Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dick tugged at the collar of his tuxedo, already missing the comfort of his uniform or even just a T-shirt and jeans. He’d been to more of these society galas than he could count, but time hadn’t made them any less suffocating. Bruce had always said appearances mattered, but Dick had never shaken the sense that the entire room was a performance, and he’d rather be anywhere else than on this stage.

Tonight, though, wasn’t about him.

Damian was standing next to Tim a little farther away, as rigid and serious as ever in his own miniature tux. His sharp little scowl hadn’t softened once since they arrived, and Dick could already see the storm brewing behind those green eyes. The kid might have been raised in privilege, but Gotham’s brand of high society was another kind of battlefield entirely.

Dick kept close, scanning the crowd with practiced ease. He knew most of the faces here—philanthropists, CEOs, old money families who had probably shaken his hand since he was a boy.

If it weren’t for Damian, he might have skipped this altogether. But things had been messy lately—the Joker had been found dead barely a month before Damian’s arrival and almost immediately after a new figure rose in Gotham, taking Crime Alley by storm—and Bruce could use all the help he could get now.

Dick exhaled slowly, forcing the corners of his mouth upward into what passed for a polite smile as yet another stranger glided over, champagne flute in hand. He nodded along to the man’s bland small talk, the kind of shallow conversation that always filled these rooms. Stocks. Charities. The weather. All of it meaningless. Dick tried to focus, tried to play his role, even as his mind itched to be elsewhere.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he felt it before he saw it: the sudden stiffness in Bruce at his side. The Brucie Wayne mask—sloppy grin, casual laughter, practiced obliviousness—slipped in an instant, replaced by the silent predator Bruce really was beneath the tuxedo.

Dick’s stomach tightened. That wasn’t good.

Forcing his smile brighter, he smoothly redirected the guests' attention toward himself, slipping into the conversation with practiced charm. But behind the mask, his instincts sharpened. His eyes flicked subtly to follow Bruce’s gaze, scanning the entrance.

And then he saw her.

Talia al Ghul swept into the ballroom like she owned it, the train of her long green dress trailing behind her, the tilt of her chin daring anyone to challenge her presence. Dick’s jaw clenched. Of course she would come here, of all nights. Of course Bruce would falter. For just a second, irritation burned through him—irritation that Bruce still let himself be so undone by her. After everything. After she had hidden Damian from them for years, raised him in shadows and violence before dumping him on their doorstep.

But the thought died almost as quickly as it came, smothered by something colder.

Because it wasn’t just Talia.

A young woman moved beside her, steps in perfect rhythm. Pale skin. Dark hair pinned up with precision. A sleek black dress that clung to her frame like armor, emeralds gleaming at her throat like trophies of war. She carried herself with poise, chin high, gaze steady, the very image of someone who belonged in this room.

And her face—

His world tilted.

It was impossible. It had to be. But no matter how many times his brain tried to reject it, his eyes kept dragging back to the same conclusion.

That face.

Unmistakable.

His sister.

His dead sister.

For a heartbeat, nothing computed. The noise of the ballroom dulled, muffled like he’d ducked underwater. The laughter, the clinking glasses, the endless drone of meaningless conversation—it all faded into static. All he could see was her. All he could feel was the sharp, disorienting punch of disbelief in his chest.

This wasn’t possible. She was gone. Buried six feet under.

And yet… she was right there.

Breathing. Walking. Standing beside Talia al Ghul.

Dick’s throat went dry. His forced smile faltered for the first time all night. He blinked hard, as though the image might disappear if he looked again. But it didn’t. She remained, as real as the tuxedo choking him, as real as the weight of Bruce’s silence beside him.

And they were walking towards them. Talia al Ghul and at her side —the impossible.

Every step brought her closer, and with every step Dick’s heart fought harder to keep up with his brain. His mind catalogued details the way it always did, trained instinct sharpening into something desperate. He wanted to prove himself wrong, to strip away the resemblance, to find the flaw that would make sense of this impossibility.

The differences came first. He clung to them.

