Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The iron gates of the Carmichael Estate were a study in silent foreboding, their intricate metalwork disappearing into a dense curtain of mist that had swallowed the last vestiges of twilight. Aurora's car slowed, headlights cutting through the oppressive white haze, illuminating the open gates like a silent invitation. A shiver, cold and sharp, traced its way up her spine. It was a detail that felt wrong. The Carmichaels did not leave gates open.

Her hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles turning white against the sleek leather. She glanced at her phone, the screen a constellation of red numbers: 17 missed calls from Lois and Clark. A half-finished glass of wine sat forgotten in the cup holder, a stark reminder of the normalcy she’d abandoned. Her lipstick was still fresh, a perfect crimson line she'd applied just before leaving a dinner party barely ten minutes after Georgia's frantic call.

Her mother’s voice still echoed in her head, a raw, terrified plea from the voicemail she'd replayed a dozen times.

“Aurora, I need you to come home. Now. Don’t call. Don’t tell anyone. Just… please. Come.”

The house loomed ahead, a hulking shadow against the fog. The porch lights were off, and every window was a black, empty square. But as her car crept closer, she saw it: a white van, idling at the curb. No logos. No plates. Her heart, a drum against her ribs, spiked. Her thumb hovered over the phone, then slammed down, dialing 911.

The foyer was a mausoleum of cold marble and deeper shadows. The dispatcher's voice, calm and detached, was a lifeline in the suffocating silence.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

"This is Aurora Carmichael," she said, her voice low and clipped, each word a desperate act of control. "My mother called me from this address fifteen minutes ago, begging me to come. The house is dark, the front door is open, and there’s an unmarked van outside.”

She took a step, her phone pressed to her ear. Her heels, so elegant and out of place, clicked once on the marble. Then again. Each sound felt deafening. The silence stretched, thin and brittle, before a sharp scream tore through the house. It was her mother's. It was followed, an instant later, by the gut-wrenching crack of a gunshot.

The sound ricocheted off the high ceilings, a physical blow that sent a shockwave through her body.

"MOM?!" she screamed, the word an unraveling knot of terror and grief.

Her phone slipped from her slick fingers. She scrambled to catch it, the dispatcher’s voice a distant, tinny command.

“Ma’am? Stay outside. Officers are en route—”

Too late. The words were already a meaningless static. She was already running.

A shadow darted down the hall, a fleeting ghost in the gloom. The first object her hand found was a ceramic vase, a priceless Ming dynasty relic sitting on a pedestal near the parlor entrance. With a guttural cry, she swung it, not with grace, but with raw, blinding fury, smashing it over the masked intruder's head as he rounded the corner. He crumpled to the floor, a sack of bones and fabric.

The second man shouted, a curse that was cut short as he stumbled and bolted, disappearing into the depths of the house. Aurora started to follow, an animal instinct taking over, but then she saw it—the door to her mother’s lab. A faint flicker of light pulsed from inside. The smell hit her before she even got there, a sickening cocktail of blood and chemicals that stole the air from her lungs.

The lab was a sterile horror scene. Her mother, Georgia Carmichael, lay on the cold tile floor, a pale, shattered figure. She was gasping, a wet, rattling sound, bleeding out from a dark, blossoming wound in her gut.

“Mom. Mom—no, stay with me—help is coming—God, please—” Aurora dropped to her knees, the blood already soaking through her expensive trousers.

She fumbled for her phone, found it, and put it on speaker, her hands already pressing down, hard, on the wound.

“Ma’am, apply pressure to the wound. Stay on the line. Paramedics are en route,” the dispatcher said, his voice a steady metronome in the panic.

Her hands were slick with blood, the dark, sticky warmth seeping into her skin. Her cream-colored cardigan was soaked through, the elegant fabric stained a gruesome maroon. Her mother’s eyes, usually so sharp and full of life, were fluttering, losing focus.

Aurora sobbed through gritted teeth, her voice shaking but not breaking. "There were two men. One’s down—other ran. White van outside. They were in the house. They were already in.”

The wail of sirens cut through the night, a symphony of arrival. Red and blue lights flashed, painting the mist in a strobe of color. Multiple squad cars swarmed the perimeter, officers spilling out, weapons drawn. They descended on the van, surrounding it like a pack of wolves. The man Aurora had knocked out was already in cuffs, but the second one was gone.

Inside the lab, Aurora was still kneeling, covered in blood, the compressions slowing as the energy drained from her body. A medic pushed past her, another gently tried to pull her away.

“We’ve got it, ma’am. You need to step back—”

"She’s not gone," Aurora said, her voice hoarse, raw from screaming. "She’s not gone. You’re going to save her.”

The medical team worked in a tense, silent ballet. But then they stopped. One of the medics looked up at Aurora, his face grave, and spoke the words that would change her life forever.

“Time of death—22:47.”

Aurora didn't cry. The world seemed to stop, and with it, the tears. She simply stared at her mother’s body, her breathing hitching in her throat, a small, strangled sound. Slowly, she stood, as if afraid the floor might crumble beneath her.

The foyer was a whirlwind of chaos and flashing lights. Crime scene tape was already being rolled out, a final, yellow barrier. Reporters had started to gather beyond the gates, their voices a cacophony of questions and speculation. A circus.

Aurora leaned against the staircase banister, her arms crossed tightly, jaw locked, as if holding herself together with sheer will. Her cardigan was soaked through, a cold, wet weight. Her hair clung to her cheek, matted with sweat and a film of grime.

That's when he entered. Detective Richard Grayson.

He moved through the chaos with a quiet authority, flashing his badge, commanding respect without a single word. Officers parted as he passed, a clear line drawn in the frenetic energy of the room. Then his eyes found her. And for a moment, the world slowed.

“Ms. Carmichael?” he said, his voice a low, steady anchor in the storm.

She turned to face him. Blood on her hands. Shadows under her eyes. Still standing.

“Detective,” she said, her voice a scratchy whisper.

He looked at her, his expression a mix of gentle surprise and sharp, professional assessment. "You look like you’ve been through hell."

"You should see the other guy," she replied, the words coming out flat and without emotion, a reflex.

He gave a small, sad beat of a smile. "I remember you. Gotham Prep. You were—what, a freshman when I graduated?”

“I remember you too. Still flipping off rooftops, or did you grow out of that?”

"Some things you don’t outgrow," he said softly, but his eyes were scanning her, cataloging the blood, the faint bruises, the barely-contained shock in her posture.

"Let’s get you cleaned up," he said, the command gentle but firm. "Then you can tell me what the hell happened here.”

She nodded once, a simple dip of her head. She didn't speak. She just followed, a silent, blood-stained ghost in the wreckage of her home.

The air in the interrogation room was thick with the scent of recycled air and old coffee. Fluorescent lights, buzzing with a persistent, low hum, cast a sterile glow on a metal table and two chairs. The one-way glass, a dark, reflective mirror, threw back the ghostly image of a woman who looked vaguely familiar.

Aurora Carmichael sat with a rigid, almost unsettling stillness. She was dressed in a gray GCPD sweatshirt, the scratchy cotton a stark contrast to the designer blouse she wore beneath. Her hair, once a cascade of waves, was now pulled back in a tight, severe bun. Her face, scrubbed clean by an officer's empathetic hand, revealed the stark angles of her jaw and cheekbones. But a closer look, a very close look, would reveal the faintest, almost imperceptible stain of maroon clinging to the cuticles of her perfectly manicured nails. Her hands were folded neatly on the tabletop, a picture of flawless composure. She didn't look like a victim. She looked like someone about to deliver a press briefing, every line of her body a testament to control.

The door opened and Detective Richard Grayson stepped inside, a man who moved with a calm grace that seemed impossible in this city. He carried a file under one arm, its manila folder a splash of mundane color against his dark suit. He set the file down with a soft thud, pulled out a chair, and sat across from her. He was warm, but not overly so, his movements practiced and unhurried. He clicked his pen, the sound a small, sharp punctuation in the silence.

“For the record: this is Detective Richard Grayson, GCPD Major Crimes. Interview with Aurora Carmichael regarding the homicide of Georgia Carmichael.”

He slid a bottle of water across the table, the plastic a slight whisper against the metal. "Start wherever you need to."

Aurora didn't touch the water. Her gaze was locked on him, direct and unblinking. “You want a timeline. You already have most of it.”

“Let’s make sure we have it clean,” Dick replied, his tone even.

She exhaled once, a small, controlled puff of air, then began. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion, like she was dictating an article for a financial magazine. "I left Metropolis at 9:32 after my mother called. Pulled up at the estate at 10:15. The van was already there—white panel, no plates, dented grill, chipped driver’s mirror, rear left tire worn inside edge."

Dick’s pen, which had been moving in a steady, rhythmic scratch across the page, hesitated. He looked up, his brow furrowed in a flicker of surprise.

“Front door ajar. Lights out. I was on with dispatch when I heard the scream. Gunshot followed. Entered the house. Two assailants, masked. One heavyset, bad right knee. The other lean, balanced. Military training, or ex-cop.”

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes fixed on his, an intensity in them that felt more like a challenge than a simple statement of fact. "I hit the one with the knee with a vase. He went down. The other ran. My mother’s lab door was open. That’s where I found her."

Her voice tightened, a nearly imperceptible crack in her composure, but it didn't break. “She was alive when I got there. The 911 call was still running. You’ll have it on record.”

Silence fell, heavy and expectant. Dick studied her, his expression unreadable. Most witnesses rambled, their narratives a jumble of raw emotion and fragmented details. Most broke down, sobbing or shaking or screaming. She, on the other hand, recited facts as if she were a witness to a car crash, not her mother’s murder.

“You noticed tire wear, a chipped mirror, and a limp—all while under gunfire.”

Aurora’s expression didn't change. She met his gaze directly. "I notice things."

“Most people don’t.”

“Then maybe most people aren’t looking.”

A beat. Dick tilted his head, a hint of genuine intrigue in his eyes despite himself. "Did your mother ever mention threats? Research disputes? Anyone specific who might want her dead?"

She folded her arms, a gesture of defense and defiance. "She didn’t share her work with me. Professionally? Genetics contracts, corporate rivals. Personally? She was Gotham elite. That list is longer than your case file.”

“And you?”

Aurora’s eyes, a sharp, cold shade of blue, snapped to his. The question was a low blow, and he knew it. "I haven’t lived in Gotham since I was seventeen. Whatever she was involved in, I wasn’t part of it."

A pause. The air thickened between them, a silent challenge passed from her to him.

"You’re very composed for someone who just—"

“Don’t.” Her voice was a shard of glass. It cut through his sentence, sharp and final. "Don’t mistake composure for lack of grief. My mother bled out in my arms. I’ll break later. Right now, I’m answering your questions because that’s protocol."

For the first time, Dick stopped writing. He simply looked at her, his expression warm, but searching. He was no longer just a detective and she a witness; they were two people, and he was trying to understand her. "Fair enough," he said, the words quiet, a respectful concession.

The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the lights. For the first time since he entered the room, Aurora looked away. Her eyes went to the mirrored glass, not with fear, but with a detached awareness. She knew she was being watched, analyzed, filed into some neat category. She didn’t care.

Dick finally closed his notebook, the soft leather cover a final period on the interview. “That’ll do for tonight. We’ll follow up tomorrow.”

He stood, gathering the file. Aurora leaned back in her chair, her arms still folded, her posture still flawless. "When can I leave to take my sisters home?"

Dick stopped at the door, his hand on the knob. “We’ll cross that bridge in a few minutes if you could give me a minute”

He left her there, alone in the humming room, the glass a cold barrier between her and the detectives outside. For them, she was the Carmichael heiress—fragile, victim, possible suspect unpredictable. For him… he was starting to realize she was something else entirely. He really needed to pull the 911 call and listen to it.

The air in the interrogation room was a stagnant, sterile thing. The low hum of the fluorescent lights was a constant companion, a sound that seemed to press in on everything. A metal table, cold to the touch, sat between them. On it, a bottle of water, pristine and untouched, stood as a silent testament to a thirst she refused to acknowledge.

"We're going to listen to your 911 call," Dick said, his voice quiet, his gaze steady. "Just sit tight."

He gave a small nod to the technician behind the one-way glass, and the room was suddenly filled with the ghostly echo of her own voice.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Aurora Carmichael. My mother called me from this address fifteen minutes ago, begging me to come. The house is dark, the front door is open, and there’s an unmarked van outside.”

Aurora sat rigid, her posture a fortress against the sounds. On the recording, the faint, high click of her heels on marble echoed, a sound that in this context felt like a death toll. Once. Twice. Then came the scream, a raw, piercing sound that tore through the sterile air, followed by the percussive crack of a gunshot.

Aurora flinched, the motion a barely perceptible tightening of her shoulders. Her knuckles, already white from clenching, turned a shade whiter.

“MOM?!” her recorded voice screamed, a guttural sound of pure terror and love. The sound of the phone clattering, scrambling for purchase on the tile floor, was a frantic, desperate thing.

“Ma’am? Stay outside. Officers are en route—”

The dispatcher’s voice was drowned out by Aurora’s own, now frantic and breathless. “Mom. Mom—no, stay with me—help is coming—God, please—” The wet, sickening sound of blood, the sharp intake of her breath. Then, the transformation. Her voice, shaking, but firm, pushing words out like bullets.

“There were two men. One’s down—other ran. White van outside. They were in the house. They were already in.”

“Ma’am, apply pressure to the wound. Stay on the line. Paramedics are en route.”

The final sound was a raw, choked sob that bled into her next words, desperate, yet full of a fierce, unyielding will. “She’s still alive! Just get someone here now!”

The tape cut off. Silence, thick and heavy, flooded the room, the absence of sound almost louder than the recording had been. Aurora’s hands were folded so tightly in her lap they were a single, rigid knot. She didn’t look at Dick, but stared at the wall behind him, her eyes distant, seeing a blood-soaked memory.

Dick leaned back, the weight of what he had just heard settling on him. He had been a cop for a long time, seen things, heard things, but the sheer, visceral rawness of that call was something else. His composure, the one he wore like a second skin, slipped. His jaw tightened, his pen stilled in his hand.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. He clicked the recorder off. He didn’t write. He didn’t move for a long moment, the professional mask stripped away, leaving only a man who had just witnessed a woman’s soul unravel and then knit itself back together.

“You’re cleared,” he said gently.

Aurora exhaled, a sharp, steady sound, as if she had been holding her breath since the gunshot. Slowly, she met his eyes. They weren’t broken, weren’t fragile. They were a cold, polished steel, daring him to see her as anything less. She rose from the chair, pulling her cardigan tighter around her, and headed for the door.

“So that’s it?” she asked, the words clipped and final.

“For tonight.”

She gave a curt nod and pushed open the door, stepping out of the interrogation room and into a new kind of chaos.

The GCPD lobby was a sterile, bustling nexus of fluorescent lights, buzzing phones, and the steady hum of footsteps. Aurora’s heels clicked softly on the tile as she moved toward the exit, a lone figure of sharp composure in a sea of organized pandemonium.

The glass doors burst open, and a storm swept in. Samantha Vanaver was a force of nature—a tailored suit that cost more than a year of most people’s salaries, a string of perfect pearls at her neck, and a crocodile smile so sharp it could cut glass. A Child Services officer, a young man with a folder of paperwork clutched to his chest, scurried in her wake.

“Aurora. There you are. Thank God someone responsible is here.”

Aurora stiffened, turning slowly. "The girls are fine."

“For now,” Samantha purred, her smile not reaching her cold eyes. “But Child Services has already agreed—”

"Excuse me?" Aurora’s voice was a whisper, but it cut through the din of the lobby with icy precision. The young officer shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of her gaze.

“Aurora, be reasonable. You’ve been gone for years. You can’t possibly take care of two children and rebuild a life here. They need stability, not a career woman playing guardian out of guilt.”

Aurora’s voice dropped, colder than the tile beneath her feet. "They’re not your bargaining chips. They’re my sisters."

Samantha’s smile tightened into a venomous sneer as she slid a set of papers onto the counter. “Then let’s see what a judge says.”

Before Aurora could snap back, the glass doors opened again.

Clark Kent walked in, a quiet calm radiating from him that seemed to absorb the chaos around him. His suit was rumpled, his tie askew, and the light from the lobby caught the lenses of his glasses, giving his face a gentle, almost scholarly look. His presence made the room itself seem to shift, to settle.

Right behind him was Alisa Henning, all sharp lines and sharper heels, a leather briefcase clutched in her hand. Her stride was purposeful, a lawyer on a mission.

Clark’s voice was quiet, but it carried an authority that cut through the tension. “That won’t be necessary.”

Alisa set her briefcase on the counter with a soft thud and flipped it open, pulling out a thick file that she dropped in front of the Child Services officer. “Aurora Carmichael is the named guardian. Any challenge requires due process. This midnight stunt? Won’t hold water in court.”

Aurora let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh of relief.

“You’re late,” she said to Alisa, a hint of a smile touching her lips.

Alisa grinned. “Blame your farm boy here. He insisted on driving the speed limit.”

Clark just shrugged, his expression calm and unbothered. “Safer that way.”

Aurora let out a short, breathless laugh, the sound a fleeting moment of warmth and normalcy in the exhaustion clinging to her shoulders.

Samantha, momentarily thrown off-balance, regained her sneer. “And who exactly are you?”

Clark’s polite smile was disarming. “Clark Kent. Reporter.”

Samantha scoffed, but the Child Services officer was already scanning Alisa’s papers, his eyes wide. He muttered something about needing to “review protocols” and retreated, clutching the file like a life raft.

Samantha snapped her folio shut, glaring at Aurora. "This isn’t over."

“It never is,” Aurora replied, her voice cold and steady, a match to Samantha's venom.

Samantha’s heels clicked across the tile like a retreating war drum as she stormed out, leaving a wake of bitter air behind her.

Minutes later, Aurora signed the last of Alisa’s papers, her hand trembling slightly, though she masked it well. Clark stood nearby, quiet and steady, a grounding presence in the sterile, buzzing room. He was a pillar of calm.

Across the lobby, Dick Grayson watched. He was polite, his expression unreadable, but inside, his professional composure was completely blindsided.

In the space of five minutes, he had learned that Aurora Carmichael, the fragile, guarded heiress who had just stood in an interrogation room and listened to her own breakdown, wasn’t what she seemed. She didn't just have grit—she had powerful allies. Clark Kent—yes, that Clark Kent—was here for her, like family. And she had one of the sharpest lawyers in Gotham, Alisa Henning, arriving at midnight like it was nothing.

Aurora caught his gaze before leaving with Clark and Alisa. For a moment, their eyes locked across the crowded room. Her expression was a silent, defiant statement: Don't mistake me for glass.

His said: Who the hell are you really?

Aurora broke the gaze first, turning and walking out, flanked by her people. Dick stayed behind, the file on her case in his hand, his professional curiosity now burning hotter than ever.

The air outside GCPD was a cool, biting thing, a stark contrast to the stagnant heat of the interrogation room. Aurora stepped out onto the front steps, the vast, humming expanse of Gotham stretching out before her. The city was a low, restless beast, its lights a chaotic scatter of fireflies against the dark sky. She pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders, the damp, bloodstained fabric a chilling reminder of the night's events. Her head was bowed, but her posture, even in the depths of exhaustion, remained unbroken.

Clark was already waiting at the curb, a silent, comforting presence. He leaned against a battered, nondescript sedan, its metal worn and scarred like a veteran of Gotham’s streets. He straightened when he saw her, his broad shoulders unwinding, his expression softening from professional alertness to something much more gentle.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

Aurora let out a sharp exhale that was half-laugh, half-sigh, a sound of pure, bitter fatigue. “You’re going to keep asking that until I say yes, aren’t you?”

Clark didn't answer, didn't need to. He just looked at her, his quiet gaze steady and unyielding. The silence was not a challenge, but an invitation. She could lie, she could pretend, but his look told her he would see right through it. Her shoulders softened a little, though her eyes remained dry, a well of emotion she refused to tap.

"No," she said, the word barely a whisper. "But I don’t get to fall apart yet. Dawn’s still at camp. Maddie’s going to wake up and wonder where her mom is. They need me standing, not… this.” She gestured vaguely at her blood-stained blouse, at the frayed edge of her composure, at the hollow ache in her chest.

Clark’s voice was low, laced with a calm reassurance that seeped into the air around her. “They’ve got you. And you’ve got us.”

Aurora swallowed, blinking hard, the burn behind her eyelids threatening to spill over. She forced a nod, a muscle memory of control. Her phone buzzed in her hand, the screen glowing with a new notification. LOIS on speaker. She answered, the familiar name a lifeline.

"Tell me you’re not standing outside GCPD alone," Lois's voice came through, fiery and sharp, a verbal whip-crack across the miles.

A ghost of a smile touched Aurora's lips. "Relax, Lois. Your farm boy’s on duty.”

Clark leaned in, his voice dry, a hint of his signature wit. “Hi, honey.”

"Don’t 'hi honey' me," Lois shot back. "She just walked out of a crime scene and an interrogation. She needs food. She needs sleep. And she needs to stop pretending she’s fine when she isn’t."

Aurora rolled her eyes, but a genuine affection flickered at the corner of her mouth. "You're impossible."

"Good," Lois said. "Keeps you alive."

Clark took the phone from Aurora’s hand, slipping it back into her palm as his fingers brushed hers, a brief, anchoring contact. He murmured, his voice low and for her ears alone. “She’s right, you know.”

Aurora didn't answer. She just stared out at the Gotham skyline, a jagged silhouette of spires and shadows against the night. The city held a mirror to her soul—beautiful, dangerous, and broken in a thousand different places.

From the shadows of a gargoyle perched high above, a figure loomed. Batman, a silent sentinel, his cape coiled around him, a ripple of night itself. He watched, a living shadow among the others, a familiar darkness.

Clark's eyes, even from the distance of the curb, flicked upward, the faintest narrowing of his gaze. He saw him. Their stares locked across the night, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. No words were needed. Just a brief, shared moment of understanding.

Batman stepped back into the shadows, disappearing as if he were never there, dissolving into the very fabric of the city.

Clark exhaled softly, a wisp of air in the cold night, then turned back to Aurora. She was still looking straight ahead, completely unaware of the dark guardian above.

“Let’s get you home,” he said, his voice gentle and firm, a guiding hand.

Aurora finally nodded, and for the first time since she’d arrived, she let herself lean—just slightly—against his steady presence. The three words Lois had left echoing in her head came to mind: she’s not fine. But in this moment, flanked by the two people who knew her deepest truths, she didn’t have to be. Not yet.

The air in Aurora’s Metropolis apartment was different. It was cozy, lived-in, smelling of old paper and lukewarm coffee. It was a writer’s sanctuary, cluttered but familiar, with stacks of books serving as small, precarious towers, and framed front pages from the Daily Planet decorating the walls. The hum of the city, a low, constant murmur, seeped faintly through the windows, a soundtrack to the profound stillness that had fallen over the apartment.

Aurora stood by the door, her body a lead-heavy weight of exhaustion. The keys in her hand felt impossibly heavy as she dropped them into the small ceramic dish by the door. She just stood there for a moment, her eyes tracing the contours of her own safe space, a place she had meticulously built to be a world away from Gotham. Now, Gotham had reached across the miles and shattered it.

The lock clicked again. Lois entered, her sharp eyes softened with concern, Maddie’s small body a fragile weight against her shoulder. Lois moved with a practiced grace, setting the seven-year-old down on one of the twin beds in the spare room she kept decorated for her sisters. Maddie instantly curled into the blanket Aurora had laid out days ago, blissfully unaware her world had just been irrevocably torn apart.

Lois stepped back into the hall, her arms crossed, watching Aurora silently. A fierce, protective energy radiated from her, a silent vow that nothing else would touch this family.

Aurora finally spoke, her voice raw and scraped. "Thank you."

"Don’t thank me," Lois said, her voice firm. "You’d do the same."

Aurora nodded, her throat tightening. She forced herself to move, to act. She disappeared into her bedroom, reemerging with pajamas for Maddie, her hands steady as she helped her sister into them, only trembling when she smoothed back the little girl’s hair. She stood there too long, watching Maddie breathe, a fragile reminder of everything she still had left to lose.

Lois’s voice cut through the silence, low and firm. “You don’t have to hold it together here.”

Aurora turned, her jaw set in a hard, defiant line. “If I start, I won’t stop.”

Lois didn’t argue. She just stepped closer, setting a steady hand on Aurora’s shoulder. “Then you don’t stop. Not until you’ve got nothing left. That’s what family’s for.”

Aurora looked at her, and the wall she had so fiercely built finally began to crack. For the first time since the estate, since the blood, her eyes were glassy, vulnerable, a dam about to burst. "She died in my arms, Lois," she said, her voice a hoarse, broken whisper. "I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop it."

Lois pulled her into a hug before the dam could fully break. Aurora’s face crumpled against Lois’s shoulder, the tears finally coming, a raw and violent sob bursting from her chest. She clung to Lois, her shoulders shaking, every breath a knife.

Clark, having finished his quiet movements in the kitchen, had appeared in the doorway. He set a glass of water on the coffee table, a small act of service that felt immense. He moved to the couch and sank down beside them, one arm circling both women, solid as stone, quiet as the earth.

“You did everything you could,” he said, his voice soft, steady, and utterly unshakable. “Everything. No one could have done more.”

Aurora pressed her face deeper into Lois’s shoulder, words muffled and broken. “She called me. She knew. And I was too late.”

Lois’s eyes flicked to Clark’s over Aurora’s head—fierce, helpless. Clark just tightened his hold, his silent strength steadying them both. They sat like that, three tangled pieces of family bound not by blood but by choice, a silent monument to grief and unwavering support.

Aurora sobbed until her body had nothing left, her breath finally slowing, her grip on Lois loosening. She sagged against her, exhausted, wrung out.

Lois stroked her hair, her voice soft now, a lullaby. “That’s it. Let it out, baby. We’ve got you.”

Aurora didn’t answer. But for the first time all night, she let herself be held.

Later, the apartment was quiet again, the stillness broken only by the faint hum of the city and the soft click of a door. Lois, having gently extracted herself, was in the kitchen, giving Aurora space.

Aurora sat at her desk, the space a chaotic but comforting reflection of her mind—cluttered with notebooks, pens, and her laptop. She flipped the laptop open, staring at the blank document waiting for her. The words wouldn’t come. The grief, now spent, had left her empty.

Instead of typing, her hand went to a small, worn notebook. She started piecing together the night, not in prose, but in facts. She was back in reporter mode, her grief compartmentalized into ink and bullet points: timelines, sketches of the van, the limp of the intruder, the chipped mirror. Her mind, a finely-tuned instrument of observation, cataloged everything.

A small photo on her corkboard caught her eye. It was from her high school graduation, her and Dawn smiling, and in the background, their mother, Georgia, stood, unsmiling, her expression a careful mask of distance. Aurora’s hand, now steady, ripped it down. She stared at it, at the woman she knew and the woman she clearly didn’t. Her hand trembled as a new thought, cold and sharp, took root.

“What were you into, Mom?” she whispered to the unsmiling face in the photograph.

She pinned it back on the board, harder this time, as if to make a silent promise to herself. She would find out.

Chapter Text

Aurora jolted awake, heart hammering as if she’d been running. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. The pale morning light cut across her bedroom ceiling, soft and merciless, and the familiar shapes of her Metropolis apartment slowly came into focus: the bookshelves lined with overstuffed spines, the neat rows of framed Daily Planet clippings, the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall.

It should have felt like home. Instead, everything felt wrong. Tilted. As if her entire world had been nudged half an inch out of alignment, just enough to make her dizzy.

Her body ached with exhaustion, but she knew sleep wouldn’t come back for her. She pushed herself upright and padded toward the bathroom, feet dragging across the hardwood like she was pulling herself through water. She stripped out of the clothes she hadn’t even realized she was still wearing—the blouse, the slacks, the cardigan. All of them still faintly stiff, still faintly stained with a color that would forever be seared into her memory. She stuffed them straight into a trash bag and shoved it into the bin under the sink, unwilling to ever see them again.

The shower hissed to life, steam curling upward, and Aurora stepped under the spray. She scrubbed until her skin burned red, fingernails raking across her arms as if she could scrape away the memory of her mother’s blood clinging to her hands. The water pooled pink at her feet, and her chest finally cracked. She braced both hands against the tile, bowing her head as sobs tore out of her—ragged, desperate, silent but for the water drowning them out.

It didn’t last long. It couldn’t. She forced herself to breathe, to stand straighter, to rinse away the last of the soap and the last of the weakness. By the time she shut off the water, she looked like she had it together again. Not fine. Never fine. But presentable. Functional.

That would have to be enough.

She dressed in clean jeans and a soft sweater, tied her damp hair back, and moved to the kitchen. The apartment was quiet. Lois and Clark had slipped out in the early morning, leaving a note on the counter in Lois’s quick scrawl: Check in tonight. Call if you need us sooner. Aurora folded the note once and slid it into her pocket. Just knowing it was there, that they were there, steadied her a little.

The kitchen was spotless—Lois’s doing—but Aurora busied her hands anyway. Coffee first, then breakfast. Something simple, something ordinary. Scrambled eggs, toast, butter sizzling in the pan. She moved mechanically, clinging to the rhythm of it, as if the act of making breakfast could conjure normalcy back into existence.

The shuffle of small feet broke the fragile silence.

Aurora turned just as Maddie appeared in the doorway. Her little sister’s hair was tangled, her face blotchy from sleep, and Aurora’s cardigan was still wrapped around her like armor. She looked so small standing there, so young, as if the weight of the world had suddenly crushed her back into childhood.

“Morning, bug,” Aurora said softly, forcing her voice into something warm. She set the spatula down and crouched a little, trying to make herself less towering. “Hungry?”

Maddie rubbed at her eyes with tiny fists, her voice hoarse. “Where’s Mom?”

The question carved through Aurora like a blade. She froze, the words caught in her throat, every instinct in her screaming to shield Maddie from the truth. But she couldn’t. Not anymore.

