Chapter Text
You sat on the chairs outside a certain hospital room.
Room 56.
The number felt engraved into your mind by how many times you had reread it. Your foot tapped against the clean tiled floor while your hands fiddled with the wires of your walkman.
Your walkman. Your mother bought it as a gift last year, using nearly every last scrap of her paycheck as a diner girl. You remember being so grateful that you weeped into her arms. Your mother was always a thoughtful person that always made the most out of nothing. She also loved music herself, creating a mixtape just for you to listen to.
The music playing from the walkman was the only thing keeping you grounded to reality—the only thing keeping you from hearing the hushed whispers inside the room.
Your gaze stayed fixed on the pristine white wall that seemed to stare back at you. Every second that passed felt like the walls were closing in. The hallway that stretched before, seemed to get shorter and shorter and shorter until—
A large hand gently pulled the walkman down from your ears to your neck, snapping you out of your thoughts.
It was your uncle.
You searched his face for the usual gleam in his eyes—looking for a sign that could give you even the slightest bit of hope that everything would be fine.
That your mother would be fine.
You found nothing.
“Kid. She wants to see you.”
Your throat tightened with unease, forcing you to swallow as you grabbed his hand while he guided you into the room.
Your heart clenched when you saw your mother lying on the hospital bed. The room smelled of disinfectant, filtered air, and sterile packaging, making your shoulders tense even more.
It was nothing like the smell of freshly baked bread your mother used to bring home after every shift for dinner. Nothing like the cheap perfume you always smelled when you hugged her goodbye.
And that fact terrified you.e
The thought that you might never smell those familiar, comforting scents again—the realization that this was very much real.
Your mother looked sickly pale, the usual pink of her lips and the warmth in her cheeks completely drained. A thin, clear plastic tube rested lightly across her upper lip. Her weak, trembling hand lifted slightly, reaching out for you.
Your uncle placed a hand on your shoulder, giving you just enough courage to step closer and take it.
Your mother’s hand lacked the warmth it used to have, but it was still hers. Your smaller hand gently wrapped around her fragile, calloused fingers.
Your eyes met her dazed, glassy ones. With the back of your other hand, you wiped away the tears that hadn’t even fallen yet.
“Mom?” you whispered weakly. “Are we… going to be okay?”
Even though you already knew the answer, your childish heart couldn’t accept it yet. It still clung desperately to that last foolish shred of hope.
Your mother couldn’t answer your question.
Instead, she placed a small, flat gift box into your other hand, the wrapping colored in your favorite shade. You held it there for a moment before your arm slowly dropped to your side.
“Open it when I’m gone, okay?” your mother managed a faint, fragile smile before her eyes fluttered closed.
Your stomach dropped as you clenched the small box in your hand. The one holding hers turned clammy.
“Your… father will take,” her voice cracked, “ca… re of you.”
The sound that followed was the heart monitor flattening into a steady tone.
Tears streamed down your cheeks as the reality of what had happened finally settled in, yet you still held tightly onto your mother’s limp hand.
You stood there for what felt like hours, holding on to someone who was no longer in this world.
The following days seemed to blur together. You dont even remember how many weeks has passed since then.
You were staying at your uncle and aunt’s house, staring blankly at the evening cartoon show playing on the ancient television. Your uncle was fixing something in the kitchen while your aunt supervised the old man, saying something along the lines of, “Yer old bones will probably slip and fall before you even finish the job.”
Grief still lingered in all of your hearts, but you could tell your aunt and uncle were holding it together for you.
You were coping better with them around, but on some days you were inconsolable. You would lock yourself in the room upstairs and cry while listening to your mother’s mixtape. You hadn’t had the heart to open her gift yet, keeping it safely tucked away in the drawer beside your bed.
The feeling that you would never again see your mother walk through the door of your shared home—or feel the warmth of her embrace after her long days of wiping tables and jotting down orders just so you could eat—clung to you like gum tangled in hair.
Your uncle and aunt’s house was a place you and your mother often stayed whenever she couldn’t pay the rent on time. It was a second home to you, and the familiarity of it slightly eased the heaviness that had been haunting your mind.
You hugged the worn throw pillow closer to your chest, the grainy sounds of the television fading into background noise. You could hear muffled voices coming from the kitchen, but your mind filtered most of it out. The only words you managed to catch were “Wayne” and “coming” before you succumbed to sleep.
