to come out of surgery, you get together with some friends to bake pies. Stress baking, you call it. If that friend group is notorious for not batting an eye at killing people, well.

You have no idea where the Clown Prince of Crime disappeared to, and that’s your story.

You’re bringing down a tea tray of your favorite snacks—they’re for you, despite what you told Alfred—to taunt Bruce with when the world starts going fuzzy. You only manage to place the tray down on a worktable before you fall to your knees.

The last thing you see is the anguished face of your baby.

“Mom!”

You can feel yourself…disintegrate is the word that comes to mind. It’s like your body explodes painlessly. You can also feel it when you reintegrate which is its own weird feeling. The only way to describe it is as if your body suddenly became a puzzle, and all the pieces click together.

You blink, and the cave comes back into focus. The worktable along with the tea tray you brought down, however, is gone.

“Mom?”

You look up.

And continue to look up.

“I see you’ve been eating well,” you say faintly as Jason, older and in full Red Hood gear, towers above you.

You have no idea what’s happening, but you suspect that Bruce has been messing with something he shouldn’t have. He’s gotten bad about touching dangerous tech despite knowing better thanks to Jason’s bad influence.

“Hood, I’ve got the—” Robin, tablet in hand, stops short upon seeing the Red Hood frozen in place and gaping down at a tiny woman in a maid’s dress. “Um. Hello?”

“I think I might be in the wrong place,” you say, distressed.

“Uh, I see.” Robin taps the communicator in his ear. “Batman, we may have a slight problem.”

It takes a lot of awkward staring and stilted conversation, but you’re able to confirm that you haven’t traveled forward in time. That you haven’t missed your baby’s entire childhood.

This world’s Catherine Todd has been dead for many years from a drug overdose. The last time Jason had seen her, her bones could be seen through the skin. She had longer hair too.

This older version of your baby tells you all this after he ushers you to a chair, acting as if standing might somehow break you.

“What time period are you from?” Robin asks once Jason falls silent.

“Excuse me?” You blink.

“Your dress. It’s a Wayne uniform, and it looks like it came from the 1940’s,” Robin says.

“Oh, that. There isn’t an updated uniform, so Alfred got this out of storage and tailored it for me,” you explain before clarifying at Robin and Jason’s blank looks, “because he is my boss.” Their expressions don’t change, so you clarify further, “Because I am a maid for the Waynes.”

You don’t say you’re a housekeeper-in-training even though you want to. You doubt they’ll care about that when they look like they barely understand that you’re Bruce’s maid.

“Oh man, what a weird world you must have come from!” Robin exclaims.

You say nothing in reply. He’s not wrong, but you much prefer your weird reality to this one already.

Batman’s arrival nearly goes unnoticed. His tank-like vehicle speeds into the cave, but it’s completely silent. The only signs you’re given are the motion sensor lights coming on one after another.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Robin mutters before getting up. “I’ll go fill him in.”

Robin leaves you alone with this other version of your baby, and you don’t know what to say in his absence. So, you don’t say anything. Jason’s gaze burns into the side of your face, but he remains silent as well.

This world’s version of Batman makes his appearance and—

Well, he’s a lot buffer than the one you know. Meaner too. You have the slightest suspicion he may be on steroids or an equivalent. He interrogates you so thoroughly on everything—your life, your work, what you had for breakfast for the past month—that by the time you’re done, it’s past midnight.

It’s beyond time for bed. You haven’t been up this late since Alfred started morning training.

Jason escorts you to a guest room, mutters a quiet “Good night, Mom,” and flees like the hounds of hell are on his heels.

You don’t bother changing into the nightgown laid out for you, choosing to flop onto the bed with all the dignity of a drunk seal. Pulling the covers over your head, you take your phone out of your apron pocket, and—

You have connection?

It’s unbelievable, but somehow, your phone still works. You know Oracle’s been upgrading the reception to use any network carrier in the area, but you didn’t expect it to work across dimensions.

You send an SOS to Oracle, a text to your baby to do his homework, and another one to Bruce telling him that the other version of him is somehow even more of a loser.

You vow to tell nobody about the phone. You didn’t make it this far in life by being naive.

Breakfast is a strange affair. Normally, you’re helping Alfred with it, but here, you’re a guest with nothing to do. You wish he’d allow you to set the table at least. It’d give you an excuse to get away for a bit as Jason’s staring is starting to get to you.

After a solid five minutes of silence, you break.

“Baby, if you want to say something, then say it.” You break a dozen rules by relaxing your elbows on the table to cradle your chin. You don’t care though as it’s not your world or your Alfred.

“You look alive,” Jason says after a moment. “You look like what she might have if she’d just—” he breaks off with a shuddering breath.

“I am her to an extent,” you tell him gently, “but things are very different here. She might not have had the chances or the choices I did.”

You have no idea if this is a parallel universe where you failed yourself and your son, or if this Catherine was a completely different person, but it matters little. Your baby’s mother is dead and seeing you hurts him more than you can possibly understand.

You want to go home.

“How about we talk while you give me a tour of the place?” you suggest.

“Okay,” Jason says after a long pause. He repeats himself more firmly. “Okay.”

The topics you exchange at the beginning of your walk are simple enough. You ask Jason a question—such as where he went to school—he answers, and you tell him your baby’s version. There’s a light wistfulness to it as he guides you around the manor.

As you descend to the Batcave, so, too, do the questions and answers get darker: what happened to Willis being one of them.

Your husband is dead and has been for a long time, you say, being careful not to reveal the why and how. He’s dead here, too, Jason tells you, but his mom followed shortly after.

You had to blackmail Batman to treat your cancer. Jason was on the streets until Bruce found him.

You keep going back and forth like that until Jason confesses to dying at the hands of Joker. You’re already aware of it, he wouldn’t be Red Hood otherwise, but the words still hit you like a wall of bricks. You can’t stop yourself from throwing your arms around him as if you can cradle him from what’s already happened.

Your arms don’t even reach past his biceps, but that doesn’t matter. Your baby died, and his mother wasn’t there to save him.

Your poor baby seems so unused to hugs that he stands there awkwardly until you let go. You go back to telling him about what happened to Dent’s enforcers after they upped their protection fees to an unreasonable level as if nothing happened.

Of course, that’s not true. You have a storm brewing in your heart. Your soul screams for vengeance in a very non-Batman approved kind of way.

“Show me what’s going on over there,” you say, pointing to a darker area of the cave. Your tone is bright, but the thoughts going through your mind are decidedly not.

If no one will avenge the Jason of this world, then you’ll do it.

Jason leads you over to the darkened part of the cave, and it turns out to be unfinished. Well, no, that’s not quite the right word. It’s slowly being expanded, but there’s a distinct lack of safety features like guard rails and stairs. You feel stairs are a very important thing to not have.

“Mom, I do this all the time,” Jason tells you in exasperation as you fret over him climbing up to the level above to lower a bridge for you.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” you say, wincing when Jason jumps down. His poor ankles.

Speaking of safety, that reminds you—

“About your costume. You’re not wearing a helmet with a bomb in it, are you?” you ask.

“No,” Jason says, but it comes out strangled. You narrow your eyes, and he admits, “Okay, so I might have one or two in storage.”