She crouched lower, bringing herself to her sister’s level. Her hands trembled as she reached out, smoothing a curl back from Maddie’s damp cheek.

“Maddie…” Her throat constricted, but she forced the words through. “Mom’s not coming back.”

Maddie tilted her head, confusion flickering across her small face. “Is she on a trip? A long one?”

“No, sweetie. She’s not on a trip.” Aurora’s voice broke, but she forced herself to keep going, to speak plainly. “She was hurt very badly. A bad men came to the house, and he… he hurt her.”

Maddie’s eyes, wide and innocent just moments ago, filled with a terrible, dawning understanding. “Is she… is she gone forever?”

Aurora’s own heart twisted. “Yes, bug. She’s gone forever. She was murdered.” The word felt like a physical weight on her tongue. " I'm so sorry Bug"

For a heartbeat, Maddie only stared at her, her features crumpling as the truth finally hit. A raw, keening sound broke free of her chest.

She launched herself into Aurora’s arms, clinging so tightly it nearly knocked her off balance. Aurora caught her, sinking to the kitchen floor with her little sister curled into her lap, Maddie’s sobs shuddering through both of them.

“But… who did it? Why did they do it?” Maddie’s questions were a desperate search for answers, for logic in a world that had none.

Aurora buried her face in Maddie’s hair, eyes squeezed shut. Her own grief pressed sharp and heavy against her ribs, but she shoved it down. She couldn’t fall apart. Not when Maddie was unraveling in her arms.

“I don’t know who did it, sweetie,” she whispered, rocking her gently. “I don’t know why. But I promise you, I will find out. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be here to take care of you. I promise.”

Maddie sobbed harder, clutching Aurora’s sweater like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

Aurora held on, whispering every reassurance she could think of, even though each one felt fragile and hollow. This was only the first time she’d have to say it. She would have to do it all over again with Dawn, and the thought nearly made her stomach turn.

But for now, all she could do was hold Maddie tighter, steady as stone, and promise a safety she prayed she could deliver.

By late morning, Aurora and Maddie were dressed and ready. Maddie hadn’t let go of her cardigan, or of Aurora’s hand, shadowing her every step through the apartment. Aurora carried her down to the waiting cab, her small body still trembling occasionally from the aftershocks of her sobs.

The drive was a quiet procession through a city that moved on, oblivious. Maddie’s head rested on Aurora’s shoulder, her breaths uneven as she drifted back toward sleep. Aurora stared out the window, her hand curled protectively around her sister’s back, her mind racing ahead to the next impossible moment.

Dawn.

She would have to do this all over again.

The thought twisted her stomach, made her palms sweat against the fabric of Maddie’s cardigan. Telling Maddie had nearly broken her. Telling Dawn, who had been at war with their mother for the past year, who had stormed out of the Carmichael estate more than once swearing she didn’t care—

Aurora tightened her hold on Maddie. She couldn’t think about it yet.

The theater camp was cruelly bright, full of voices and laughter, the sound of children singing snatches of songs under the cavernous roof of a rehearsal hall. Life, oblivious and relentless, carried on all around them.

Aurora spotted Dawn at the edge of the group, script in hand, shoulders squared with the brittle confidence that had become her armor. When she saw Aurora, her posture shifted. She froze, suspicion flashing across her features.

“What are you doing here?” Dawn demanded, her voice sharp. “Did Mom send you to drag me home again?”

Aurora’s throat constricted. She shook her head slowly. “No. Come with me, Dawn. Please.”

Dawn’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because I need to tell you something. Not here.”

There must have been something in her tone, because Dawn’s bravado wavered. She tossed her script onto a chair and followed Aurora outside, into a strip of sunlight along the sidewalk.

Maddie stirred in Aurora’s arms, waking just enough to cling tighter. Dawn frowned, her eyes flicking between her sisters, and Aurora knew she couldn’t delay it any longer.

“Dawn.” Aurora’s voice shook, but she forced herself to meet her sister’s eyes. “Mom’s gone.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and unreal. For a moment, Dawn just blinked, disbelief painting her face. Then the color drained from her cheeks.

“What—what do you mean gone?”

Aurora’s grip on Maddie tightened, as if to steady them all. “She was hurt. Last night. She didn’t… she didn’t make it.”

Dawn staggered back a step, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes went wide, shimmering. “No. No, that’s—” Her voice cracked, sharp with panic. “That’s not—she can’t—”

And then the bravado shattered. Her face crumpled, and she doubled over with a sob that sounded torn straight from her chest.

“My last words to her—” she choked, her fists clutching at her own hair. “Aurora, I told her I hated her. I—oh my God—I told her I hated her and now she’s dead and I can’t—”

Aurora set Maddie down gently, letting her cling to her leg as she reached for Dawn. Her little sister resisted for half a second, shoulders stiff with shame, before collapsing into Aurora’s arms, burying her face against her chest.

Aurora held her tightly, pressing her cheek against Dawn’s hair, whispering through the lump in her throat. “No. No, listen to me. I could never hate you. Not ever. And Mom—she knew you loved her. One fight doesn’t change that. She knew.”

Dawn sobbed harder, words muffled. “But what if she didn’t—what if—”

Aurora smoothed her hair back, her own tears stinging hot at the corners of her eyes. “She did. And even if you can’t believe that right now—you believe me. I love you, Dawn. I will always love you. Nothing you say or do will ever change that.”

Maddie, crying quietly now, wrapped her arms around both of them, as if she could stitch the three of them together by force alone. Aurora tightened her hold, anchoring them all, her voice steady even as her insides shook apart.

“We still have each other,” she whispered fiercely. “And I’m not letting anything take that away.”

The cab ride home was silent. Maddie sat plastered against Aurora’s side, clutching her cardigan like it might dissolve if she loosened her grip. Dawn stared out the opposite window, her reflection pale and rigid in the glass, eyes red but dry now—locked tight, as if crying again might make her shatter completely.

Aurora sat between them, one arm curled protectively around Maddie, her free hand braced on the seat, aching to reach for Dawn but knowing the gesture might only push her further away. Her chest felt split in two: one half breaking for Maddie’s innocent, open grief, the other for Dawn’s silent torment.

When they finally stepped into the apartment, the stillness pressed down like a weight. The faint smell of coffee lingered from that morning, and the sunlight pouring through the windows made everything too bright, too harsh, as if the world had the audacity to keep turning.

Maddie followed Aurora everywhere, her small footsteps quick and desperate. She wouldn’t let go, not even when Aurora tried to set her up on the couch with a blanket and hot chocolate. “Stay,” Maddie whispered, her voice hoarse, tugging at her sleeve. Aurora sat down without hesitation, pulling her into her lap.

Across the room, Dawn stood stiff and restless. She shrugged off her jacket, tossed it onto a chair, and paced with clipped steps. “So what now?” she demanded suddenly, her voice sharper than she meant. “We just… what? Pretend everything’s normal? Go back to school like nothing happened?”

Aurora’s heart ached. She knew what Dawn was doing. Building a wall, a fortress of anger to protect herself from the flood of pain. “We don’t pretend,” Aurora said, her voice calm but steady. “There is no going back to normal. The world changed for us last night. But we can take it one step at a time.”

Dawn flinched, arms crossing over her chest, her chin tucked down like she was trying to hold herself together. “You don’t get it,” she whispered. “I can’t—if I stop moving, I’ll fall apart.”

“It’s okay to fall apart,” Aurora said softly, her gaze unwavering. “There’s no right or wrong way to grieve. And you don’t have to do it alone. You don’t have to be okay. There’s no expectation for you to forget, to be a certain way. If you need to scream, scream. If you need to break something, find something to break. But don’t shut me out. Don’t shut us out.”

Dawn’s eyes flicked to Maddie, curled into Aurora’s lap, and something in her gaze cracked, guilt written plain. She dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, curling her knees up, hugging them tight. She didn’t say anything else.

Aurora smoothed Maddie’s hair, whispering soft reassurances even as her own eyes burned. The weight of their grief pressed against her from both sides, so different and yet so heavy. Maddie clung like she might never let go. Dawn withdrew into silence, locking her pain away. And Aurora sat in the middle, torn but unyielding, holding them both together by sheer force of will. She would be their safe place, no matter how many times they fell. They would get back up. Together.

The apartment was a sanctuary of hushed grief, cloaked in the weight of midnight. The city's low hum was a distant rumor, muted by the thick walls. Maddie had finally cried herself to sleep in Aurora’s bed, her small hand tangled in the sleeve of Aurora’s cardigan, a small anchor in her dreams. Dawn had retreated to the spare room, her music turned low, a thin, constant wall of sound to keep her thoughts at bay.

Aurora sat at her desk, the soft glow of her laptop screen casting a pale, clinical light across her tired features. Her face, devoid of makeup, showed the dark smudges under her eyes, the hollows of a profound exhaustion. Her notebooks were stacked haphazardly nearby, their pages filled with a frantic jumble of timelines, crude sketches of the van and the assailants, fragments of observations she'd jotted down before collapsing into sleep. But tonight wasn’t about the case. Tonight was about the future, about the hard, unyielding reality of what came next.

The resignation letter stared back at her, its words clinical and hollow: "Due to unforeseen family circumstances, I can no longer maintain my post at The Daily Planet. Effective immediately..." Each word felt like a chisel, carving away at a piece of herself—the part of her that had fought so hard to escape Gotham, to build a life on her own terms, to prove she was more than just a Carmichael heiress. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

Her phone buzzed, a sharp intrusion into the silence. Lois’s name lit up the screen, a beacon of sharp, loving concern. Aurora hesitated for a moment, steeling herself, then answered, pressing the phone to her ear.

“Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing,” Lois’s voice came through, sharp but not unkind, her tone a mirror of her quick, no-nonsense mind.

Aurora let out a dry, humorless laugh. “What, sitting in my pajamas drafting my career obituary?”

There was a pause, then a sigh—that particular brand of Lois exasperation that carried equal parts love and irritation. “Aurora, honey, don’t you dare throw away everything you’ve built.”

Aurora leaned back in her chair, rubbing at her temples, her hand a frantic, desperate motion. “Lois, I don’t have a choice. The girls… they need me. Maddie can’t sleep without me in the room. Dawn won’t even look me in the eye. They’ve lost everything, and if I keep chasing stories across the world, then they lose me too. I can’t do that to them.”

“Then don’t,” Lois said simply. “Don’t leave them. Take the time you need. Step back. Breathe. But don’t confuse a pause with an ending.”

Aurora’s throat tightened, a lump of guilt and grief. “It feels like the same thing.”

“It’s not,” Lois countered firmly. “You are allowed to be more than one thing, Aurora. You can be their safe place and still keep hold of your own dreams. You’re young. You’ve got time. This doesn’t have to be the end of your story.”

Aurora’s gaze drifted to the framed Daily Planet front pages on her wall—articles with her byline, moments when she’d chased the truth into war zones and shadows and come out alive. Could she really let that go?

Lois’s voice softened, losing its sharp edges, becoming a low, heartfelt plea. “Listen to me. You are not alone in this. You are family. Clark and I—we’re here, whenever you need us. If you need time, take it. If you need help, ask for it. Don’t put yourself in a cage when you’ve already worked so damn hard to be free.”

Aurora closed her eyes, the words hitting something deep. Her chest ached, heavy with a grief she couldn’t fully express, but Lois’s steady voice carved out a small space to breathe, a sliver of hope in the darkness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, a whisper of a question. “So you’re saying I should hit save draft instead of send?”

Lois chuckled, warm and knowing. “Exactly. Let it sit. The world isn’t going anywhere—not without you, at least.”

Aurora let out a shaky laugh of her own, a sound of relief and exhaustion, her hand hovering over the delete key. The resignation email vanished from the screen, replaced with an empty document. She sat there for a long moment, staring at the blinking cursor, not accusing this time but waiting. She wasn’t ready to write the next chapter yet. But maybe… maybe she didn’t have to end the last one either.

“Thank you, Lois.”

“Always, kid,” Lois replied, her voice a warm blanket of comfort. “Now go get some sleep. You’ve got two little shadows who are going to need you bright and early.”

Aurora glanced toward the bedroom where Maddie slept, a small knot of blankets and fear, then toward the closed door shielding Dawn. Her heart ached, but there was steel in it, too. “I know.”

When the call ended, the apartment was silent again, but the quiet was different now. The cursor still blinked on her screen, no longer a symbol of an ending but a silent invitation to a new beginning.

Three days blurred past in a haze of paperwork and quiet grief. The apartment had become a small, controlled fortress, the outside world a threat they could only face in small doses.

Aurora spent her mornings at the desk, her laptop open, Carmichael account files spread across the table in precarious stacks. Her lawyer, Alisa Henning, a woman all sharp lines and efficient grace, had already started the process—shifting guardianship officially to Aurora, arranging trustees for the charity funds, and stabilizing the board of her mother’s small but profitable biotech firm. Aurora had access to more money than she ever wanted, more than she would ever need, but it didn’t feel like security. It felt like chains, a gilded cage she had to step back into to protect her sisters.

Every signature she added, every contract she read, reminded her: she was the last Carmichael standing between her sisters and the vultures circling.

She was halfway through reading a clause about guardianship stipulations—Dawn and Maddie were legally hers to care for until adulthood, a responsibility that looked sterile and clean on paper but weighed like iron in her chest—when her phone buzzed across the table.

Detective Richard Grayson.

Aurora considered ignoring it, just for a breath longer, then answered. “Detective.”

“Ms. Carmichael,” his voice came through low and steady, not unfriendly but always carrying that clipped precision of someone who’d trained himself not to waste words. “I wanted to let you know the estate has been cleared. GCPD is finished with the scene. You and your sisters are free to return whenever you’re ready.”

Aurora’s grip on the phone tightened. Home, he meant. But the word didn’t feel like it fit anymore. “Thank you. Has there been any progress? Any leads?”

A pause. She imagined him leaning back in his chair, his jaw tightening in the silence. “Not yet. The suspect we had in custody… that line went cold.”

Aurora’s stomach twisted. She didn’t ask for details. She knew what "went cold" meant in Gotham. “And my mother’s body?”

“That’s still with the coroner. I can’t give you a timeline on release yet.”

Her free hand curled into a fist on the desk. She wanted to scream, but her voice came out calm, sharp-edged. “So what you’re telling me, Detective, is you’ve cleared out her house but you can’t tell me when I’ll be able to bury her?”

Silence. When he finally spoke, his tone was softer, but steady. “I’m sorry. I know that isn’t what you want to hear. But I also need to set up interviews with your sisters. Dawn and Madeline.”

Aurora shot up from her chair, her body a coiled spring of protectiveness, pacing across the room, her jaw set hard. “Absolutely not.”

Grayson didn’t bristle, didn’t argue. “Aurora—”

“They’ve already been through enough. Maddie can barely sleep without crying herself hoarse. Dawn’s barely speaking to anyone. What exactly do you think they know that I don’t? Neither of them was there.”

“I understand,” Grayson replied, still maddeningly calm. “But sometimes kids notice things adults miss. A phone call, a change in behavior, something their mom said to them but not to you. It doesn’t have to be now. But I do need to talk to them.”

Aurora’s hand pressed against the back of her chair, grounding herself. “Then it will be on my terms. Neutral ground. Not my home, not the estate, and definitely not a police station. They’ve had enough trauma without being marched into an interrogation room.”

There was the faintest sound on the other end of the line—the click of a pen, maybe, or the faint shift of a chair. Then Grayson said, “Fair enough. You name the place, and I’ll make it work.”

Aurora exhaled slowly, some of her sharpness bleeding into exhaustion. “Good. I’ll let you know when they’re ready.”

There was a pause, long enough she thought the call was ending. Then his voice came again, quieter this time. “I know you’re trying to protect them. Just… remember, you don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

Aurora’s throat tightened. She didn’t respond, couldn’t. She simply ended the call and set the phone facedown on the table.

The apartment was silent except for the faint sound of Dawn’s music leaking through the wall and the soft rhythm of Maddie’s footsteps padding down the hall. Aurora straightened, pressing her palms against the desk until her shaking stopped. If Grayson thought she was going to let anyone drag her sisters through more pain, he was in for a fight. 

The quiet of the apartment was a living thing, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the faint, distant music bleeding through the walls from Dawn’s room. Aurora sat at her desk, long after her call with Detective Grayson, the papers spread across the polished surface like puzzle pieces that refused to fit. The Carmichael accounts. Guardianship papers. Alisa’s neat legal notes. None of it helped. None of it explained why her mother was dead in a pool of blood.

Her eyes burned, the exhaustion a physical weight behind them. She shoved back from the desk, the legs of her chair scraping against the hardwood, and drifted toward the bookshelf. Her fingers, long and elegant but now trembling slightly, skimmed the spines until they found the battered, worn cover of The Secret Garden.

It had been her mother's favorite book to read to her as a child, a memory so incongruous with their later life that it felt like a dream. The irony wasn’t lost on Aurora now—Georgia Carmichael had always kept her own "garden" locked tight, a secret world of intellect and ambition that Aurora was never allowed to enter. She pulled the book free, thumbing through the pages, chasing the faint comfort of a forgotten memory.

Then something slipped out.

A yellowed envelope. Her name, Aurora, written in her mother's precise, angular script. The sight of it sent a jolt through her, a small, electric shock of foreboding. Her pulse stuttered. She sat down hard on the couch and tore it open, the sound of the paper ripping like a gunshot in the silent room.

My dearest Aurora,

If you are reading this, then I have failed. And I fear I may have left you with more questions than answers.

I was not the mother you deserved. My choices—my obsessions—kept me from you. For that, I will never forgive myself. But know this: I loved you. Fiercely. Proudly. Always.

Enclosed is a code to a lockbox at Metropolis Trust. Inside you will find the culmination of my life’s work: Project Genesis.

It is bound to you, Aurora. The coding is tied to your DNA. No one else can access it, no one else can finish it. Which means they will come for you.

Beware the Owls. They have watched Gotham for centuries. Their rhyme still whispers the truth:

“Hush now, little talon, rest without a sound. The Court is watching always, watching underground.”

They are not myth. They are not story. They are power, hidden in shadow. And I fear my work has drawn their attention.

Protect yourself. Protect your sisters. And if you can… forgive me.

With love, Mom

The page trembled in Aurora’s hands. Owls. The Court. The words were a nonsensical riddle, a whispered legend from the shadows of Gotham’s history. Her mother had been a scientist, not a poet. Georgia Carmichael didn’t write in riddles unless it mattered.

Aurora shoved the letter back into its envelope, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and adrenaline. Every instinct screamed at her to throw on her coat, head to Metropolis Trust, rip open the lockbox, and find out what Genesis was.

Instead, she grabbed her phone. Her hand shook as she found the contact.

“Call Lois,” she muttered, pressing the button with a shaky thumb.

The line picked up after one ring. “Aurora?” Lois’s voice was brisk, alert, like she’d been expecting this. “What’s wrong?”

Aurora closed her eyes, clutching the letter to her chest. “She left me something. A… letter. And a code for a lockbox in Metropolis. Lois—she mentioned the Court of Owls.”

There was a sharp inhale on the other end of the line. For once, Lois Lane didn’t immediately have words. The silence was more terrifying than any scream. Finally: “Okay. First things first—you do not go alone. Promise me that.”

Aurora let out a shaky, half-hysterical laugh. “You think I was about to?”

“I know you,” Lois said, her tone softening with a familiar, loving exasperation. “Of course you were about to. But listen, Aurora—the Court of Owls is… Gotham’s boogeyman. People whisper about them. People disappear because of them. If your mother believed they were involved, then this is bigger than you realize.”

Aurora pressed her free hand to her forehead, the weight of it all threatening to crush her. “She tied it to me, Lois. Genesis—whatever it is—it’s locked to my DNA. She said people will come for me.”

On the other end, Lois was already shifting gears, her reporter’s mind sharpening like a blade. “Then we don’t give them the chance. Tomorrow, Clark and I will go with you to the bank. We’ll open the box together. You are not doing this on your own, do you understand?”

Aurora’s throat tightened. She hated the tremor in her own voice. “Lois… she was scared. I could read it in her words and hear based on her last phone call. And she—she actually said she was proud of me.”

There was silence, then Lois’s voice, steady as steel, a balm to Aurora’s raw nerves. “Then hold onto that. Let it remind you that you’re not alone in this. You’ve got your sisters. You’ve got us. We’ll figure this out together. But until then? You keep your head down and your doors locked.”

Aurora exhaled, her pulse finally beginning to slow. “Okay. Together.”

She hung up, pressing the phone to her chest, then looked down at the letter one last time. The Court of Owls. Project Genesis. Her mother’s voice telling her she was the key. For the first time in years, Aurora Carmichael was truly afraid. But she also knew one thing with absolute certainty: whatever the Owls were, whatever Genesis meant, she would not run.

She folded the letter, slid it back into the book, and whispered into the quiet of the apartment, a solemn vow to the sleeping girls down the hall: “I’ll keep them safe. I’ll keep us safe.”

Lois’s house in Metropolis was the opposite of Gotham’s Carmichael estate in every conceivable way. Where the Carmichael home was cold marble and sharp angles, the Kent apartment was warm wood floors and comfortable, overstuffed furniture. Sunlight streamed through wide windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, and the faint, comforting smell of coffee and ink always lingered. It was the smell of family. Of safety.

Maddie hadn’t let go of Jon Kent since the moment they walked in. The two seven-year-olds, one so small and fragile, the other so full of an easy, unassuming kindness, had melted together on the living room rug. Maddie was tucked against him like she’d always belonged there, her cardigan still wrapped tight around her. Jon, a miniature version of his father with his dark hair and bright eyes, showed her his comic collection, his crayons, his LEGOs—his whole little universe—and Maddie, quiet and fragile as she’d been, managed a small, genuine laugh.

Dawn, meanwhile, stood further back, her headphones around her neck, clutching her music notebook and sketchpad to her chest like armor. Lois, a blur of motion and purpose in her jeans and t-shirt, guided her gently toward the couch, her arm a warm presence against Dawn’s back. She pointed out the upright piano in the corner, the shelves stacked with sketchbooks that had clearly belonged to her. Dawn’s eyes flickered with something close to relief, the recognition of a fellow artist, a kindred spirit.

Aurora crouched in front of both of them, her heart aching with a mixture of love and fear. She smoothed back Maddie’s hair, touched Dawn’s arm, her voice low and steady. “I’ll be back soon. I just have to take care of something.”

Maddie’s face scrunched immediately. “No—” she clung tighter to Jon, her voice muffled in his shirt, her fear a palpable thing.

“I’ll be back,” Aurora repeated firmly, her voice steady even as her chest ached. “With Clark. You’re safe here. Lois will be with you the whole time. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

Dawn’s gaze searched her face, wary and filled with the unspoken fear of abandonment. “You promise?”

Aurora cupped her cheek, her thumb a gentle anchor against her sister’s skin. “I swear.”

Only once she was sure they were settled—Lois watching with that steel-eyed protectiveness that said she’d guard these girls as if they were her own—did Aurora follow Clark out the door.

The Kent sedan was old, a little scuffed around the edges, but it drove smooth. Clark handled it like he handled everything: steady, calm, deceptively ordinary. Aurora sat with the envelope in her lap, staring at the code written in her mother’s hand, the paper a brittle, fragile thing.

“You don’t have to come,” she said finally, the words a strained whisper.

Clark’s mouth ticked upward in a mild smile, the familiar lines around his eyes crinkling. “Yes, I do.”

She huffed, a breath of frustration. “You know I’m not helpless.”

“I know,” Clark agreed, his tone warm and reassuring. “But you also don’t get to do this alone. So, ground rules: you stay close. No detours. And if I say we need to leave, we leave. No arguments.”

Aurora arched a brow, a flicker of her usual wit returning. “You sound like Lois.”

That earned a soft laugh from Clark, a rumble in his chest. “Occupational hazard.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes narrowing for just a fraction of a second, scanning rooftops, street corners, every passing car. She knew that look. He wasn’t just checking traffic—he was watching.

Aurora didn’t comment. She never did. Clark’s secret was one she carried quietly, fiercely, the way she carried her sisters’ safety. Some truths weren’t meant for the world.

Metropolis Trust was a monument to wealth and power, a cavernous and cold space of glass and steel. The air, thick with the scent of money and old paper, was as sterile as a lab. The vault attendant, a man with a face as bland as his uniform, barely looked at her as Aurora gave the code, her voice steady though her pulse thundered in her ears.

The lockbox was heavy, metallic, its edges biting against her palms. Inside, a small flash drive labeled GENESIS pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible light. And next to it, her mother’s handwriting on a folded scrap of paper: “Only you can open this.”

Aurora’s breath hitched. She snapped the box shut and slid it into her bag. 

“Home internet is traceable,” Aurora said as they walked, the city's noise a jarring cacophony around them. “And I’m not taking this to the Planet. Too many eyes.”

Clark didn’t argue. He just followed her lead to a tucked-away cyber café, the kind of place with humming desktops and teenagers playing online games at all hours. Aurora, in her simple jeans and sweater, was a sharp contrast to the chaotic, vibrant energy of the room. She picked the furthest corner, plugged in her own encrypted drive, and booted her laptop.

The flash drive opened instantly. Folders. Data sets. Genetic codes scrolling like an endless river. Each document was dense with genetic coding, cross-references, biochemical diagrams—and Aurora moved through it like she’d been born for this. Her eyes, usually so expressive, were now quick and sharp, pulling patterns from the chaos. She clicked through file after file, hands steady, gaze sharp, as if her mother had only just stepped out of the lab and left her notes for Aurora to pick up.

Clark frowned, shifting closer. “You… you understand all this?”

Aurora’s mouth twitched, humorless. “She raised me to.” Her eyes stayed fixed on the screen, a distant look in them. “Every night, instead of bedtime stories, it was formulas. Chemical structures. Patterns. By the time I was eight, I could sequence base pairs faster than my tutor. By twelve, I was building models with her post-docs.” Her voice dropped, bitter. “And she thought it was love.”

Aurora hesitated. Her finger hovered over the mouse. A breath shuddered out of her, and she double-clicked the file labeled For Aurora.

Her mother’s face filled the screen. Not the hard, distant woman she remembered, but pale, trembling. Her hair was loose, her voice uneven.

“Aurora… Rory, my little bird.”

Aurora’s chest tightened at the sound of the name, a childhood ghost.

“If you are watching this, then I failed. And I need you to know the truth, no matter how much it hurts.” Georgia swallowed, her eyes wet, her vulnerability a shock to Aurora.

“You’ve always wondered, haven’t you? Why you never got sick. Why you healed faster than the other children. Why your mind could absorb things like a sponge, faster than even I could teach you.”

Aurora’s breath caught. Her nails bit into her palms.

“It wasn’t chance. It wasn’t luck. It was me. When you were born, you were so small. So sickly. And I—I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t lose you. I had already buried your father. I couldn’t bury my child. So I… I made a deal. I created something. A serum. They called it Project Genesis.” Her mother’s voice cracked, her face breaking. “It rewrote your DNA. And you survived. You thrived. You were my first success, Rory. My greatest creation.”

Aurora’s breath ripped out of her chest in a jagged sound. Her vision tunneled, black spots crowding the edges. Her mother’s image blurred as tears finally spilled, hot and stinging.

“I know what I did was monstrous. I know you’ll never forgive me. But I wasn’t trying to make a project. I was trying to save my daughter. And you became everything I couldn’t have dreamed of. Brave. Brilliant. More than I ever deserved.” Georgia’s gaze flicked off-screen, frantic, before returning. “The Owls will come for you now. Because Genesis is written in your blood. Only you can finish what I began. Only you can protect it. If you want the next piece, follow the riddle. ‘Feathers fall where secrets sleep, beneath the watch of those who weep.’ You’ll know where to look. Only you ever could.”

The screen froze on her mother’s face—a flicker of pride, regret, and love—before it went black.

Aurora’s hands tore away from the laptop as though it burned her. She stumbled back in the booth, chest heaving, breath sharp and shallow. Her stomach clenched, the familiar, bitter taste of bile rising in her throat. She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to vomit. No. Not here. Not now. She could not lose control. She had just found her sisters. They needed her.

“No. No, no, no—” Her voice cracked, a sound of broken glass in her throat. “She—she didn’t—she couldn’t—”

Her hands flew to her arms, gripping hard, nails digging crescents into her skin. Her chest convulsed like it was trying to cave in on itself. Clark was there instantly, a steadying hand on her shoulder, his voice low, unshakable. “Aurora. Breathe. Right here. With me.”

Her breath hitched, jagged. “She—she rewrote me, Clark. I’m not—I’m not even—”

“You’re you,” he said firmly. His hand squeezed gently, grounding. “You’ve always been you. You are not a project. You are not a file. You are Rory. Aurora Carmichael. The girl who worked three jobs to put herself through school. The woman who saved kids when no one else would. The sister who’s holding her family together when the world fell apart.”

Her chest was still rising too fast, her throat tight, but her eyes locked on his. His calm gaze anchored her. “This doesn’t change who you are,” Clark said softly, steady as the earth. “Not to me. Not to Lois. Not to your sisters. You’re not alone in this. Not ever.”

Her hands trembled, still clutched to her arms, but the fight in her breathing slowed. The panic was a cold, sharp thing in her gut, but she forced herself to meet it. She would not let it consume her. She had already broken down once today. That was enough. She would be an iron maiden, if she had to, to keep her sisters safe. She dropped her head into her hands, but the tears stayed locked behind her eyes, the sobs a silent, desperate tremor in her shoulders. Clark just stayed there—solid, steady, silent. Not Superman. Not a reporter. Just Clark.

Aurora sat rigid, breath locked in her chest. Her eyes burned, but no tears fell. Slowly, she closed the video, her hand trembling only once before steadying again.

Clark put a hand on her wrist. “Rory. We’ll keep you safe. I swear it.”

Aurora’s eyes snapped to his, sharp and unyielding. “You can’t promise that. Not with them. Not with something written in my DNA.”