Jane Todd had been slight, wiry, a malnourished fifteen-year-old with a fire in her chest big enough to burn down the world. She had barely reached his chest, even when she stood tall and defiant. But this woman—this stranger—stood eye to eye with him, the height exaggerated by her heels but undeniable even without them.

Jane’s skin had been pale, washed out by Gotham’s eternal gloom and the harder truth of life on the streets. This woman’s was darker, kissed by a sun Gotham never saw, bronzed in a way that spoke of deserts, of distant skies, of a life far away from the alleys Jane had once called home.

And then—the most damning of all.

Jane’s eyes. Blue. Startling, piercing, sky-clear even on the darkest days. He remembered them vividly—how they could cut when she was angry, how they softened only for fleeting moments of trust.

But this woman’s gaze? Green. Vivid. Lazarus green. Eyes that didn’t belong to Jane, didn’t belong to Gotham, didn’t belong to the sister he had buried. Eyes that were shared by all the al Ghuls.

Dick’s chest tightened. His body recognized the truth before his mind could catch up: something was wrong. This couldn’t be real. It wasn’t possible.

And still, he couldn’t stop staring.

Talia moved with the kind of grace that silenced a room without trying, reaching them a step ahead of her companion. Her green silk dress whispered against the floor, her gaze locked onto Bruce, her lips curling into a smile Dick had seen her use before, polished and dangerous.

“Beloved,” she purred, the word smooth as velvet.

But Bruce didn’t react. Not even a flicker of the Brucie mask. The playboy persona was gone, stripped away, leaving him pale and still. His jaw clenched. His eyes—those hard, unyielding eyes—remained fixed on the figure standing just behind her. Fixed on the impossible.

Talia’s smile lingered, waiting for acknowledgment, for a crack in his composure. When silence met her instead, she tilted her head, unconcerned, and pressed forward as if she hadn’t noticed the tension tightening the air around them.

“Ah,” she said lightly, her voice carrying just enough to command the small circle of attention forming around them. “I don’t believe you’ve been properly introduced.”

She shifted, extending a hand toward the young woman at her side, who stepped forward, unhurried, her presence sharp as a blade.

“This is Jaye Head,” Talia declared smoothly. Her lips curved in satisfaction, her voice warm in a way that felt rehearsed. “My daughter.”

The name hit like a fist to the sternum.

Jaye.

Jay.

Dick’s ears rang, drowning out the muted conversations and clinking glasses of the gala. For a moment, all he could hear was the echo of laughter that no one else in this room would ever remember. Jane Todd’s laughter—sharp, unpolished, too loud to be considered delicate, but infectious in a way that had made Alfred’s lips twitch and even drawn a rare smile from Bruce.

“What is this?” The words tore out of him before he could stop them, low and venomous, uncaring of who might overhear. His pulse was a drum in his ears, fury rising quick and hot to fill the cracks disbelief had left behind. “How da—”

The rest died in his throat.

Because a voice—soft, feminine, heartbreakingly familiar—cut through the noise and silenced him.

“You’re Richard Grayson, right?”

His head snapped toward her so fast it almost hurt.

“My brother’s brother.”

The words landed with surgical precision, peeling the breath from his lungs.

“What?” The question came out strangled, the only sound he could manage as his eyes locked onto hers. Wide. Disbelieving. Starved for an answer that wouldn’t come.

“Richard Grayson?” she repeated, tone even, almost curious. “One of Damian’s brothers?”

It could have sounded sincere—almost innocent—if not for her eyes. They pinned him in place, unflinching, sharp as glass. Distaste rolled off her in waves, as if his very presence offended her.

And that look—God, that look—he knew it. He had seen it before, smoldering in eyes that were supposed to be blue, not green. Jane had worn that same expression on Gotham’s streets, a fury that burned whenever she caught someone mistreating the working girls, whenever she saw cruelty dealt to people who couldn’t fight back.

It was a look meant for monsters.

And now she was turning it on him.

A silence settled over them before Dick forced himself to answer, only then realizing how many guests were staring at him. “Ah—yes.”