A soft knock on the door woke you.
The bedroom you were staying in was one of the guest rooms the old couple always kept clean, just in case you and your mother needed somewhere to stay. It felt strange sleeping in a bed without your mother beside you.
Your uncle must have carried you upstairs. You could already imagine him saying something like, “Still got it in me, huh?” which made a small smile tug at your lips.
You pushed the blanket off and walked down the hallway for breakfast.
You wondered what you’d have today—maybe pancakes? Aunt May’s pancakes were always enough to brighten your morning.
When you entered the kitchen, you saw your uncle gruffly reading a newspaper, though you could tell his eyes weren’t really on the page.
Then you noticed the British old man sitting in your seat.
A British old man… dressed like a butler.
Your eyes snapped back to him.
“Who…?”
Aunt May sat in her usual chair, looking at you with a deep frown and a crease between her brows. The sleepiness in your veins suddenly drained, replaced by a creeping mix of unease and nerves.
“Sit down, my child.”
You hadn’t noticed the tension in the room earlier, but you definitely felt it now. You took slow steps forward and sat in the only empty seat—right between the butler and your aunt.
Your aunt placed a hand on your shoulder as she explained everything.
How your father was actually billionaire Bruce Wayne.
And how he would be taking you in.
You were outraged at first. How could they just leave you with a man you’d only ever seen on television screens?
But even your young mind could understand why.
Aunt May and Uncle Ben were getting old. Their pension barely covered their own needs. They simply wouldn’t be able to take care of an eight year old.
A small part of you had already known that. Your mother’s last words rang in the back of your mind like church bells that never stopped.
With teary eyes, quiet goodbyes, and promises that you would visit, you left your second home with the butler whose name you learned was Alfred.
You called him “sir” at first, to which he kindly told you to call him Alfred instead. A sleek black expensive car was waiting for you outside, it was a complete contrast to the environment around it.
Alfred opened the door for you, and you muttered a small thank you in response. You fiddled with the strap of your bag.
The car seats were more comfortable than any bed you had ever slept on, making you feel out of place. The shiny, luxurious leather felt wrong beneath a scrappy kid from Crime Alley.
The Gotham streets looked depressing as always before eventually transitioning into the high-end neighborhoods, where everything looked swell and dandy. You couldn’t help the jealousy that twisted in your chest. You wondered how life must've been for them.
The privilege of never having to worry about waking up alive the next day.
The drive took a long time—so long you might have fallen asleep if it weren’t for your thoughts racing through your head at what felt like 670 miles per minute. You were excited to see your father, but at the same time angry at him.
Why couldn’t he have been there for you and your mother?
Where was he when you had to prepare dinner using almost-expired ingredients? Where was he when your mother cried quietly in the living room, thinking you were already asleep?
You shook your head.
As much as you wanted to scream, cry, and kick your feet, your mother didn’t raise you to do that. She raised you to be kind. To be a good child.
So you swallowed the feelings and bottled them up.
The entrance to the manor made you hold your breath. You were pretty sure you almost fainted in awe just from looking at it.
It was obviously old—but not the kind of old you were used to.
The old you knew meant cracked wall paint, a small beaten-down door, and a doorknob that looked ready to fall off at any moment.
This kind of old was different.
Vintage.
Its walls were weathered and streaked with age, yet you could still tell it was as sturdy as the day it had been built. The gothic architecture made your hungry eyes wander across every carved detail and towering structure.
The car finally stopped, and the butler stepped out of the driver’s seat before opening your door.
“Thank you, Alfred,” you muttered meekly. Everything felt so new. It was safe to say you were overwhelmed and freightened for what the future may bring.
Your stomach grumbled, reminding you that you had forgotten to eat breakfast because of all the commotion.
“It is no problem, Master [Name]. I will prepare a meal for you after I show you to your room.”
You nodded, your cheeks turning slightly red with embarrassment. So far, you liked Alfred even though you've only known him for 20 minutes. He seemed polite, calm, and elegant.
The butler led you through the entrance of the manor. You had expected to see your father waiting for you, but he was nowhere in sight.
Alfred must have noticed your glance around the room.
“Master Bruce is busy at the moment.”
You tried to ignore the small tinge of disappointment those words brought.
He guided you up the grand staircase, and at the same time a young man was walking down.
You recognized him immediately.
Dick Grayson.
