Chapter Text
Y/N got dressed with a restless focus she hadn’t felt in days. She pulled on a sweater, changed it, smoothed her hair, tied it up, then let it fall again. Nothing felt right. It wasn’t nerves about Aggie—Aggie was the one steady thing in her strange life—but because Dick was driving her there.
Dick Grayson, who had been distant for weeks. Dick, who came and went in shadows lately. Dick, whose silence felt sharper than Damian’s temper.
She needed him out of the way if she was going to think clearly today. She wanted space, freedom, and the familiar unpredictability of Aggie’s parlor. But when she glanced at her phone, she almost choked.
Blake: Morning! Aunt Aggs said you're coming by. I’ll be around.
A chill ran through her.
Shit. Blake.
She’d forgotten he was staying there. Forgotten his excitement and forgotten his habit of appearing exactly where she didn’t want him to be.
The last thing she wanted was for Dick to run into Blake. Dick noticed everything when he paid attention.
"Perfect," she muttered, shoving her phone into her bag. "Just perfect."
She went downstairs, the same tight knot twisting in her stomach.
Dick waited by the door, jacket zipped and keys in hand. He looked relaxed in that way that made it hard to tell if he was bored, annoyed, or just thinking. He nodded at her as she walked up.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, slipping on her shoes and grabbing her bag. “Thanks for taking me.”
He held the door open and followed her to the car without saying anything else. The silence wasn’t exactly tense; it felt like holding a breath, stretched thin but not breaking. Dick wasn’t angry, but his presence felt heavy. He was thinking about something.
That alone made her uneasy.
She got into the passenger seat, buckled up, and watched the manor disappear in the rearview mirror. They didn’t speak for a few blocks. The city passed by in gray, the early sunlight blurred by thin clouds.
Dick tapped the steering wheel with one finger, steady and absent-minded, not quite a fidget. Y/N tried not to watch him.
Finally, he broke the quiet.
“You’re in a good mood today.”
He didn’t sound accusing, but the hint of suspicion in his voice made her sit up straighter.
She forced a small smile. “Aggie’s fun to be around. I’m looking forward to seeing her.”
“Hm.”
That was it. A quiet, unreadable sound. Dick Grayson was good at saying a lot with just one word. One "hm" could mean anything—agreement, doubt, suspicion. She couldn’t tell which one this was.
She took a slow breath and decided to try her luck.
“I was thinking… You don’t have to stay. I can text you when I’m done. If you’re busy, or if you want to patrol early or, whatever it is you need to do.”
He didn’t look at her, but his jaw tightened a little.
“You want me to leave you there?” he asked, voice still calm.
“It’s just more convenient,” she said lightly. “Aggie loves talking. I don’t want you to have to sit through that.”
He made a small sound she couldn’t read; was it approval, disapproval, or doubt?
“She’s good company for me,” Y/N added, leaning into the casual tone. “It’s easy being around her.”
Dick didn’t miss the implication.
He didn’t comment on it, either.
The next few minutes were quiet, music playing softly and city traffic filling the silence. Y/N stared out the window, going over how she’d handle Dick dropping her off, what excuse she’d use, and how to make sure he left without coming back out of suspicion.
Her phone buzzed in her bag. Twice.
She didn’t need to check to know it was Blake. He always had a knack for showing up right when she wanted him to stay away.
Her pulse jumped, her chest tightening with a strange flutter. This wasn't just the odd calm he brought in person; it felt sharper and more electric, a warning. It puzzled her, leaving a lingering question: was Blake's presence triggering something magical or psychological?
Perhaps it was both, a mix of external influence and internal vulnerability. It was as if his very existence was interwoven with something beyond the ordinary, something that coaxed her instincts into confusion.
Dick's eyes flicked toward her at the reaction, though she tried to hide it.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Just… Aggie. Letting me know she’s home.”
Another half-truth. Another careful piece in her growing web of lies.
Dick nodded, but the crease in his brow stayed. He turned onto the street toward Aggie’s hotel and slowed at a stoplight.
"You’ve been spending a lot of time there," he said quietly. "With everything happening here, you’re choosing to be away a lot."
She swallowed.
He wasn’t wrong.
But she wasn’t about to admit why.
"I need a break sometimes," she said quietly. "You guys can be a lot."
Dick let out a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
“That’s fair,” he said.
The light turned green. He drove on, and she watched the familiar purple neon sign of Aggie’s hotel get closer.
Her stomach turned.
Blake was inside.
Aggie was inside.
Dick was about to walk her to the door, and she didn’t know what would happen next.
Her thoughts ricocheted between fear and caution, uncertainty gripping her like a vice every time she considered the possibilities.
What would Blake do if he saw her with Dick? What subtle clues might Dick pick up on, his watchful eyes catching something she thought she’d hidden away?
And Aggie, what truths might spill from her lips, truths that Y/N wasn’t ready to confront or reveal?
The risks piled up, ceaselessly gnawing at her comfort. If Dick learned the depth of her connection with Blake, would he see her as dishonest, or worse, a betrayer of trust? The thought of her world crumbling because of one unguarded moment sent a chill through her.
And emotionally, everything wavered on a fragile line. The familiar safety of Aggie’s parlor might shatter if lies caught up to her, erasing the only sanctuary she knew. Her heart hammered with each step closer to the door, reminding her that today might irrevocably change everything.
But she was sure of one thing: today was going to be risky, maybe not in a physical way, but emotionally and mentally. And strategically.
She let out a slow breath, bracing herself as the car stopped in front of the hotel. It was time to make her next move.
Dick walked Y/N up the narrow path to Aggie's door, his steps slower than necessary, as if he were testing how much time he could steal before someone noticed. The hotel's facade glowed warmly against the dim afternoon, all amber light and inviting windows, a place that looked harmless enough if you didn't linger on it too long. He lingered anyway.