“Get rid of them.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

“Mom.”

“I said—”

You know that in some continuities, the Joker can’t die. You know that in others, him dying releases a cloud of Joker venom. In many more, he’s simply a man that Batman chooses above his own children.

It’ll take some creativity to rid this darker, crueler world of the Joker for good, but you think you know how. Not many things can win against a vat of acid, and it’ll be easy enough to lure him into it. The Joker, despite what most people assume, is predictable. One hint of Batman being at Ace Chemicals, where their story began, is all it will take.

After all, Batman’s obsession with the Joker goes both ways.

You’ve been secretly recording Bruce to make a song out his words to annoy him with, so you have a recording of Bruce growling at you in his Batman voice “This has got to stop” and another one that has him dramatically go, “Joker.” Splicing them together is a piece of cake with your music app, and then you’re left with the ultimate bait.

You’ll have to sacrifice your phone, but it’s for the good of the world and all that.

The hard part about setting the trap is—well, setting the trap. You aren’t strong enough to fight your way into Ace Chemicals, and you aren’t smart enough to mix a dangerous concoction in one of their vats. Never mind that you couldn’t get there if you wanted to; Jason barely gives you privacy to use the bathroom.

Not that you blame him of course. If you were living in a Jason-less world, you’d already be packing his bags so he could come home with you. Assuming you hadn’t already died attempting to purge Gotham in revenge.

But it does make things like murder quite a bit difficult. Luckily you know someone who’d be more than willing to help.

Hi, Huntress, you text, you don’t know me, but we share a mutual all-seeing friend. Here’s the situation—

It’s just a pity you can’t drag Joker’s painful death out even more.

You’re going to get caught of course. Huntress is bold enough to do what you ask for without question, but not stupid enough to take the blame for it. Batman is waiting for her to slip up so he can kick her out of Gotham; it’s the only reason the worst of Gotham’s criminals are still alive.

But you’ve given Huntress the excuse she needs, so she’ll wait until after Joker falls into the acid vat before calling it in.

It’s what happened last time, after all.

You’re down in the unfinished portion of the cave, exploring the new areas and making mental notes, when Batman appears in front of you, fully dressed and livid.

“Catherine, did you trick Huntress into killing the Joker.” It’s less a question and more an accusation. His voice is tight and his muscles tense. The image of Willis looming over you, ready to strike at any moment suddenly appears.

You can’t get your voice to work.

“Back off,” Jason growls, sliding out from the shadows. Nightwing, who came to help with patrol, is a step behind him. Their sudden appearance breaks the hold the memories have over you, and you’ve never been more grateful for their stalking.

“Yes,” you finally manage to say.

Jason rears back in shock, but Nightwing doesn’t seem surprised.

“He killed my baby,” you say. “Jason coming back to life doesn’t change that. He forfeited his life.”

“You murdered—” Batman lunges for you but stops short when Jason steps in front of you, gun drawn.

“Get away from my mom,” Jason snarls, and you think, Baby no.

“Everyone calm down.” Nightwing throws his hands out. He attempts to ease in between Jason and Batman but stills when their hands start twitching.

You already knew the consequences of killing the Joker. That there is a very real chance of having every bone in your body broken. That you may be locked away forever in a box instead of going home. That you may have broken this Bruce beyond repair by taking away the person he uses to gauge his own sanity.

It doesn’t stop you from adding fuel to the fire.

“Not all of us are made to be serial killers like you, Bruce,” you say, dead serious and without a hint of venom. “Not all of us fail as parents either.”

For all that you pick on your Bruce, he’s not nearly as close to snapping as this one is, not nearly as broken. You’ve never hated the darker version of Batman more than you do now.

“You—” Batman tries to get around the gun pointed straight at his face to get to you, but Jason blocks him.

“Stay back,” Jason hisses, trigger finger twitching.

“Bruce, if you don’t back up right now, I’ll let him shoot you,” Nightwing says darkly.

A current of something goes through you—it’s not painful like electricity but it’s certainly some kind of energy—and you know, instinctively, what’s about to happen.

It’s time to go home.

You take your cue and step backwards. You take another step and another until you’re off the walkway. Then you keep going until the back of your heels hit air. One more step and you’ll fall off the cave ledge and into the abyss.

All three men cry out in alarm, but you only have eyes for the one.

“Baby, I love you. And I’m so, so proud of you,” you tell him, hoping the words get through. “I have to go now, but I hope you can move on and find happiness,” you manage to say before your voice is taken from you.

Your body is barely holding itself together, but you don’t want Jason to see you turn into dust, to be another nightmare relived endlessly.

Jason reaches out to you with a cry as you take one last step back and fall.

Disintegration is not the most pleasant way of traversing the multiverse, but it gets the job done. When you reform, you’re standing in the cave right where you left it, tea tray and all. Bruce—your Bruce—is standing next to a machine you didn’t notice before; he’s exhaling and rubbing his temples like he’s just gained a headache.

“MOM!”

You barely stay standing as your baby tackles you with a broken sob. You reach down and hug him tightly, wishing you could do the same to the man who just watched you vanished, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Your heart is here, in your arms.

“Baby, I’m back,” you say.

Chapter Text

You enjoy your work as a maid for Bruce Wayne, and it’s only partially because of the hefty paycheck. Once you finish the daily tasks Alfred assigns you, you’re free to do whatever you want. Most of the time that means spending all morning cleaning before hanging up your apron to read in the library for the rest of the day.

For a job with no set hours, it’s a remarkably nice one.

The absolute best part of it all is getting to bother Bruce. If he isn’t asleep by the time you wake up, you get to manhandle him to bed while Alfred prepares breakfast. If Bruce hasn’t had anything to eat within a six-hour period, you get to put the cave on lockdown until he scarfs down whatever you feel like making for him, which is often nutrient paste spread between two pieces of bread.

Of course, Bruce has his own ways of fighting back. When Alfred is on the other side of the manor, he likes to make messes for you to clean up. When you want to read in peace, he’s often suddenly there with a “malfunctioning” device that won’t shut up.

What really gets to you, and thus what Bruce really loves rubbing in your face, is the fact he can buy anything Jason desires. Your baby isn’t materialistic, but even he can’t turn down a birthday party at the Smithsonian.

A series of petty pranks involving Superman underwear ends with Bruce inviting your baby’s entire school year and their friends to a laser tag themed Christmas party at the manor. You didn’t even know laser tag was considered a theme.

Naturally, Bruce’s revenge means lots of work for you. You have to hire planners, make the invitations, and most horrifying of all, dress up. There are appointments needed for everything from making sure the party entertainers are not Gotham Rogues in disguise to finding a dress that can stand up to scrutiny from the elite.

Never mind the Christmas tree that caused countless meltdowns and one emergency room visit from the design alone.

It’s worth it in the end because Jason adores the party. He makes more friends than he knows what to do with from his imaginary kill count alone and glows under the endless compliments on his “gorgeous mom” who has a literal truckload of party gifts for everyone.

Your baby’s happiness is the only reason you remain at the party despite the dress threatening to cut off your circulation and the fake nails that make the simple act of grabbing things difficult. It’s the only reason you wear a smile as the children’s parents swarm you like locusts.