His jaw set, gaze firm. “I may not be everywhere at once. But I’ll protect you. You and the girls. Always.”

She stared at him, searching—then leaned back, whispering: “This ‘contact’ of yours. Can he be trusted? Or is this just another way of painting a target on us?” Clark’s silence was answer enough. Aurora’s fingers slid a second USB into her laptop, hidden beneath the table. While Clark watched the screen replay, she quietly copied every file, making her own insurance.

Her breathing had slowed, but every inhale still felt like glass shards in her chest. The video message replayed in her head, her mother’s words ricocheting in a cruel loop.

Project Genesis.

Altered DNA.

A life engineered.

She scrubbed her face with trembling hands, trying to wipe away the truth. And then, something shifted. A prickle crawled up the back of her neck, that instinct honed after years in war zones and alleys where shadows weren’t empty. Her eyes flicked up, casual at first, but her reporter’s brain catalogued the scene in a heartbeat.

Near the back corner: a young man in a blue hoodie and a ball cap pulled low, head bent toward a younger teen with sharp features, dark hair cut to his chin. They looked unremarkable to anyone else. But Aurora had spent her life watching people.

The younger one’s posture was too precise for a kid. Controlled chaos. Hands steady even while pretending to fidget with a pen. His sleeves rolled just enough to give freedom of movement, not a fashion choice. The older one, even slouched, couldn’t hide the way his body moved. Shoulders loose but balanced, the set of his legs screaming years of acrobatics. The casual drape was camouflage, but the rhythm of his stride as he shifted in his seat… she knew it.

Aurora’s stomach dropped.

Aurora sat hunched over her laptop, the glow of the screen painting her pale as the last of her mother’s words echoed in her skull. Project Genesis. Altered DNA. A serum in her blood that shouldn’t exist.

Her breathing was too shallow. She pressed her palms to her eyes until sparks danced, willing herself not to come apart again. Clark sat steady at her side, quiet, giving her the space to reel.

Then something shifted.

That old itch between her shoulder blades—the one she’d learned to trust in war zones and alley stakeouts—crawled to life. She wasn’t alone.

Her eyes flicked across the café, casual, scanning. A couple of college kids buried in their phones. A barista scrubbing a countertop. And then—

The pair in the back.

Two men, trying hard to look like they belonged. Hoodie and ball cap on one, the kind of outfit meant to be invisible. The other younger, sharp-boned, raven hair falling into his eyes. They weren’t acting wrong, exactly. But Aurora had made a career out of noticing the details no one else bothered with.

The one in the hoodie—broad-shouldered, posture too upright for someone slouched that low. Even from across the room, she could see how his clothes didn’t quite hide the build underneath: strong, balanced, athletic. That wasn’t a desk job body.

The kid with him—far too composed for his age. His pen tapped in even rhythms, not absentminded fidgeting. His eyes moved constantly, cataloguing the room the same way she was.

Aurora’s stomach went cold.

She leaned in slightly toward Clark, voice a whisper. “Why the hell is Timothy Drake-Wayne, co-CEO of Wayne Industries, sitting in a hole-in-the-wall café dressed like he’s hiding from paparazzi?” Her eyes cut back, narrowing. “And unless I’m losing it—that’s Detective Grayson with him.”

Clark’s expression didn’t change much, but she caught the faintest tightening at the corner of his jaw. His calm smirk was all surface. His shoulders had gone just a little too square.

Across the room, as if on cue, both men shifted. The kid froze when he realized she was looking straight at them. Grayson glanced up, blue eyes locking with hers. He didn’t move for a beat. Then he exhaled something like a curse and straightened, half-ready to walk, half-ready to brazen it out.

Aurora looked back at Clark, keeping her face neutral even as her pulse jumped. Her voice dropped to a dry murmur.

“This is going to be one of those things I’m better off not knowing, isn’t it?”

Clark didn’t look at her. Didn’t even blink. Just sipped his coffee like the most boring man in the world.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Absolutely yes.”

But when Aurora dared another glance at the corner, she found Richard Grayson still watching her. Not just watching. Studying.

Chapter Text

Aurora didn’t break eye contact when Grayson straightened. Her spine—a line of defiance—matched his as she tilted her head, studying him like she might a suspicious source trying too hard to sell a story. Richard Grayson, Gotham’s golden boy, stood. Broad shoulders under a simple black sweater, all contained power and dancer’s grace. He moved with a predator’s ease, casual only in appearance.

The kid beside him—Timothy Drake-Wayne, of all people—gave the faintest shake of his head, but Dick ignored it. He crossed the café in that loose stride that was both calculated and disarming.

Aurora closed her laptop slowly. The lid clicked shut like a holstered weapon. She met him head-on, chin tilted just enough to say: if you want a fight, you won’t get me blinking first.

“Ms. Carmichael.” Dick’s voice was smooth, polite, practiced. Gotham’s golden boy smile flickered across his mouth, a charming mask Aurora recognized instantly as prelude to a lie. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Aurora arched a brow, her mouth curving into a humorless line. “Really? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a lot like you’ve been expecting me.”

Across from her, Clark coughed into his coffee, badly disguising a laugh.

Dick’s grin didn’t falter. She’s quicker than I thought. “Fair. But if you’d like, I can pretend I was just here for the lattes. Supposedly the best in Metropolis.”

“Supposedly,” Aurora echoed, voice flat as slate. “Though if you wanted to blend in, Detective, you should’ve ordered something complicated. No one your size drinks plain black coffee unless they’re trying to look serious.”

The briefest flash of surprise flickered in his eyes. He masked it fast, but Aurora caught it. Puzzle pieces rearranging themselves. The playboy hat was off; the detective hat was on.

“Funny,” he said evenly, sliding into the calm cadence of interrogation. “I was going to ask how long you’ve been feeling watched. And what exactly you plan to do with the information you’ve… stumbled into.”

Aurora leaned back, arms folding across her chest. Her expression didn’t waver. “I was going to ask what business Gotham detectives have trailing a grieving family across state lines. But by all means—let’s talk about my plans. You first.”

Tim smirked faintly over his notebook. Clark’s mouth curved almost imperceptibly. Aurora was toe-to-toe with one of Bruce Wayne’s most impossible sons, and she wasn’t giving an inch.

Dick tilted his head, studying her like evidence he couldn’t quite classify. Then, with the whiplash ease that made him dangerous, he let the detective fade and leaned forward, elbows on the table, dimples back in play.

“You know,” he murmured, smooth again, voice dipping low, “most people in Gotham would kill for this much of my attention. And you—well. You don’t seem impressed.”

Aurora’s mouth curved sharp. “Oh, I’m impressed. I just have higher standards than a smile and a jawline.”

Clark’s shoulders shook with contained laughter. Tim outright laughed, quick and startled, earning a glare from Dick.

The smirk stayed, but the detective’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “You’ve got bite. Dangerous combination with brains like yours.”

Aurora tilted her head, unblinking. “You can stop the profiling, Detective. I’ve been interviewed by scarier men than you in rooms a hell of a lot darker.”

For the first time, his mask flickered. Curiosity. Respect. Surprise. And Aurora—Aurora just picked up her coffee like the whole exchange hadn’t cost her a drop of energy.

Clark, watching, hid a proud smile behind his mug. She’s standing. Told Bruce she would. He never listens.

Aurora set her mug down with a deliberate tap, eyes never leaving Dick. “Alright, Grayson. You’re not here for lattes, and you’re not here to play awkward fanboy. So why don’t you tell me why Gotham’s golden boy is really following me?”

Dick didn’t flinch, but his grin faltered a shade. Detective mode snapped back into place.

“You know why. Your mother’s case. It’s still open. I need everything you’ve got, and I need to talk to your sisters.”

Aurora leaned back, arms tight. Her voice cooled. “They’re children. Traumatized. Neither of them was in that house when it happened. What exactly do you think they can give you, other than more nightmares?”

His jaw flexed. “Sometimes kids notice things adults don’t. Things they don’t even realize are important until someone asks the right question.”

Aurora held his stare, the café fading around them. “No. You don’t bulldoze grieving girls because you’re desperate for a lead. Try again.”

Clark sipped, silent. She’s not just sparring—she’s drawing lines Bruce’s boys have never had turned back on them.

Dick exhaled, rubbed a hand over his neck, and tried charm again like slipping on armor. “Okay. Fine. Then tell me why you’re here. Why Metropolis, why this café, why now? If you’re chasing something—if you’ve got a lead—you’re in over your head. And I can’t—” He caught himself, words tangling before he straightened. “I don’t want to pull your body out of another crime scene.”

Aurora’s laugh was brittle. “Over my head? You don’t even know the half of it. Trust me, Detective—what I’ve got? It’s above your pay grade. And I don’t trust you with it.”

That hit. His smile stayed, but his eyes narrowed. She’s dangerous. Not fragile. Not a victim. Dangerous.

“You’d better decide what you’re going to do with it. Sitting on information in Gotham is how people die.”

Aurora’s reply was flat, clinical. “So is trusting the wrong person.”

They stared, two walls colliding, neither giving ground.

Clark, behind his mug, was grinning now. Watching Bruce’s heir and Lois’s protégé lock horns was better than any negotiation he’d ever sat through.

Then Dick leaned forward, voice dropping low, the golden boy gone. “You know I could bring you in right now. Withholding evidence in an active homicide investigation is obstruction. At best. At worst, it’s aiding whoever killed your mother.”

Aurora didn’t flinch. “The files I have are medical history. Private. Protected. HIPAA. Not evidence. Not admissible. Try to subpoena them, and you’ll drown in motions from Alisa Henning. All further contact goes through her office. Not me.”

That landed. His mask cracked—frustration flashing raw. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a razor smile.

“You forget, I grew up here. I know exactly how Gotham’s elite play. And I just checkmated you in three moves.”

Clark bit back a laugh.

Aurora slid her laptop into her bag, every motion precise. “One more thing, Detective. As guardian of Dawn and Maddie, if I even suspect you’re sniffing around them without my consent? I’ll bury you in enough legal injunctions to have you recused before you can blink. That’s not a threat. That’s a guarantee.”

She stood, chin lifted, eyes cool and unyielding. “Next time you want to play cop and try to rattle me? Bring something better to the board. Because this round? You lost.”

Her heels clicked out the door. Silence followed.

Dick sat tight-jawed, watching her leave. Fury curled sharp in his chest—but beneath it, something gnawed hotter: obsession. She’s not scared. Not fragile. Smart. Dangerous. And I can’t stop thinking about her.

Clark set down his mug with deliberate care. “Richard,” he said evenly. “She’s not your perp. She’s not your puzzle. She’s my family.”

The words hit like a gavel. Dick froze. Tim didn’t breathe.

Clark leaned back, arms folding. “I told Bruce to wait. To give her space. Let her bury her mother, settle her sisters. But Bruce doesn’t listen. And now here you are, pushing her days after she watched Georgia bleed out in her arms.” His jaw tightened. “You’re lucky she didn’t torch you.”

Dick bristled, but Clark cut him off with a raised hand. “You want information? Fine. We’ll exchange.”

He leaned in, voice low. “Her mother’s files mention something called Project Genesis. Genetic rewriting. Aurora herself is altered. Enhanced. Georgia left her breadcrumbs, and Aurora’s following them. Which means if you’re serious, you’d better keep up.”

Dick’s eyes narrowed. “And the Owls?”

Clark’s gaze flicked to the window, voice dropping lower. “She found a rhyme. A warning. If they’re involved, it’s already bigger than your homicide file.”

Tim, silent until now, finally spoke, tapping his pen against his notebook. “I couldn’t hack her laptop. Her laptop. Who the hell mixes journalism, coding, and genetic engineering like it’s a hobby?”

Clark’s lips twitched. “She was raised by Georgia Carmichael. Prodigy doesn’t cover it. Don’t underestimate her.”

Tim’s smirk sharpened, dangerous, eyes glinting. Aurora had clocked him too—not harmless. Never harmless.

Clark stood, draining his cup. “Richard. Timothy. I’ll be in touch.”

Aurora was already in the passenger seat when Clark slid in behind the wheel. Her laptop bag was clutched tight against her knees, arms folded across it like a shield. She hadn’t bothered with her cardigan; it sat in her lap, half-forgotten. The fire in her eyes, though—unyielding, sharp—was impossible to miss.

The door shut with a solid thud. The silence between them was thick.

“Alright, Kent,” Aurora cut in, her voice sharp as glass. “Talk. Why the hell was Richard Grayson sitting in that café like a bad undercover cop?”

Clark adjusted his glasses, calm in the face of her storm. “What makes you so sure it wasn’t a coincidence?”

Aurora laughed once—brittle, humorless. “Because billionaires don’t slum it in cyber cafés. Not unless they’re slumming for a reason. And the way Grayson looked at me?” Her fingers tapped against her bag, a restless staccato. “He wasn’t just grabbing coffee. He was hunting.”

Clark merged into traffic without rushing. His calm was maddening. A steady hum against the pulse hammering in her ears.

Finally, he said, voice even, low: “I’ve known Dick a long time, Rory. Since he was about nine. Watched him grow up.”

That made her blink. For a moment, suspicion faltered into surprise. “You knew him? As a kid?”

Clark nodded once, eyes softening with memory. A boy with grief behind his eyes, balancing on a wire no child should walk. “He lost his parents young. It changed him. Bruce Wayne took him in. I was around a lot back then—on the periphery. Bruce had his way of teaching, but sometimes… sometimes a kid needs something softer. Dick and I talked. We still do.”

Aurora studied him, skeptical but listening. “So this is some kind of family-friend situation?”

Clark’s mouth tugged faintly upward. “Something like that.”

She scoffed, turning toward the window, city lights flashing against the glass. “Great. Gotham’s golden boy and Wayne’s prodigy. Tail me across state lines because—what? They think I’m a lead they can squeeze?”

Clark’s voice softened, steady as a hand on her shoulder. “No. They think you’re important to this. And they’re right.”

Aurora’s grip on the laptop strap tightened. “Important how?”

Clark hesitated. Not yet. Not all of it. But he could give her enough. “Because Gotham isn’t clean, Rory. There are currents under that city—powerful ones. Bruce knows them. And Dick? He’s the one he trusts to wade into the shadows. If Grayson is here, it means Bruce wants eyes on what’s happening. Which means this isn’t just another murder investigation.”

Aurora pressed her thumb hard into the strap, grounding herself. Currents. Always currents. And here I am, just trying to keep my sisters afloat.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, her voice cutting, controlled. “My mother’s dead. My sisters are hanging on me like I’m the last thread holding them up. And now Gotham’s billionaire boys’ club is circling, deciding how much of my life they get to dissect?”

Clark’s gaze didn’t waver. Steel under warmth. “No. You get to decide. You’ve always had that right. Don’t let them take it from you.”

Aurora turned her head toward him, eyes sharp, testing his calm. “And what about you, Clark? Where do you fit in all of this?”

For the first time, his smile touched his eyes. “Me? I’m your uncle. Which means my only job is to keep you and those girls safe. Everything else—we’ll figure out together.”

Aurora exhaled slowly, anger simmering but tempered now, cooled by the weight of his voice. She slumped back against the seat, muttering, “They picked the wrong Carmichael to mess with.”

Clark’s grin curved, soft but knowing. “That’s what I told Bruce.”

The Kent home smelled faintly of Lois’s coffee and Clark’s cooking—warm, lived-in, the polar opposite of the cold marble Carmichael estate. Maddie was curled on the rug with Jon, a fortress of LEGOs scattered around her. Her laughter—small, fragile, but real—threaded through the air. Dawn sat in the armchair, sketchpad balanced on her knees, headphones looped loosely around her neck.

Aurora settled cross-legged on the couch, her laptop bag still close, as if letting go of it would surrender ground. Her gaze softened as she looked at her sisters. Not weak—never weak—but steady, deliberate.

Clark leaned against the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame, quiet as a sentry. Lois moved in the kitchen, present without intruding, her sharp eyes catching every detail.

“Okay,” Aurora began, voice steady, gentle but firm. “School starts in three weeks. We need to decide where we’re going to be. You two get a say in this. Gotham or Metropolis.”

Dawn’s pencil froze mid-sketch. Her wide eyes—so much like Georgia’s—flicked to Aurora. “We… we get to choose?”

“Of course you do,” Aurora said. “If we stay in Metropolis, you’ll go to school here. If we go back to Gotham, we’ll be in the Carmichael estate in Bristol. But—” She lifted a hand before Dawn could scoff. “That comes with strings. Old house, old money, old expectations. Right in the shadow of Wayne Manor. Eyes everywhere. Constantly.”

Maddie frowned, whispering, “I don’t like Gotham.”

Aurora smoothed her hair back. “Then maybe Metropolis is better. Smaller apartment, simpler life. We can make it work. What matters is you two feel safe.”

Dawn’s brow furrowed, sharp but uncertain. “What about you? You worked your whole life to get out of Gotham. To be a reporter. If we choose wrong, if we make you give that up—”

“Stop.” Aurora’s voice cut firm, not unkind, but final. She leaned forward, meeting Dawn’s eyes head-on. “I am not giving anything up. I can juggle. My career, my dreams—they’re still mine. You and Maddie are mine too. And I can do both. Don’t carry that weight. It’s not yours. It’s mine. And I promise you, I can carry it.”

Dawn blinked fast, her pencil trembling. Maddie sniffled, crawling into Aurora’s lap without a word. Aurora wrapped an arm around her, grounding them both.

“One more thing,” Aurora added softly. “No matter where we end up, we’re doing family therapy. Together. No arguments.”

Predictably, Dawn groaned. Maddie wrinkled her nose. Aurora smiled faintly, brushing Maddie’s cheek. “We’ve all been through hell. We don’t get through it by pretending we’re fine. We do this together. That’s the only way.”

Clark finally stepped forward, his voice warm, unshakable. “She’s right. And you’re not doing this alone.” His eyes flicked to each girl, then landed on Aurora. “You three are family. Which means you’re ours too. Lois and I are here. Whatever you need. Whatever it takes.”

From the kitchen, Lois’s voice carried, sharp and certain: “And for the record, Aurora, I agree. This isn’t you giving anything up. This is you expanding what you already are.”

Aurora let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Maddie burrowed deeper against her, Dawn ducked her head back toward her sketchpad, and for the first time in days, Aurora felt something fragile but real settle in her chest.

Not peace. Not yet. But a beginning.

The cave hummed — servers, stone drips, the endless low thrum of Gotham’s heart.

Tim hunched over his bank of monitors, fingers a blur across the keys. Six screens, six hunts. Databases, archived servers, encrypted police logs — all unraveling under his touch. “She’s good,” he muttered. “Too good. Nobody scrubs themselves this clean unless they’re expecting someone like me to chase them.”

Across the cave, Dick sat stiff at his own console, scrolling through Aurora’s work. Not firewalls, not traces — words. Articles, op-eds, essays. Whole passages highlighted, her sentences clipped on the screen like evidence.

“She doesn’t just report,” Dick said finally. “She writes to change you. Every line’s a strike. Doesn’t matter if you agree — you feel it.” His jaw flexed. “That kind of voice is dangerous.”

Before Tim could fire back, the shadows shifted. Batman stepped forward, cape whispering across stone. His gravel tone cut like a knife.

“Clark gave you enough to research. That’s all we need. She won’t talk to you. She won’t talk to Tim. She will talk to me.”

Dick’s head snapped around. “She hasn’t even buried her mother yet.”

Bruce didn’t blink. “Which means she’s raw. Raw people make mistakes. If she knows something about the Court, I’ll get it.”

And then the cave filled with something heavier, warmer — presence that bent the silence.

Clark dropped from above, boots echoing, cape curling as he landed. In his hand, pinched between two fingers, gleamed a black USB drive. He set it down on the table in front of them with deliberate weight.

“She gave this to me,” Clark said, voice steady, boy-scout firm. “Told me to get it to my Gotham contact. That’s you. But before anyone plugs it in, we need a game plan — how to keep her safe, how to keep her sisters safe, and what to do if the Court of Owls is already circling.”

The silence was sharp. Even Bruce stayed still.

Clark’s eyes narrowed. “And in the meantime? You’re both going to stop stalking her.” His gaze swept Dick, then Tim. “She noticed. She asked me if she was being hunted. She’s not wrong.”

Tim looked away, smirk cracking. Dick’s mouth tightened.

Clark folded his arms, voice still calm but laced with steel. “You think she’s some puzzle to solve, some voice to dissect? She’s not. She’s more than you realize. You want context? Fine. Here it is.”

He took a breath, jaw set, and laid it out.

“She graduated high school at seventeen. Top of her class. Her mother cut her off the day she chose writing over the Carmichael legacy. She left Gotham with nothing but a suitcase and two sisters who needed her. Moved to Metropolis, put herself through college, worked three jobs — never missed a single recital, a single parent-teacher conference, a single moment her sisters needed her.” His voice sharpened. “Every inch she has, she clawed for.”

He stepped closer, letting the weight of it land.

“She didn’t just survive — she thrived. She earned her spot at the Daily Planet. She’s got awards stacked higher than most reporters twice her age. Two books published before thirty. And while she was doing all that, she was quietly running an underground network to get meta kids out of dangerous homes, across borders, into safety. Risking her life for them. All while keeping Dawn and Maddie’s lives steady.”

Clark’s eyes flicked between them, steady and unflinching. “She’s not fragile. She’s not a lead you squeeze. She’s a force. And she’s family. Lois and I — we mentored her, we semi-adopted her, because someone needed to. You don’t get to break her just because Gotham doesn’t know how to wait.”

The USB glinted under the monitors, like a challenge.

Clark’s voice dropped, final and uncompromising. “So here’s how this works: you want to hunt the Owls? Hunt them. You want to tear through Gotham’s shadows? Fine. But Aurora Carmichael is off-limits until she decides otherwise. You don’t stalk her. You don’t corner her. You don’t shove her into a cowl-lit interrogation.”

The cave fell silent.

Bruce said nothing, cowl unreadable. Dick’s cursor blinked over a half-read sentence, his jaw clenched. Tim’s code scrolled on, screens humming — but for once, his fingers had stilled.

Clark folded his arms, boy-scout stern. “This drive is hers. She trusted me with it. I’m trusting you with it. Don’t make me regret that.”

For once, even the Batcave couldn’t argue.

Chapter Text

The debate started on the front steps of Lois and Clark’s apartment, their bags—two duffels and a single backpack—stacked in a neat line like soldiers awaiting orders. It was a still, late-summer morning, the air thick with the humid weight of the city, the sun already warm on their skin.

“Metropolis,” Maddie whispered, tugging at the hem of her cardigan sleeve. She was a small, fragile thing, her face pale, her voice a reedy whisper. “It’s safer here.”

“Gotham,” Dawn fired back immediately, her voice sharp and brittle, a raw-edged shield. She was all dark, restless energy, her shoulders squared, her sketchbook clutched to her chest like armor. “It’s home. And you know it.”

Aurora sat between them on the step, her body a quiet anchor in the rising storm. Her elbows rested on her knees, her face tipped toward the late-summer sun. She let the girls argue, listening, cataloguing. She felt the tremor in Maddie’s voice, saw the raw defiance in Dawn’s eyes.

“Metropolis has better schools,” Maddie tried again, quieter now, her eyes flickering to Aurora as if searching for backup.

“Gotham has Gotham Prep,” Dawn snapped. “And Jon. And Damian.” Her cheeks flushed, the admission half-buried under annoyance. “All of Maddie’s friends are there too.”

Aurora turned her head, studying Maddie. The little girl’s lip wobbled, but she didn’t deny it. “I don’t want to go back where…” Maddie trailed off, her voice too small to finish the sentence.

Aurora reached over, smoothing a hand down her sister’s hair, the motion slow and deliberate. “Where bad things happened,” she finished for her. Maddie nodded hard, curling in against her side.

Dawn softened at that, just a little, her shoulders dropping. The defiant anger bled into a quiet guilt. “But we can’t let Gotham win,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Aurora sighed, pulling both of them close, one arm looped around each. “You’re both right,” she said, her voice steady and calm. “Metropolis feels safe. Gotham feels like home. And here’s the truth: I can make either work. I can build a life for us anywhere. But I want you both to remember this—wherever we go, the three of us will make it ours. Not Mom. Not the Carmichael name. Us.”

Maddie sniffled against her sleeve. Dawn tucked her sketchbook tighter under her arm.

“So,” Aurora said gently, her voice a soft, loving question, “what’s it going to be?”

The silence stretched. Then Maddie whispered, a small, brave confession, “If Jon’s there… if my friends are there… then Gotham.”

Dawn’s chin lifted, a flicker of fierce pride in her eyes. “Gotham,” she confirmed, her voice firm now.

Aurora nodded once. Decision made. “Then Gotham it is.”

The old Carmichael estate in Bristol had stood untouched for nearly a decade, a ghost of a home, locked away under dust and cobwebs while her mother held court in the larger, colder house uptown. It wasn’t as sprawling as the “new” estate, but it had bones Aurora loved: Tudor-style beams, tall windows that caught the morning light, a great hearth in the living room, and a library that still smelled faintly of old paper and lemon oil.

It should have felt like a mausoleum. Aurora refused to let it.

Boxes crowded every hallway, furniture covered in white sheets, the air thick with the sickly scent of mothballs and disuse. But within a week, Aurora, with a restless, tireless energy, had ripped it all open, aired it out, and filled the house with the scent of yeast and rosemary bread baking in the oven. The scent was a warm, living thing, a defiance of the cold silence that had once filled the halls. Maddie padded barefoot through the kitchen, trailing cookie crumbs, the soft click of her footsteps a new, welcome rhythm. Dawn had already claimed the library, sketching by the wide bay windows, stacks of her favorite books piled around her like a fortress.

Aurora moved like a woman possessed, scrubbing, painting, rearranging. She filled the sitting rooms with plants, the dining table with fresh flowers, the mantel with framed photos she’d tucked away in boxes for years. Every corner that had once felt cold now carried her mark: warmth, color, light.

By the second week, the estate no longer resembled her mother’s legacy. It looked, and smelled, like home.

Therapy came next. Aurora sat with Maddie in the cozy office of Dr. Keller, a kind-eyed woman with graying hair and a voice that carried both softness and steel. Maddie clung to Aurora’s hand the first few sessions, whispering answers only when prompted. Dawn resisted harder—sitting stiffly with her arms crossed, rolling her eyes, declaring she didn’t need “some stranger” to tell her how she felt.

Aurora didn’t push. She just sat beside them every session, a steady and present anchor, letting them set the pace. When Dawn finally cracked—when the words about her last fight with their mother tumbled out in a torrent of guilt and anger—Aurora was there, wrapping her arms around her sister, whispering the same words over and over: I love you. I don’t blame you. We’re in this together.

It was exhausting. It was necessary.

And slowly, painfully, it began to work.

By the time August bled into September, a rhythm had settled. Breakfast at the wide kitchen table, packed with fresh bread and jam. Therapy sessions twice a week. Evenings in the library, Dawn sketching while Maddie sprawled on the rug with Jon Kent, their LEGOs forming chaotic kingdoms across the floor.

Lois and Clark came and went, checking in, never hovering but always present when Aurora needed them. Jon stayed often, slipping into Maddie’s orbit like a second shadow. He treated Aurora like he always had: like an honorary big sister who made the best chocolate chip cookies and let him raid her pantry.

For the first time since the night of her mother’s murder, Aurora could almost breathe.

Almost.

Because in the quiet, when the bread was cooling on the counter and the house hummed with life, her mind circled back to the same place: Richard Grayson.

The coffee shop in Metropolis replayed in her head more often than she wanted to admit. His blue eyes, the color of a summer sky, studying her like she was a puzzle he hadn’t solved. His voice shifting like a chameleon—from smooth golden boy, to sharp detective, to dangerous cop who didn’t bluff when he threatened a cell.

She hadn’t been at her best that night. Panic still clawed at her chest when she thought about the video her mother had left. And Grayson had seen it—seen her unravel and then pull herself back together. The thought made her bristle, a hot spike of humiliation.

But then there was Clark’s voice, calm and steady in the car after: He’s a good guy, Rory. He’s not Bruce. He’s his own man. Give him a chance.

Against her better judgment, she had.

She’d called him. Invited him. Told him, carefully, that if he still wanted to speak to Dawn and Maddie, he could do it under her roof, on her terms.

Which was how, on a warm September afternoon, the Carmichael estate smelled of fresh bread and sugar, sunlight streaming across the polished floors, and Richard Grayson stood in her doorway.

The knock came just as the kitchen timer chimed.

Aurora wiped flour from her palms, glancing between the oven and the heavy oak door. Rosemary and yeast filled the air, warm and rich, almost enough to mask the knot in her stomach. She still wasn’t sure if calling him had been smart—or suicidal. But she’d done it, and now Richard Grayson was on her doorstep.

Maddie got there first. “I’ll get it!” she sang, socked feet skidding across the polished floor.

Aurora’s stomach dropped. “Maddie—wait—”

Too late. The door swung open.

Richard Grayson stood there, casual in dark jeans and a fitted jacket, all dimples and contained grace. Maddie craned her neck up at him, cardigan sleeves dangling past her hands.

“You’re tall,” she announced matter-of-factly.

Dick crouched slightly, his smile softening. “And you must be Maddie. I’ve heard you like LEGOs. That true?”

Her face lit up, and before Aurora could stop it, Maddie grabbed his hand as though she’d just claimed him. “Come see my tower!”

Aurora closed her eyes. So much for neutral ground.

By the time she caught up, Maddie had already pulled him into the living room. Dawn was perched on the arm of the couch, sketchpad balanced against her knees. She glanced up, unimpressed, one brow arched.

“Seriously?” she said flatly. “You invited the cop?”

“Detective,” Aurora corrected, shooting her a look. “And yes. I did.”

Dick straightened, charm sliding into place as easily as slipping on a jacket. “Richard Grayson. Nice to meet you properly.”

Dawn snorted. “Yeah, I know who you are. Gotham’s golden boy. Everybody does.”