You remembered being entranced while watching his performances on television, seeing him perform acrobatic moves with effortless grace.
You had almost forgotten that your father had taken him in.
Which meant he was your older brother now.
Your stomach twisted with excitement at the thought of having the Dick Grayson as your older brother.
You peeked from behind Alfred’s back, your eyes gleaming with curiosity. Dick’s face shifted into confusion before he chuckled softly and walked over to you.
“Hey! B didn’t tell me there was a new kid!”
He leaned down to your height, looking you over curiously. You looked almost exactly like your mother, but there were certain features that made it obvious you were Bruce Wayne’s child too.
“Hi…” you said quietly.
You didn’t know how to address him. Would it be weird to just call him Dick? But calling him Grayson felt too formal.
“You can call me Dick. Your new big brother!” he said brightly, offering you a warm and reassuring smile.
You couldn’t help but smile back, which only made his grin grow wider.
You told him your name in return, and he straightened back to his full height.
“C’mon, I’ll join Alfred and walk you to your new room.”
He held out his hand for you to take. After a moment of hesitation, you reached out and held it.
When the three of you arrived at your room, Alfred informed you that he would be preparing your meal and would come get you once it was ready. Dick gently patted your head before telling you he’d see you later.
The room was nothing like anything you had ever seen before.
It was spacious and grand. The walls were smooth instead of covered with peeling wallpaper, and the bed didn’t creak when you sat on it.
You rested there for a few minutes before unpacking your things, carefully folding your clothes into the large dresser and placing your beloved walkman into your pocket.
The last thing you pulled from your bag was the small gift your mother had given you.
You stared at the worn wrapping paper and the slightly crooked bow.
Then you quietly placed it inside the drawer beside your bed once again.
The first few months flew by like a harsh, cold, and relentless wind. The transition from living like a street rat to wearing niche designer clothes was incredulous, to say the least.
Your father transferred you to a private school, but you haven't seen him since you last delivered tea to him (which has been very, very long).
The incident happened around the second week of you settling in the manor, and your father was still radio silent about you. About anything.
You wanted answers, about how he met your mother and everything. And a part of you wanted to be with him, and just bond like a father and child. You never had any male figure growing up in your life after all.
You decided to ask Alfred for help on how to communicate to your father while he tended to the garden.
He told you that Bruce usually drinks his afternoon tea while doing paperwork, and accompanied you to deliver said tea. Nervousness flooded your whole body, you wondered if he'll like you or hate you.
Alfred knocked twice on the door and opened the door, "Master [name] was kind enough to deliver you tea this afternoon, Master Bruce."
You went into his office, walking over to the desk that was practically covered by stacks of paperwork. Bruce didn't even look up at you from the paper he was signing, only letting out a small grunt as a sign of recognition.
He had dark, slightly tousled locks and pale skin, the kind that suggested long nights and little rest. His face was sharp and composed, with a strong jaw and tired eyes that barely lifted from the paperwork in front of him.
"Good afternoon, fath-"
"Place the tea right there." he gestured to the one empty spot in his desk. His tone was void of any even a little of affection or fondess. You placed the tray down and quietly stepped back. Humiliation pricked your skin, bitter and unresolved.
Alfred walked right beside you, noticing your disappointment and placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. He asked you if you'd like to help bake cookies, and you agreed. You were always fond of baking, you know now that this was the old man's way of cheering you up.
You also quickly realized that indifference stung more than hate ever could.
After that, you mostly kept to yourself or spent time with Alfred. Occasionally, you would play games with Dick or watch a movie, though he wasn’t around much anymore ever since he moved to Blüdhaven. Still, you made sure to spend time with him whenever he visited the manor.
Alfred dropped you in school for the first day, leading you to the entrance and covered you from all the cameras and eager journalists wanting to get a new scoop on Bruce Wayne's new child. You already had bad eyesight and you were sure it had worsened since that day, yikes.
You always had a knack for science and mathematics, so you weren't at all too worried about keeping up your grades with the other students. You didn't exactly have any friends yet, but you're sure they'll come around soon. (Actually, only a bit of teeny tiny sure.)
The people from school didn't exactly like you, but they didn't dislike you either. People cared enough to make rumours circling around you, but never enough to actually make the effort to talk to you.
You'd visit or stay at your uncle and aunts place every weekend. They always smothered you with love and affection, making you sometimes not want to return to the manor at all.
You liked living at the manor, but you didn't exactly love it.