The party is stressful enough you begin draining glass of wine after glass of wine. Bruce, who only pretends to drink when among his wealthy kind, is right there with you. You think he may regret inviting so many kids and their parents to his house.

Revenge means digging two graves and all that.

The two of you are a little bit buzzed, just drunk enough to take the edge off, when you accidentally meet each other under the mistletoe someone put up on the sly.

Christmas tradition dictates the two people caught under a mistletoe kiss, and you are fully prepared to ruin it by walking away. Then Bruce, with the ugliest face imaginable, leans down, and you remember that the Brucie mask is a bit of a slut.

With your own grimace, you go up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. You miss because apparently Bruce was also aiming for your cheek and—

Your lips touch. The kiss is electrifying. You’ve never felt such a thing with Willis or that one girl you dated in your other life. You didn’t even know human touch was capable of this feeling.

So good is kissing Bruce that you don’t even notice the both of you are still going at it until a drunk woman starts crying at you for “stealing” her chance. Jason, too busy showing off some boxing moves for a smaller boy, thankfully doesn’t notice you two making out. It’s the only reason the party continues on like the apocalypse hasn’t arrived.

After the two of you dazedly break apart, clarity returns to Bruce’s eyes. Cold, harsh reality settles in, dousing the heat under your skin.

The thought of doing that again with Bruce, of doing more, is—

You turn on your heel and run away.

Later, after the party is finished and the last of the guests have been politely but firmly escorted off the property, Bruce comes to find you.

You’re in your usual spot on the comfiest couch in the library. You’re lounging with a blanket and book, fuzzy socks claiming more than half the couch on your behalf. You pretend to ignore him as he slides in next to your feet.

“I think we should,” Bruce makes a face as if saying the next words are pure torture, “try dating.”

“You take that back,” you say immediately, slamming your book shut.

“Not exclusively!” Bruce hurries to add. “Definitely not. I’d wind up dead in Gotham Bay. Either from suicide or murder.” Bruce takes a moment to think about it. “Or both.”

You can’t actually refute that. Having the sole attention of someone obsessive like Bruce would probably increase your body count, which is already exceptionally higher than you’d like.

“So you want to, what? Pretend to be a happy couple for Jason’s sake while you sleep your way across Gotham?” you ask derisively.

“Yes,” Bruce says without a hint of shame.

And well, that could honestly work.

“Alfred has to be the one signing my paychecks. I don’t date bosses,” you say. That’s too much power struggling and drama in a relationship for you.

“I’ll increase his salary,” Bruce agrees.

The two of you sit in awkward silence as you come to terms with what dating entails. You’ll have to talk about feelings and work out your issues instead of using petty revenge to overcome them. Alfred will need to be notified of his new position of power. A story for the press will have to be made because you refuse to be a dirty secret.

More than that, you two need to discuss boundaries and compatibility.

“How do you feel about pegging?” you ask.

Bruce grabs a couch cushion and smashes it against his face. The wail that comes out is so high pitched and loud, you wonder if the cushion even makes a difference.

Needless to say, no more talk about dating is discussed that day. You toy with the idea of never talking about it, honestly.

You know what Bruce wants. He wants what his parents could have had–a family that comes home to each other after a day of work. You two are already a parental unit to a son; the only thing missing is love between spouses. It wouldn’t even be hard on your part. As much as you want to deny it, Bruce is a good man who would be easy to fall for.

You also know you need to reject him for everyone’s own good. 

Bruce will understand if you point out that Gotham needs its Batman. That the Justice League needs its shadow guarding their backs. That the world needs Bruce Wayne to continue his rigid vigil, and you’d be nothing more than a distraction.

But.

But.

Bruce is weak to love. Before he became jaded, he gave his whole heart to the women he loved, ready to give up on being Batman for them, and they all left him at the altar, declaring that as much as they loved him, they loved Batman more.

You can’t find it in your heart to do the same. To be one more reason the cowl overtakes Bruce’s entire life. To lie and say that Bruce Wayne is less important than Batman because–

It isn’t true. 

Bruce Wayne, to you, is far more important than his mask. He’s the reason you’re alive. The reason your son has a life and father worthy of him. He’s the one that is fighting against Gotham’s corruption to place food pantries and shelters that aren’t just fronts for criminal activity. He’s the reason you were able to obtain Christmas presents for Jason and still keep food on the table.

More than that, you enjoy seeing him every day, whether that’s to tease him or to have someone to gush about your baby with. Watching him stumble into the wall after two hours of sleep makes you laugh, and there’s no one else you can bait into a food fight behind Alfred’s back and have them help clean up afterwards.

Ugh, you’re going to have to be a grown up about this, aren’t you.

You wait until Jason is out with friends to confront Bruce. After making sure your hair is a mess, you corner him in his study while wearing a colorful, fluffy robe that makes you look like an Easter bunny reject.

“I think we should date,” you tell Bruce, hoping your appearance is enough of a turn off to be rejected.

To your disappointment, his eyes go straight past you to the painting on the wall. His face falls, and you’d be offended if you weren’t feeling the exact same way.

“I was hoping your silence meant you already rejected me,” he says.

“I was trying to,” you admit, “but we both know we’ll just get drunk again.”

It’s clear that both of you enjoyed that kiss too much to stay away. The moment you lose the slightest bit of control, you’ll be back at it and traumatizing everyone, including yourselves.

“Someone’s going to have to tell Jason,” Bruce says with dawning horror.

“Let me do it. He won’t hurt me,” you tell him, dreading your baby’s reaction.

Bruce, naturally, believes your words to be a part of the competition for Best Parent and does not wait for you to break the news to your baby first. You try to save him from his fate to no avail.

“Jason,” Bruce says. He kneels to avoid looming and to make Jason feel more comfortable. Bruce pretends not to notice you shaking your head or your gestures to stand up. “I would like to date your mother.”

“You do not,” is the immediate reply. Jason’s expression is blank despite the certainty in his voice.

“I really do,” Bruce says, once more ignoring all signs that he should move away.

“You really do not,” Jason says darkly.

You know what is coming before it even happens, but this is one lesson Bruce will have to learn the hard way. You throw your hands up in the air and turn around to look out the window. You see nothing.

“I—son of a bitch!” Bruce yelps.

“That better not be about me,” you say, still looking out the window. Admittedly, you are a bit of a bitch, but your boyfriend should know better than to say it.

“Jason, we do not stab people you disagree with!” Bruce somehow manages to use the dad voice through the pain.

“I do if they put their pervy eyes on my mom,” Jason says with utter certainty.

Sighing, you turn around to examine the damage. Your baby moved out of arms’ length from Bruce, who is clutching his leg dramatically. There, sticking out from the back of his calve, is Jason’s pocketknife.

“Good job on not being in striking range, baby,” you say with pride.

“Good job? I have a knife sticking out of me!” Bruce exclaims.

It’s a tiny knife, the shortest blade that your baby owns. No harm done, really.

“Well, I do actually like Bruce,” Jason says bashfully. “I wanted to leave a message, not hurt him.”

“But you did hurt me,” Bruce says, more wounded at the fact Jason stabbed him than the fact he still has a knife sticking out of his leg.