Aurora nearly groaned. The last thing she needed was Dawn feeding his ego. But Dick only smiled faintly, unbothered. “Golden’s overselling it. Polished, maybe. Depends on the day.”

Aurora folded her arms, deadpan. “Don’t let him fool you. He drinks black coffee on purpose.”

That startled a laugh out of Dawn, Maddie giggled, and Dick—damn him—just smirked like he’d won something. His eyes cut back to Aurora, sharp under the polite veneer.

“I see you’ve already been telling stories about me.”

“Not stories,” Aurora said smoothly, turning toward the kitchen as the oven timer beeped again. “Warnings.”

Clark’s words came back to her then, unbidden: He’s a good guy, Rory. Give him a chance.

She wasn’t ready to believe that. Not yet. But she wasn’t ready to dismiss it, either.

“Fine,” she muttered, pulling the pan from the oven. “If you’re staying, you’re eating. Come on.”

And just like that, Richard Grayson was at her table, sunlight pooling across the bread, the smell of rosemary and sugar lacing the air, her sisters watching him with something dangerously close to trust.

Aurora braced her hands on the counter, heart thudding. Great. Just what I needed. Him and the girls bonding.

And yet—against every instinct—part of her almost wanted to trust him.

Almost.

The house didn’t smell like money.

It smelled like supper.

Savory steam curled through the Tudor halls, thyme and bay riding the edge of slow-simmered beef and vegetables. Beneath it lingered the warm, sweet promise of fresh bread and sea-salt chocolate cookies cooling on the rack. Sunlight, slipping low through wide-paned windows, gilded the oak trim and made the whole place glow.

Not a mausoleum. Not an heirloom. Not what he expected at all.

Richard Grayson stood in the foyer, jacket open, hands tucked in his pockets, taking in a house that breathed like a home. He catalogued details automatically—mantle cluttered with pencils and sheet music, Dawn’s sketchbook open-faced on the couch arm, a sheaf of school forms annotated in Aurora’s neat script. This wasn’t Gotham-elite display. This was lived in. Warm.

“C’mon!” Maddie barreled down the hall, socked feet skidding on polished wood, oversized cardigan falling off her shoulder. She grabbed his hand without hesitation. “You have to see the fort before it collapses.”

“Fort?” He bit back a grin.

“In the library,” she whispered, conspiratorial. “The new copies make better bricks than the first editions.”

“Sound strategy,” he said, letting her tug him down the corridor.

Dawn spotted them first, sprawled in the armchair with her sketchpad on her lap. Her brow arched as she took him in, pencil hovering. Her expression said I see you. Don’t push.

“Hey,” he offered easily. “I heard your midterm showcase is in October.”

Her pencil froze. “You heard?”

“Guy in my precinct’s niece is a second-year. Said some girl sketched a lighting concept in one period, and the staff used it. Sounded like you.”

Color rose under her freckles despite herself. “They… adjusted it. But, yeah.”

“Pretty cool,” he said simply, and moved on. Compliment delivered, no spotlight. Her pencil resumed its arc.

From the kitchen: “Maddie, copper bowls are not Lego helmets.”

“I’m not!” Maddie yelled back, then whispered to Dick, “I was,” before darting into the library.

He was still smiling when Aurora appeared in the doorway.

Flour dusted her cuffs, a towel slung over her shoulder. Hair pulled back in a loose knot, steam curls damp at her temples. She carried a wooden spoon like a gavel, and for a breath, she looked at him the way you test a pan—are we about to burn, or is this safe? Then the mask clicked into place: composed, cool, steady.

“Soup’s ready in ten. Bread’s already on the table.” Her gaze sharpened. “Neutral questions only. If I think you’re out of line, you’re gone.”

His dimples flickered like temptation. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Her brow lifted. “We’ll see.”

He felt the challenge settle between them. His grin curved just slightly, almost reverent. Challenge accepted.

The kitchen wasn’t polished steel and marble like he’d half-feared. It was copper pans and deep blue cabinets, a farmhouse sink and windows spilling late light across the counters. Two golden loaves cooled near the stove. Cookies, still molten with chocolate, perfumed the air.

“You baked all this today?” he asked before he caught himself.

“Yesterday, mostly.” She ladled soup into bowls without looking at him. “We’re finding rhythm. Therapy Mondays and Thursdays. Cooking Tuesdays. Laundry Fridays. Weekends—we try to remember we’re people.”

He nodded, a little struck. “How’s school so far?”

“Maddie likes her teacher. Dawn hates geometry less. I’m calling that a win.” She set bowls in neat formation, precise as lines in a notebook. “And you?”

“Still don’t like geometry,” he said with a shrug. “But I pivot well.”

Her mouth quirked—unwilling, brief—but real. He took it and didn’t push.

Dinner was… easy.

Maddie chattered about Jon Kent’s latest LEGO invention, how Damian Wayne “pretends he hates the swings but doesn’t,” how recess was a battlefield of tag alliances. Dawn half-listened, sketching between bites, throwing in dry comments sharp enough to make Maddie giggle.

And Aurora—Aurora let herself laugh once. Soft, unguarded, caught like a spark before she smothered it. But he heard it. Saw it. And it pulled at something inside him he hadn’t let himself name.

By the time soup bowls were scraped clean and bread reduced to crumbs, Maddie had declared “cookie time” on the condition that Dick help with dishes. He played along without protest. Dawn dried while he stacked. Aurora wiped counters with calm efficiency, queen of quiet rhythms.

It was ordinary. Painfully, achingly ordinary. And he realized how long it had been since he’d been inside a house that felt this way.

“Office,” Aurora said once the counters gleamed. “Thirty minutes. My terms. Then you say goodnight.”

He inclined his head. “Lead the way.”

Her office wasn’t the sleek Carmichael austerity he’d braced for. It was tidy, lived-in, grounded. Sunlight filtered through windows over the garden. A corkboard pinned with color-coded tabs and dates hung on one wall—organized, not obsessive. Editor’s clarity, not a conspiracy board.

She slid a slim folder across the desk.

“Not DNA,” she said. “Company. Carmichael Biotech. My mother’s last three projects. Names. Meetings canceled. People she fought with. Start there.”

He opened the file, and for once, playboy Grayson was gone. Detective Grayson leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he scanned.

Red-flagged margins. Yield charts that didn’t match reports. Off-book payments funneled into an entity labeled Strix Capital.

“Strix,” he murmured.

“Latin for owl,” she said. Her tone was flat, sharp. “I know.”

He flipped. Security vendor logs. Halcyon Protective. Three nights of “routine maintenance” with cameras conveniently down. The LLC had folded, rebranded out of Blüdhaven. Same plates. Same crews. She’d tracked them.

“You dug all this up yourself?”

“While they’re at school.” She crossed her arms. “What, you think I sit around baking bread?”

His grin broke before he could help it. “Bread and investigative files? Multitasking. Impressive.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her lips almost curved. “Don’t flirt with me, Grayson. It’s lazy.”

“Noted.” He leaned back, flipping to the next tab. “A withdrawn grant labeled ‘Aten.’ No details, just a timestamp two days before she died.”

“Deleted the next morning,” Aurora said. “Buried in a holiday box in the attic.”

He exhaled low. “Aurora… this is clean work.”

“Say ruthless,” she countered.

“I was thinking thorough,” he said honestly.

For a long moment, silence settled—aligned, not adversarial. It startled them both.

“Ground rules,” she said, tone clipped to keep the shift from softening her. “You don’t touch the girls without me there. You don’t bring warrants into this house without warning. You treat this folder as borrowed property.”

His eyes held hers. “And you don’t sit on anything that saves lives. You find it, you pass it.”

Her chin lifted. “Deal.”

He left half an hour later, folder tucked under his arm, porch light catching the edges of his smile.

“You laughed,” he said, as if it needed recording.

“I didn’t,” she said too fast. Then softer: “Maybe a little.”

His grin tipped crooked, bright. “I won’t abuse the power.”

“Please do,” she shot back, “so I can revoke your cookie privileges.”

He made it to the steps before turning back. “I know trusting me isn’t easy. But I’ll try to be worth it.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “I dont trust easily Detective.”

That crooked grin deepened—promise and challenge all at once. “Challenge accepted.”

And then he was gone, night folding around him.

Aurora leaned against the door one extra breath before she moved.

Back in the kitchen, she wrapped cookies for the girls’ lunchboxes, tucked one by Dawn’s sketchbook, and broke the last in half for Maddie and herself. Warmth. Routine. The things that held a life together while it was being remade.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

unknown: soup rating: 11/10. would accept interrogation by blanket again.
unknown: Strix first. Then Halcyon. I’ll keep you posted.
unknown: also I did the dishes. you’re welcome.

She didn’t smile. Not quite. But when she slid the phone away, the knot in her chest had loosened.

Chapter Text

The morning line at Gotham Prep curled like a ribbon around the wrought-iron gate, a parade of polished SUVs and tired parents. Coffee steamed from thermoses in gloved hands. Someone’s car stereo murmured oldies under the white-noise of honking and crosswalk whistles. Aurora eased the sedan forward, one hand crooked on the wheel, the other holding out a banana to the back seat without looking.

“Maddie,” she said, her voice a practiced morning melody, “real fruit, then the muffin.”

A small hand, a blur of motion, traded half a banana peel for a chocolate chip muffin with the efficiency of a jewel heist. Beside her, Dawn flipped through flashcards she’d made herself—SAT vocab in pencil-precise lettering, tiny stars marking the ones she always tripped on.

“Use ‘abrogate’ in a sentence,” Aurora prompted.

Dawn blew out a breath. “I will attempt to abrogate my geometry homework by pretending it never existed.”

“Points for honesty,” Aurora said, and tapped the horn twice in friendly warning as a ninth grader darted across the bumper. She checked the mirror. “Bug, backpack.”

“It’s on,” Maddie said, her voice muffled by the muffin. “Jon said we’re building a marble run after lunch and I’m bringing the good marbles, not the ones that chip.”

“Excellent priorities.”

They rolled to the drop-off. A security guard with a kind face opened the back door. Jon Kent’s wave was already midair from three cars back—dark hair sticking up, grin wide. He caught up in three long strides and fell into step with Maddie as she jumped out, the cardigan sleeves she refused to give up flopping past her hands. They collided in a half-hug that never bothered to ask permission from either of them.

“See you at recess,” Jon said.

“Bring the big blocks.”

“Already in the plan.”

Damian Wayne materialized a heartbeat later, immaculate uniform, tie straight, the faintest disapproval pulling at his mouth until Maddie’s wave redirected it into something softer, an almost-smile he would vehemently deny later. He accepted a Ziploc bag she pressed into his hands like contraband.

“They’re just clementine slices,” Maddie whispered. “You look like you need vitamin C.”

Damian stared at the bag, then at her, and finally tucked it into his blazer with a tiny nod that, in Damian, translated to I would maim a man for you.

“You are a menace,” he said, voice carefully bored.

“Thank you,” she said, because she was who she was.

“Walk,” Dawn said, climbing out on the other side and adjusting her sketchbook under one arm. “No jaywalking.”

“We have a courtyard,” Damian said, scandalized on principle.

“Yes, and we’re using it,” Dawn returned, the corner of her mouth quirked. “See you after sixth period, demon child.”

“Blasphemy,” Damian muttered, but it lacked teeth.

Aurora watched them go—Maddie between two boys who had been born with the weight of expectation and somehow still made time for a marble run; Dawn taller than all three, herding them without being noticed. Her chest loosened, just a fraction.

“Ms. Carmichael?” A voice at the window. Ms. Feldman—history teacher, steel-gray hair in a perfect twist, the same quick eyes she’d had when Aurora was a teenager. “I thought that was you.”

Aurora smiled, genuine and wry. “Gotham has a way of pulling you back in.”

“It always does.” Ms. Feldman’s gaze warmed. “We’re lucky to have you. PTA is desperate for someone who can write and organize without crying.”

“I can do two out of three,” Aurora said.

“Close enough.” Ms. Feldman handed her a flyer through the window. “Curriculum night. And—” a gentler look, “—I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Thank you,” Aurora said, because that was the line. “See you Thursday.”

She pulled away, the flyer face-down on the passenger seat. The rhythm of the day had already begun ticking in her head; it was the only way to keep the undertow at bay. Drop-off. Coffee. Email Alisa. Call with the estate contractor about the pantry shelving. Grocery delivery window between two and three. Therapy at four. Dinner by six. Homework triage. Lights out by nine.

Do not open the book with the riddle. Do not open the door to the hidden office. Do not spiral.

Her phone buzzed in the cup holder. Lois: How’s the car line circus?

Aurora: Maddie smuggled Vitamin C into Damian Wayne. I think that’s a diplomatic incident.

Lois: Photo evidence or it didn’t happen.

Aurora sent a blurry shot of the clementines disappearing into a blazer pocket and got back a row of crying-laughing faces and one heart. She parked on a side street where the good coffee lived and stepped into a place that smelled like dark roast and cinnamon. Heads turned. Gotham remembered its old families even when the faces were new. Aurora nodded at a barista who looked like she’d die of joy if Aurora had asked for an interview and ordered something with very specific oat milk ratios because she could.

Her phone vibrated again—this time a new thread.

Grayson: Carr’s executive assistant booked him on a flight to Blüdhaven tonight. 8:20 PM, Halcyon Protective listed as “meeting.” Thought you’d want to know.

She typed, then stopped. Clark’s voice in her head: You don’t have to do this alone. Her own voice louder: I don’t know how not to.

Aurora: Noted. Send me the terminal number.

A beat. Then—

Grayson: You’re not going to go sit in an airport like a raccoon, are you?

Aurora: Raccoons don’t parallel-park.

A slow smile tugged at her mouth. She took her coffee home and did not open the hidden office. Instead she opened the pantry to measure shelf depth and told herself that was what normal looked like. Normal looked like therapy at four o’clock on a Tuesday too—Maddie’s sneakers knocking against the legs of her chair as she swung her feet in Dr. Saldana’s office; Dawn sitting like a fortress and admitting, unwillingly, that her brain didn’t turn off when the lights did. Aurora sat with her own therapist an hour later and said the words without flinching: I am so tired of being brave.

Normal looked like pasta night and a pop-quiz on multiplication tables, like Dawn leaving her sketchbook open on the table and Maddie tucking a note inside Jesse the stuffed giraffe’s ribbon for Jon to find at school the next day. It looked like Lois’s voice on speaker while Aurora did dishes—“Put the spatula down and listen to me: you are allowed to be happy in small pockets, even now”—and Clark’s check-in text at 10:03 PM: You’re not at the airport, right?

Aurora was not at the airport. She was sitting at her desk, the flyer for curriculum night paper-clipped to a list of PTA requests she was too competent to say no to. She stared at the corner of the bookshelf that hid the latch to the stairwell behind the servants’ pantry and did not stand up.

Her phone lit again.

Grayson: Terminal C. Gate 14. Carr won’t make the flight. He already cancelled the meeting. But two Halcyon uniforms just boarded a red-eye to Keystone.

Aurora: Halcyon’s dissolving on paper and multiplying in person.

Grayson: Yeah. Hydras love their shell companies.

Aurora: You’re mixing metaphors.

Grayson: I contain multitudes.

She snorted out loud—then startled at herself for enjoying it—turned out the kitchen light, and went to bed.

On Thursday, the school pulled her back in completely. Curriculum night meant familiar hallways and old ghosts. The theater was unchanged—two exit signs, black curtains with a slick of dust, Ms. Ruiz’s lipstick prints on a travel mug. The debate room still had the warped table she’d carved her initials into the day she got a full scholarship offer and then never took it. Ms. Feldman handed her a stack of volunteer sign-up sheets and inaugurated her formally: “Meet Aurora Carmichael, the reason our newsletter will no longer look like a ransom note.”

Dawn’s English teacher shook Aurora’s hand and said, “She writes like she can set a room on fire,” and Aurora’s throat got tight in a way she didn’t expect. Maddie sandwiched her between Jon and Damian at the bake sale table and gave her a taste test: “Yours is better,” she declared, biting into a brownie. “No offense, Mr. Pennyworth.”

“None taken,” said Alfred Pennyworth, who had appeared out of thin air the way only he could. He inclined his head to Aurora with old, deep courtesy. “Ms. Carmichael. It’s been too long.”

Something in her chest cracked and mended at the same time. “Too long,” she agreed, even if her voice faltered. “Your shortbread is still lethal.”

“I shall take that as the compliment intended.” His eyes were kind, but they saw everything. “Master Bruce asked me to convey that the Manor is at your disposal should you ever require a safe harbor.”

Her muscles went tight on reflex, then eased. “Please tell him thank you.”

“I shall,” Alfred said, and to Maddie: “Miss Madeline, I am given to understand that Master Damian has been instructed on the nutritional value of citrus?”

Maddie beamed. “I fixed him.”

“I am certain you did,” Alfred said, and drifted away on some errand of mercy.

Aurora stared at the brownie she wasn’t eating and breathed until the urge to apologize for the past decade stopped clawing at her throat. She kept the afternoons for normal and parceled the mornings for the hunt.

On Friday, she took a bus to the Narrows instead of her car—not because she had to, but because blending mattered—and walked two blocks past a warehouse she knew belonged to a Halcyon subsidiary that technically didn’t exist. The fence was new and too clean; the cameras didn’t pan, which meant they didn’t see. She circled once, snapping photos like a bored dog-walker, and made notes on her phone that would mean nothing to anyone but her: door code pad too low, old bolt plate marks, side gate welded yesterday. She texted Lois: Doing a boring errand.

Lois: Bring me something unboring.

Aurora: Define unboring.

Lois: Alive.

She rounded the corner for a second pass and almost ran into a familiar blue sweater sleeve.

Dick leaned a shoulder against a light pole like he’d been installed there at birth, hands in pockets, neutral like a model for a “don’t spook the deer” how-to.

“You’re blocking my boring errand,” Aurora said, heartbeat tripping once, then smoothing under a layer of practiced cool.

He tipped his head at the warehouse. “You’re casing my crime scene.”

“It’s not your crime scene.”

“Everything in my city is my crime scene,” he said, and she decided not to ask if he meant his city or GCPD’s.

They stood like that for a breath, sizing each other, then both looked away almost at once—up the block, to the door with the wrong scuffs, to the van with the swapped plates. The rhythm clicked in without permission: her brain clocked patterns, his tracked people.

“Two guards,” she said. “New shoes, old posture.”

“Rotating in tens instead of twelves,” he said. “They’re being paid under the table. Overtime’s a shell.”

“Strix?”

“Maybe. Halcyon’s definitely the middleman.”

She slipped her phone back into her pocket. “Coffee or are we going to pretend we don’t do this at diners when the stakeout’s a dud?”

There was a twitch at his mouth that wasn’t quite a smile. “Pie,” he said. “A man has to keep up appearances.”

“Ah yes,” she said. “The Gotham PD bulk pie fund.”

“Don’t mock tradition,” he warned mildly.

She didn’t. Not when the bell over the door of the diner they chose was the exact pitch of every 2 a.m. she’d ever spent writing under fluorescent lights. They took a booth by habit—backs to the wall, sight lines on the door—and the waitress set down two coffees without asking because she knew the look of a conversation that didn’t need eavesdropping.

“Do you ever stop?” he asked after they’d ordered pie and she’d warmed her hands on the mug like a cliché she’d earned.

“Breathing?” she said.

“Chasing,” he said.

She considered her answer. “I tried,” she admitted. “It didn’t fit. I’ve done war zones. I’ve crawled under fences with kids who will go to prison for what they are. If I park myself in a PTA meeting and pretend that itch isn’t there, I start climbing the walls.”

“You’re a nightmare,” he said, his tone affectionate without permission. “For a cop.”

“You’re a nightmare for a journalist,” she returned, the tone the same. “You redact like it’s a sport.”

He huffed a laugh and shook sugar into his coffee even though she knew he drank it black. “It is a sport.”

“Then I want a rematch schedule.”

“I’ll pencil you in,” he said.

The pie arrived. She looked at the crust like it had done something heroic. He watched her watching it, then glanced at the window, and she knew the question was coming before he asked it.

“How much are you telling the girls?”

“As little as I can without lying,” she said. “Which isn’t much. They know someone hurt our mother. They know I’m helping the cops so we can stop that person from hurting anyone else. They know we’re safe.”

“Are you?” he asked.

“I’m making it so,” she said, not an inch of doubt in it.

He stirred his coffee like he could make it less bitter if he tried hard enough. “Damian mentioned a marble run.”

She blinked. “You talk to Damian about playground equipment?”

“He talked at me about engineering,” Dick said, wry. “And Maddie. And Jon. And how you bring the good muffins to meetings.”

“Don’t let that get out,” she said. “I have a reputation.”

“For what?”

“For being difficult.”

“You are,” he said. “In all the best ways.”

The compliment settled in her stomach with the pie—warm and disorienting. She took a breath so shallow it didn’t count and changed the subject to save herself.

“Carr’s assistant rescheduled three board committee meetings in the last month,” she said. “Always on days Morrow had a conflict. Either she’s avoiding him, or he’s using her calendar to triangulate personal time.”

“Affair?” Dick asked.

“Leverage,” she said. “But if it’s an affair, I’m not judging until it intersects with embezzlement.”

He scribbled the note, even though she knew he’d remember it. “And Weaver?”

“His projections are plagiarized. Not from the company. From old Daggett proposals. He thought changing the units would mask it.”

“I love when criminals think Word’s ‘Find and Replace’ is a personality,” Dick said, and she jolted a laugh she hadn’t planned on.

He didn’t crow about it. He only looked down and smiled into his coffee like he could put it away with the sugar and keep it for a worse day.

They talked until the pie was gone. Then he slid a card across the table—a number she already had, her name already in his phone.

“No more middlemen,” he said. “If you’re going to do the reckless thing, tell me first.”

“Bossy.”

“Alive,” he said, Lois’s word from hours earlier, and she scowled at the coincidence because coincidences made her superstitious.

“I’ll text before I do anything colossally stupid,” she allowed. “You’ll text before you break into any facility with more than three cameras and a budget line for ‘risk.’”

“Risk,” he repeated. “Nice to know what I am on a spreadsheet.”

“You’re not,” she said, before she thought better of it. “You’re… I don’t know. Thread. Evidence. Person.”

His eyes warmed in a way that made her want to ruin it on purpose and then save it anyway. He slapped enough cash on the table to cover both their slices and coffee and stood.

“School pick-up?” he guessed, and she checked the time and swore.

“They will revolt if I’m not in the car line,” she said, sliding out of the booth. “You’ve never seen a PTA wield power until you watch them weaponize the sign-out sheet.”

“I grew up around power wielders,” he said, amused. “I’ll take your word for it.”

They split at the corner—he toward a car he shouldn’t be able to afford on a cop salary, she toward hers, tucked where the meter maid didn’t bother to look. He paused with one hand on the door and called across, “Hey, Aurora?”

She turned.

“Good pie,” he said. “Better company.”

She could have rolled her eyes. It would have been easy, safe. Instead she let the warmth land and didn’t apologize for it.

“Drive safe, Detective.”

“Always.”

He didn’t. Neither of them did. But it was a ritual and rituals counted in a city that ate them if they let it.

By the time she made the car line, Maddie and Jon were already playing a game of rock-paper-scissors that had somehow evolved into rock-paper-scissors-dragon. Damian stood at an angle that kept the sun out of Maddie’s eyes without looking like he’d thought about it; Dawn had earbuds in and a pencil between her teeth, eyebrows knit while she tried to capture the exact angle of a shadow across the archway.

“Snack,” Aurora said when they piled in. “Homework. Then we’re making soup.”

“Again?” Maddie asked, delighted.

“Always,” Aurora said. They stopped at the market. Maddie picked carrots with clinical focus. Jon argued for the bigger onions. Dawn, despite herself, sniffed the fresh dill and looked like she might cry, then didn’t. Aurora let them bicker and weighed a roast in her hand like a choice she knew how to make.

At home, the house filled with broth and thyme and the undertone of something baking. Lois’s text pinged—We’re in Coast City, back Sunday. Jon can stay put, if that’s easier.—and Aurora sent back a photo of Maddie and Jon arguing about the merits of star noodles versus egg noodles and wrote: Safe and fed. Go win a Pulitzer.

After dinner, after dishes, after the little routines that gave shape to a night, Aurora walked the downstairs with the lights off and the community of a sleeping house rising and falling around her. She stopped in the kitchen doorway, eyes drawn—as always—to the pantry. The latch waited behind a row of labeled glass jars like a secret only her hands remembered.

Not tonight, she told herself again.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She flipped it over.

Grayson: Weaver’s apartment is a rental under Strix. Morrow’s consultant payments routed through an entity in Keystone—fronted by a law office with no office. Carr’s assistant booked two tickets to Blüdhaven for next week and deleted the itinerary.

Grayson: Also—I found a reference to something called Aten in a deleted application. If it’s Genesis-adjacent, it’s buried deep.

Grayson: Sending you nothing over text because I like my job. But I wanted you to know: we’re pulling the right thread.

She typed, then erased three replies that were too soft or too sharp or too much like hope.

Aurora: Keep me updated. And eat something that isn’t pie.

A minute later: a photo of a sandwich that looked suspiciously like a bribe from a precinct deli and: Documented.

Aurora set the phone down and turned off the last light. Up the stairs, Maddie had fallen asleep with a book tented on her chest; Dawn was on her stomach, sketching by lamp glow despite promising she’d quit by ten. Rory tucked the blanket higher, kissed two foreheads, and stood in the hall long enough to know, bone-deep, that this was the work she would not fail.

Downstairs, the pantry door held its breath. The riddle lived in a book behind it and a lock lived beyond that and a map unfurled behind the lock. She wasn’t ready to open it. Not when the house smelled like soup and sugar and something like peace.

Her phone vibrated one last time.

Grayson: FYI. You were right about the guard shoes. New hires, old posture. We flipped one. Halcyon’s paying through a church in the Bowery. Shell over shell.

Grayson: Sleep. Tomorrow is going to be loud.

She smiled into the dark. “It always is,” she said to the empty kitchen, and for once, she didn’t feel alone when she said it.

By Saturday she couldn't sit any longer. The Civic smelled faintly of dust and peppermint gum, the kind of car you kept in storage for emergencies or nights you didn’t want anyone noticing the plates. Aurora had parked two blocks back from the warehouse, hood angled under a busted streetlight. From here she could see the loading bay—corrugated steel, fresh paint, camera dome angled wrong. She’d been sitting since eleven. Her coffee thermos was empty, her notebook full of cramped shorthand no one else could read. Now it was one in the morning, and she was still watching the same damn Halcyon van.

The passenger window tapped. Aurora’s spine went stiff. She turned—and nearly swore out loud.

Richard Grayson crouched just outside, in jeans and a dark jacket, his smile tilted like he had all the time in the world.

She cracked the window two inches. “You trying to get shot?”

“Relax,” he said easily, slipping into the passenger seat before she could protest. “You’d have recognized me.”

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “You’re supposed to text before showing up at my stakeouts.”

“You’re supposed to text before doing stakeouts,” he countered, buckling his seatbelt. “At least we’re both bad at rules.”

She huffed, shoved her notebook into his lap. “Fine. Since you’re here—make yourself useful.”

He flipped it open. Her handwriting ran fast and ruthless: timestamps, door codes, guard rotations. He gave a low whistle. “You’ve been here since eleven?”

“You’re welcome,” she muttered.

“You know GCPD already flipped one of their guys, right?” Dick said, his eyes scanning her notes. “He gave up the payroll scam. Halcyon’s been funneling overtime under a church front in the Bowery. I figured you’d want to hear it.”

Aurora’s lips quirked despite herself. “So you admit I was right about the posture.”

“I admit you’ve got an eye,” he allowed. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

She smirked. “Too late.”

The van they’d been watching finally rumbled to life at nearly 1:30 a.m., headlights slicing the dark. Aurora sat up straighter, adrenaline snapping her spine into focus.

“Finally,” she muttered, turning the key.

Dick pressed a hand over hers on the gearshift. Warm. Solid. Annoyingly steady. “Easy. Give them two blocks.”

She shot him a look. “I’ve tailed cars before.”

“Not ones that shoot back.”

“Wrong. War zone, 2014. Ask me again how many checkpoints I sweet-talked through in Aleppo.”

That earned the ghost of a grin, but he didn’t move his hand until she eased the Civic into motion. They let the van take the lead, two car lengths back, slipping between Gotham’s gutted warehouses and cracked asphalt.

Aurora’s notes sprawled open on the dash—license plates, scrawled timestamps, cross-street maps she’d drawn from memory. Dick glanced at them and whistled low. “You do clean work.”

“I do necessary work.” She kept her eyes on the taillights. “Necessary keeps people alive.”

The van turned down a side street and slowed. Aurora killed her headlights on instinct, coasting until she could tuck behind a dumpster. They watched as the vehicle backed toward another warehouse loading bay—this one unmarked, chain-link fencing patched with new welds.

“Second site,” Dick murmured. “Halcyon’s nesting.”

“Or Strix,” Aurora countered. “Same bird, different feathers.”

The guards jumped out, scanning the street with sloppy discipline. Aurora scribbled notes—time, plate, body language. Dick leaned closer, whispering near her ear, “They’re jumpier than the last shift. Whatever’s in those crates? It matters.”

She swallowed, eyes on the scene. “Then we get closer.”

Before he could stop her, Aurora popped the latch and slid out of the Civic, crouching low against the dark. Her boots were silent on the pavement.

“Aurora—” Dick’s voice was a hiss, but he was right behind her a second later.

They crept to the edge of the lot, pressed against the fence. One guard smoked by the bay door, exhaling plumes like a signal flare. Another rolled the crate inside.

Aurora leaned close, her breath ghosting against Dick’s shoulder. “See the spray on that box? Not customs. That’s hospital-grade labeling.”

“Medical shipment?”

“Or a cover for something worse.”

They waited until a guard turned his back, then slipped to a better angle—just long enough to snap a blurry phone shot of the stenciled word half-obscured by tape.

A-T-E-N.

Her stomach dropped. She whispered, “It’s real.”