Jaye tilted her head, studying him with unsettling amusement. “You’re a little slow, aren’t you?”

A muffled snort came from his right. Dick, who was not easily embarrassed, felt heat creep up the back of his neck. Disoriented in a way he hadn’t been in years, he struggled to gather himself. Beside him, Bruce was no steadier—grief carved deep into his features.

The hush that followed stretched uncomfortably long, and Dick knew this would be tomorrow’s gossip, if not the week’s.

At last, Jaye smiled—pleasant on the surface, but sharp enough to cut. “Well. This has been… lovely. But you’ll have to excuse me.” Her gaze slid to Bruce for the first time that night, hardening as it landed. “Mr. Wayne.” Bruce stiffened, as if struck, but she pressed on without pause. “I haven’t seen my brother in far too long. I intend to catch up with him.”

Talia inclined her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Keep your brother out of trouble, Habibi.”

Jaye rolled her eyes. “Sure thing, Mom.”

Then she turned.

And Dick’s breath caught in his throat.

Her dress dipped low, exposing the full canvas of her back. Etched there in ink was a pair of wings, spread wide as if ready to take flight. They weren’t simple outlines—every feather had been rendered with painstaking precision. The primaries along the lower edge were long and tapering, shaded with gradations of charcoal that gave them a glossy sheen, while the smaller covert feathers layered above them in tight, delicate rows. The pattern was so meticulous it seemed to ripple with her movements, like real plumage catching the light.

Those were the wings of a robin.

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“Damian,” Jane greeted, voice warm, softened in a way she hadn’t used all night. Her hand lifted, fingers threading lightly through his dark hair. She ruffled it, gentle, fond.

And to her private satisfaction, he let her. No scowl, no sharp little slap to drive her away. Just a small easing of his expression as he looked up at her.

“Ukhti,” he murmured in Arabic, the word slipping out like a secret. Sister.

Jane’s lips curved, small and secret, as though she had been waiting to hear it.

The other one gaped.

Timothy Drake. Standing there with his mouth hanging open, eyes wide as if she were some ghost crawled out of the grave. Which, she supposed, wasn’t far from the truth. Jane Todd—dead, buried, gone—now here, fingers tangled in Damian’s hair like she’d never left.

Damian snapped his head toward him, irritation flashing hot and sharp. “Close your mouth, Drake. You look like a fish.”

The boy flushed, snapping his jaw shut, fumbling for words that didn’t come quickly enough.

Jane let her gaze slide to him, slow and deliberate. And just like that, she wasn’t in the ballroom anymore. She was back in that first moment, the day she’d learned about him. About the new Robin.

The betrayal had been indescribable.

She had died in that suit. Bled in those colors. Burned for the symbol on her chest. And in less than six months Bruce had handed her place to someone else. Not another lost kid who knew the streets, who knew hunger and rage like she did. No. He’d chosen a boy. A boy with wealth, with schooling, with doors that had always been open to him. A boy who fit into Bruce’s world so easily, so seamlessly, while she had scraped and clawed for every scrap of approval. Everything she had never been good enough for—Tim Drake was, by default.

The memory still cut. It always would. Because the Joker had lived. Because she had died. And because Bruce had moved on.

Her lips curved into a smile, though there was nothing kind about it. “So you’re the one,” she said softly, bitterly. “My replacement.”

Tim flinched at the words as if she’d struck him. His lips parted, closed, then opened again, but nothing coherent made it past them. He looked like he wanted to apologize, to defend himself, to say something—and every second of silence only made him flounder more.

Jane let him drown in it. Let him feel the weight of her gaze until the flush crept higher up his neck. It was almost amusing, watching him scramble for words while the room spun obliviously on around them.

At last she tilted her head, exhaling slowly through her nose as if bored of the spectacle. “Relax,” she said lightly, a faint but cruel smile curving her lips. “You’ll give yourself an aneurysm.”

Before he could stammer another syllable, she brushed her hand over Damian’s shoulder, guiding him gently forward. “Come, Habibi,” she murmured, her tone suddenly warm again. “Let’s fetch T a drink. Something strong.”