“I’ll go get Alfred,” you say. “Jason, get the wheelchair and wheel your dad down to the cave. No more stabbing.”

By the time you make it to the cave, Jason is telling Bruce what to get for your birthday, and the man is taking notes from where he’s bent over a cot to keep from jostling the knife. Neither of them notices Alfred handing you the medical kit.

“Miss Catherine, I believe this is a good time to learn how to dress punctures,” Alfred tells you with a gleam in his cold, dead eyes.

You wonder what you did to deserve such an awesome boss.

“I will only use my power for evil when he needs it,” you vow.

“See that you do,” Alfred says before teaching you ways to pull out a knife, both painless and painful.

Now that Alfred is your employer, things change slightly.

Alfred Pennyworth is a stricter boss when it’s his own money on the line, which means you don’t get to slack off like you used to. You have to learn more than housekeeping, and you find yourself suddenly in classes and certification tests without your say-so.

You have to study your ass off while wrangling the household. It’d be another level of hell if you didn’t enjoy the challenge.

Or the rewards.

It’s a secret from Bruce and Jason, but Alfred teaches you how to use a new firearm for every test you pass. And for every firearm you master, your boss gives you one to own.

An investment in the future, Alfred calls it, even if you and Bruce don’t work out.

Because, honestly, you and Bruce shouldn’t work. At all. He still chases after Selina, and you remain satisfied with being alone. He prioritizes Gotham, and you prioritize your son. He remains convinced all people who kill need to be punished, and you, well, your hands have never been dirtier.

You still work in his house not as a wife but as a maid. He’s still Batman who doesn’t need a civilian’s advice. The two of you have separate bedrooms you prefer using because sharing is a foreign concept.

But it’s…nice to have someone to come home to. Someone who has no ulterior motives in being there and no intention of leaving. Bruce doesn’t have to worry about what you’re after, and you don’t have to worry about him hitting you.

It’s a low bar for a relationship, the lowest maybe, but neither of you are really cut out for being in a relationship. The fact the both of you are even trying is enough.

Seeing Jason light up at calling you “Mom and Dad” is worth the struggle of opening your heart to someone else.

You rather like kissing too. That’s definitely a plus.

Maybe that’s why a few key pieces of information completely slip your mind.

You get a reminder one day in the form of a single, small knock on the front door. You only hear it because you’re straightening up the entryway and putting out fresh flowers. A quick check from the frosted windows don’t seem to show anyone.

You have a bad feeling about that little knock, but if someone managed to get through the security then you need to see who it is.

You open the door, and upon seeing nothing, look down. And keep looking down. Staring up at you with an unnervingly unimpressed expression is a toddler, who looks remarkably like a tiny Bruce, dressed in itty-bitty armor. Your bad feeling intensifies.

“You can leave now, concubine. The blood son has arrived,” the toddler says.

You slam the door in his face on reflex. You’d probably feel bad about it if it were any other child.

“Bruce,” you shout, making your way to the wine cabinet, “it’s for you!”

Chapter Text

Ever since you kissed Bruce, your life has taken a turn for the strange. Granted, it was already strange to begin with, but now you’re involved with assassin babies turning up on doorsteps way ahead of schedule.

“You missed a spot, concubine,” said assassin baby hisses from the kitchen table as you mop the linoleum.

“Drink your apple juice,” you say blithely in response.

Damian’s constant use of “concubine” doesn’t bother you too much. You’re pretty sure he’s using the term in its old formal meaning of “unmarried woman tied to the household” instead of its more modern derogatory version, but you wish he’d call you your actual title when you’re working. You’ve worked hard to be qualified as a Pennyworth maid.

Also, every time the word “concubine” is thrown around, you have to stop Jason from initiating a knife fight with a literal toddler. Damian, despite his age, hoards anything he can use as weapons, such as steak knives, which only serves to double your own baby’s aggression.

Bruce is, of course, nowhere to be found to put a stop to this nonsense.

Damian’s existence disturbs Bruce so much that he’s spiraled straight into denial. He’s on day two of hiding down in the cave and running DNA tests endlessly, leaving everyone else with the responsibility of watching over his surprise assassin child.

Honestly, Bruce needs a kick in the pants, but with Alfred out shopping, you fear leaving Jason alone with Damian. It’s why you send Jason down after Bruce despite his protests, putting you in charge of the traumatized and possibly genetically modified toddler.

You call for reinforcements five minutes in.

“Nu-uh. No. No way,” Dick says, looking down at the scowling toddler with a mixture of disgust and terror. He holds his motorcycle helmet in front of him as if it offers some kind of protection. “Bruce did not.”

“Bruce did apparently,” you say, putting away the cleaning equipment. With Dick here, you feel it’s safe enough to turn your attention away from Damian.  

“Jason, I will accept. You, I will not,” Dick says firmly. It’s quite mean, but with Dick is in his rebellious teenage phase, you figure it’s typical of him.

“Cretin,” the toddler hisses, “I am the blood son!”

“I am the blood son,” Dick mocks.

You don’t see Damian’s cheeks turn red or puff up, but you hear Dick’s sudden yelp and the clang of something hitting the floor. You resolutely keep tidying up the kitchen. It’s already clean enough in your opinion, but Alfred likes it spotless.

“I can’t believe Bruce of all people spawned,” Dick says before letting out an aggravated sigh. “No wait, I can. The slut.”

“If it makes you feel better, I have no womb,” you offer consolingly. If Bruce spawns again, it won’t be from you.

“I’d say it does but with our luck it’ll grow back somehow.”

As disturbing as the mental image is, you have to admit he has a point. Mix the rest of the world’s insanity in with Gotham’s and literally anything can happen. A dramatic pregnancy despite the impossibility would fit right in honestly.

“Any more brothers, and I will burn this house down,” Dick states darkly.

“Just try, you—” Damian hisses out words you can’t understand but are certainly curse words.

On instinct alone, you whirl around and place your hands on your hips. With a stern glare, you say in your best Mom voice, “Damian al Ghul-Wayne.” Amusingly enough, both Dick and Damian straighten up with identical wide-eyed expressions.

“We do not use ugly words or call people ugly names.” Unless your name is Bruce. “Go to the corner for a timeout,” you order, pointing to a squeaky-clean corner of the kitchen.

“I do not listen to concubines!” is Damian’s immediate protest.

Dick relaxes with a silent, relieved sigh. You pay him no mind, keeping your eyes solely on the child who dares go against your authority. You were planning to let Damian off after five minutes, but now the invisible timer has increased from the audacity.

“Who says you don’t?” You ask calmly.

“Mother says!”

“Is she here right now?”

Damian looks down and pouts. “…no,” he says in a tiny voice.

“Then that means I’m in charge. Now go stand in the corner and face the wall until I say you can leave,” you tell him firmly.

Damian slides down from the table onto the chair he used to climb up. You watch unblinking as he stomps over to the corner, grumbling under his breath. You set a timer on your phone for fifteen minutes. Damian glances over his shoulder to check if you’re paying attention, and you point at the wall in front of him. He turns back around with more grumbling.

The first thing you learned about raising children is that you can show no weakness when doling out the punishments.