Dick looked at her sharply. “You know what that means?”

Her jaw set. “Later. Not here.”

A truck engine roared from inside the bay. The van began reversing, its headlights washing across the lot. Dick grabbed her wrist, tugged her back into shadow. They pressed shoulder-to-shoulder against the brick as the vehicle pulled out, turned, and rolled past their hiding spot. Aurora held her breath until the sound faded into the distance.

When she finally exhaled, Dick’s hand was still braced against hers.

“You’re insane,” he said quietly.

“You followed me,” she shot back, pulse still wild.

He smiled, sharp and reluctant. “God help me, I did.”

The van disappeared into the night, swallowed by Gotham’s fractured streets. Aurora leaned her head back against the cold brick, heart hammering like it hadn’t in years. Dick still hadn’t let go of her wrist.

“That,” he said, his voice low and dry, “was the dumbest thing I’ve seen all week.”

“Must’ve been a slow week,” she shot back, though her breath still trembled on the way out.

His mouth tugged into something between exasperation and a grin. He finally let go of her, only to gesture at her notes, tucked against her chest like a shield. “You got what you needed?”

She glanced at the photo glowing faintly on her phone screen. The word half-buried under tape. ATEN.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I did.”

For a long beat, neither of them moved. The sounds of the warehouse crew echoed faintly across the lot—metal clanging, voices raised in sharp bursts—and then dulled with distance. Gotham exhaled around them, that ragged, tired breath of a city that never really slept.

Aurora shoved her phone back into her pocket. “Come on.”

He arched a brow. “Where?”

“Coffee. Debrief.”

“Is this where you drag me to some upscale Gotham Heights café with pour-overs and ironic latte art?”

She smirked despite herself. “Please. If I wanted latte art, I’d still live in Metropolis.”

She led him three blocks south, past boarded-up storefronts and neon signs still buzzing from the nineties, to a corner diner with peeling aqua paint and a flickering sign that read Betty’s. The bell over the door jingled as she pushed it open, and the smell of butter, cinnamon, and frying bacon wrapped around them like a blanket.

Behind the counter stood Betty herself—bleach-blond hair teased into a gravity-defying halo, eyeliner thick enough to smudge history, and a rhinestone wedding band on every finger. She spotted Aurora and lit up like a Vegas marquee.

“Rory!” she called, her voice a husky rasp that carried across the diner. “I was wondering when you’d drag your pretty self back in here. Thought Metropolis had stolen you for good.”

Aurora smiled, real and warm in a way Dick hadn’t seen. “Hi, Betty.”

Betty’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and appraising. “And who’s tall, dark, and broody? You bring me a new husband prospect?”

Dick actually choked, caught off guard for once. “I—what—”

Aurora bit back a laugh, handing Betty her coat. “He’s a friend.”

Betty snorted, unconvinced. “Honey, I’ve had eight husbands. I know a man with a crush when I see one. Booth or counter?”

“Booth,” Aurora said firmly, steering Dick toward the back before Betty could do more damage.

They slid into cracked red vinyl seats. Dick still looked a little rattled, which pleased her more than it should have.

“She’s… something,” he said.

“She’s Betty,” Aurora replied simply, flipping her menu open though she didn’t need it. “You’ll live longer if you don’t argue with her.”

Betty swept by with two steaming mugs of coffee before they even ordered. “French toast is the special. Don’t insult me by not ordering it,” she said, tossing a wink at Aurora and clicking away on glitter heels.

Dick leaned back, studying her over the rim of his mug. “So this is your place.”

“Sometimes.” She wrapped her hands around the coffee, inhaling the steam. “When I need to think. When I need to feel normal.”

“And bringing me here makes sense why?”

“Because,” she said evenly, “we’re working the same case whether we like it or not. And Betty’s French toast makes bad nights tolerable.”

He gave her a long, assessing look, then smiled slow. “Fair enough.”

The plates landed—thick slices of golden toast dusted with powdered sugar, strawberries tumbling off the edges, syrup in a chipped pitcher that smelled like childhood. Aurora cut in first, decisive, and took a bite that visibly softened the tension in her shoulders.

Dick picked up his fork, tried a bite, and swore under his breath. “Okay, I get it. That’s… dangerous.”

“Unfairly good,” she corrected, echoing his words from soup night.

He glanced at her, caught the glimmer of humor in her eyes, and grinned. “Touché.”

For the next hour, they debriefed like colleagues and bantered like old friends. She showed him the scribbled notes she’d made on Halcyon’s vans. He filled her in on what GCPD had pulled from the guard they’d flipped. Between bites of French toast and too many cups of coffee, the sharp edges between them dulled into something warmer, easier.

At one point, she laughed—really laughed—at a dry comment he made about Gotham’s budget committee being scarier than the Court of Owls. The sound startled her, like it had escaped before she could stop it. Dick didn’t press. He only tucked it away, that rare laugh, like something worth protecting.

By the time Betty dropped off the check with a sly wink and a “Bring him back, Rory, he tips well,” the night felt different.

As they stood outside under the flickering sign, Aurora pulled her coat tighter against the cool air. “Don’t read into this,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “Betty’s French toast is a universal law. Even enemies get a pass for it.”

Dick’s smile was faint, knowing. “We’re not enemies.”

She hesitated. “Not friends either.”

“Yet,” he said.

And for once, she didn’t argue.

Omake: The Morning After

The smell of coffee reached Aurora before she even made it down the stairs. Her hair was a mess, one of Clark’s oversized flannels buttoned wrong over her tank top, and she moved like someone who had dragged herself out of bed on pure obligation.

Lois was at the kitchen island with her laptop open, mug in hand. Clark stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with the patience of a saint.

“Morning, sunshine,” Lois said, far too chipper.

Aurora squinted. “Don’t. I haven’t earned words yet.”

Clark slid a plate toward her. “You were out late.”

Aurora froze with a fork halfway to her mouth. “How do you—” She stopped, groaned, and dropped her head into her hands. “Of course. Kryptonian eavesdropping.”

“Selective listening,” Clark corrected, not unkind. “You and Richard make a lot of noise when you’re arguing about French toast at one in the morning.”

Lois’s grin was positively wicked. “French toast? Well, well, well.”

Aurora shot her a look from between her fingers. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” Lois said innocently. “I’m observing. And what I observe is my girl sneaking out in the middle of the night with Gotham’s golden boy, returning at an hour when only pie shops and bad decisions are open, and coming home with a smile she’s trying real hard to hide.”

Aurora jabbed at her pancake like it had wronged her. “Betty makes the best French toast in Gotham. That’s it. End of story.”

Clark sipped his coffee, eyes steady, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I think he’s good for you.”

Aurora nearly choked. “Clark.”

“What?” he said mildly. “He listens. He makes you laugh. You’ve needed that for a long time.”

Lois leaned on her elbow, eyes sharp but kind. “And if you don’t want to hear it from us, fine. But I saw that text you sent me at two a.m. about Maddie’s clementines being a diplomatic incident. You don’t send that kind of joke unless you’re happy.”

Aurora groaned again, dropping her forehead to the table. “I’m moving out. Both of you are banned from my house.”

Clark flipped another pancake onto her plate. “You’d miss my cooking.”

Lois nudged her gently. “You’d miss us meddling.”

Aurora didn’t lift her head. “Worst family ever.”

But her smile, muffled against the wood, gave her away.

Chapter Text

The Gotham Prep auditorium still smelled faintly of varnish and chalk, even under the cloying perfume of committee coffees and catered muffins. Folding chairs circled the old oak table where the PTA had been trapped for nearly two hours.

Aurora Carmichael rubbed the bridge of her nose and looked across the table at Bruce Wayne. His suit was immaculate, his notes handwritten in a neat script, and his argument relentless. He was a presence, a fact of Gotham life, a man carved from old grief and new money.

“A circus theme,” Bruce repeated, as though sheer persistence might make it reasonable.

Aurora narrowed her eyes. “For a school fundraiser. You want trapeze rigs in the gymnasium.”

“Scaled down,” Bruce said, unflappable. “Acrobatics. Performers. Something Gotham hasn’t seen in decades.”

She arched a brow. “Because nothing says safe for children like fire breathers and knife throwers?”

“It would draw donors,” Bruce countered.

Aurora flipped her notepad closed. “It would draw lawsuits.”

A hush fell. A few parents stared at their muffins like they might save them. Finally, Bruce sighed. “A compromise, then. Games. Raffles. Acrobat showcases without the fire.”

Aurora leaned back, crossing her arms. “I’ll allow face paint, game booths and acrobatics. That’s my compromise.”

A ripple of relieved laughter broke the tension, and the meeting moved forward—until the door opened and Samantha Vanaver glided in.

She was late, but that didn’t stop every pair of eyes from turning. Blonde hair smooth, a dress expensive in a way that whispered pedigree, not labels. She smiled like Gotham belonged to her and sat down at Bruce’s side without asking, her arm sliding through his.

“Apologies,” she purred, setting a leather folio on the table. “Board meeting ran long. But when I heard Gotham Prep needed help, of course I came. An alumna always gives back.”

Aurora’s jaw flexed. Of course she came. Of course Bruce didn’t move her hand when it landed, elegant and proprietary, on his sleeve.

Samantha spoke in polished tones, charming donors, offering resources. The board lapped it up. Behind her, a man stood silent—brown hair, warm eyes, a suit too plain to be anything but intentional. William Cobb. He was introduced as Samantha’s “security,” but his gaze lingered too long on Aurora, cataloguing her like she was the only one in the room.

Aurora felt the weight of it but refused to give him the satisfaction of looking back.

By Friday, Gotham Prep’s gymnasium had been transformed into a half-whimsical, half-chaotic circus of banners and booths. Rory stood with a clipboard, sleeves rolled up, actually helping to unload supplies while Samantha flitted about giving orders in stilettos.

“You’re not like the others,” Cobb said quietly, appearing at her side to take a box from her arms.

Aurora blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The old families,” he clarified. “They supervise. They donate. They don’t… carry crates.”

She snorted. “You’d be amazed what I can carry.”

The warmth in her voice wasn’t meant for him, but it landed anyway. Cobb’s lips curved faintly, as though her kindness was something rare.

Across the gym, Dick Grayson caught the look and felt something unpleasant curl in his gut. He covered it by tightening the banner ropes, jaw set.

The fundraiser glowed with string lights and children’s laughter. Balloons bobbed, raffle tables overflowed, and the theater students juggled while the band played in the corner. Aurora moved through it all with practiced grace, clipboard still in hand, stopping to compliment student artwork and adjust a decoration here or there. She looked—Dick thought grimly from his post near the games—not like a Carmichael heiress, but like someone who belonged.

Samantha floated at Bruce’s side, drawing donors like moths. Cobb lingered nearby, his gaze trailing Aurora with disquieting focus.

When their paths crossed again, he caught her arm gently. “You make people feel seen,” he said, almost wonderingly.

Aurora hesitated, startled. “That’s… basic decency.”

His smile lingered, warm, almost reverent. It made her skin prickle. She excused herself quickly, but the moment didn’t go unnoticed. Not by Dick. Not by Maddie, either, who tugged on Jon’s sleeve from across the room.

“I don’t like him. Cobb. He’s looking at Rory weird.”

Jon frowned, protective. “Then we don’t let him near her.”

Damian, standing stiff in his uniform blazer, followed Cobb with narrowed eyes. “Grayson is already attached to her. And that woman—” he flicked his gaze toward Samantha, nose wrinkling, “—I don’t like her either.”

“Matchmaking committee,” Maddie whispered, as if founding a secret society. “Dick is the prince Rory needs.”

Jon nodded solemnly. “Agreed.”

Damian sighed, but there was no protest. “If this fails, I’m telling Pennyworth.”

Later, amid the noise and laughter, Bruce asked Rory aside. The hallway outside the gym was quieter, the hum of music and voices seeping through heavy doors. String lights flickered faintly through the frosted windows, but here, away from the crowd, it felt like another world.

Bruce stood with his hands folded behind his back, immaculate as always, but his voice—when it came—was stripped down to something bare.

“I owe you an apology,” he said.

Rory tilted her head, wary. “For what?”

“For Jason,” Bruce said, steady but low. “For failing him. And for leaving you adrift after.”

Her chest clenched. The name caught in her throat like broken glass, but she forced it out. “He deserved better. Everything I am—the reason I left my mother’s house, the reason I fight instead of folding—it’s because of him. Jason believed I could. I loved him. Not like you think. But I loved him. And he deserved more than what he got.”

Her voice cracked, quiet but cutting. “He deserved so much better.”

Bruce’s face didn’t change, but something in his eyes gave way, collapsing inward. “He was family,” he said, softer than she’d ever heard him. “So were you. I should have been there for you both. I thought distance would protect you. All it did was leave you alone.”

She shook her head, arms tightening across her chest. “I didn’t need Gotham’s billionaire. I didn’t need donations or polite condolences. I needed someone to show up. And you didn’t.”

Bruce’s throat tightened. He had told himself for years that Aurora had moved on—that her silence meant she’d found distance, that cutting her out of the Manor had protected her. Hearing Jason’s name in her mouth now, hearing the way her voice fractured around it… it shattered that illusion. She had carried that grief alone, because he hadn’t been strong enough to carry it for her.

Bruce swallowed once, jaw tight, words caught behind a wall of old guilt. “I failed you,” he admitted.

The silence that followed was raw, the kind that hummed with things neither could fix.

Rory’s eyes burned, but she held his gaze. “Yes. You did.” Her arms crossed tighter, then dropped, her voice softening into something quieter. “But… I’m not seventeen anymore. I’m not standing in your hallway begging you to explain why the world ended. I can’t carry that anger forever.”

She hesitated, then added: “You failed me. You failed him. But I’m still here. And I don’t hate you anymore.”

Bruce blinked once, the admission hitting harder than any accusation. Slowly, almost awkwardly, he inclined his head. “That’s more than I deserve.”

Her mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite forgiveness. “It’s all I can give.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Then Bruce shifted, his voice gruff but certain. “If you ever need the Manor… it’s yours. Always.”

Rory let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Noted,” she said, quiet but steady.

At the far end of the hallway, leaning against the wall in half-shadow, Dick froze. He hadn’t meant to overhear. But the words rooted him in place.

Jason.

Aurora still bled for Jason. And Jason wasn’t dead.

For years, Jason’s name had been a weight in their family—a wound Bruce never spoke of, a ghost Dick couldn’t put to rest. But hearing Aurora say it, hearing the crack in her voice… it cut different.

She loved him. Not in the way Bruce would assume, but in a way Dick recognized instantly: fierce, protective, shaping. Jason had been her compass. She carried his ghost the way Dick carried too many of his own.

And that complicated everything.

Because this wasn’t just a woman he traded banter with in cafés. This wasn’t just attraction sparked by her sharp wit or the way her eyes lit when she teased him. Somewhere between the soup and the stakeouts, she’d slipped under his guard.

He liked her fire, sure—but it was more than that. He liked her laugh when she forgot to stop herself. He liked the way she remembered details about everyone, even strangers. He liked that she turned an empty house into a home for two broken girls and made it smell like bread and warmth instead of silence.

And now, he realized something that scared him more than rooftop fights ever had: he was beginning to want her in ways that had nothing to do with the case.

But Jason’s shadow was here. Jason’s name still broke her voice. And Jason—alive, angry, and walking Gotham as Red Hood—was a truth Dick couldn’t hand her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He exhaled slowly, hand tight in his pocket.

This wasn’t harmless flirting anymore. It wasn’t golden-boy charm and guarded barbs. It was something heavier, sharper. Something that could break them both if he wasn’t careful.

And for the first time, Dick Grayson wasn’t sure he knew how to handle it.

The fundraiser wrapped in a flurry of streamers, empty plates, and tired laughter. Rory’s arms were full of coats, Dawn’s sketchbook, and Maddie’s half-finished raffle tickets. She moved with the sure efficiency of someone used to cleaning up after other people’s messes.

Dick walked with her, hands in his pockets, the easy quiet between them carrying more weight than any banter had.

“You did good tonight,” he said, his tone low, almost reluctant.

Rory shot him a sidelong look. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not,” he said quickly, dimples tugging in despite himself. “Just… impressed.”

Her laugh slipped out before she could stop it—startled, unguarded. She clapped a hand over her mouth like she could catch it, but Dick’s grin only deepened.

Behind them, Maddie elbowed Jon in victory. Damian muttered something about “idiots in denial,” but his sharp gaze never left Rory’s.

At the curb, Dick leaned a fraction closer, like he might risk saying something more—

“Richard!”

The voice cut through like glass.

Samantha Vanaver glided across the lot in a sweep of tailored silk and pointed heels, her arm already lifting in greeting. Her smile was too bright, too polished, and too sharp for family.

“Cousin Rory,” she purred, eyes raking her up and down before dismissing her. Then, with a practiced pivot, she slid herself against Dick’s side, looping her arm through his without asking. “You never said whether you’d be bringing your dancer tonight. Or was she just another pretty little fling?”

The air iced over.

Aurora went still. Her smile didn’t crack, but her voice dropped into something precise and cutting. “Thank you for your help tonight, Detective Grayson. The girls and I appreciate it.”

She opened the car door, ushered Maddie inside, helped Dawn with her sketchbook, tucked Jon into the back. Her spine was steel. She would not rise to Samantha’s bait. Not here. Not in front of the girls.

But Dick—Dick froze under Samantha’s hand. His jaw ticked, his eyes locked on Rory as she buckled Maddie’s seatbelt and closed the door with deliberate care.

“Sam,” he said finally, his voice low and edged. He peeled her hand off his arm. “Don’t.”

Her smile faltered. “Don’t what, Richard? I was only asking—”

“Don’t use me to take shots at her,” he said, sharp enough to cut. “She’s your cousin. Try acting like it.”

Samantha’s lips pressed thin, the veneer cracking. “She doesn’t belong in this world. She never did.”

“Good,” Dick shot back. His eyes followed the taillights of Rory’s car as it pulled from the curb. “That’s exactly why she matters.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, sharp as broken glass. Samantha’s smile returned, colder than before, just as William Cobb stepped from the shadows to her side. His gaze wasn’t on Samantha. It lingered on Rory’s departing car, his warm brown eyes following it like a man who’d found something he suddenly couldn’t let go of.

Maddie, watching from the backseat, whispered with absolute certainty, “See? He chose her. Operation Prince Charming is officially on.”

Jon snorted in agreement. Damian rolled his eyes but muttered, “Tch. He’s already hers. Vanaver doesn’t stand a chance.”

And in the lot, Samantha Vanaver smiled like a knife being drawn, her hand tightening possessively on Cobb’s arm.

The girls piled in, Maddie humming under her breath, Dawn scrolling through her playlist, Jon already halfway into a marble-run debate. Rory slid behind the wheel, tossing her bag into the passenger seat with more force than necessary. She started the engine, pulled into traffic, and let herself believe—foolishly—that the night was done.

Five blocks later, a flat, cool voice came from the shadows of the back seat.

“That vendor in the red cap had a concealed blade. He was watching you.”

Rory yelped, swerving so hard Jon grabbed the oh-shit handle. “What the—?!” She whipped around at the red light. A pair of green eyes glinted back at her from the far corner. Damian Wayne, perfectly composed, wedged between Maddie and Jon like he’d been there the whole time.

“Damian!” Rory hissed, heart hammering. “Were you—were you in my car this whole time?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “You were distracted.”

Maddie dissolved into giggles, hiding her face behind the sleeves of her cardigan. “He’s not wrong. You didn’t even notice him climb in.”

Rory threw her sister a daggered look in the rearview mirror. “Not helping.”

Jon leaned forward, grin wide. “I mean… Damian’s got a point. Dick makes you, like—” He wiggled his fingers like static. “All short-circuit-y.”

“Jon,” Rory warned.

“What?!” He held up his hands. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking!”

Dawn, deadpan, shoved an earbud in deeper. “This car is becoming a clown car of bad decisions.”

Damian remained the only composed one, arms crossed. “Regardless. I’m not leaving Maddie unescorted when strangers are circling. Especially that woman.” His voice sharpened on the word. “I don’t trust her.”

For a moment, Rory just looked at him. At the sharp, unyielding edge of his gaze—so much like Bruce’s, and yet not. Finally she exhaled, turned back to the wheel, and eased the car forward.

“Damian Wayne, how many times have you snuck into my car?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Four.”

“Four?” Her voice cracked into the kind of register Dawn usually mocked her for. “You’ve been in my car four times?”

“Technically five,” he corrected, utterly calm. “But once was only to retrieve Maddie’s cardigan. That hardly counts.”

Maddie laughed so hard she nearly choked on her water bottle. “He’s like a raccoon! You never see him, but he’s always there.”

Jon nodded solemnly. “He’s stealthy. Like Batman. Or my mom when she hides Halloween candy.”

Dawn didn’t look up from her sketchbook. “Can we just accept this is our lives now? Damian’s a permanent accessory to the sedan.”

Rory pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting a smile she did not want to give in to. “No. Nope. Absolutely not. Damian, you are not allowed to keep treating my car like your personal Uber.”

“You didn’t notice me,” he said with the faintest smugness. “Again. That is not my fault.”

“Kid,” Rory muttered, half to herself, “you’re going to be the death of me.”

The light turned green. She pressed the gas, then yanked her phone from the console at the next stop sign and thrust it over the seat. “Call your guardian. Right now. Tell them where you are before I do it myself.”

He blinked once. “That’s unnecessary.”

“Not a request, Damian.”

For the first time, he looked faintly put out, but he dialed anyway. The speaker crackled before a familiar voice picked up.

“Grayson.”

Rory leaned in. “Hi, Dick? Yeah, it’s Aurora Carmichael. Your little stowaway just made this the fifth time he’s climbed into my car without asking.”

A pause. Then a very audible sigh. “…Of course he did.”

Damian crossed his arms, unrepentant. “You were distracted.”

“Don’t start with me,” Rory warned.

On the other end, Dick’s laugh came low and tired. “I’ll come get him. Where are you?”

“In my driveway, about to lock him in the trunk until you arrive.”

“That’s illegal,” Damian muttered.

“So is breaking into someone’s car, again,” she shot back.

Jon snorted. “She’s got you there.”

By the time they pulled up to the estate, Dick’s car was already waiting at the curb. He leaned against the hood, hands in his pockets, hair catching the streetlight. His expression was equal parts “amused older brother” and “I’m never living this down.”

Rory opened her door and pointed at Damian. “Out. Now.”

Damian slid from the backseat with all the grace of a prince and none of the apology. Dick arched a brow.

“Five times, huh?”

“Four and a half,” Damian corrected, then added, “She worries too much.”

“She cares,” Dick said simply, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s not make her regret it, okay?”

Damian’s gaze flicked to Rory. She gave him a look that was equal parts furious, exhausted, and soft around the edges. Jason had once worn that same mix of trouble and brilliance. She couldn’t help herself—she reached out, brushed his hair back from his forehead like he was one of her own.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” she said quietly.

For a second, the steel in Damian’s eyes melted into something younger, something that let her see the boy under the heir. He didn’t answer. He just nodded once.

Dick caught her gaze over the roof of the car, his mouth tipping into a smile that didn’t quite hide the warmth there. “Thanks for babysitting, Carmichael.”

“Anytime,” she deadpanned, even as Maddie giggled in the backseat.

When Dick turned him toward his car, he lingered, gaze catching Aurora’s over the roof. His voice was low, meant only for her.

“Hey.”

She blinked at him, still taut with adrenaline. “What?”

“I should’ve said something earlier,” he admitted. “Back at the fundraiser. When Samantha—” He broke off, jaw tight. “I don’t know why I let her get away with it. But for what it’s worth? I’m not seeing anyone. And I’m sorry she said that in front of you.”

Her breath hitched. For a second she could only stare at him, every muscle caught between bristling and… something else.

Then she found her voice. “You don’t owe me that.”

“No,” Dick agreed, dimples ghosting as his smile wavered. “But I wanted you to know.”

Before she could reply, Damian tugged at his sleeve. Dick straightened, giving her one last look that sat too heavy in her chest, then guided his charge to the car.

Aurora stood in her driveway long after their taillights vanished, Maddie and Jon still giggling their way inside, Dawn muttering about “clown car chaos.”

Rory shook her head, muttering, “God help me, I’ve adopted another one.”

Dawn didn’t look up from her sketchbook as she followed her sisters inside. “You keep saying that like you’re surprised.”

The ride back to Wayne Manor was mostly quiet. Streetlights slid in long gold streaks across the windshield, Gotham’s shadows hemming them in. Damian sat in the passenger seat, arms folded, posture perfect as always.

Dick finally broke the silence. “You know, most kids sneak cookies. Or stay up late. You sneak into people’s cars like a raccoon.”

Damian didn’t blink. “And you didn’t notice until she pointed it out. That’s not my failing. That’s yours.”

Dick huffed a laugh. “God, you’re impossible.”

“No,” Damian said evenly. “You’re an idiot.”

That caught Dick mid-breath. “…Excuse me?”

Damian turned his head, green eyes sharp under the passing light. “Aurora. She’s… different. She treats me like a person, not a soldier, not a project. She’s warm. Maddie and Dawn love her. I trust her. And she’s not afraid of you.” He paused, then added with deliberate weight: “I want her as my sister.”

Dick gripped the wheel tighter, his throat suddenly dry. He didn’t know what to say to that—how to say that he wanted the same thing but couldn’t put words to it yet.

Damian didn’t give him the chance. “So don’t screw it up,” he said flatly. “You always screw things up.”

Dick barked a short laugh, half incredulous, half wounded. “Wow. Thanks, kid. Real confidence boost.”

“Don’t thank me,” Damian muttered, looking out the window again. “Just listen. For once.”

For a moment, the car was nothing but the hum of the engine and the pulse of Gotham’s night. Then Dick reached over and cuffed the back of Damian’s neck lightly, brotherly.

“You’re a pain,” he said, his voice softer now. “But… noted.”

Damian didn’t swat him away. Didn’t say anything else. But the faintest smirk tugged at his mouth, just enough to let Dick know the words had landed.

When Wayne Manor came into view, Damian sat a little straighter, the soldier mask sliding back into place. But Dick could still hear the echo of his warning: Don’t screw this up.

And for once in his life, Dick wanted to promise he wouldn’t.    

Omake: The Committee

It started in the kitchen the next day.

Aurora had just pulled a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven when she heard whispering. Maddie, Jon, and Damian were hunched like spies over the breakfast table. Dawn sat slightly apart, sketching, but she was listening too.

“She laughed at his joke,” Maddie whispered fiercely. “Like, actually laughed. That never happens.”

Jon nodded sagely. “And he looked at her like she hung the moon. Case closed.”

Damian scowled. “This is childish.”

“You agree with us,” Maddie shot back.

Damian didn’t deny it.

At that moment, Clark Kent ducked in with a mug of coffee, catching the tail end of the conspiracy. “What are we plotting, exactly?”

Three guilty faces. One very unconcerned Damian.

“Operation Prince Charming,” Jon blurted. “We’re making sure Aunt Rory ends up with Dick.”

Clark blinked. Then, to everyone’s horror, he smiled. “Well. About time someone organized this properly.”

“Clark!” Rory yelped, nearly dropping the pan.

But Lois’s voice carried from the hall, dry and knowing: “I told you he was a shipper.”

The kitchen dissolved into chaos—Maddie high-fiving Jon, Dawn muttering kill me now, Damian muttering idiots while Clark sipped his coffee like the picture of smug Kryptonian approval.

And Aurora? Aurora Carmichael wondered when her life became a base line plot for a drama series. At this rate someone in spandex should show up to sweep her off her feet.

Chapter Text

The house was too quiet. With the girls at school and Lois and Clark on assignment, the Tudor felt like it had pulled its breath in—rafters holding still, old pipes refusing to creak. Aurora sat at the wide oak desk in her study with the window cracked to the garden, a ring of coffee cooling beside a fan of paper that still smelled faintly of her mother’s perfume and laboratory ethanol. She was in a soft gray sweater and jeans, hair coiled up in a loose bun, a uniform of quiet practicality that belied the fury in her eyes.

On the desk, her mother’s notes were a jumble of genius and madness. Underneath a section on her own genetic code, Georgia had scribbled the word “rewriteable” in her clean hand. Below that, a bolder header, underlined twice: ATEN.

Rory traced the word with the back of her knuckle. The margin notes were a mix of clinical and unhinged—gene diagrams stacked over sketches of owl faces and arrows to lines of text: immortality; rebirth; binding to the Court. Where Project Genesis had read like a desperate experiment to save a sick infant, ATEN read like a manifesto. A refinement, not just for survival. For control.

Her mouth went dry. In the windowpane, her reflection watched her back—hair coiled up, sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows, jaw set too tight. “I was never supposed to just be her daughter,” she whispered, surprised at the ugliness of how true it felt.

The phone hummed on the desk. She put it to her ear, grateful for the interruption. “Carmichael.”

“Hey.” Dick’s voice, easy in the first second, went a shade gentler in the next. “Got an update. Release paperwork for your mom’s body is moving. Couple signatures, and… we can make it official.”

The words clipped something tender inside her. “Thank you,” she said, and meant it.

He didn’t fill the silence. He let her keep it until she could set it down. She pushed away from the desk and padded down the hall barefoot, cradling the phone between shoulder and cheek, coffee cup in the other hand. Sun striped the floorboards; the kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon from last night’s rolls. When she unlocked the front door to get the mail, a neat square sat centered on the mat like a gift waiting for a party that hadn’t been invited. Heavy cream paper. A crisp ribbon.

“Hold on,” she said, tucking the phone back against her ear as she bent to pick it up. “Someone dropped a package.”

“You expecting anything?” Dick asked.

“No.” She frowned at the lack of postage. No address. No card. “Probably PTA. Or Alfred being Alfred.”

“Open it on the table, not the counter,” he said absently. “You’ll save yourself cleaning grout—”

She set it on the island, slid a fingernail under the ribbon, and lifted the lid.

The world stopped.