Damian nodded without hesitation, stepping into stride beside her as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t look back.

Neither did she.

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The cold night air bled relief into Jane’s lungs as she slipped onto the balcony. Inside, the ballroom thrummed with laughter and clinking glasses, but out here, Gotham was quiet, a gray sprawl beneath the stars. She lit her cigarette with steady fingers, the glow of the flame briefly illuminating her surroundings. Smoke curled upward, soft and languid, almost mocking the tension that still hummed inside her.

She didn’t turn when the door creaked open.

Dick stepped out, tuxedo cutting a clean line against the night. The city glow lit the hard set of his jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders. His hands curled at his sides, straining to hold back the storm gathering behind his eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice rough, low.

Her gaze slid to him, sharp and warning, but steady. “You know exactly who I am.” She drew a drag, exhaled slow, savoring the discomfort sparking between them. “Don’t insult us both by pretending otherwise.”

“Jane Todd is dead.” The words ripped out of him like shrapnel.

Her laugh was low, humorless. “Yeah. About that.” Ash fell over the balcony rail, scattering like gray snow. “Imagine my surprise, when one day I woke up. In my coffin. Six feet under. Took me hours to claw my way out.” Her tone was casual, but her eyes pinned him in place, daring him to flinch. “Guess you could say resurrection isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Color drained from his face. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but no sound followed. “That’s impossible,” he muttered, hoarse.

Jane stepped closer, smoke trailing behind her like a shadow.

“I was catatonic by the time I got out,” she said, her voice dipping softer, crueler for its evenness. “Wandered the streets of Gotham for months. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Barely human.” Her lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. “No one found me. No one looked. Not until Talia.”

“Is that explanation enough?” Jane tilted her head, eyes glinting with something wicked. “Or would you like to know more?” She leaned in, close enough for him to smell the smoke on her breath. “Should I tell you about my training? About the League? Or maybe you’d like to hear about the teachers Talia hired for me. Most of them have met… unfortunate ends.”

His jaw tightened, muscles ticking. She smiled at the reaction, let it hang a beat before she went for the kill.

“Deathstroke, though.” Her tone was airy, conversational, but every syllable deliberate. “He lasted longer.” A pause. The barest curl of her lips. “Slade was very thorough. On and off the mat.”

Dick’s face twisted, disbelief warring with revulsion. She laughed—loud, sharp, mocking. “God, you should see the look on your face. Priceless.”

Before he could respond, she closed the distance between them. Her hand rose, deceptively gentle, brushing over his chest as she adjusted his lapels, fingers smoothing his cravat indulgently. He froze, every nerve screaming with the intimacy of it, the wrongness.

“Relax,” she whispered. From somewhere hidden in the folds of her dress, she produced a tiny glass vial, stoppered tight, the liquid inside a deep, dark red. She slipped it into his breast pocket, the weight featherlight, but undeniable.

“That should be enough to verify my identity.” Her eyes locked onto his, burning with something that wasn’t quite hate but wasn’t love either. “Unless you’d rather dig up my grave to make sure.”

She flicked the cigarette over the railing, ember trailing down into the city night, then turned her back on him, leaving him choking on smoke and silence.

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Chapter Text

The Cave was chaos.

Voices clashed and overlapped, bouncing off the cold stone walls. Boots struck the floor in uneven rhythms, a restless soundtrack beneath the rising tide of questions. The hum of computers filled the silence between their arguments.

Most of them were still in uniform, either in their suits or their costumes. Cass had returned with Steph the moment the alert went out; now she lingered near the main console, silent and still, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Steph had already ditched her uniform for a messy ponytail and a pair of joggers, perched on a worktable with restless energy, her knee bouncing as she watched the others.

And Bruce…Bruce stood apart, near the display case that held Robin’s torn uniform. The case’s glass caught the faint reflection of his face, pale, drawn, the faintest tremor in his jaw betraying what the rest of him refused to show.

“It’s impossible,” Barbara said from her place at the monitors. Her voice was tight, controlled, but Dick could hear the disbelief underneath. “Jane Todd is dead. We saw the body. We grieved her.”