“Hah, sure showed the little brat,” Dick cheers.

“Timeout for you too,” you say immediately. You point to a corner on the opposite side of the room that may or may not still have a spider web. “To the corner. Eyes on the wall.”

“What? Why?” Dick’s motorcycle helmet drops to the floor as he looks at you in disbelief.

“Because we don’t call each other ugly names in this house,” you say.

“I don’t even live here,” Dick argues. “And I’m an adult!” He crosses his arms and gives you a challenging stare. You don’t point out that he looks exactly like Damian did. Instead, you reach for the taser in your skirt.

“Timeout. Now.”

“I’m going, I’m going!” Dick all but sprints for the corner.

You make a mental note to set the timer for an additional five minutes once the current one runs out. It’d do Damian some good to see his older brother being treated the same. That he’s no different from the children Bruce chose.

“Timeout means timeout. Put the phone away,” you say without bothering to look.

“Aw, man.” Dick’s pout is audible.

It’s hard to remember that Damian is three years old; while his height is correct for his age, he is far too coherent and coordinated. It’s what makes you think he’s been genetically modified. You’ll need to ask Bruce to scan for any signs of cybernetics, but even if the tests come back clean, special care will be needed to be taken when socializing with others his age.

Raising Damian won’t be easy, and though you didn’t sign up for this, you cannot, in good conscience, allow Damian to go back to his mother on the chance she wants to insert mind control devices into his back or assassinate him later with clones.

You wonder if you can convince one of Bruce’s other flings to step in and parent the child. Perhaps someone who even Talia can learn to respect. Someone like—

“Haha,” Selina deadpans over a glass of wine, “no.”

“He’s already halfway trained to be a ninja. Think of the heists you could pull,” you tell her, sipping from your own glass of soda.

You don’t know the specifics, but Bruce once accidentally called Selina by your name. She’d been interested enough to knock on the manor’s door, and the two of you hit it off pretty well to Bruce’s consternation.

Now, the two of you meet up for lunch often. Today’s meal is at a fancy, reservation only restaurant that puts far too many ugly but expensive decorations on display to be tactful. You’re pretty sure Selina chose this place so she can case it.

“Tempting, but no,” Selina says ruthlessly before softening at your beseeching look. “Listen, Bruce is a fun guy to hang around with, but I’m not ready for that kind of commitment. I’m not ready to give my life up for a kid.” She eyes a nearby gold statue with interest. “And I suspect Bruce isn’t either.”

“He already took in Dick and Jason,” you argue.

“But they came pre-built with morals, life lessons, and a personality,” Selina points out. “Unlike them, this one is going to need to be taught almost everything. He might even need special attention.”

You hide your wince behind another sip of your drink. It’s true that Bruce is good with little kids…when he can give them back to their guardians. Bruce’s priority is Batman, and Batman’s priority is Gotham. A toddler needs to be someone’s priority at all times.

You’re trying to find Damian a stepmom, so that person isn’t you.

Selina raises an eyebrow. “And do you really think any of the women Bruce is interested in will put their life on hold for a kid whose mother is still in the picture?”

You grimace. The women Bruce tends to like are ambitious workaholics who are smart enough not to tangle with someone like Talia. Bruce hasn’t admitted to liking men, or else you’d have an idea of who would be content to stay home while being too stupid to care about Talia.

“Exactly, you’re the only one who can settle down and raise children,” Selina says. “By the way, I’m off to the little girl’s room. Go ahead and order dessert.”

Selina stands up and takes a hand mirror out from her purse. You watch her slink away in her tight, black dress with admiration. You don’t date people you can’t trust, but that won’t stop you from looking.

It’s only after you put in an order for a chocolate mousse that you notice the gold statue has disappeared. Looks like you’ll be picking up today’s bill.

Classic Selina.

Jason doesn’t care for his new little brother much—it might be that the age difference is too vast—but at least he’s making the effort. Your baby hands you his well-loved copy of Alice in Wonderland before heading out for school.

“Got to start with the classics,” Jason tells you seriously. “Most of it will go over his head, but it’ll get his brain thinking.”

“You’re okay with it?” You ask, wanting to be certain. Jason’s most prized possessions are his books, and you can’t promise nothing will happen to it. Damian’s tantrums are quiet but destructive.

“I can always guilt Bruce into buying me another one,” Jason says.

“Since when did you get so mature?” You wonder before squeezing your baby into the tightest hug you can manage.

“Okay, okay, I got to go!” Jason exclaims. Face entirely red, he attempts to struggle out of your hold. You, overwhelmed by how adorable he is, begin peppering his head with kisses.

“Mom!” His whining is pretty cute too.

You release your baby from your cruel hold, and he immediately dashes out the door as if scared you’ll change your mind about letting him go.  

When you turn around, you see big green eyes peeking at you from behind one of the entryway tables. It’s a futile hiding spot; Damian’s grey outfit is a stark contrast against the rich tones around him.

Well, this will certainly make things easier.

“I see Alfred turned you loose from your lessons,” you say, trying not to smile at the face the child makes. Alfred doesn’t believe in letting the “unknowns of television educate our youth” and has taken it upon himself to teach Damian the basics from the beginning, such as learning how to count—despite the fact Damian already knows how.

“Let’s head to the library for some reading,” you say. “We can find a spot that’s hard for Alfred to find,” you tack on winningly.

You’ve never had someone agree faster. Damian all but runs to the library, turning around every so often to glare at you impatiently. It’s hilarious.

“Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting,” you begin after settling down in a little alcove with some cushions. You do your best not to falter under the intense stare of a three-year-old, who clearly agrees with the book’s sentiment.

You make it halfway through the book before you decide it’s best to stop there for the day. While you and Jason can spend all day reading, you don’t think Damian would like to do so.

“What are your thoughts on the book?” You ask once it becomes clear the toddler has no intention of moving out from his hiding spot beneath the cushions.

Damian hesitates before quietly admitting, “I do not understand.”

“About what?”

“What is the point?”

“The point?”

“I do not,” Damian trails off. He throws a cushion at the wall, face screwing up in irritation as his vocabulary fails him. You think you understand what he’s trying to say.

“The point of the story is whatever you think it is,” you tell him gently. “Really,” you say, trying not to laugh at his disbelieving expression. “Some people read it and think it’s nonsense. Some people read it and thinks it’s about a young girl trying to understand the world around her.”

“But why? What’s the point?” Damian asks again, seemingly stuck on the question.

“The point is what you make of it,” you repeat gently. “Not all stories are meant to be lessons.”

Damian doesn’t appear to understand, but that’s okay. You have time to teach him.

“You know it has a sequel. We can read that after this one. See if there’s a point in that one,” you offer. Damian doesn’t say anything, but he wiggles slightly in what you think might be happiness. “Is there anything else you want to do today?”

“Training,” Damian says after a moment of thought.

“What does your father say about you training?” You ask, trying to think of a way to say “No” without triggering a tantrum.

“I don’t know,” Damian admits.

“You haven’t asked your father about it?”

Damian shakes his head with a downcast expression, and with a sinking feeling, you realize you haven’t seen Bruce interacting with Damian since the day he arrived. Surely Bruce came up from the cave to talk to his son at one point?