Two heads gazed up from a bed of plastic liner. Eyes slack, mouths slack, hair matted with the wrong kind of shine. She knew one from grainy surveillance stills: the last of the men who’d slipped the net after Georgia bled out in Aurora’s arms. Rory recognizes him from research she’s done herself (newspaper clippings, old board photos she’s dug through since Georgia’s death. 

Pinned to the underside of the lid was a single pale feather, soft and obscene. Beneath it, a folded square of card in a narrow hand:

For you, little bird. They won’t hurt you again. I will see to it.

Heat and ice climbed her throat at once. Something that wasn’t a word—thin and high and strangled—leaked out of her. The coffee she’d set down trembled.

“Rory?” Dick’s voice knifed through the static, a low growl of alarm. “Rory, talk to me. What happened? What’s in front of you?”

She swallowed hard, once, twice, bile and air fighting for the same space. “A—” Her lips stuck. She forced them to move. “A box. Two… two heads. An owl feather. A note.”

Silence. Then the sound of his chair scraping, of keys and footsteps and a door. “Don’t move,” he said, his voice gone to iron. “I’m coming.”

“Dick—”

He hung up.

For a heartbeat Aurora stood exactly where she was, hands white around the edge of the island, eyes fixed on the box like it might blink. The cold clean light from the kitchen windows pooled over porcelain and stainless steel and two pieces of a nightmare that didn’t belong in a kitchen where flour dust should be the only mess.

The front door opened hard. “Rory?”

“In here,” she said, and the steadiness in her voice surprised her.

Dick came in fast, the kind of fast that meant he’d broken a few quiet laws on the way. He registered the box, registered the feather, registered the knife-slice of fear around her eyes, and—because he was who he was—went to her first. Hands up, not touching. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, jaw locked.

He turned to the island, jaw ticking. “Okay.” Phone already up, he snapped the quick shots that mark time for a report, called it in with clipped authority. “I need CSU at the Carmichael estate. We’re securing a delivery—two victims, detached. Unknown courier. Secure route. And I want my scene techs, not rookies.” He ended the call without waiting for the questions he didn’t care to answer.

“Don’t look at it,” he said, gentler, when he caught her eyes tipping back toward the box. “Look at me.”

She did. The breath came easier.

“You’re going to sit,” he said, nodding at a chair like it was an order and a kindness at once. “And you’re going to drink water.”

“This is my house,” she said, brittle out of reflex.

“I know,” he said simply, and pulled out the chair for her anyway. “Sit.”

The chair legs kissed the floor. The glass kissed her palm. She stared at the condensation collecting in her fingerprints and hated that her hands were still shaking.

“This doesn’t get to win, Rory,” he said finally, back at the kitchen table, his voice softening into something she recognized from a stakeout at two in the morning and soup that tasted like forgiveness. “Not in here. Not in your home.”

She looked at him and saw what she refused to name: safety. It terrified her more than the box.

The word skittered through her like a bird in a church. For once, she didn’t argue. She stared over his shoulder at the far window—at the square of herb garden, at the neat line of hedges—and let the syllables sit between them until they didn’t feel like a trap.

GCPD arrived in the shape of boot soles and low voices, the respectful quiet reserved for the homes of people who could make their lives harder. Dick’s voice changed timbre when he spoke to them—steel threaded through velvet—and Aurora let the noise of professional procedure numb the edges of her anger. Bag, tag, photograph, carry—out the door, into a van, away from her oven mitts and the grocery list clipped to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a strawberry.

Alfred arrived between one breath and the next, as if conjured by the word untidy. He inclined his head with a gravity that made the world a fraction less absurd. “Miss Carmichael,” he said, and then, to Dick, the simple acknowledgment of men who had both cleaned blood off antique floors. “Detective.”

“Can you…?” Aurora started, and hated how her voice sanded down on the last word.

“Of course,” Alfred said, already reaching for his keys. “The girls will be collected and distracted until you say otherwise. The Manor—”

“—is at our disposal,” she finished, the old rhythm easing the stutter in her ribs. “Thank you.”

When he was gone, she called Clark. She didn’t mean to let her voice betray her, but it did the second she said his name.

“Rory?” Alarm under the warmth. “We’re on our way—”

“No.” She put a palm to the cool wood of the table as if it could hold her up. “No, just—take them for the weekend, if Alfred’s okay with it. Keep them… away. I need to… I need to make this house untouchable again.” Her throat pinched. “Please.”

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Clark said, very gently.

Her jaw flexed. “I know.”

He understood that was backcountry for let me try. “We’ll be at the Manor in an hour,” he said. “Call me the second you want us there.”

She promised she would. She didn’t know if it was a lie.

Dick walked the perimeter with her, pointing out camera angles and dead zones, the places where a man with time and patience could live between pixels and go unseen. He talked quietly, practically, never once implying she’d done something wrong. It made her want to cry more than anything had all day.

By the time the last tech zipped the last bag and the van door thumped shut, the kitchen looked like a place where nothing had ever happened. It was a lie polished into stainless steel. Evidence packed. Photographs taken. The box, the heads, the feather—all gone. The house was quiet again. Too quiet.

That was when Dick found her.

She was at the kitchen counter, sleeves shoved up, a rag clenched so tight in her raw hands that the fabric had begun to fray. The bleach bottle sat open beside her. She scrubbed the counter with the kind of furious focus that belonged in an operating theater, not a kitchen. Her knuckles were red, skin chapped, tendons taut as if she could erase what had sat there.

“Rory.”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t look at him. “It’s in the grout. I can still see it.”

“Rory.” His voice gentled, and this time he took the rag from her. She resisted, but his hand closed over hers—warm, steady, grounding. “It’s gone. You’re bleeding.”

Her breath hitched. She hadn’t even noticed.

He eased her back, dropped the rag in the sink, then turned and wrapped his arms around her. Not hesitant, not the way he’d handled witnesses who might spook—but certain, solid. Her forehead pressed against his chest, and for a few sharp seconds she let herself lean into it, let her shaking finally have somewhere to land.

But then the thought crashed in like glass. She shoved back, eyes bright and hard. “What are we doing?”

Dick blinked, caught. “We’re making sure you’re okay.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You’re the detective on my mother’s case. And I’m—” Her voice broke, then steadied. “I’m leaning on you like… like this is something else. You’re supposed to be the cop. I’m supposed to be the source. How the hell is this not a conflict of interest?”

For the first time all morning, he looked like she had hit him. His jaw ticked, but his voice came low, deliberate. “I don’t care what it looks like. You’re not just a case file. You’re not just—” He cut himself off, ran a hand through his hair. “We’re going to talk about this. Not now. But soon. Because I know you feel it, Rory. Just like I do.”

“Detective,” she said, a warning that wasn’t quite a warning.

“Duty’s going to pull me,” he said after a beat, regret a small line at the corner of his mouth. “I have to process it myself, or I won’t sleep. But I’ll be back.”

She swallowed hard, backing up a step as if distance might undo what had been said. “And until then?”

“Until then,” he said, his voice clipped with determination, “you call me if anything happens. Anything. I’m coming back tonight. Either I stay here, or you come stay with me until we get your security updated.”

She nodded stiffly. Didn’t promise. Didn’t argue. When he finally left, his scent still lingered in the air—leather, aftershave, the faint ozone tang of Gotham night. The house felt emptier without him.

Rory stood for a long time at the counter, hands still trembling. If she didn’t go now, Dick would follow. And she refused to drag him into the kind of danger she was walking toward.

The house fell into the hush that follows a storm. The smell of bleach lapped the corners. Aurora stood in the middle of her kitchen with her arms crossed tight, the quiet so loud it felt like a scream pressed to her eardrums. When she finally moved, it was toward the study. From the locked drawer, she pulled the secondary USB drive—the one she’d copied her mother’s video and notes onto. She slid it into the inner pocket of her jacket, zipped it up tight.

She only had a small window before he came back.

Her mother’s video flickered up on the laptop screen. Feathers fall where secrets sleep, beneath the watch of those who weep.

The phrase chased itself around the inside of her skull until it wore a groove. Feathers. Secrets. Weepers. She pulled a ledger, then a town record, then a rubbed charcoal etching of a family crest older than street lamps. The Carmichael crypt sat where the old cemetery grew over into catacombs—stone angels with tear tracks carved by hands long dead. Weepers. Secrets sleeping under their gaze.

ATEN’s notes tugged at her thoughts like burrs: binding to the Court. immortality. rebirth. She could see the design like a blueprint—what her mother had made to save her turned into a leash around the throats of men like William Cobb.

Anger straightened her spine. “I’m not prey,” she told the empty room. “Not anymore.”

She went to the closet in the hall and lifted the false bottom out of a cedar box that had been her grandmother’s. Two compact pistols nestled there, oiled and clean. The collapsible baton Clark had given her when she refused to carry a bigger stick. A taser she’d bought after a night in the Narrows she didn’t want to remember. She shrugged on her jacket, the holsters sitting snug under her shoulders like a choice she didn’t have to explain to anyone.

She sent one text—to Clark, not a lie this time.

Rory: Girls with you?

Clark: Yes. They’re safe.

Rory: Good. Don’t worry. I’m just… going to breathe.

She put her phone face-down on the counter where a box had sat this morning and left by the side door. “Sorry, Dick,” she murmured to the empty room. “This part’s mine.”

Across the street, a figure watched from the rooftop.

William Cobb twirled an owl feather between his fingers, gaze fixed on her car as it pulled from the drive. “She’s mine,” he murmured. Not prey. Not target. Salvation was coming for him.

(Dick’s POV)

Tim’s voice crackled over comms just as Dick pulled out of the precinct parking lot. “Uh, Dick?” Tim’s voice, urgent. “You’re gonna want to hear this. Carmichael just slipped her car out of the estate. Headed downtown. Alone.”

Dick’s stomach dropped, then burned hot. He’d told her. He’d told her not to pull something like this. That hollow look in her eyes this afternoon—he should’ve seen it coming.

“Damn it, Rory.”

He cut the line, shut the comms off. This wasn’t for Tim. This wasn’t for anyone. If she was walking into Gotham’s bones, she wasn’t doing it alone.

Two blocks off the cemetery, he landed on a rooftop and tracked the square nose of her car into a curb shadow. She got out, jacket zipped, bag slung, moving like a woman who already knew the ending and had decided to write it herself anyway. Dick’s jaw locked. Anger, fear, and something more dangerous pushed him into the shadows after her.

The Carmichael mausoleum rose ahead, stone angels bent in eternal grief. He knew her well enough to hear her breath steady into resolve as she moved past them. She’d grown up with these bones. Of course she had.

He dropped behind the side wall, let the anger focus him, then stepped inside.

She was kneeling at the altar, flashlight on the floor, both hands pressed against a seam beneath a carved angel. Her lips moved, whispering the riddle like it was a nursery rhyme. And the stone—God help him—the stone was shifting.

Fury snapped sharp in his chest.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Carmichael?”

She spun, pistol raised, steady grip despite the tremor he knew had to be under her skin. The beam of her light hit him—black and blue armor, escrima sticks, a cowl that was more mask than helmet. He saw her eyes widen for a hiccup of a second before her chin tipped high again.

“Breaking into my own crypt,” she said, even. “Who the hell are you, bird boy?”

She didn’t lower the gun. Of course she didn’t.

His jaw locked. “Nightwing,” he snapped, letting the name cut like steel. “The guy keeping you from getting killed. Drop the weapon.”

She actually had the audacity to snort. “Worked with Superman,” she deadpanned. “Forgive me if I don’t swoon over Gotham’s pretty bird.”

Heat pricked under his mask. Not attraction—anger. He stalked closer, controlled steps, voice low. “The Owls want your blood. You walk in here alone, you’re not just reckless—you’re handing them the knife.”

She held her ground. Gun still leveled, flashlight beam trembling just slightly across his chest. “Thanks for the pep talk, Bat-lite. Unless you’re planning on shooting me yourself, move.”

Something in him snapped. He closed the last few feet, until her barrel was practically touching the Kevlar over his ribs. He leaned down, his voice dropping to the gravel he usually reserved for breaking suspects.

“You think this is a puzzle,” he hissed. “You’re treating it like a damn crossword. You have no idea what kind of war you’re standing in the middle of.”

Her eyes flashed. No fear, just fire. “I’m not poking at it,” she whispered back. “I’m finishing it.”

And that was the problem. He believed her. God help him, he believed her.

The mausoleum door slammed.

Both of them turned as the sound reverberated—stone grinding, lock dropping from deep inside. No accident. No draft. The Court had closed the cage.

“Perfect,” he muttered, jaw like granite.

She eased the gun down, not holstering it, just shifting. “Guess it’s just you and me, pretty bird.”

Her smirk lit something hot in his blood. The part of him that was tired of charm, tired of banter, tired of her treating danger like a game. He stepped in, close enough to make her back brush stone.

“This isn’t optional anymore,” he growled. “You want to keep mouthing off, I’ll save us both time and carry you out of here over my shoulder.”

Her lips parted—half outrage, half something else. He didn’t let himself think about the way her eyes flicked over him, sharp and assessing, as if cataloging every line of muscle, every scar under the armor.

She lifted her chin again, smirk sharp. “Do that, bird brain, and I’ll shoot you in the ass.”

For a heartbeat, their glares held—her fire against his fury. Beneath it, though, a current he couldn’t name buzzed hot between them. Too close. Too sharp.

Finally, he straightened, exhaling hard through his nose. “Fine. But here’s how this works.” He jabbed a finger toward the shadowed seam she’d uncovered. “I’m point. You’re backup. You stay behind me. You don’t wander. You don’t improvise. You follow my lead or I drag you out of here, kicking and screaming, I don’t care which.”

Her voice was low, dangerous. “Do you know where you’re even going?”

His eyes narrowed. “I know Gotham’s bones better than anyone. Maybe not your family’s mausoleum, but I’ll get us through.”

She smiled, wicked and knowing. “Then maybe I should lead. I’m the one who can read the clues.”

He glared. “You want to test me, Carmichael? Keep pushing. See how far it gets you.”

She laughed softly, like the sound was for herself as much as him. “God, you’re infuriating.”

He glanced at her once—furious, protective, more tethered to her than he wanted to admit. “This is where you shut up and follow me.”

Her smirk was pure fire. “We’ll see.”

He leaned down, close enough that his voice brushed the shell of her ear, rough and lethal. “One more word, Carmichael, and I will throw you over my shoulder.”

She went still. The gun lowered an inch. Heat crawled her throat, betraying her.

And for the first time all night, Dick realized the danger wasn’t just the Court of Owls. It was her.

Because he wanted her too much to walk away.

Omake: Jason.exe Has Stopped Working

Tim (over comms): “Uh… guys? Nightwing just went radio silent. He flipped his comm off.”

Steph: “Oh boy. That’s never a good sign.”

Cass: [soft shrug noise]

Damian: “He’s probably busy cleaning up Grayson-style. Overly dramatic entrances, poorly timed quips—”

Tim: “No. This was different. He was already… pissed.”

Steph (gasping): “Wait. Pissed? Dick?”

Tim: “Yeah. Like serious pissed. Jaw clenched, no smile, full storm cloud mode.”

Jason (crackling onto comms, smug): “Hold up. Golden Boy’s pissed? That’s rarer than Bruce cracking a joke. What lit that fuse?”

Tim: “…Pretty sure it’s a ‘who,’ not a ‘what.’”

Jason (grinning, voice audible): “Oh ho. Even better. Alright, I’ve got popcorn. Somebody ping me when we find out which poor soul managed to get under his skin.”

Damian: “I suspect Carmichael.”

(There’s a pause. A long one. Then—)

Jason: “…Run that name by me again.”

Tim (hesitant): “…Aurora Carmichael.”

Steph (snorting): “Oh my god. You know her too, don’t you?”

Jason: [dead silence]

Tim: “…Jason?”

Jason (finally, short-circuiting): “Are you telling me that Aurora Carmichael — my best friend, the Rory — is the one making Dick lose his mind?!”

(Beat of stunned silence. Then—)

Jason: “Oh hell no. Absolutely not.”

Steph (gasp-laughing): “Oh my god. He knows her.”

Jason: “Knows her?! She was my best friend. My ride-or-die. We were supposed to take on the world together and last I checked she was in Metropolis making headlines and saving lives as a reporter—how the hell is she back in Gotham, and how the hell is she in orbit with Grayson of all people?!”

Damian (bored, but sharp): “Her mother is dead. Murdered. Carmichael is legal guardian of her sisters now.”

Jason: “…She what?”

Tim: “Yeah. She’s back in Gotham. Raising her sisters, writing again, keeping her head above water.”

Damian: “And Grayson is the lead detective on her mother’s murder investigation.”

Jason (goes silent): “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Steph (mock whisper): “He is so not kidding you.”

Jason (snaps): “Conflict of interest much?! He’s probably making goo-goo eyes at her over the case files!”

Tim (deadpan): “…He is.”

Cass (tiny nod): “Yes.”

Steph (giggling): “Oh, absolutely. It’s embarrassing.”

Tim: “Well… they’ve got chemistry. Like, stupid, bantery, can’t-stop-looking-at-each-other chemistry.”

Steph: “Basically he’s one broody rooftop away from kissing her in the rain.”

Cass (quiet, amused): “It fits.”

Damian (dry): “It’s disgusting.”

Jason (snapping back in, outraged): “No. Absolutely not. This is illegal. Grayson does not get to— No. I’m not okay with this.”

Steph (gleeful): “Oh, this is officially my new favorite soap opera.”

Tim: “Congrats, Jason. You’ve just been drafted into Operation Prince Charming.”

Jason (furious): “Operation WHAT?!”

Steph: “The ship name. Rory and Dick. We’re making it happen.”

Jason: “Over my dead body.”

Tim (flat): “Been there, done that. Didn’t stick.”

Cass (quiet laugh): [soft, wickedly amused]

Damian: “This family is insufferable.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The Kent kitchen should have felt safe. The soft flicker of Lois’s cinnamon candle, the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the faint smell of chamomile tea steeping. Normally, it was the kind of space that wrapped around you like a blanket.

Tonight, it felt like an interrogation room.

Rory Carmichael sat at the table, posture stiff, hands wrapped around a mug she hadn’t touched. Her jacket was draped over the chair, but there was no hiding the torn sleeve of her shirt, the ugly smear of dried blood clinging to the fabric. Her hair was a tangled mess, sticking to her cheek where sweat had dried. The cut on her arm was already knitted closed, skin shiny and raw — but the angry streak of red staining down to her wrist was impossible to ignore.

Across from her, Clark Kent sat with his tie undone, glasses off, forearms braced on his knees. His shoulders filled the small kitchen. The calm expression on his face wasn’t calm at all.

“You went into that crypt alone,” he said, voice quiet but carrying weight enough to pin her to her chair. “You didn’t tell anyone. You worked with Nightwing and ignored his orders. That isn’t brave, Rory. That’s reckless.”

Her chin tilted up, a flicker of defiance fighting against the knot of shame in her chest. “I handled it.”

Clark leaned forward, blue eyes cutting sharper. “Handled it? You don’t even know how your healing works yet. You don’t know the limits. And you still took a blade meant for him. He’s been doing this since he was nine years old. You don’t step in on instinct when you’ve had no training. You listen. And you didn’t.”

Rory’s throat worked. “I wasn’t going to just stand there and let him—”

“That’s exactly what you were supposed to do.” His voice sharpened, tone like steel. “Nightwing is trained. He gave you a direct order. Because you ignored it, you got hurt, he was distracted, and both of you nearly paid for it. You’ve worked with me before. You know how the field works. You listen to the leader. You trust them. And you didn’t.”

Her mouth opened — but Lois cut in, arms folded as she leaned against the counter. Her eyes were sharp but not cruel.

“We’re not angry because you fought,” Lois said, calm but direct. “We’re angry because you went in with no plan, no backup, and you didn’t tell a soul where you were going. That isn’t protecting anyone, Rory. That’s shutting us out.”

Rory dropped her gaze to the tea. Steam had stopped rising. She had no answer.

The creak of the stairs cut through the silence.

“You didn’t even tell me.”

Rory’s head jerked up. Dawn stood in the doorway, pajama shorts and a hoodie thrown on, her hair a snarl around her furious face. The glow of her phone screen lit her features ghostly blue. Severed Heads Linked to Carmichael Estate. Vigilante Clash in Gotham Cemetery.

Her gaze slid from the headlines to Rory’s arm, to the blood, and something in her snapped.

“You lied.” Her voice was jagged. “You let me wake up and see this on Twitter? Heads in our house — in our house — and now this? A graveyard full of vigilantes?” She took a step forward, pointing at the torn fabric of Rory’s shirt. “You’re bleeding. You’re actually bleeding. Were you even going to tell me, or was I just supposed to figure it out when you didn’t come back?”

“Dawn—” Rory started, voice strained.

“No!” Dawn’s voice pitched up, raw. “You’re supposed to be the one I can trust. You promised no more secrets, Rory. No more lies. But you just went and did exactly what Mom did. Kept it all to yourself. Took risks. And she’s dead.”

Her phone trembled in her hand, but her glare didn’t soften. “You’re going to end up just like her. In the ground. And you won’t even tell me why.”

“Enough,” Lois warned, but Dawn barreled on, anger boiling out of grief.

“You don’t care about us. You don’t care about me or Maddie. You only care about playing hero. You’re selfish. You’re a liar. And one day, you’re not coming back.”

Her voice rose with each word, sharp enough to wake the whole house.

Tiny footsteps pattered in the hall. Maddie appeared, curls wild, clutching her stuffed rabbit. Jon was behind her, jaw tight, already tense with protective anger.

“Why are you yelling?” Maddie whispered, eyes glassy. “Please don’t fight anymore.”

“Because she lied!” Dawn’s fury snapped toward Maddie, words striking like whips. “She keeps lying, Maddie! You think she’s keeping us safe, but she’s not. She’s dragging us into the same nightmare Mom lived in. She almost got herself killed tonight.”

Maddie’s lip trembled. “She wouldn’t—”

“She would.” Dawn’s voice broke but stayed vicious. “She already almost did. Look at her. There’s blood all over her. She doesn’t even care what it does to us.”

Jon stepped forward, jaw set. “That’s not fair. She was trying to protect you.”

“Shut up, Jon!” Dawn snapped, vicious, her voice shrill. “You don’t get it. You don’t live with her. You don’t watch her disappear, or lie, or come back with blood on her. She’s going to leave us just like Mom!”

“Dawn.” Lois’s voice cracked sharp across the kitchen. She moved forward, planting herself between the girls. “That is enough. You do not talk to your sister like that. Either of them. I don’t care how angry you are — you do not cut down Maddie, and you do not talk to Rory like she’s a stranger.”

Dawn’s eyes filled, but her glare stayed hot. “She’s not my safe place anymore.”

The silence that followed was crushing.

And then Clark stood. His presence filled the kitchen, voice rolling quiet and thunderous.

“That’s enough,” he said, iron in every word. “All of you. Upstairs. Bed. Now.”

Maddie startled but obeyed, small feet padding up the stairs. Jon took her hand, glaring once more at Dawn before leading her up. Dawn lingered, lip trembling, but Clark’s eyes didn’t waver. She spun and stormed upstairs, slamming the door so hard the frame rattled.

The silence that fell in her wake was thick and heavy. Rory sat at the table, face pale, guilt pressing down like stone. Lois gathered the mugs with shaking hands, exhaling through her nose.

Clark picked up his phone from the counter. It buzzed instantly. He scanned the message, his expression grim.

“It’s Bat's,” he said. “Samantha’s gone dark. The Court’s scattered. Cobb’s still missing.”

Rory closed her eyes. There was no relief. Only the sting of Dawn’s words echoing like wounds she couldn’t heal.

Two days later, the Carmichael estate was quieter than a tomb.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was sharp, brittle, ready to break at the slightest touch.

Dawn barely looked at Rory. When Rory asked about homework, about dinner, about anything at all, the answers came clipped, laced with scorn. “Why do you care?” or “Mind your business.”

Maddie tried to fill the space. Sweet Maddie, who brought Rory coloring pages and silly jokes, who trailed her into the kitchen just to keep her company. But every time Maddie spoke, Dawn cut her down—harsh, dismissive.

“Stay out of it, Maddie. No one asked you.”

Each time, Maddie’s smile cracked a little more. Her big brown eyes went glassy, her chin trembling as if she were trying to be brave.

Rory stepped in once, voice tight as a bowstring. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Dawn’s eyes flashed. “Why not? You get to keep secrets. You get to sneak around, play hero in the shadows—but God forbid I say anything.”

The words landed like claws, raking Rory open. Maddie flinched.

Jon stepped forward, protective, but it was Damian’s flat voice that cut through the tension.

“You’re being childish,” he told Dawn, matter-of-fact. “You’re lashing out because you’re afraid. It’s transparent.”

Dawn’s cheeks flamed red, her breath catching in a furious sob. She spun on her heel, storming upstairs. The slam of her bedroom door rattled the old bones of the house.

Maddie ducked her head, shoulders curling in on herself, hurt spilling across her face. Jon crouched to comfort her in quiet murmurs. Damian just shook his head, disdain sharp in every line.

And Rory? Rory felt crushed beneath it all. No matter what she said, it was wrong. She couldn’t fix Dawn’s fury. She couldn’t take away Maddie’s hurt.

So she retreated into the only thing she could control.

The kitchen.

It filled with the smells of butter and sugar, cinnamon and chocolate. Rory moved like a machine, measuring, whisking, kneading. Pies lined the counters, golden crusts shining under oven light. Cookies stacked high in neat rows. Muffins cooled in rows, their domes perfect. Flour dusted her dark hair, streaked across her sleeves, even powdered the hardwood floor.

She baked until her muscles ached and the silence of the house was drowned in the hiss of ovens and the clatter of pans.

But at night, when she finally stopped to breathe, her gaze always drifted to the window.

And there it was: the familiar silhouette of a car parked just past the iron gates. Headlights off. Engine silent. Steady. Watching.

Detective Grayson.

He never knocked. Never called. Just sat there. A shadow on the edge of her world.

And somehow, that burned worse than anything Dawn had said.

Dick POV

Across the lawn, in the quiet dark of his unmarked car, Dick Grayson sat with the engine off, his hands loose on the steering wheel.

The house was lit in warm yellows, but he didn’t go inside. Not yet.

Two nights. Two nights he’d parked here. Two nights he’d stared at the glow of her kitchen windows and felt the weight of his anger coil tighter inside him.

He wasn’t angry that she’d fought. He was angry that she’d gone alone. Angry that she hadn’t trusted him, hadn’t called, hadn’t given him the chance to stand at her side the way he’d promised he would.

And most of all, he was angry that she’d taken a blow meant for him. That her blood had been on his gloves, hot and real, and the image still made his stomach twist.

The passenger seat phone buzzed once. A secure ping from Damian. He picked it up, thumb swiping across the encrypted line.

Status update, Damian’s clipped text read. Carmichael household intact. Subject Rory: isolated in kitchen. Subject Dawn: hostile. Subject Maddie: distressed. Jon attempting mediation. Recommend intervention.

Dick exhaled slowly, shoulders heavy. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Not yet, he typed back. She needs space. I need to cool off.

There was a long pause before Damian’s reply came.

You’re avoiding her. It’s illogical.

His jaw tightened. He typed anyway. Not avoidance. Timing.

Damian didn’t answer.

Dick leaned back in the seat, tipping his head against the rest. From here, he could just make out Rory’s shadow moving in the kitchen. The rhythmic sweep of her arms, the clatter of pans, the faint fog against the window glass when she leaned too close.

Stress-baking. Again.

He closed his eyes, jaw working. Tomorrow, maybe. He’d go in tomorrow.

For now, he would keep his vigil.

Silent. Steady. Watching.

The estate loomed against the Gotham skyline, windows lit in warm yellow squares. For the third night in a row, Dick Grayson sat in his car at the edge of the grounds and told himself not tonight.

But tonight, the waiting was over.

He climbed out, the night air cool against his skin, and moved silent as habit up the drive. The front door was locked. It didn’t matter. He slipped through the side entrance he’d already memorized the second day he set foot here as a detective.

The house was hushed, but not sleeping. He followed the faintest sounds—clatter, the hum of an oven, the soft thud of cabinets closing.

And then he found her.

Aurora Carmichael, standing in the middle of the kitchen chaos, flour streaked across her arms, sugar scattered like snowfall on the counter, trays of pies and muffins cooling in regimented rows. She moved fast, mechanical, shoving her grief into every fold of dough and every frantic stir of the spatula.

Her face was tight, her mouth pressed hard, but her shoulders shook faintly with each breath.

Dick leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his jaw ticking like a clock wound too tight. He let himself watch for a moment, anger cooling into something heavier. She looked so small under the kitchen light, so stubbornly determined not to fall apart that it made his chest ache.

He drew in a slow breath, then let his voice cut through the hum of the oven.

“What were you thinking?”

Rory POV

The oven hummed like a heartbeat, trays clattering one after the other. Rory moved like she was possessed, flour streaked up her arms, sugar on the counter, dough rising in frantic batches she’d never eat.

It wasn’t about the food. It was about not thinking. Not feeling. Not hearing Dawn’s words echo over and over.

The soft scuff of boots on tile cut through the haze. She froze, spatula mid-stir.

“What were you thinking?”

Detective Richard Grayson stood at the entrance of the kitchen, sleeves of a dark blue shirt rolled to his forearms, the fabric stretched tight over muscle. Black trousers, pressed sharp, fit clean over long legs braced in tension. He looked infuriatingly composed—except for his jaw, ticking like a clock about to shatter.

The lamplight caught the edges of him, softened nothing. Without the mask, his face was all open lines and angles, hair a shade too dark to be neat, eyes the kind of blue that could go gentle one moment and cut steel the next.

And right now, they were steel.

Her pulse jumped despite herself. He looked good even furious, and that made her want to throttle him.

“Excuse me?” she snapped, hating the way her heartbeat stuttered.

Dick stepped into the kitchen, controlled and deliberate, like he was interrogating a suspect instead of her.