Steph swung her legs off the table, the metal creaking beneath her. “Maybe she’s a clone,” she offered. “We’ve seen those before.”

From the shadows near the stairs, Damian spoke, his tone clipped and certain. “She’s not.”

The noise died instantly.

Tim’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “You knew?” His tone sharpened, sounding more like an accusation than a question. “You knew about her, and you didn’t say anything?”

Damian didn’t so much as blink. His gaze locked on Tim, steady and cold, every word deliberate. “She’s my sister.”

For a moment, no one moved. The words hung heavy in the air, echoing in the hollow space between heartbeats.

Dick felt something tighten in his chest. Damian never called any of them family, not really. Bruce was Father, spoken with formality and distance. The rest of them were intruders in a legacy he thought was his by birthright. Imposters. Pretenders. But Jane? Jane was different. He could hear it in the way he said the word sister. There was pride there. Loyalty.

Tim scoffed, trying to mask the unease beneath his anger. “And we’re supposed to take your word for it?”

Damian’s posture shifted. His hand twitched toward his belt, toward the blade Dick knew he kept hidden there. “Are you calling me a liar?”

Dick stepped in before it could escalate. “Enough.” His tone cut clean through the tension. “There’s an easy way to settle this.”

Barbara gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “An easy way? Talia al Ghul just waltzed into Gotham with a Jane Todd lookalike, and you’re calling any of this easy?”

Dick reached into his jacket, pulling out the small glass vial. The crimson glint inside caught the Cave’s harsh light. “She gave me this at the party,” he said. “We’ll run a blood test.” He turned to Bruce, whose eyes hadn’t left the Robin display. “In the meantime, you could contact Clark.”

For the first time since they got home, Bruce looked at him. His expression was unreadable, but Dick caught the faintest flicker of understanding there. Dick pressed on, sparing him from having to speak. “Someone needs to check the grave.”

Without a word, Cassandra stepped forward and took the vial from his hand. Her movements were deliberate, practiced. The faint hum of the centrifuge filled the silence as she began the analysis.

Barbara’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Lines of data flickered to life on the monitor. “For what it’s worth,” she murmured, “I checked local records. Talia bought a penthouse downtown under an alias. Talia Head. Clean paperwork, but it’s her. That’s where they must staying. The entire building’s crawling with League security.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “How the hell did we miss this? She’s been right under our noses.”

Tim leaned back against the console, muttering mostly to himself. “The Joker dies. A month later, Damian shows up. Then the Red Hood starts tearing through the underworld. And now this.”  He shook his head. “It’s all too much to be coincidence.”

Stephanie shot him a glance, raising an eyebrow. “You think Talia had something to do with it?”

Tim didn’t answer right away. He raked a hand through his hair before his eyes cut toward Damian. “Why don’t you tell us?”

Damian’s lips curled, teeth flashing in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Mother only ever does what is necessary.”

Tim gave a sharp, humorless breath. He was about to fire back when Bruce’s voice filled the space. “Tim.” It was quiet but carried the weight of command. “Damian doesn’t need to answer for his mother.”

It had seemed like a reasonable rule at the start, keep Damian from feeling cornered, make sure his loyalty to them wasn’t tested before it had the chance to grow. If they needed answers about the League, about Talia, Bruce would go to her directly.

And yet, as Dick watched Bruce now, his shoulders tight, his hands clenched just enough to betray it, he could tell the man hated that decision. He wanted answers. They all did.

The Cave fell quiet again, save for the hum of machines processing the blood sample. On the screen, data strings shifted, patterns aligning one by one.

Dick’s eyes flicked to Bruce. The cowl was gone, but the mask was still there; the set jaw, the locked shoulders, the silence that said more than words ever could.

Tim broke the quiet, his voice softer now. “She called me her replacement.”

Bruce’s head snapped toward him, the movement sharp. For a moment, he looked stricken, as if the words had physically hurt him.

No one spoke.