Oh, who are you kidding. It’s Bruce you’re talking about.

“He must have gotten involved in a case,” you lie without remorse. “I’ll go find him. While I’m doing that, go see if Alfred will make some snacks. Tell him, I finished your lessons for the day.”

Damian stares up at you in surprise. His face lights up, and he nods rapidly before scurrying away. Oh, you think as you watch him disappear with a warmth in your chest. It suddenly hits you that while he may not be yours, you want to see who he grows up to become under your watch.

Now to make sure his father is there to see it too.

You head down to the cave. You find Bruce sitting at the computer, looking as if he hasn’t moved since the week prior. There’s something pulled up on every monitor, and he’s clicking through them like a man possessed.

“Bruce. Bruce. Bruce, I know you can hear me.” You tap your foot as the man continues his rapid clicking.

“You’ve been down here for over a week. You smell. Talk to me, Bruce.” There’s no indication that Bruce can even hear you, so you tell him, “I only need your unconscious body for Damian to have something of his father around.”

Bruce finally swivels his chair around to look at you. You try not to flinch at how terrible he looks; it’s like he hasn’t slept since the moment Damian got here.

“I didn’t know I had a son,” he says in a strained voice.

“Yes, that sometimes happens,” you say, reflecting on when Willis brought Jason to you. Bruce snorts, no doubt deducing what you’re thinking of.

“Talia, she—” Bruce sighs. “I feel betrayed.”

“About?”

“I didn’t consent to this,” he says, and your stomach falls. Upon catching sight of your face, he hurries to add, “I mean, I did at one time. We were engaged—Talia thinks we’re married—but I would have never left Damian with her—her father, I mean—I wouldn’t have. Left him there.” Bruce’s face screws up in irritation as his words fail him.

You can’t help it: you lean down and pull the stupid man into a hug. The cold armor of his suit digs into you uncomfortably, and your eyes water slightly. You weren’t kidding about the smell. He truly reeks. Your nostrils are on fire. You let go of him before you faint.

Then you slap him gently on the back of the head.

“Feel free to continue wallowing on your own time, but there’s a confused kid up there who feels unloved by his father,” you say. When Bruce does nothing but stare at you blankly, you smile threateningly. “Go see him before I tase you in the balls.”

“Going, I’m going!” Bruce hastens to get out of the chair and out of potential striking range. He heads towards the showers, fully aware of how much he smells. You start cleaning up the computer desk that has accumulated a week’s worth of grime, and he stops to look back at you.

“Catherine, thank you,” he says. The sincerity in his voice is enough to give you hives. You must make a face because Bruce suddenly lights up like the evil manchild he is.

“I wonder,” Bruce muses with a tilt of his head. He holds out his arms with a glint in his eyes that makes you freeze up. “Would you like a hug?”

“Stay back.” You hold up a spray bottle of cleaning solution like a gun. You don’t think it’s strong enough to even make a dent in the stench.

Bruce moves, and you run for the showers. It’s the only thing that can save you. As Bruce chases after you with arms held out like an idiot, you vow to scrub him down with so much lavender soap that Batman will smell like flowers for a week.

(Not once do you consider going for your taser.)

Chapter Text

Valentine’s Day brings mixed feelings. Your baby always loved receiving heart-shaped candies which you happily gifted him with, but Willis always showed up later with a bunch of flowers expecting “gratitude” for his “thoughtful gesture.”

You were always too scared to be anything less than grateful, and even now, despite there being no Willis, a small feeling of dread remains to taint the day. It irritates you that you can’t just be mindlessly happy, that there’s a part of you still expecting to earn your keep.

Maybe it’s spite that makes you go a little overboard when shopping for Valentine gifts this year. Even better, because Bruce subscribes to the belief that Valentine’s Day is only for those who hold romantic or sexual attraction, this is one area you can beat him in.

You can’t wait to see Bruce’s face once he realizes you have something for Jason, and he doesn’t.

A new e-book reader and a box of chocolates goes into your digital shopping cart. The e-book reader was something you regretted not getting for Jason for Christmas, so it’s a no-brainer to grab the special red one on sale.

As you’re typing in the shipping details for Jason’s gifts, a thought hits you. Damian. Can you really get something for Jason and not Damian? It wouldn’t really be fair, would it. With only slight hesitation, you add a stuffed animal and soft candy to your order.

It’s a slippery slope from there as you think, well, Alfred would probably like some imported biscuits which leads to Margaret’s done a lot for me over the years and now I can afford to buy something. Before you know it, you have a long list of candy and small gifts that rack up to well over the generous budget you planned on.

The only person you didn’t buy anything for was Bruce. Not because it didn’t cross your mind, but because you’re pretty sure he’d rather celebrate the day with one of his other girlfriends. Your relationship isn’t very romantic, and such things might be unwanted.

You don’t realize how buying a Valentine’s gift for everyone besides your boyfriend might look until the packages arrive, and you’re opening them up while he watches over your shoulder.

“You got me something for Valentine’s Day?” Bruce asks, stunned as you pull out a red and gold tin of chocolates.

“This is Jason’s,” you say before moving on to the next item. “This is for Damian. Those are for Alfred, Margaret, Dick, Barbara, Julie, Selina—"

You cut yourself off as you glance over your shoulder. Bruce is staring at the packages with an intensity to rival Batman’s. At first you think he’s judging you, but then you realize that’s not his judging face. Instead, he reminds you of a child waiting to see which present is theirs.

Oh, you think. Shit.

…you might be a bit of a bitch.

“You don’t have one,” you say, and Bruce’s face—it just falls. A sudden, unexpected feeling of guilt has you hurrying to add, “Here, I mean. Yours is special. I need to go pick it up.”

The lie feels weak to you, but somehow Bruce buys it; he goes from heartbreakingly sad to oddly shy in less than a second.

“Oh,” Bruce says while tapping his fingertips together. “I didn’t get anything for you.” Bruce’s guilt only makes your own grow stronger.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, desperately trying to regain control of the situation. “I don’t really like getting gifts for Valentine’s. Bad memories.” All good lies need some truth. 

“You deserve something special. I’ll think of something,” Bruce says adamantly.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” you say, sprinkling even more of that truth.

“I’m pretty sure Jason will kill me if I receive a gift and don’t give one.” Bruce’s leg twitches from the memory of being stabbed.

“True.” You sigh. Your baby can be so old-fashioned about the weirdest things.

Of course, now you’re stuck trying to find something that can be custom made and picked up in less than 24 hours. Bruce is, unfortunately, not as stupid as you make him out to be, and picking up a mass-produced gift will automatically expose your lie.

This is how you spend the day before Valentine’s calling every high-end store to make an emergency custom order. Candy, stuffed toys, wine, ties—whatever unique gift can be gotten by the next day. Unsurprisingly, you are not the only person to have waited until the last minute to place an order.

You end up making a reservation with a shady perfume shop; the advertisement for their special Valentine’s Day workshop promises a romantic scent custom-made for your lover. The promotional low-resolution poster assumes you will be bringing your partner with you.

Naturally, you’re going alone.