“Your thought process, Rory. Walk me through it. Because from where I’m standing, you promised me you’d call for backup. And then you didn’t. You walked into a death trap, ignored every order I gave you in the field, and nearly got yourself killed.”

Her throat tightened. She clutched the spatula like it might help. “I handled it.”

“You bled for it,” he shot back. His voice stayed low, but every word was steel. “You think your healing makes it fine? You think that makes it less reckless?”

Her jaw clenched. Anger was easier than shame. “Someone had to destroy ATEN before the Court could get their hands on it. I didn’t see you with a better plan.”

That’s when his composure broke. His voice rose, sharp and uncharacteristically raw.

“Because you didn’t give me any information, Rory! You kept me in the dark. If you’d trusted me, if you’d told me, we could have planned something together. But you didn’t. You decided you knew best and took a risk alone.”

Her chest caved at the force of it. She tried to glare, to bite back, but her voice wavered. “I had to. You don’t understand—”

“No,” he cut in, softer but still blazing. “I do understand. What I don’t understand is why you keep shutting me out when all I’m trying to do is keep you alive.”

The silence after landed heavy. Her vision blurred.

“You decided you knew best and took a risk alone,” he said, the words jagged and hot, cutting the air between them.

Her chin jerked up, pride armoring her. “I had to. You don’t understand—”

His jaw locked, and the next words snapped out before he could cage them. “No. I do understand.”

Her throat worked, the heat of his anger landing too close to the ache she’d buried. “It’s not your job to keep me alive.”

That should have ended it. It didn’t. His eyes blazed.

“Someone has to.”

The sharpness in it gutted her.

Dick’s eyes burned. He moved closer, the authority in him stripping away the warmth she was used to.

“And what if you hadn’t walked out of there, Rory? Did you think about that? Did you think about your sisters waking up without you? About Maddie crying herself to sleep? About Dawn breaking because she lost you the way she lost your mom?”

The words cut straight through. She tried to cover it with a glare, but her vision blurred. Her chest ached.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” His voice cracked sharper, rawer. “Don’t remind you that people need you alive?”

Her breath hitched. “Don’t throw them at me—”

“Who else should I throw at you?” His voice cracked, fury and grief tangled together. “Because if you won’t value yourself, then you better damn well value them.”

The silence that followed wasn’t clean. It pulsed, heavy and raw, her heartbeat in her ears, his chest rising sharp and uneven like he’d sprinted miles.

That did it. The tears broke before she could stop them. She pressed her sleeve to her face, furious at herself.

“Goddammit,” she whispered, dragging the heel of her hand across her face, but it didn’t stop the tears. They spilled hot and humiliating, unstoppable.

Dick froze, caught completely off guard. She wasn’t supposed to cry. Rory Carmichael was fire and bite and reckless bravery, not this. Seeing her shake broke something in him.

He froze like she’d pulled a knife on him. Dick Grayson didn’t panic. But he had not prepared for this.

“Rory…”

She shook her head, cheeks burning, tears faster now. “Don’t. Don’t look at me like that.”

He moved without thinking, crossing the kitchen in two strides and pulling her into his chest. His arms wrapped tight, steady, grounding.

For once, she didn’t have a comeback. For once, he didn’t have a plan.

All he had was the girl in his arms, shaking apart, and the terrifying realization that he couldn’t imagine not holding her together.

“I gave up everything,” she choked, voice broken, words tumbling out between sobs. “My career, my life—I fought for all of it, and it’s gone. And then I come back here and find out my DNA has been changed since I was a kid.” Her breath hitched, sharp. “Everything I thought I knew, it’s all—lies. Secrets. She never told me. She left me with nothing but riddles and traps and this—” she flung a hand helplessly, as if the whole world were the trap.

He was beside her, hand firm at her back.

“I had to stop it before it started,” Rory cried. “ATEN, the Court, all of it. If I didn’t burn it, it would’ve destroyed everything. But now—” her chest seized, a raw sound ripping free. “Now the girls are mad at me, the Kents are mad at me, you’re mad at me. And I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t tell anyone, but I just—”

Her throat closed, but the words clawed out anyway. “I thought of putting you in danger and I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t. And then the graveyard—” her breath hitched, body shaking, “you were almost stabbed, and I couldn’t stop, and I just—”

Her voice broke clean in half. The rest never came.

Her words tangled, then broke, shattering into a sob that tore through her chest. Before she knew it, she was folding in on herself, sinking to the cold kitchen floor like her legs had given out.

Dick didn’t hesitate. One second he was standing over her, the next he was on the tile too, arms wrapping her in before she could fall apart completely. He gathered her against him, pulling her onto his lap like she weighed nothing, locking her in a grip steady as steel.

Rory buried her face in his shirt and sobbed, all the walls she’d built buckling at once. The sound was ugly, raw, unrestrained, but he didn’t flinch. He just held her, broad palm pressed between her shoulder blades, thumb brushing slow circles every time her breath hitched.

“Easy,” he murmured, not shushing her, just steadying her through the storm. “Let it out.”

She clung to him tighter, choking on air and tears, trembling like her body had forgotten how to stop.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Dick said after a moment, voice low and steady above her. “What you did was reckless. It wasn’t okay. You scared me, Rory. You don’t get to do that again.”

Her sobs hitched harder, but his arms didn’t loosen. If anything, they closed around her tighter, like he could hold the jagged edges together until they stopped cutting.

“But—” he shifted, resting his cheek against her hair, grounding her with the press of his voice in her ear. “—I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And no matter how heavy it feels right now, you’re not carrying it by yourself anymore. Do you understand?”

She couldn’t answer, not really. Just a desperate nod against his chest, tears soaking the soft cotton of his shirt.

“Good,” he whispered, his breath ruffling her hair. “Because it’s going to be okay. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But eventually—it will. We’ll make sure of it.”

She sobbed harder at that, the sound clawing up from somewhere deep, but he didn’t let go. He stayed there on the kitchen floor, her lifeline in the middle of the flood, until her body started to shake less and her breathing found a fragile rhythm again.

Her sobs finally ebbed into hiccups, the storm leaving her wrung out and trembling in his arms. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Rory let herself lean. The rigid coil in her spine eased, her weight settling fully against him. His chest was solid, steady; his heartbeat a drum she hadn’t realized she’d needed.

And still—he didn’t let go.

The realization hit slow, a warmth sinking through exhaustion: she was curled in Dick Grayson’s lap on the kitchen floor, his arms locked around her like he had no intention of letting her slip away. It was too close, too intimate. A flush crept hot under her skin.

Her first instinct was to pull back, hide her face, tuck the mess of tears and grief somewhere he couldn’t see. She shifted, hands pressing at his shirt as she tried to move.

But his hold didn’t budge. His voice, quiet but firm, cut through the fragile silence.

“Don’t.”

She froze, startled.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said, steady as the hand that brushed damp hair away from her face. His thumb lingered at her temple, a touch meant to anchor, not trap. “Not you. Not after this.”

Rory’s throat worked, but no words came. Her eyes burned, chest too tight, because part of her hated being seen this raw—and another part, the part that was finally exhaling, didn’t want him to let go at all.

So she stayed. Let him keep her there, held against him, while the quiet stretched between them.

For once, she didn’t fight it.

The tears slowed, tapering to shaky breaths. Rory leaned back just enough to swipe her sleeve over her face, mortified at how blotchy and wrecked she must look.

Dick didn’t let her retreat far. His hand stayed gentle at the side of her face, thumb brushing the last damp trace from her cheek, then tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She went still, heat rushing traitorously up her neck. She knew she was blushing—God help her—and from the way his mouth curved, he knew it too.

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” he said, voice softened from the sharp edges it had worn minutes before.

Her eyes snapped to his, indignation sparking through the haze. “I just had a full-scale breakdown on the kitchen floor and your takeaway is cute?”

That grin, infuriating and warm, tugged higher. “Pretty much.”

Rory groaned and covered her face with both hands. “I hate you.”

“No,” he said, amusement threading low in his tone, “you don’t.”

She dropped her hands to glare at him—then stopped. Because looking around the kitchen, the wreckage hit her in one sweep.

Every counter was buried in chaos. Flour dusted the stovetop like snow. Sugar glittered in patches across the tile. But the food itself? Perfect. Golden-brown pies lined up in disciplined rows, cookies crisped to exact edges, muffins domed like they’d been photographed for a cookbook.

Rory swallowed, suddenly aware of just how much she’d done.

Dick took it in with a low whistle. “Okay. So the Carmichael stress response is… industrial-level baking.”

Her cheeks went hot. “Don’t start.”

“I mean,” he tipped his chin toward the pies, “most people stress-bake and end up with half-raw brownies or flat cookies. You? You basically opened a Michelin-star bakery overnight.”

She rolled her eyes, tugging her sleeve down over her hands. “Better than breaking your jaw.”

That grin pulled higher, teasing. “Debatable. But if this is what happens when you’re upset, I should probably make you mad more often.”

Her mouth fell open. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But admit it.” His gaze caught hers, steady, too warm. “You feel better now than you did fifteen minutes ago.”

Rory leaned against the counter, arms wrapped around herself, trying to pretend the mess of flour and sugar was more interesting than him. “You don’t have to…” she started, then trailed off, shaking her head.

“Don’t have to what?” he asked, voice gentler now.

“Stick around. Babysit me. Whatever this is. You’ve got bigger things to handle, Grayson. Gotham doesn’t stop spinning just because my life went to hell.”

He studied her for a long beat, expression unreadable. Then he stepped closer, just enough that she had to lift her eyes to his.

“Rory,” he said, steady and deliberate, “I need you to hear me. I don’t stay where I don’t want to be. I don’t chase people unless they matter. And you—” his jaw tightened, but his eyes softened, “—you matter. A lot more than you realize.”

Her breath caught, chest tightening. “Why?” she whispered, almost against her will.

He gave a half-smile, tired and real. “I don’t know how to explain it. You drive me crazy, you don’t listen, you run headfirst into danger—”

“Wow, thanks,” she muttered, but there wasn’t much bite.

“—but you’re also brave, and sharp, and you’ve carried more weight than most people twice your age. And every time I tell myself to keep some distance, to play it smart, I find myself right back here. With you.”

Her pulse stuttered, and she had to look away, embarrassed by the warmth creeping up her neck.

The words hung there, heavier than any silence. She didn’t know what to say—so she said nothing, just stared at the flour-dusted counter, at the chaos she’d made, at her own trembling hands.

Her pulse skittered, the weight of his words sitting too heavy in her chest. She stared at him for a long moment, then finally said the thing gnawing at her.

“…What do you want from me, Grayson?”

The words dropped like a stone. She didn’t sound angry, just tired, raw. “Because I’m not someone you can just… spend a night with and walk away. I don’t do flings. And I’ve read the articles, I know your history. You don’t exactly stick around.”

His brows pulled together, hurt flickering through his expression before something steadier took over. He stepped closer, until the counter dug into her back and there was nowhere to look but at him.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice low. “I’ve been careless before. I’ve screwed up relationships, let people down. That’s all true. But don’t think for a second I’m standing here because I want something casual.”

Her throat went dry. “Then why—”

“Because you’re not like anyone else,” he cut in, almost fierce. “You don’t make it easy. You challenge me. You push back. You scare the hell out of me because I care and I can’t seem to stop. And maybe that makes no sense to you, but to me?” He leaned in, close enough that his voice brushed her skin. “It’s the realest thing I’ve felt in years.”

Rory’s breath shuddered out. She wanted to argue, wanted to laugh it off, but the sincerity in his tone carved straight through her defenses.

“You’re serious,” she said again, softer now, like she was testing the words.

“Dead serious.” His gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t want a fling, Rory. I want you. And I’m not going anywhere until you tell me to walk away.”

Rory just stared at him. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No words came out. Heat crawled up her throat, flushing her neck, her ears, until she was sure she probably looked like a tomato with a pulse.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands—fold them? Shove them in her pockets? Wave them in surrender? Instead, they just hung there, awkward and useless, as if they belonged to someone else.

Dick’s mouth curved slow, a dangerous kind of grin tugging at the corner. His eyes flicked down, taking in her flushed skin, the way she shifted her weight like she wanted the ground to open up.

“Well, look at that,” he said, voice dipping warm and smug. “Aurora Carmichael. Speechless. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

That snapped something in her.

“Shut up,” she muttered, shoving at his chest with her palm. It was like shoving a wall.

“Not a chance,” he teased, catching her wrist before she could pull it back. His thumb brushed against her pulse point, lingering just long enough to make her heart skip. “This is too good.”

She tried for a glare, but it wobbled under the heat of his gaze. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe.” His grin softened into something gentler. “But you like me anyway.”

Her stomach flipped hard. She hated that he wasn’t wrong.

Silence stretched, the hum of the oven the only sound between them. She tugged her wrist free at last, rubbing her thumb over the ghost of his touch, her mind racing faster than her heartbeat.

“Are you—” she started, then stopped, biting her lip.

His brows arched, waiting. “Am I what?”

She swallowed, eyes darting to the flour-dusted counters, the pies cooling in rows, anywhere but his face. “Are you just… going to keep sitting out there in your car every night?”

He blinked, caught off guard for the first time since he walked in. “…You noticed.”

Her eyes flicked up, sharp despite the flush still crawling her cheeks. “Of course I noticed. You park like a gargoyle. Did you think I wouldn’t see the world’s most obvious surveillance stakeout right outside my window?”

A sheepish grin tugged at his mouth, quickly smothered. “I wasn’t… hiding.”

“No kidding,” she muttered, then took a steadying breath. The words itched under her skin before she forced them out. “There’s a guest room down the hall.”

Dick tilted his head, studying her. “Is that an invitation?”

Her blush deepened. “Don’t make it weird. You’re already here every night, freezing your ass off in a car. Might as well stay inside where there’s an actual bed.”

“And here I thought you liked me lurking dramatically in the shadows.”

“Grayson.” Her voice was sharp, but her ears burned bright pink.

He chuckled low, then sobered, searching her face. “You’re sure?”

She crossed her arms, defensive more at herself than him. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just… safer. For everyone.”

The corner of his mouth lifted again, softer this time. “For everyone. Right.”

He didn’t push. He just nodded once, the quiet weight of his acceptance grounding the air between them. “Alright. Guest room, then. But only because your hospitality is clearly wasted on muffins and sarcasm.”

She rolled her eyes, half a laugh escaping despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe.” His gaze lingered, warm in a way that made her pulse stutter. “But I’ll take the guest room.”

The kitchen looked like a bakery had exploded—pies cooling, muffins stacked in careful towers, cookies spread across racks. The air was thick with sugar and cinnamon, but it couldn’t sweeten the tension that buzzed at the table.

Detective Richard Grayson sat with his sleeves rolled, nursing a mug of coffee. He looked perfectly at ease, but the set of his jaw said otherwise.

Maddie padded in first, hair messy, smile bright. “Detective Grayson!” She plopped into the seat across from him. “You stayed?”

“In the guest room,” he confirmed with a faint smile.

Jon came next, yawning. His gaze flicked between Rory and Dick before he dropped into a chair. “Guess it’s nice to have backup,” he muttered.

Then Dawn appeared in the doorway. Hoodie half-zipped, backpack slung, her gaze locked on Dick—and soured.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said flatly.

“Morning,” Dick offered mildly.

Her glare swung to Rory. “Seriously? You invited a cop to sit at our table? To watch our house? What, do you want us under surveillance now too?”

Maddie’s smile faltered. “He’s nice,” she whispered.

“He’s a cop,” Dawn snapped. “And we all know what cops care about—rules, control, not us. And you—” she jabbed at Rory “—you keep dragging strangers into our lives like we don’t get a say. Vigilantes, cops, God knows what else. And you wonder why I don’t trust you anymore?”

The words cut like glass. Rory stiffened, but before she could reply, Jon spoke, voice calm but sharp. “Dawn, enough. You don’t get to tear Rory down in front of Maddie. She’s doing everything she can. You’re just making it worse.”

Dawn’s eyes flashed, but instead of shouting back, she yanked her phone from her hoodie pocket. “I don’t need this.” She slung her backpack higher. “I texted Cara—she’s driving me to school.”

“Dawn—” Rory tried.

“No.” Dawn’s voice cracked with heat, her eyes bright and furious. “You made your choices, Rory. Now I’m making mine.”

The front door slammed a moment later, her footsteps sharp on the walk.

Rory cursed under her breath and went after her, the screen door creaking as she caught up on the porch. Dawn spun, arms crossed, jaw set like stone.

“You don’t get to walk out on this conversation,” Rory bit out.

“You don’t get to decide what conversations I have,” Dawn snapped back. “You lied. You kept secrets. And you think a tray of muffins fixes that?”

Rory’s chest heaved. “You think this is fun for me? You think I wanted any of this? I’m doing the best I can with what Mom left us, and yeah, I screwed up—but I’m still here, Dawn. I’m still fighting. I’m still your sister.”

Dawn’s chin trembled, but her eyes stayed hard. “Then stop acting like Mom.”

That landed like a knife. Rory froze, stunned. The horn of a waiting car honked down the street. Dawn turned and strode off without another word, sliding into the passenger seat before Rory could breathe past the sting.

The door creaked shut behind her as Rory stepped back into the kitchen. Her hands shook, her face set in tight lines.

Maddie sat small at the table, staring at her untouched muffin. Jon leaned close, murmuring reassurance. Dick, coffee mug in hand, watched from the counter—quiet, unreadable, like a man taking in the sight of a ship going down in slow motion.

The door’s echo was still rattling the glass when Rory braced her hands on the counter and let out a breath that sounded like it scraped her ribs on the way out. She didn’t cry. She just went very still, like a building after an earthquake—upright, but not sure what was cracked.

Dick set his mug down and crossed to her without fanfare. “Hey,” he said, quiet. “Look at me.”

She didn’t, not at first. Then she did, because the gentleness in his voice left her nowhere to hide.

“Breathe with me,” he said. Not an order—an offer. He lifted one hand, palm up between them, and timed the rise of his chest. “In for four.”

She inhaled. It caught. She tried again.

“Hold for four.” He waited, eyes steady on hers. “Out for six.”

The first full cycle hurt. The second was easier. By the third, her shoulders had dropped a fraction and her hands had stopped shaking.

“Good,” he said, like they’d just cleared a tricky ledge. “Coffee?” He didn’t wait for permission—just poured, fixed it the way he’d seen her drink it, and put the warm ceramic into her hands.

Rory wrapped her fingers around the mug like it was a handhold. “She meant it,” she said, voice low. “About me… being like Mom.”

“She meant she’s scared,” Dick said. No judgment, just the facts. “What she said wasn’t fair. It was true for her in that second. Those aren’t the same thing.”

A shuffle of socks in the hall; Jon appeared first with two backpacks and a lunchbox precariously stacked in his arms. He clocked the scene in one scan—the set of Rory’s shoulders; the way Dick stood close but not crowding—and adjusted without being told.

“Hey,” Jon said gently. “I, uh, can get Maddie through the morning checklist if you want.”

Rory nodded, relief quick and raw. “Thank you.”

“Copy that.” He saluted with the lunchbox and disappeared.

Maddie crept in a beat later, eyes big and careful. “Rory?”

“I’m okay,” Rory said, and for once didn’t try to sound tougher than she felt. She crouched to Maddie’s height. “You ready for school, bug?”

Maddie glanced at Dick, back to Rory, then launched into Rory’s arms with a small, fierce hug. “I’m ready now.” She pulled back, looking up at Dick like he was some very tall, very confusing Labrador. “Are you coming back later?”

“If your sister wants me to,” Dick said. He kept it light, but his eyes went to Rory, asking and not assuming.

Rory swallowed. “Yeah,” she said. “I want you to.”

Maddie beamed, crisis downgraded. “Okay! I’m gonna get my art folder.” She scurried off, curls bouncing.

They were alone for a moment. Dick didn’t fill it with words. He just stood there, a calm anchor in a kitchen that still smelled like cinnamon and fallout. Rory’s mouth tugged, somewhere between a wince and a smile.

“I hate that you’re good at this,” she said.

“I hate that you need me to be,” he answered. Then, softer, “But I’m here.”

Footsteps padded in again—this time softer, measured. Damian halted in the doorway, eyes taking in the evidence: flushed cheeks, a mug clutched two-handed, the detective standing close enough to be counted as furniture.

He considered them for a long second. “Grayson,” he said dryly, “if you are finished stabilizing the emotional climate, we are likely to be late.”

Jon’s voice floated from the hall, wounded. “We’re never late.”

Damian ignored him, gaze flicking back to Rory. “For what it’s worth,  Carmichael, your muffins restore approximately twenty percent of Maddie’s morale per unit. I recommend we deploy two at lunch and save one as contingency.”

Rory blinked—and huffed a laugh she hadn’t expected to find. “Noted.”

“Also,” Damian added, perfectly solemn, “if Dawn intends to continue weaponizing adolescence, I request authorization to… problem-solve.”

“Denied,” Dick and Rory said together. Dick shot him a look that said not today, and Damian rolled his eyes like the universe was tragically unambitious.

Maddie barreled back in with her art tube. “Ready!”

Jon reappeared with coats. 

Rory set her mug down, steadier now. “I’ll drive,” she said. Then to Dick, under her breath, “Walk me out?”

He nodded. At the threshold she hesitated, looking up at him like she was checking a harness. “Thank you,” she said. No armor on it.

He tipped his head. “Anytime.”

Maddie had already claimed his hand without asking. “Detective Grayson, what’s your favorite muffin?”

“Today?” he said, letting her swing his arm once. “Whichever one makes you smile.”

Maddie considered this gravely, then bestowed a blueberry on him like a medal. “This one.”

“Excellent choice.” He passed it to Jon. “For the driver.”

Jon blinked, touched. “Sir, yes sir.”

Damian sighed. “If we are done assigning pastries ranks, the car.”

They funneled toward the door in the quiet choreography of people who had decided—without saying it—that the day would be gentler than the night before. On the stoop, Rory paused, thumb hooking in her coat pocket, eyes on Dick.

“You’re coming back after drop-off?”

“If you want backup when Dawn gets home,” he said, “I’ll be here.”

Rory held his gaze. “I want backup.”

His mouth softened. “Then you’ve got it.”

She nodded once—small, decisive—and turned to herd her family into the morning. Dick watched them go, a little of the steel easing out of his shoulders, blueberry-stained fingers saluting Maddie through the window when she waved like she’d invented the concept.

He didn’t follow right away. He gave Rory the space to lead. But when the door shut and the house settled, he was still there on the steps, coffee cooling in his hand.

The Court was silent.

Its marble halls, once filled with whispers of power and deals struck in shadow, were littered with corpses. Masks shattered like porcelain smiles. Blood soaking into carpets older than Gotham itself.

William Cobb moved through the carnage with the grace of a phantom, blade in hand, face untouched by sweat or strain. To him, this wasn’t slaughter. This was cleansing.

The Court had grown decadent. Cowards in ivory masks, trading influence like coin, forgetting what they were built on. He remembered. He remembered everything.

The burner phone buzzed in his pocket. He flipped it open with a gloved thumb.

“Samantha,” he rasped, voice low and silken. “Still clinging to life?”

There was a hitch in her breath, then sharp fury. “Cobb. What the hell have you done?”

“Cleaning house,” he murmured. “You always did like me tidy.”

Her voice snapped like a whip. “You killed them. All of them.”

“They were weak.” His tone carried no apology. Only fact. “The Court rotted from the inside out. They forgot the creed. They forgot fear. I am fear.” His mouth curved, humorless. “And now, the Court belongs to me.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“No,” Cobb said, and there was a strange tenderness in his voice. “I’ve found my purpose again. She gave it back to me.”

Silence crackled on the line. Samantha’s voice dropped, wary. “…This is about Aurora, isn’t it?”

Her name on another person’s tongue made his grip on the phone tighten.

“When I was a boy,” he said softly, like confessing a prayer, “your family kept me in cages. Fed me violence. Sharpened me into a weapon. But she…” His voice wavered, just for a moment. “She gave me kindness. A glass of water. A smile. She didn’t see a Talon in training. She saw a boy.”

His eyes burned, unblinking. “Do you know what that does to a starving soul? To be seen? To be treated as if you mattered?”

“You’re delusional,” Samantha hissed. “She doesn’t even remember you.”

He laughed, low and broken. “Of course she doesn’t. Why would she? She was light. I was shadow. But I remember. I remember every word, every look. That memory kept me alive in the dark.”

“And now you think she belongs to you?”

“She always did.” His voice was calm, certain, terrifying. “She is the key. Her blood, her DNA—it is what the Court was waiting for, though those fools never understood. With her, the Court can be reborn into what it was always meant to be. Not puppets. Not politicians. Predators. Eternal.”

“You’re insane,” Samantha spat.

“Maybe,” he said, almost playfully. “But you… you hurt her.” His voice turned sharp, vicious. “You laid your hands on her, broke her skin, made her bleed. My Rory. The only pure thing I’ve ever known.”

He tilted his head, the smile that curved his lips equal parts lover’s devotion and predator’s hunger. “And for that, Samantha… you must pay.”

“William—”

“I’m coming for you,” he said softly, almost tender. “And when I find you, you’ll beg me to be merciful. You’ll beg the way I used to. But mercy is something only Rory ever earned.”

The line went dead.

William snapped the phone shut, sliding it back into his coat. Around him, the Court’s elders lay in silence, their empire toppled in a single night.

He stood among the ruin, calm, reverent. “For you, Rory,” he whispered into the dark. “The Court will rise again. And this time… you’ll see. You’ll see you were always meant to stand beside me.”

And with that, William Cobb stepped into the night, already imagining the look in her eyes when she remembered him.

Omake: “The Great Muffin Dump”

The Gotham City Police Department’s break room had seen some things. Rats in the vending machines. A suspect barricading himself in the fridge. But it had never seen this.

The counter groaned under the weight of baked goods. Muffins stacked in precarious towers, pies in neat boxes, cookies spilling across platters. The smell of sugar and butter hung so thick in the air, it almost covered the usual stench of burnt coffee.

Officer Alvarez froze in the doorway. “Uh… where the hell did all this come from?”

Detective Montoya was already leaning against the counter, peeling the wrapper from a blueberry muffin. “Grayson,” she said, casual, as if the precinct being buried in pastries was a daily occurrence. “He wheeled it in, said ‘don’t ask,’ and disappeared.”

Alvarez blinked. “Are we… supposed to eat it?”

Montoya took a bite, closed her eyes, and groaned. “If this is poison, I’ll die happy.”

A rookie crept forward, grabbed a cookie, then retreated like it might detonate.

That’s when Gordon walked in. He stopped dead, the corner of his eye twitching behind his glasses. “What fresh hell…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do I even want to know?”

Before anyone could answer, Dick Grayson strolled in, coffee in hand, looking every inch the calm, unflappable detective. “Community outreach,” he said flatly.

Montoya raised an eyebrow, smirking as she licked a crumb off her thumb. “Sure. Outreach. Or…” She tilted her head. “Your girl stress-bakes like a hurricane and you didn’t know what else to do with the evidence.”

Dick choked on his coffee. Actually choked. He coughed once, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like Jesus Christ, and then, louder, “Outreach. Community outreach.”

Montoya grinned, all teeth. “Uh-huh.”

The rookie blinked, wide-eyed. “Wait—Detective Grayson has a—”

“Roll call!” Gordon barked, already marching out, cigarette half-crushed in his fist.

The room broke into muffled laughter, Montoya biting into another muffin with zero shame. Dick muttered outreach one more time under his breath, like repeating it would make it true, before making a strategic retreat.

Behind him, Montoya called after, smug as ever: “Tell your girl the banana nut muffins slap, Grayson!”

After Drop Off Carmichael Estate 

Rory came home expecting the kitchen disaster zone. Counters buried in flour, sticky pans, muffin towers threatening to collapse like sugary Jenga.

Instead, the place sparkled. Counters wiped. Sink empty. Not a single crumb left standing.

On the island sat one lone Tupperware labeled “For Rory Only” and a folded note in Dick’s clean blocky handwriting.

She unfolded it.

Rory,

Before you panic: no, I didn’t toss anything. GCPD currently believes you’re Gotham’s new patron saint of baked goods. Even Gordon smiled. That’s… terrifying.

The kitchen is clean, your sisters won’t be living off pie for a week, and there’s one container saved just for you. (Bottom left corner of the fridge—don’t say I never think ahead.)

PS: Your muffins may have single-handedly lowered Gotham’s crime rate for the morning. You’re welcome.

—D

Rory stared at the note, heat crawling up her neck. Her kitchen sparkled, her house smelled normal again, and somehow a single piece of paper from Dick Grayson was making her ovaries stage a coup.

She shoved the note in the drawer before anyone could see it.

Chapter Text

October pressed its cold palm against the windows…

The Carmichael kitchen hummed with life. Garlic and tomato hung thick in the air—the kind of smell that made a house feel like a heartbeat. Rory stirred the sauce, half-listening as Maddie narrated her own napkin-folding masterpiece beside her.

“It’s a banquet,” Maddie declared proudly. “For queens.”

“And one court jester,” Jon shot back, leaning against the counter with a grin. He and Maddie were the same height, the same energy—mischief and warmth bundled into twin heartbeats. He passed her the bread basket like it was a royal decree.

Rory hid a smile. “Crumbs on my floor and you’re both fired.”

“Unpaid labor can’t be fired,” Jon said, earning a snort from Damian, who sat at the island pretending to be invested in his textbook while keeping one eye on the pair.

“Technically true,” Damian muttered. “But they could be exiled.”

“Traitor,” Maddie gasped, pressing a napkin to her chest.

“Justice is cruel,” he replied evenly, the corner of his mouth twitching. For Damian, that was laughter.

Rory’s chest loosened a fraction. Even on hard days, this—this easy chaos—was the one thing she never took for granted.

Only one chair sat empty.

“Did anyone hear from Dawn?” Rory asked.

Jon’s answer was too casual. “She read my text and didn’t respond.”