Dick’s gaze drifted to Damian again. The boy’s shoulders were squared, his eyes cold, but something flickered there—defensiveness. It clicked then, painfully. Damian’s disdain for Tim, the contempt, the constant biting remarks. It wasn’t just jealousy.

Jane had worn the suit first. She had died in it.

And Tim had been the one to replace her.

The resentment had passed from sister to brother like a curse.

Dick exhaled slowly, the weight of it pressing down on him. He leaned against the console, eyes fixed on the glowing display.

Then the computer beeped.

The room held its breath.

The results filled the screen in sharp, clinical letters.

“Oh God…” Barbara exhaled softly, barely a whisper escaping her.

A beat later, Tim’s voice followed, soft but final. “The blood test… it’s positive.”

Bruce closed his eyes, only for a moment, then opened them again. The faintest movement, the smallest tell. But Dick saw the devastation in it.

No one said a word after that.

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Jane pulled at the zipper of her dress, the soft hiss cutting through the silence. The gown pooled at her feet in a ripple of black silk before she kicked it aside.

Talia hadn’t moved since they’d returned from the gala. She sat on the couch with the stillness of a statue, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, a glass of red wine balanced between her fingers.

Jane ignored her and turned to the dresser. Piece by piece, she pulled on her gear—holster, gloves, jacket. The motions were familiar, almost ritualistic. By the time she picked up the red helmet, her breathing had steadied.

“You shouldn’t go out tonight,” Talia said.

Jane caught her reflection in the window, two figures framed against the Gotham skyline. One radiant and composed, the other shadowed and tired. “I’m fine.”

Talia’s voice sharpened. “You’re not.”

When Jane turned, Talia was already on her feet, closing the distance between them with measured steps. She stopped close enough for Jane to catch the familiar scent: jasmine and steel.

“You’re in no state to go out tonight,” Talia declared softly.

Jane met her gaze this time. Her tone was light, but her eyes gave her away. “It’s not like I can die.”

“The fact that you don’t stay dead,” Talia murmured, lifting a hand to brush a stray lock of hair from Jane’s face, “doesn’t mean you cannot be hurt, habibi.”

The touch was gentle, almost tender, but it burned all the same. Jane stepped back. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I always worry about you and your brother.” The admission came quiet, almost reluctant, but Jane caught it anyway. Talia’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered beneath the surface.

Jane said nothing. She finished adjusting her jacket, checked the magazine of her gun, and tucked the helmet under her arm. Behind her, Talia’s reflection lingered, watchful.

“Don’t stay out too late,” she settled on finally, setting the wine glass down with a soft clink. “We’re picking up Damian in the morning.”

Jane just nodded once, clipped and quiet, before pulling the helmet on. The visor glowed red for a brief second, bathing the room in its light.

Then she was gone, down the private elevator, through the marble lobby, into the wet Gotham night.

The rain hit hard against her shoulders as she swung a leg over the bike. The engine roared to life beneath her, steady and familiar, drowning out the noise in her head.

Behind her, high above the city, the lights in the penthouse dimmed.

She didn’t look back.

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Jane leaned against the car, flicking ash from the tip of her cigarette. The ember glowed briefly, then vanished into the chill air. She inhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl around her like a shield.

From the corner of her eye, she watched Talia cross the drive, her coat sweeping behind her in clean, deliberate motion. Two firm knocks echoed against the old oak door.

When it opened, Jane froze.

Alfred stood framed in the doorway, exactly as she remembered and yet impossibly older. Time stuttered. The years between them fell away, collapsing into the warmth of a hundred small memories: the quiet lessons in the kitchen, the gentle reprimands after some reckless stunt, the way his smile always softened when she pretended not to care. He had been like a grandfather to her once.

“Good evening, Miss al Ghul.” his voice was steady, smooth as ever. Only his eyes betrayed him when they flicked toward the driveway. For a heartbeat, Jane felt stripped bare, seen in a way she hadn’t been for a long time. “Please, come inside. Master Damian is still getting ready.”