You don’t really care if Bruce likes whatever concoction you come up with. It’s the thought that counts after all! And if you get there and find out it was all a scam? Well, you’ll just have to tell Bruce what happened after giving him whatever you can grab from the store. He can go out Batman-ing and raining vengeance on petty scam artists, and you can put this cursed holiday behind you.

It’s the perfect plan.

To your disappointment, the shady perfume shop is legit. It’s a small store that hasn’t had a renovation in fifty years and smells like it hasn’t been aired in the same amount of time.

Not counting yourself, five couples huddle around three foldout tables in the cramped little store. There are clear, empty perfume bottles set out for everyone, but no real space to work with thanks to the mess of ingredients littering the table.

The one running the workshop is a bored teenager whose phone is glued to her hands. The teenager takes no prisoners and regards your lack of partner as a personal affront.

“This is a Valentine’s Day workshop, you know,” the teenager tells you instead of getting started with the workshop.

“I know,” you say, trying not to let the impatient stares of everyone get to you.

“It is, like, actually Valentine’s Day.”

“I know.”

You’re ready to throw up your hands and walk out—Bruce’s feelings be damned—when the strip of bells on the door jingles. A boy pokes his head in before the rest of his body follows.

“Is this the Valentine Workshop?” the boy asks, hesitantly holding up a flyer.

“Yep,” the teenager says before jabbing a sparkly fingernail at you, “you’re with her. She’s already paid for two people, so get over here.”

The boy scurries to your side, and the teenager puts her phone away. She reaches under the middle table and brings out—

A cauldron.

A large, old-fashioned iron witch’s cauldron.

The teenager places the cauldron on a smaller beaker burner hidden amongst the ingredients and somehow doesn’t crush it. The teenager lights the beaker burner; the cauldron is large enough to completely hide the small flame beneath it.

“Okay, so you want to pick a crystal that makes you think of your partner,” the teenager says before glancing at you and the boy by your side. “You two grab whatever makes you think of the person you’re giving the perfume to.”

You watch everyone struggle around each other to get to the plates helpfully labeled “Crystals.” You share a look with the boy at your side, who looks intimidated at the thought of getting in there himself.

“I didn’t think this was a magic shop,” the boy eventually says with a puzzled expression that reminds you oddly of Bruce.

“It might just be a way to make the experience feel magical,” you say hopefully. Gotham isn’t typically full of magic—all the magic users you’ve talked to say there’s something in the water—so hopefully the crystals and cauldron are all for show.

Once everyone’s chosen their crystals, the two of you can no longer procrastinate. You and the boy start searching. Most of the crystals are too fancy and colorful to remind you of Bruce until your eyes land on a pitch black, glassy rock. It’s one of the few minerals you actually know about.

Choosing the small piece of obsidian, you remark, “Obsidian isn’t a crystal.”

“Well, yeah, but I can’t stand the blank stares I get when I say, ‘Choose your focus,’” the teenager replies with a snort, effortlessly dashing your denial about what kind of shop this is.

It seems you have, in fact, chosen magic perfume to gift to the Batman.

Lovely.

The boy you’ve partnered up with chooses the smallest mineral there; it’s smaller than the size of your fingernail. You think it might be a diamond, and the teenager running the workshop confirms it.

“People usually associate those with marriage, you know. You’re pretty young to be so serious about someone,” the teenager says, raising her eyebrows.

“Diamonds being used for marriage is a recent trend created by corrupt corporations,” the boy counters with a know-it-all tone. “Diamonds are common, but they’re the hardest mineral on earth and can cut anything, even other diamonds.”

“Fair enough.” The teenager nods before moving on. “Everyone start sniffing everything on the table. Only grab what reminds you of your partner.”

You watch a few brave souls start picking things up to smell before you do the same. You don’t know what the dark blue grass you’ve picked up actually is, but its scent reminds you of the batcave. You stuff a tuft of it into your bottle and move on.

“What if you’re not able to smell anything?” Somone pipes up with.

“Then I’d ask why the hell you came here,” is the only answer the teenager gives.

Some weird smelling rocks, flakes of copper, moss, and an unidentifiable liquid all wind up in your bottle. You think the teenager gives you a weird look for your perfume choices, but she scoops transparent liquid from the cauldron into your bottle without a word.

The items in your bottle instantly dissolve into a black liquid that shimmers. You swirl the bottle, but nothing solid remains.

“Is this safe?” You ask with only the tiniest bit of trepidation.

“Yep,” is all the teenager says before gesturing you over to the box of bottle stoppers and sprayers. “You get a cork for your bottle for free, anything else costs extra.”

You take a moment to look through the box. Your first instinct is to grab the free cork and leave—this workshop already costs triple digits—but then your phone chimes with a text alert.

Head’s up, Jason’s text reads, Bruce got you a box of Balmer chocolate from the dollar store. Don’t get him anything.

Beneath the words is a shaky picture of Bruce attempting to hide a large plastic heart-shaped container from Jason’s camera. It’s too blurry to read the brand name, but you don’t doubt Jason’s words; Bruce would buy you the worst chocolate on the market.

“What’s the most annoying sprayer you have?” you decide to ask.

The teenager proudly shows you the shop’s strongest, and thus worst, spray nozzle by aiming a test perfume at the other side of the store. The musty perfume hits the wall with ease. You buy it on the spot.

Even if Bruce is the type to spray perfume or cologne away from him, he’ll have to explain to Alfred why the antique furniture is suddenly soaked.

It’s the perfect gift, truly.

Maybe it’s because you have children, but you feel obligated to wait for the boy to finish making his perfume. It’s a little entertaining the way he keeps sorting the items on the table into piles before sorting those piles into smaller ones.

The boy only finishes once everyone else has left, and the teenager running the workshop loses her patience.

“Is anyone picking you up?” you ask the child.

“No, I’m going to ride the bus home,” he tells you, staring down with unblinking eyes at the white perfume in his hands.

Your gut twists at the fact that this little boy is going to be all by himself. You know it’s normal, and this is a safer part of Gotham…but you just don’t feel good about it. There are creeps out there, and you, at least, have a weapon or five on you.

“Would you mind if I ride with you?” you ask, fully aware of sounding like a creep yourself.

“That’d be great!” The boy beams up at you, and it only increases your worry. Are kids not being taught stranger danger anymore?

The bus stop is a little bit of a walk, and you’re glad you wore your sensible shoes despite dressing up a bit. Your stomach falls upon seeing a group of men waiting by the bus sign; you don’t know his name, but you do know at least one of them worked for the mob before being kicked out.

Your right-hand slides close to the gun hidden in the fold of your dress, and your left wraps a protective arm around the boy. You turn towards a diner.

“We’re going to get something to eat and wait for the next bus,” you say firmly.

“Okay?” The boy blinks up at you quizzically.

The men are nowhere to be seen by the time you exit the diner, and you relax a little. The only other person waiting for the bus is a little old lady with a scowling face. You keep an eye on her anyway, but her feebleness and scuttling walk aren’t as threatening as the men from earlier.

You mentally kick yourself when the old lady gets on the bus after you and pulls out a gun. Her shawl-like dress falls to the floor to reveal body armor and a buff physique.