You love Alfred and Dick (even when he's not around that much anymore), and you still had hope for your father that he'll come by soon. Hes a busy man running a whole company after all.
Sometimes, the manor would feel too cold. Too big for a child like you. The halls stretched endlessly, quiet and empty, your footsteps echoing against the polished floors.
You often felt as though the paintings lining the hallways had eyes, their gazes following you as you passed, silent witnesses in their heavy gilded frames.
Then Jason Todd came.
As soon as Alfred told you that you'll be having a new older brother, you didn't know what to think of it. But one thing was for sure, you were excited. Especially knowing he was only a year or two older than you.
You came down to greet him as soon as he arrived to the manor and everybody with eyes could tell you both hit it out insanely well.
You could relate to Jason, since both of you lived and grew up in similar conditions.
The two of you spent your days playing out the in the sun, he helped you with homework (even though you didn't need help, you just wanted to spend time with him), and have dumb conversations that never seemed to end.
Your days in the manor were a whole lot brighter with him around, that's for sure. You found that you weren’t afraid of the dark hallways anymore, and the space beside you always felt filled.
It was another slow afternoon, and the both of you
The both of you were in the Manor's library, sitting next to each other with shoulders touching. You were reading a random book that you deemed interesting enough and jason was probably reading another boring classic.
The silence between you was comfortable, but as always, you disturb it.
"Don't you think robin should wear longer shorts or pants?"
Jason stiffened, but you didn't notice. Your eyes was focused on reading the same paragraph of your book.
"What's wrong with the shorts? I think it looks just fine." He grumbled, slightly shifting his position on the couch.
"Okay well, for one it just doesn't suit him. If I was a villain and saw a kid wearing those shorts I would feel bad for him instead of breating him up."
"You can't call robin a kid, he literally looks older than you." Jason glares at you, but you ignore it. Instead playfully giggling.
"Are you a robin fan boy? Why are you so mad on his account?"
"I'm not a Robin-" he runs his hand through his face, knowing that it's meaningless to get into an argument with you.
"But you do admit those shorts look ridiculous?"
"..Yeah." he mumbled in response.
The next day, you were eating your breakfast with Jason while reading the newspaper. A habit you picked up from Uncle Ben. Jason would sometimes mock you and tell you were acting like an old man, but you would just make a face at him.
The frontpage immediately caught your attention, "Robin New Wardrobe Change! What Does this mean for the citizens of Gotham?"
You immediately barked a laugh, not noticing the look that Jason throws you.
It was a long day of school, and you just wanted to lock yourself in your room and listen to your music.
But alfred kept insisting you eat dinner downstairs first, and who are you to deny the wise old man?
Your footsteps felt heavy on the way to the kitchen. The manor was unnaturally quiet. It didn’t matter that you, Jason, and Alfred were practically the only ones there—the manor had never felt this silent.
When you arrived, the kitchen light was off. Then, as Alfred flicked the switch—hell broke loose.
Party poppers exploded, confetti raining down, while Dick held a birthday cake for you. Jason was recording the entire thing on a camcorder.
Your mouth gaped like a fish out of water. You certainly did not expect this. Hell, you even forgot it was your birthday today.
"Happy birthday, baby bird!" dick greeted, a grin on his face.
"How'd ya even forget your own birthday? airhead." Jason quipped, a playful smirked on his face as he zoomed in on your shocked expression.
Alfred cleared his throat, "Happy birthday, master [name]. Please, enjoy yourself on this special day."
Your eyes welled up with tears.
Your two older brothers clearly misunderstood the reason for your watery eyes, because they started arguing almost immediately.
"Why'd you have to insult them, Jason?"
"The hell you mean? It was probably you shocking them with your hideous face popping out of nowhere." That one earned a giggle from you.
You wiped the tears with the back of your hand.
"What are you waiting for? blow the candles—"
A large and aged hand, but not your uncles this time—took your walkman's headphones to your ears down your neck. It wasn't your uncle, but it still contained the same amount of kindness.
"Master [name]. Happy birthday, it's been an honor to serve you for another year." Alfred held out a cupcake, the candles on it reading 15. You didn’t really like birthday cakes anymore—you could never finish them alone anyway.
You blew out the candles, the flames flickering and dying, and suddenly realized: you weren’t ten anymore, celebrating with your older brothers.
And you hadn't been 10 years old for a long time.