Talia inclined her head, moving gracefully past him. Damian’s voice floated faintly from upstairs. Jane’s instinct was to move, to follow, but she stayed by the car, arms folded, cigarette dangling loosely between her fingers. Alfred lingered at the threshold a moment longer than he should have. Then, instead of following Talia, he closed the door with deliberate care and stepped outside.

Her chest tightened.

“Miss Jane.” The words were soft, almost reverent.

She managed a rough whisper. “Alfie.”

He stopped a few feet away, studying her as if trying to reconcile the ghost in front of him with the girl he used to know. His hair was completely silver now, his shoulders a little more stooped, but the same quiet dignity hung around him. His gaze dropped to the cigarette in her hand.

“That,” he murmured, “is hardly becoming.”

Jane tilted her head, letting a wry smile curve her lips. “I doubt I’ll live long enough for it to matter.”

Alfred’s hand twitched slightly, a faint pallor rising to his face. “I do not find that humorous, Miss Jane.”

She shrugged, exhaling a plume of smoke.

He looked at her then, not with anger, not with reproach, but with that old, familiar ache. “I’m glad to see you well,” he added, tone careful, as if afraid of spooking her.

Jane swallowed. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Alfred shook his head slowly, the gesture full of unspoken grief. “Worry?” he asked. “You have no idea, Miss Jane. You have no idea.”

She swallowed, feeling the old hurt, the old love, the old grief settle in her chest like a stone. For a long moment, they simply stood there, smoke curling between them.

Then Alfred’s voice came again, quieter this time. “You…you should come over for dinner,” he paused, voice hesitant, careful. “I could prepare roast chicken, with those herbs you liked. I assume it remains one of your favorites.”

Jane’s lips twitched into a soft, bittersweet smile. “Anything you cook is my favorite, Alfie.” She looked down, shadows flickering over her face. “But I can’t.”

Alfred reached out before stopping himself, his hand hovering in the air before curling back into a fist. “Of course you can,” he countered gently, voice steady. “This is your home.”

She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “But it’s not.”

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Bruce had once believed that nothing could ever rival the pain of losing his parents. That night in Crime Alley had carved him open, reshaping everything he was and everything he would become. From that loss came Batman and all the darkness and duty that followed.

It was because of that pain that, years later, he found himself standing beneath a circus tent, looking at a boy who had just watched his own world collapse. A boy who, like him once upon a time, had lost everything in a single, merciless instant.

Something in Bruce recognized himself in that child. And for the first time since his parents’ deaths, he didn’t see only Gotham’s endless fight. He saw a chance to build instead of just avenge.

That was the night Bruce Wayne became a father.

That first time with Dick had changed him. Against all logic, against everything he thought he’d sealed away after his parents’ deaths, Bruce found he could still care. He could still love.

And once that door had opened, there was no closing it again.

When Jane came into his life, she didn’t slip quietly into the manor the way Dick had. She arrived like a storm. Angry, defiant. She fought every rule, questioned every order, refused to be stopped, and he loved her all the more for it.

She was fire where Dick had been light. Reckless, fierce, and unrelenting.

For the first time, Bruce allowed himself to believe he could truly be a father. Not just a guardian, not a mentor or commander, but a parent. Someone who could take a wounded child and offer them a home instead of a mission.

He had been proud of her. So proud.

Which made the end unbearable.

There was no anguish that could ever compare to the day he found her. Not the gunshot in the alley, not every failure that had followed. Nothing rivaled the sight of that warehouse reduced to rubble, flames still clawing at the night sky.

He could still feel the heat of it, the sting of smoke tearing at his throat as he dug through the debris with his bare hands. And when he found her, when his eyes caught the torn red and green of Robin’s uniform, it was as though the world simply stopped.

His daughter. His bright, impossible child. Gone.

Her body had been unrecognizable, the air around her thick with ash and gasoline, but the uniform told the truth.

That night, a part of Bruce died alongside her.

Even now, years later, he could still feel the echo of it—the ache that lived in his bones, the hollow place where her laughter used to be. The pain had dulled with time, softened by the presence of his other children, but it never truly faded.