Dick looked up from where he was leaning against the counter, towel over his shoulder, sleeves rolled, entirely at home. His blue eyes flicked toward Rory’s, silent communication passing between them. She didn’t have to say she was worried. He already knew.

Dinner blurred into cleanup, everyone moving like a well-rehearsed team. Jon scrubbed pans, Maddie wiped counters, Damian stacked plates with military precision. Dick hovered by the sink until Rory caught him trying to sneak salt into the dishwasher.

“Stop helping,” she said flatly.

“I’m improving efficiency.”

“You’re about to improve your chances of getting kicked out.”

He leaned close enough that his breath brushed her ear. “You say that like I don’t know you’d miss me.”

She turned back to the sink to hide the smile. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“Golden, actually,” he corrected. “Except when cooking.”

Jon snickered. “The carbonara incident will go down in history.”

“I maintain it was an experiment,” Dick said solemnly.

“Yeah,” Rory replied, “in chemical warfare.”

They laughed, soft and real—the kind of laughter that comes after too many long nights and shared ghosts. Dick’s hand brushed her back once, casual and intimate in the same breath. It wasn’t a claim—it was a reminder. I’m here.

---

Later, when the dishes were done and the kids had scattered—Maddie and Jon upstairs finishing homework with music leaking through the floorboards, Damian pretending not to enjoy it from the hallway—Rory stayed behind, fussing with the tea kettle like it owed her answers.

“You’re still buzzing,” Dick said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

He came up behind her, close enough that the warmth of him pressed through the chill. “You’re lying.”

“Occupational hazard,” she said, pouring boiling water into the mug.

He took it from her hands and set it aside. “Come here.”

“Dick—”

“Rory.” His voice gentled, coaxing rather than commanding. “Just—sit.”

She did. Maybe because she was tired. Maybe because he said it like it wasn’t optional. The couch dipped under his weight as he settled beside her.

“You don’t have to fix everything tonight,” he said.

“If she’s out there and I’m here, then I’m not fixing anything.”

“Maybe not tonight,” he said. “But she knows you’re trying. That matters.”

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. The name wasn’t Dawn’s. A tagged post, bright club lights, grainy video. Teenagers dancing like they couldn’t break. Rory’s breath caught.

She swiped. Another clip.

There—Dawn, half-turned, hair down, dress too short, a drink in her hand she was too young to hold.

The next clip sealed it—Dawn at the corner of a crowded club, laughing too loud, too glassy-eyed. Neon bled chemical greens and bruised pinks across her skin. Too young. Too familiar. Too much like a version of Rory she’d fought hard to bury.

Her heart stuttered once. Then it went cold.

“She’s at Hollow Harbor,” Rory said, voice flat. “The Narrows.”

Dick didn’t even ask how she knew. “That’s not a place for anyone under twenty-five,” he said. “And half the people over that shouldn’t be there either.”

“I’m going.” She grabbed her keys from the dish.

He rose immediately. “Not alone.”

“She’ll bolt if she sees you,” Rory snapped, trying to shake off the tremor in her hands.

“I’ll stay back,” he countered.

“Dick—”

“Rory.” He said her name like a steadier heartbeat. “You can’t keep doing this by yourself.”

She exhaled, sharp and shaky. “If I don’t go now, she’s just another headline. I can’t let that happen.”

“I know.” He stepped closer until the space between them felt like static. “I just want you to call if it gets out of hand.”

“I will.” She meant it. She always did. But it sounded like a lie even to her own ears.

“Promise me.”

“I swear.”

He studied her for a long, charged moment—eyes tracing her face, the strain in her jaw, the desperate edge under her calm. His hand rose without thinking, brushing her hair back behind her ear. The gesture was gentle, grounding.

“Good girl,” he said quietly.

The world stopped.

Rory froze, mid-breath, every nerve misfiring. It wasn’t the words so much as the way he said them—warm, instinctive, like he was soothing adrenaline and didn’t realize what he’d unleashed. Her pulse jumped. Her brain emptied. Her body forgot which direction air went.

Dick saw it happen.

“...Oh,” he murmured. His brow lifted. “Oh.”

She blinked up at him, eyes wide and startled, and then—because embarrassment was safer than honesty—she pointed a finger at his chest. “You did not just—”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” he blurted, hands up. “I swear. It just—came out. Reflex.”

“Hell of a reflex?!” she hissed, mortified and half-laughing. “Can we not address my kinks, Richard?”

“You—” He groaned into his palm. “God, this is so not the time to find out—”

“—that I might—don’t say it,” she cut in, beyond red.

“Standing down,” he said quickly, fighting a smile. “No kinks discussed mid-crisis.”

“Or ever,” she muttered.

“Noted.” He hesitated; the corners of his mouth still wanted to lift. “But for the record—”

“Richard.”

“—that reaction was very distracting,” he finished, mock-innocent.

She covered her face, half laugh, half strangled. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told that,” he said softly, the teasing easing into something steadier. “But I’m serious. If things go sideways, you call and wait. No hesitation. I’ll be on my way before you finish dialing.”

She lowered her hands. “Yeah. I will.”

He nodded once. The humor still hovered between them—wild, inconvenient, alive—but beneath it was something older, quieter: trust.

As she turned to leave, he caught her wrist just long enough for her to feel reassurance behind his grip, not restraint.

“Be careful,” he said.

Rory swallowed. “Always.”

And then she was gone—jacket, keys, heartbeat vanishing into the October cold—leaving Dick in the warm half-light of a house that felt too still without her.

Dick (POV)

He stood there too long, replaying the stupid, perfect slip of his tongue and her reaction, before muttering, “So not the time, Grayson.”

Halfway up the stairs: conspiratorial laughter. Lego bricks. Damian’s dry, “Your decibel control is atrocious.”

“Lights out in ten, monsters,” Dick said, leaning in the doorway.

“She’s going after Dawn, isn’t she?” Jon asked.

“She is,” Dick said evenly.

“She shouldn’t go alone.”

“She’s not,” Damian said without looking up. “She has us. And she has him.”

“Yeah,” Dick said quietly. “Me.”

Maddie’s lower lip wobbled. “I don’t like when Rory’s scared.”

“Me neither.” He crouched. “Build her something for when she gets home. It helps.”

“Helps who?”

“Both of you.”

When they were tucked in—Maddie’s heart-shaped Lego wall guarding her nightstand, Jon pretending he wasn’t watching the window—Dick drifted back downstairs. He picked up Rory’s mug and drank the cold tea like penance. He pulled up Harbor cameras and GCPD chatter, thumb hovering over the Bat-line—and didn’t press it.

Trust her the way she trusts you.

“Please call,” he whispered to the quiet kitchen.

Hollow Harbor

The club smelled like cheap liquor, sweat, and danger—Gotham’s signature cocktail. Rory pushed through bodies with practiced ease, head ducked, each step a calculated shift through shadows and strobes. She didn’t stumble. She didn’t let anyone touch her.

She spotted Dawn almost immediately—cracked vinyl barstool, too-short skirt, legs crossed like she was grown. Mascara clouded under her eyes, lipstick smudged. Her friends were loud and careless.

Rory’s stomach went cold.

“Dawn.” The tone was quiet, no-arguments—the one that carried consequences.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dawn slurred. “You followed me?”

“Get your things,” Rory said evenly. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“I’m not a little kid,” Dawn muttered, bravado cracking.

“No,” Rory agreed. “But you’re still mine to protect. Let’s go.”

For a second, it almost worked. Then a tall man cut into their path, jacket open to flash the butt of a gun. “Where you going, sweetheart?”

“Not interested,” Rory said, placing herself between him and her sister. “Move.”

He reached for her chin. She caught his wrist, twisted until bone ground tendon, and leaned in. “I don’t smile for creeps.”

The backhand was fast and mean. Pain star-bursted white. He swung again, sloppier. She ducked, planted, and drove her elbow into his sternum. He stumbled.

“Dawn. Door.”

For once, Dawn obeyed—staggering toward the exit, dragging a friend.

“Bitch,” he spat.

“Yup,” Rory said. “That’s me.”

Another man slid from the crowd. Not drunk. Trained. Two more began to close in—wolves through tall grass.

“Dawn,” Rory said, voice gone lethal. “Run.”

Dawn hesitated—a heartbeat—and everything tilted. A man lunged, yanked Dawn back. Her scream cut the club. Another grabbed a friend. A third shouldered the service door; cold air knifed in.

Rory launched, snatched a bottle, smashed it into a temple. Glass burst. Blood sprayed. She tore Dawn loose and shoved her toward the door—

A steel trap clamped her shoulder and slammed her into the wall. Air punched out. Through the crush she caught Dawn—dragged into the alley. A white van idled, side door open.

“No,” Rory rasped. She drove her boot into the man’s knee—something popped—and scrambled for the exit.

Too late.

The van door slammed. Tires screamed. It fishtailed into Gotham dark. Dawn’s voice echoed and vanished.

Rory stumbled into the alley, blood smeared along her jaw, heart hammering. Breathing fell into counts—four in, hold, six out. She memorized everything—direction, color, engine sound. She would find it.

“Fuck,” she breathed.

A voice slid from the shadows, low, amused. “Yeah,” he said. “Looks like your night just got a whole lot worse.”

Red metal caught the alley light. Broad shoulders. Kevlar. Gun at the hip.

Red Hood.

“You always start bar fights in my territory,” he asked lazily, “or is this a special occasion?”

Rory ignored him. Her fingers hit Dick’s contact. It rang. And rang. Voicemail.

Outside, the night hit like a hard wind. Pain burned where the backhand landed, and with it came clean, furious clarity. Nobody hit her like that and walked away unmarked.

She tried Dick again. Voicemail. “Come on,” she hissed, shoving the phone away.

“Aww, what’s this?” Red Hood cocked his helmet. “Asking permission first? Adorable.”

“I respect him,” she said, voice tight. “I’m not breaking his trust just because I’m pissed off.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“That’s called loyalty.”

“Sure, sweetheart. Keep telling yourself that.”

Rory’s gaze snapped to a sedan by the dumpster. “Fine. I’ll find her myself.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Borrowing a ride.”

“That’s not borrowing.”

“Semantics.” She yanked her sleeve over her elbow and shattered the window with a sharp, practiced shot. Glass fell like rain. She popped the lock, slid in, and reached under the steering column, focused and fast.

Red Hood opened the passenger door and dropped into the seat like he’d been invited. “You’ve got potential. Terrible impulse control, zero tactical awareness—but potential.”

“Get out of my stolen car.”

“Oh no.” He put his boots on the dash. “You’ve made this way too interesting. Besides—been a while since I’ve had a fun road trip.”

Her phone buzzed. Dick.

“They took her,” Rory said, teeth clenched, words stacked and blunt. “White van. North on Bellamy—toward the old Carmichael warehouse and docks.”

“I’m almost to your location. I pulled the Harbor cams and bar feed.” His voice was instant, raw. “Are you okay?”

“Define okay.” A wire sparked under her fingers. She twisted; the engine coughed. “I’m about to go to jail.”

A beat of static. “What?”

“Borrowing a car,” she said, deadpan.

“Do not steal a car,” he ordered, the detective and the man warring in his voice. “Rory—stay put. Do not engage. I’m on my way. You get to a safe position and you—”

“—wait,” she finished, rolling her eyes as the ignition caught. “Yeah, about that—”

Red Hood leaned toward her mic. “Relax, Boy Wonder. I’m chaperoning.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dick snapped. “Rory, is he with you?”

“Unfortunately,” she said, throwing the car into gear. “He’s hitching a ride.”

“Absolutely not—”

“Dick.” She cut him off, voice low and steady because if she wasn’t steady she’d break. “I can’t just sit here. Meet me on Bellamy. I’ll ping you if they turn. And I kept my promise—I called.”

A razor of silence. Then, soft and lethal: “I know, sweetheart. I’m two minutes out. Text me the plate if you get it. And Rory—”

“What?”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

Too late, she didn’t say. “Copy.”

She hung up before he could hear the shake in her breath.

“You just told him you’re stealing a car,” Red Hood whistled.

“I told him the truth,” she muttered, easing into the street. “How did I go from getting called good girl to stealing a car? I swear the universe hates me.”

Helmet laughter. “Already at that point, huh? That actually tracks. You read gold-star.”

“Shut up.”

“Can’t. Too good. Does Boy Wonder know? Dumb question—of course he knows. I’m guessing this is… relatively new.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh, absolutely. I just watched you shut down a bar fight, then hotwire a car. Fantastic night.”

“You don’t know me—don’t talk like you do,” she said, thinner than she wanted.

“Don’t need to. I can see it.” He tipped his head. “Eyes up, gold star—Bellamy splits ahead. Left goes river, right goes docks.”

She punched the turn signal out of spite and floored it. Gotham streaked by in wet, oil-slick lines.

Dick again: Plate?

Another: I’m right behind you—do not enter the warehouse alone.

“I’ll live long enough to explain why I needed to steal a car,” she muttered. “Maybe he won’t arrest me.”

Red Hood’s laugh was pure sin. “Sweetheart, the only place he’s taking you isn’t a precinct.”

“Shut up,” she snapped, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, twitching—rage and terror and something she refused to name fizzing under her skin.

They shot down Bellamy, city lights strobing across the cracked windshield. Ahead, red taillights flickered, then vanished into the docks’ maze of shadow.

“Left,” Red Hood barked. “Cut through Pier Nine. They’ll loop toward the river.”

She yanked the wheel; the sedan fishtailed and straightened.

“Not bad,” he said, lounging like this wasn’t a kidnapping chase.

“Shut up.”

The van braked by a loading bay. Doors flew open—two men dragging Dawn between them.

Rory slammed the gearshift into park while the car was still rolling. “Stay out of my way.”

“Sure thing, boss lady.”

She was already running, boots hammering puddles, heart in her throat.

Gunfire cracked—a warning shot. Rory dropped behind a crate, counted breaths, then rose and drove her elbow into the first man’s ribs. He folded. She pivoted, knife in hand, knocking the second into the van door.

“Dawn!”

Her sister twisted free, half-sobbing. “Rory—”

“Go!”

A shout cut through the storm—familiar, furious, unmistakable.

“Rory!”

Nightwing hit the ground from the scaffolding like a verdict, blue stripes catching lightning. Twin sticks flashed arcs. In seconds, the dock remembered how to breathe.

Rory straightened, breathing hard, Dawn clinging to her arm.

Nightwing stalked toward her, heat of anger visible even through the rain. “You ignored every single thing I said.”

“You were behind me.”

“That’s not the point.” He stopped close, warmth radiating under soaked Kevlar. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine.”

He caught her chin before she could turn away, thumb careful at the split lip—furious and reverent all at once. “Who did this?”

“One of them,” she said softly. “He’s not standing anymore.”

His eyes darkened. “Good.”

Behind them, Red Hood leaned on the van, arms crossed. “Can I just say, the sexual tension here is getting painful?”

“Not now,” Dick growled without looking.

“Oh, I think definitely now.”

Rory shot the helmet a warning glare. “You can go.”

“Sure thing. I’ll file my report to Not My Problem, Inc.” He melted into rain and shadow, calling lazily over his shoulder, “Good girl.”

“Asshole,” she muttered.

“Accurate,” drifted back, and then he was gone.

Blue strobes washed the slick concrete. EMTs shepherded Dawn toward an ambulance, a blanket settling around her shoulders. An officer approached, eyes ping-ponging between the open van, the unconscious men zip-tied to a bollard, and Nightwing.

“Statement,” he said, pen ready.

“Kidnapping in progress,” Nightwing replied, even. “Perps attempted to transport a minor from Hollow Harbor. Four down, one fled west. White van, partial plate 7Q—Kilo—M—three. Send CSU.”

The officer’s gaze snagged on the sedan idling crooked near the bay. “That yours?”

“No.”

“Whose is it?”

Nightwing didn’t blink. “Registered to a Mr. Alvarez on Perry. He’d like it returned undamaged.” A beat. “It was here when we arrived.”

The officer considered him, then the car, then scribbled: FOUND ON-SCENE. OWNER CONTACTED. “And the civilian?”

Nightwing tipped his head toward Rory without looking away from the cop—silent, careful.

“She’s the reporting party and the victim’s guardian on scene,” he said. “You’ll take her statement tomorrow after she sleeps. Tonight she’s taking the kid home.”

The officer opened his mouth, closed it, looked at Dawn shivering under the blanket, and nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”

An EMT waved. “She’s stable. Shocky. We can transport.”

Rory squeezed Dawn’s hand; Dawn clung back like a lifeline. “I’ll ride with her.”

Nightwing’s voice lowered for the officer. “We’ll need a patrol outside Carmichael House tonight.”

“We’ll post one.”

“And keep this off the scanner chatter,” he added. “No names.”

A beat. The cop nodded. “Got it.”

Nightwing turned back to Rory, gaze dragging over split lip, mud-streaked jeans, shaking hands. “You’re efficient,” he said quietly. “And reckless. Part of me wants to handcuff you to the couch next time.”

“Promises, promises.” It slipped out before she could stop it.

His eyes snapped up. For a heartbeat, fury flickered into something darker. “Don’t test me, Rory.”

“Then don’t talk to me like I’m one of your rookies.”

“You’re worse than my rookies,” he said, stepping in, rain dripping from his hair onto her jacket. “They don’t make me forget how to breathe.”

She blinked, heart tripping. “Dick—”

“I’m taking your statement later,” he said, voice back to work. “Right now, go with her.”

A cruiser whooped once; CSU pulled in. Nightwing glanced at the sedan.

“Officer?” he called. “Make sure Mr. Alvarez gets his car back.”

“On it.”

Nightwing angled his body between Rory and the curious eyes, a blue-and-black wall. “We'll finish this later.”

“About the car?” she asked.

“About everything.”

By the time Rory got Dawn home, Gotham had gone quiet. Lois met them at the door in flannel and fury; Clark hovered behind her, calm and terrifying in equal measure.

Dawn was silent up the stairs. Rory ran the shower, sat with her while she cried, stayed until her breathing slowed.

“I’m sorry,” Dawn whispered into the blanket.

“I know,” Rory said, stroking damp hair back. “We’ll talk in the morning, okay? You just sleep.”

When Dawn drifted off, Rory stood a moment longer—watching her chest rise and fall, promising herself she’d never let anything touch her again.

Downstairs, Lois was waiting in the kitchen with two mugs of tea and the expression of a woman who’d seen every kind of trouble and still worried.

“She’s out cold,” Rory said.

Lois nodded. “Good. Go let Grayson take care of that lip before Clark decides to ice your cheek himself.”

“He’s pacing?” Rory asked.

“Like a cat in a thunderstorm,” Lois said dryly. “Don’t keep him waiting, sweetheart.”

Dick was already in her room when she opened the door—still half-suited, gloves off, hair damp from the shower he’d taken to rinse off blood and adrenaline. The first-aid kit sat open on her nightstand beside her mug from earlier, tea and cinnamon faint in the air.

“You’re supposed to knock,” Rory said, voice rough but steady.

“You’re supposed to wait for backup.”

“That’s getting old.”

“You’re hurt.” He gestured. “Sit.”

She obeyed, too tired to spar. He crouched, movements precise as he cleaned the split on her lip that was already knitting shut.

“You move like someone trained,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You fought three men twice your size and came out breathing. You knew your exits, your choke points. That’s not luck.”

“Life.”

“Rory—”

“I grew up here,” she said quietly. “By fifteen I could run, hide, and talk my way out of a mugging. At seventeen I was on my own, three jobs to get out. I earned every bruise.”

“And after that?”

“I ran toward every fire the world lit. The Planet sent me to Markovia to cover meta-human trafficking rings. I stayed. Helped smuggle kids out when no one else would. Lois backed my stories. Clark made sure the trains got through when I couldn’t.”

“You ran an underground railroad for metas,” he said, exhaling.

“Someone had to.”

“You don’t wait for permission, do you?”

“No. And I’m not as breakable as I look.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I don’t need you to,” she said softly. “I just need you to understand it.”

He brushed a small bandage into place, thumb gentle at her jaw. “Then help me understand something else. Who taught you to fight?”

Her expression flickered—surprise, then fondness, then pain. “Jason.”

He froze. “Jason Todd?”

“Yeah,” she said, eyes dropping to her hands. “When he came to Gotham Academy. Fifteen, all sharp edges and hero complex. I was seventeen, about to graduate. I was working nights when someone tried to mug me. Jason stepped in—wouldn’t let it go after that. He showed me the basics before class. How to hit, where to aim, how to walk away breathing. Said I had good instincts. Better balance than sense.”

“That sounds like him,” Dick said, throat tight.

“I thought he’d grow out of it. Maybe teach. Do something good.” She blinked fast. “When he died, it shattered something in me. I kept what he gave me. Built on it. Because I couldn’t stand the idea that all of that—the good in him—died too.”

“He’d be proud of you,” Dick said.

“I don’t know. He’d probably be mad I stole a car.”

“He’d be impressed you got away with it.”

Their eyes caught—hers warm, his tired and tender.

“I didn’t even use my own car,” she added. “Deniability.”

“I know,” he said, reluctant amusement slipping through. “I checked the plates. Owner thought he’d parked wrong. You really do think like a Gotham native.”

“I was born here,” she murmured. “I just learned how to survive it.”

“You’ve done more than survive,” he said. “College. The Planet. The people you’ve helped. That takes a kind of bravery most people never find.”

“That bravery drives you crazy,” she teased.

“Yeah,” he admitted, smile tugging. “It’s also why I can’t stay mad at you for more than ten minutes.”

“Clark told me once that Lois gives him ulcers,” Rory said. “Starting to think you two compare notes.”

“Every time she runs into something on fire and says trust me,” he chuckled.

“Lois always comes back,” Rory said. “So will I.”

He glanced at her cheekbone. “You heal fast.”

“Genes,” she said lightly. “I knit quick, not Wolverine-quick.”

He traced the skin gently. “Still hurts?”

“Not really.”

“Good. I hated seeing it.”

She leaned into the touch without meaning to. “You worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry enough.”

Silence turned intimate, charged.

“You going back to the guest room?” she asked, almost shy.

“You want me to?”

Rory met his eyes. “No. Not tonight. Just stay. I don’t want to be alone.”

He turned off the lamp, then sat back. She slid under the blanket; he lay on top of it, close enough to share warmth but not cross a line.

They breathed in sync, the storm a steady hush against the windows. After a while, she rested her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her, protective, quiet.

“Dick?” she murmured.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for coming.”

He kissed her hair. “Always.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. He watched the rise and fall of her breathing until the first hint of dawn crept across the curtains.

For the first time in days, the house—and his heart—finally felt still.

Clark POV

The house was finally quiet. Dawn was tucked in; Lois typed with a glass of wine; Clark stood in the living room, arms folded, glaring at a blank TV like it had insulted him.

“You’re doing it again,” Lois said, raising a brow.

“I’m not,” Clark said too quickly.

“You’re eavesdropping.”

“I’m checking in.”

“You’re spying on your adult kid.”

He winced. “She’s not—okay, she is, but you know what I mean. And she’s with him.”

“Him being Dick Grayson, who you vetted, interrogated, and have been cheering on this entire time?”

“He was shirtless!”

“He was patching up her face.”

“He better have used the right antiseptic.”

Lois groaned. “You are so lucky I love you. Now spill it. What are they saying?”

“She told him Jason taught her to fight,” Clark said softly. “Back in high school. Said she didn’t want the good in him to die with him.”

Lois pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh, baby girl.”

“They’re sitting close. Shoulder to shoulder,” Clark added.

“Getting cozy, are they?”

“Not like that.” Beat. “Okay… maybe a little like that.”

“You sound constipated.”

“He just said she’s done more than survive,” Clark muttered. “That he can’t stay mad at her for more than ten minutes.”

“Be still my heart,” Lois mocked gently. “That’s so improper. Stop, you’ll make me blush.”

“They’re joking about her stealing a car.”

“Told you she was a Lane.”

“They’re flirting now,” Clark said grimly. “Subtle. But it’s there.”

“Subtle flirting is how we ended up married,” Lois said, elbowing him. “Pay attention, farm boy.”

“She told him not to go,” Clark whispered. “Said she didn’t want to be alone.”

Lois’s smirk softened. “She trusts him.”

“He didn’t even hesitate,” Clark said. “Turned off the lamp. Sat down again.”

“You gonna be okay if he sleeps in there?”

“No.”

Lois snorted.

“They’re not doing anything—he’s on top of the blanket. But… she just put her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her.”

“Like a good man does,” Lois said. “That’s care, Kent. Not corruption.”

“She thanked him.” Clark smiled, small. “He kissed her hair.”

Lois blinked. “Oh.”

“And now she’s asleep. He’s still awake. Just holding her.”

Lois drained her wine. “Well. Guess he passed.”

Clark didn’t answer.

“Clark?”

“He just whispered something.”

“What?”

He grimaced. “Doesn’t matter.”

Lois narrowed her eyes. “Spill.”

He sighed. “He said… ‘Good girl.’”

Lois choked. “Oh my God.”

“I told you I didn’t want to say it.”

“Clark Jerome Kent, you absolute creep. You’ve been ear-hustling their entire foreplay session and now you’re blushing like a schoolboy!”

“I wasn’t—It’s not—They’re not—”

“I’m making you a T-shirt that says World’s Most Judgmental Babysitter.”

“She’s our daughter.”

“She’s a grown woman. With needs. Who deserves someone steady, sweet, and with very nice biceps. He’s practically family.”

“That’s what makes it worse.”

“Come to bed, Clark. Let them have tonight.”

He listened to the steady rhythm of Rory’s breathing and Dick’s heartbeat keeping pace beside her. Then he nodded.

“They’re okay?” Lois asked.

He finally smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “They’re okay.”

And with that, Superman turned off his super-hearing—just for tonight.

☀️ Omake: “Miss Carmichael Gets Married (Apparently)”

Location: Carmichael Residence — Rory’s Bedroom

Time: 7:12 A.M.

The house was quiet, which was suspicious.

When things were quiet, it usually meant someone was up to something.

Maddie Carmichael padded down the hall in her mismatched socks—one with stars, one with dinosaurs—and clutched her stuffed axolotl, Mr. Squish. Dawn was still asleep. Jon and Damian were downstairs whisper-fighting over who got the last pancake. That left one mystery unsolved:

Where was Rory?

She peeked into her sister’s room and froze.

Rory was there.

So was Mr. Dick.

Both asleep.

In the same bed.

Dick was in a soft gray t-shirt, one arm slung over Rory’s waist like a seatbelt. Rory had her face tucked under his chin, both still as breathing statues.

Maddie’s eyes went huge.

Her tiny gasp could have powered Gotham’s entire grid.

She turned, scrambled down the hall, and nearly skidded into the kitchen counter.

“DAMI! JON! UNCLE CLARK!” she whisper-yelled, because yelling in a whisper was how you kept secrets but still made them important.

“They got married!”

Three heads turned at once.

Jon blinked milk off his nose. “Wait, what?”

“Rory and Mr. Dick!” Maddie said, bouncing on her toes. “They’re in the same bed!”

Damian froze mid-bite, pancake halfway to his mouth. “You saw them sleeping together?”

Maddie nodded solemnly. “She was under his arm! That means they’re married now.”

Clark, halfway through his coffee, choked so hard Lois yelled from the other room, “Again?”

“Maddie,” he managed, patting his chest. “That’s not—uh—marriage doesn’t—sleeping in the same bed doesn’t mean—”

“Yes it does,” Maddie said, with the stubborn certainty of an eight-year-old who had seen at least three Disney movies. “Mommy and Daddy sleep in the same bed. And Jon’s parents. And Mrs. Kent says that’s what married people do. So Rory and Mr. Dick are married now.”

Jon, trying not to laugh, elbowed Damian. “Told you our ship would sail.”

“This is unacceptable,” Damian muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “There should have been invitations.”

“They can have a wedding later,” Maddie said confidently, tugging on Clark’s sleeve. “But we should probably tell Aunt Lois so she can bake the cake.”

Clark set his mug down slowly. “Sweetheart… maybe let’s not tell Aunt Lois yet.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to die,” he said under his breath.

Jon grinned. “Can I be the ring bearer?”

“No,” Damian said immediately. “You’ll trip.”

“I will not!”

“You will. I’ll carry the ring. And my katana.”

“Maddie can be the flower girl!” Jon offered.

Maddie beamed. “I’ll throw sparkles and flowers.”

Clark pressed his fingers to his temples. “Okay, everyone, let’s just—let’s all stop planning a wedding that isn’t happening—”

A voice behind him cut in.

“What wedding?”

Lois stood in the doorway, robe on, coffee in hand, already smiling.

Clark groaned. “Don’t—”

“Maddie says Rory and Dick are married,” Jon supplied helpfully.

Lois froze, then burst out laughing. “Oh my God, they’re not even dating yet.”

“They’re in the same bed,” Maddie insisted. “That’s how it works!”

Lois raised her mug. “Congratulations to the newlyweds, then.”

“Lois!” Clark hissed.

“What? I’m supportive!” she teased. “Our little Rory finally bagged the boy scout.”

Before Clark could implode, tiny footsteps padded back into the hallway.

Rory blinked sleepily from the doorway, wearing Dick’s too-big t-shirt and holding her coffee mug. Dick, equally half-awake, followed behind her, hair a mess, trying to button his collar right-side out.

Maddie gasped. “SEE?! They’re even wearing each other’s shirts! That’s what married people do!”

Rory froze mid-sip. “...What?”

Dick blinked. “I—uh—”

Clark’s coffee exploded out of his nose.

Lois covered her mouth, shaking with laughter. “Good morning, newlyweds.”

Rory groaned, burying her face in her mug. “Oh my god.”

Dick rubbed his temple. “This is my fault, isn’t it?”

Lois patted his arm. “Welcome to the family, son.”

Maddie beamed and threw her arms around both of them. “Yay! We’re a real family now!”

And that was how Dick Grayson—former Boy Wonder, master of stealth—was defeated by a glitter-socked eight-year-old and an over caffeinated Pulitzer winner before breakfast.