“Cellphones, wallets, anything of value in the bag. Now,” says the little, old lady with a deep manly voice and all traces of feebleness gone.

“Can I keep my perfume?” The boy next to you asks, voice loud in the tense silence.

“Everything of value goes in the bag. Don’t make me repeat myself,” the robber says, pointing the gun at the kid who dared ask questions.

If the situation wasn’t so dire, you’d pull the boy’s ear and ask him what he was thinking. You try to think. You have a stun gun, three knives, and a gun on you. There’s no way to get any of them out before the old lady can pull the trigger on the boy.

You do have a distraction that might give you the opening you need to disarm her, however.

“Here,” you say, holding out your own perfume bottle. When the robber reaches for it, your finger presses down on the nozzle. You push the kid to the floor and empty the entire bottle right into the robber’s eyes.

“Argh!” The robber shouts, dropping the gun and clutching her face. “The Batman! The Batman is here!” The old lady breaks into insane wails before collapsing with a foaming mouth. The robber doesn’t so much as twitch after that.

You stare down at the former little black bottle in your hand in shock.

Perhaps it’s a good thing you can’t give this to Bruce.

There’s a hiss from the bus door as if it’s trying to close, and your instincts tell you to grab the child you’re protecting and run for it. So you do.

You only realize you’ve sort of kidnapped the boy after you push him into a taxi and give the address for one of Bruce’s emergency garages.

Oh well.

You spend the taxi ride trying to calm your racing heart. All thoughts of scolding the child for his reckless actions go out the window as you pat his head to reassure yourself everything’s fine.

The taxi drops you off at a normal-looking house with a locked garage, and you tell the boy, “I’m driving you home.”

Using the bio scanner attached to the garage door, you pop your head in and look at your choice of emergency vehicles. “You want to ride in the Camaro or the Mercedes?”

“I’m fine with either,” the boy says amiably.

“Camaro it is,” you say, going through yet more bio scanners to unlock the keys for the yellow striped car. Sliding into the car is a bit disappointing. Instead of the luxury you imagined, there’s just enough room to fit two uncomfortable chairs in a plain black interior.

You have no idea if this is normal, or if Bruce is just cheap.

“What’s your parent’s phone number?” you ask, starting the car. The engine runs so silently, you can’t even hear it. You end up turning the car on and off to make sure it’s actually running.

“That’s not important,” the boy says stiffly.

“It very much is. I’ve got to return you, you know.” You don’t feel like being arrested for kidnapping even if you think he’d make a good playmate for Jason. Anyone who can be cheeky with an armed robber can definitely match your baby’s energy.

“That’s going to be hard considering they’re out of the country.”

“Then give me your guardian’s number.”

“I go to boarding school, and they won’t pick up at this time of day.”

“Give me somewhere I can drop you off.”

“The bus stop is fine.”

You stare at the child. He stares back innocently. It hits you that the child hasn’t shown any type of emotion besides curiosity this entire time. There is something definitely not right about this boy.

“Why are you like this? Who let you wander around by yourself?” You hit the steering wheel with your forehead. “Why are you even in my car?”

“It’s not your car,” the boy helpfully reminds you.

“Not the point. When I get a hold of your parents, I’m going to chew them out for not teaching you stranger danger—wait.” You slowly pick your head up to look at the boy whose expression remains innocent. You narrow your eyes. “How do you know this isn’t my car?”

“Well,” the boy blinks, “you said it belongs to your employer.”

“I did not.” You remember being very careful to not mention the house wasn’t yours. “Do not try to gaslight me, young man!”

“Your name’s not on the house?” The boy tries again. You quirk an eyebrow.

“I never told you my name.”

The two of you sit in silence. The boy shows no signs of breaking, so you take out your phone. You type the emergency numbers you know by heart but don’t press the call button.

“I’ve got Batman on speed dial,” you threaten. It sounds utterly ridiculous, but it’s absolutely true.

This seems to be the push needed because the boy’s face goes from innocent to beseeching.

“Please don’t call Mister Wayne! It’ll ruin his day!” he begs.

Mister Wayne.

You blink and look at the child. Really look at the child. You take in the black hair and blue eyes you were purposefully ignoring, the mannerisms that remind you of Bruce, and the upper-class way of speaking. You let out a weary sigh.

You have a hunch.

“I’m Catherine Todd, Bruce Wayne’s maid,” you say with a defeated tone. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Tim,” he answers shyly. “Tim Drake.”

Of course he is.

You only have a moment to come to terms with the identity of the child sitting in the passenger seat before Tim decides to pull the rug from underneath you yet again.

“You’re my hero,” Tim tells you adoringly. “I’ve decided I want to be just like you when I grow up!”

“I’m just the maid,” you say, bewildered and trying not to react to the boy’s starstruck expression. “I’m no one important.”

“That’s not true! You’re like an assassin maid from the comics!” The boy cries.

“Assassin maid?” You mouth the words silently.

“You killed the Joker and keep Batman in line!”

“How—” Before you can ask him how on earth do you know that, the boy shoves the white perfume bottle into your face. You get a whiff of clean sheets, metal, and something floral.

“Also, I couldn’t figure out how to tell you this earlier, but this perfume is for you,” Tim says.

“What?” Your thoughts are all jumbled up. You have no idea how to respond, so you end up asking somewhat dumbly, “Didn’t you have someone you wanted to give that to?”

“It was always for you! Ever since I figured out you formed your own assassin league to kill the Joker, I’ve been following you. I saw you being yelled at through the window, and I thought you were going to get kicked out, and Mister Wayne wouldn’t get a Valentine’s Day gift, so I went in to help!” The kid chatters without taking a breath.

Absurd.

This whole situation is absurd. You went out to get a gift, got robbed of said gift, and the boy you accidentally nabbed is your tiny stalker you never knew you had, who happens to be Tim Drake.

…who also thinks you are an assassin maid. As you may or may not have just killed someone in front of him, there is no current way to disprove the allegation.

You should just drop Tim off at the police station and forget this day ever existed, but you can’t help but be charmed. Damn your motherly instincts.

“Thank you for the gift. I know the perfect spot for it in my room,” you say, and Tim beams at you with the power of a thousand suns.

You roll out of the garage. You ask Tim if he would like to see the batcave. He says, “Yes!” with sparkling eyes. You head for Wayne Manor.

This is how you end up kidnapping one Tim Drake.

A quick call through the car’s system confirms Bruce hasn’t left to have dinner with Selina yet. You tell him you have the perfect gift for him and to wait right there.

When you find Bruce, Tim is dangling from your arms and holding a heart-shaped tin of Balmer’s chocolate in a mockery of a teddy bear holding a heart.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you say as you shove the boy into Bruce’s arms. “His name’s Tim.”

“Hi, Mister Wayne. I like your blue Batman costume the best,” Tim says shyly before looking around with eager eyes. “Is Nightwing here?”

It’s too bad you can’t grab your phone. Bruce’s gobsmacked expression would have made a great wallpaper. Oh well, there’s always next year.

“It was the Balmer chocolate, wasn’t it?” Bruce looks close to tears as you move past him to yell for Jason to come meet his new playmate.

Tim gently pats Bruce on the shoulder.

“There’s always next year,” the boy says consolingly.