And Bruce knew, with the same grim certainty that had carried him through every night since, that nothing would ever fill the space Jane had left behind. That this was a wound that would never stop bleeding.

And yet, here she was.

Standing at the edge of the driveway, half-shrouded in sunlight, was the ghost he had spent years mourning.

Jane.

She leaned against the side of Talia’s sleek black car, one boot crossed over the other, a cigarette burning lazily between her fingers. The smoke curled up around her face, catching in her hair as the wind moved through it. It was a small, unremarkable moment, and it shattered him.

Bruce stood on the manor steps, caught somewhere between hope and dread. For four long years, he had dreamed of this, of seeing her again, of the impossible made real. And now that it was here, he wasn’t sure if it was a miracle or the beginning of another kind of loss.

He almost didn’t notice Damian move. His youngest had been quiet beside him since Talia’s arrival, polite but distant. Bruce had been so lost in thought that he hadn’t seen the small, respectful bow to Talia or the quiet murmur that passed between them before Damian turned and started down the steps.

Toward her.

Bruce’s breath caught. “Damian—”

But his son didn’t stop. The tension that always hung around him seemed to fall away as he approached the woman by the car. Jane straightened slightly, a ghost of a grin pulling at her lips as she flicked the last bit of ash from her cigarette.

“Demon Brat,” she said, ruffling his hair with practiced ease.

Damian scowled but didn’t pull away. “Tt. Must you always call me that?”

“Of course,” she replied simply. “You’d think you’d be used to it by now.”

Her tone was teasing, familiar, so natural it made Bruce’s heart ache. There was no stiffness between them, none of the guarded politeness Damian used with anyone else. They talked quietly, easily, as though this were routine. He couldn’t hear their words, but he caught the soft cadence of her voice, the faint laughter that escaped Damian when she said something under her breath.

Then he heard it: “The gallery opens in an hour. We’ll stop by a café first.”

Damian nodded, the smallest hint of excitement flashing across his face before he caught himself.

Jane flicked her cigarette away, the ember dying as it hit the gravel, then reached to open the car door for him. The simple gesture—the way she waited for him to climb in, the faint curve of her mouth as she watched him settle—sent something sharp and cold twisting through Bruce’s chest.

They were leaving.

And if she left, how could he convince himself that any of this—her being here, alive—was real?

The thought ripped through him before he could stop it. His body moved before his mind caught up.

“Jane.”

Her hand froze on the car door. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to stop. Then, without looking at him, she said softly, “Don’t.”

It wasn’t cold or cruel. Just final.

Bruce took a step forward anyway, unable to stop himself.

But before he could reach her, a familiar voice cut through the still morning air.

“That’s close enough, Beloved.”

Talia stepped forward, her movements fluid and controlled, positioning herself between Bruce and Jane. There was a hardness in her gaze he had never seen directed at him before, not from her. For all that she called him her beloved, her eyes were filled with poison, her stance radiating danger.

Bruce froze. Talia’s gaze was locked on him, unblinking, and he felt the weight of it like a physical force pressing against his chest. Her eyes were green, piercing and unyielding. There was no warmth in them, only warning, a clear and deliberate barrier. Bruce could read it perfectly: he would go no further.

She would not allow him to come any closer to their children. And Bruce had no choice but to acknowledge the truth: their children. Not just Damian, but also Jane. The realization landed like a weight in his chest.

Talia wasn’t just Damian’s mother anymore.

Jane had once called him B first, then Dad, her voice full of stubborn pride and affection. Now she called Talia T and Mom. Every syllable was a quiet reminder that the world he had built with her, the fatherhood he had cherished, had been quietly rewritten without his consent.

Bruce clenched his fists, feeling each heartbeat slam against his ribs. The engine of the car hummed softly, Jane’s hand poised on the door handle. He wanted to scream. He wanted to lunge forward, to seize her, to demand she stay. But every instinct, every ounce of experience whispered that it would be useless. Talia would not allow it, and he could not risk alienating her, not now, maybe not ever.

Because he could see it clearly now.

Jane stood with her. And if it came down to it, so did Damian.

.

.

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