Aggie opened the door before Y/N could knock, her smile bright and immediate, all practiced warmth.
“There you are, darling,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to Dick before returning to Y/N as if he were only a decorative detail. The door opened just wide enough to let Y/N step forward.
Dick’s attention snagged on the space behind Aggie.
He didn’t see anyone. But he heard him.
A man’s voice drifted from somewhere deeper inside the hotel, casual and familiar, pitched just loud enough to carry.
“Y/N?”
It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t sharp. It was easy, like someone calling to a person they expected to answer.
Dick’s spine went rigid.
Aggie shifted instantly, smoothly, her body angling to fill the doorway as though by instinct. The movement was subtle, but deliberate, cutting off Dick’s line of sight entirely. “Inside,” she murmured to Y/N, still smiling, still pleasant, as if nothing at all were amiss.
Y/N felt Dick stiffen beside her. She hesitated for half a heartbeat, then stepped forward anyway, glancing back at him with a soft, almost apologetic expression.
“You don’t have to wait,” she said gently. “I’ll be fine.”
Dick opened his mouth. He wasn’t even sure what he meant to say. That he could come in. That he could wait nearby. That he didn’t like the sound of that voice or the way Aggie had blocked the door like a shield.
Aggie beat him to it.
“Oh, go on home,” she said kindly, but there was steel under it now. “No need to hover. I promise, I’ll take very good care of her.”
Y/N nodded in agreement, her tone light, disarming. “Really. You don’t have to stay.”
The words weren’t unkind, but they landed hard all the same.
Dick searched her face, looking for something he could latch onto: hesitation, fear, a plea she didn’t know how to voice. He found none of it. If anything, she looked resolute. Calm in a way that unsettled him more than panic ever would.
“…Okay,” he said finally, the word tasting wrong in his mouth. “Just… call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” she promised.
Aggie closed the door with a gentle finality that felt anything but gentle.
Dick stood there a moment longer than necessary, staring at the wood grain as if it might offer answers. Then he turned and walked back to his car, the sound of that voice replaying in his head with every step.
By the time he was driving away, unease had settled deep in his chest. It had been a man’s voice. That much he was sure of. Too relaxed to be staff. Too familiar to be a stranger. Was it Aggie’s nephew, the one he overheard Alfred mentioning?
If so, why hadn’t she told him outright?
Why did it feel like she was keeping something just out of reach, slipping sideways whenever he tried to close the distance?
Why didn’t she need him the way everyone else seemed to?
The questions followed him all the way down the street, looping and tightening until he found himself gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary, jaw clenched, thoughts turning dark and circular.
Inside the hotel, the moment the door clicked shut, Aggie’s smile vanished.
She turned sharply, fixing Blake with a look that could have cut glass. “I told you not to be seen,” she snapped under her breath. “Not heard. Not felt. Nothing.”
Blake stood a few steps back from the entryway, hands lifted in mock surrender, the easy grin still on his face but dulled at the edges. “I didn’t step forward,” he said mildly. “I followed your rules.”
“You spoke,” Aggie hissed.
His eyes flicked past her, toward Y/N, curiosity glinting there. “I said her name.”
Aggie’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re pushing.”
Y/N slipped past them into the parlor, her heart still beating a little too fast, her thoughts tangled with Dick’s expression at the door and the sound of Blake’s voice carrying through the space. The room greeted her with its familiar warmth: low light, heavy curtains, the faint scent of incense clinging to the air.
As she crossed the threshold, the mirror on the far wall rippled.
Just once.
The surface warped as though disturbed by a breath she couldn’t see, the reflection bending and shivering before smoothing back into perfect stillness.
Y/N stopped short, her pulse jumping.
Blake noticed. His grin softened, eyes sharpening as he watched her reaction.
Aggie followed her gaze, then quickly turned away, clapping her hands once as if to dispel the moment. “Tea,” she announced too brightly. “We’ll all feel better after tea.”
Y/N didn’t look away from the mirror right away.
Something had shifted.
And whatever it was, it was already inside the room with her.
Y/N settles into Aggie’s parlor the way she always does, shoes kicked off, shoulders loosening almost against her will as the familiar scent of herbs, old books, and something faintly sweet curls around her. The room hums with quiet life —lamplight soft against the walls, the kettle murmuring to itself —and for a moment, it feels like stepping into a pocket outside of time.
Blake doesn’t sit right away. He lingers instead, orbiting the room with restless energy, leaning against doorframes, peering at knick-knacks like they’re museum artifacts. Every so often, he injects himself into the conversation with a dry comment or an exaggerated sigh.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding her,” he says, glancing between Aggie and Y/N. “No wonder she’s so calm. This place smells like witchcraft and chamomile.”
Aggie doesn’t even look at him. She stirs her tea with deliberate slowness, lips curling. “If I were practicing witchcraft, dear, you’d already be a frog.”
Blake grins, unbothered. “Worth it. Frogs have great legs.”
Y/N snorts before she can stop herself, covering her mouth with her hand. The sound surprises her —not because it’s funny, but because it comes so easily. She feels light. Unanchored. The tension she carried all the way here has slipped off her like a coat she didn’t realize she was wearing.
And yet.
There’s something else under it.
Not peace, exactly. Not relief. Something quieter. Heavier. Like being gently tugged in two directions at once while feeling nothing at all.
Aggie settles into the chair across from her, eyes warm, attentive, the way they always are when Y/N starts talking. Blake finally drops onto the arm of the couch beside her, close enough that his knee brushes hers, close enough that she registers his presence without effort.
Too easily.
As they talk about nothing important, about everything mundane, Y/N feels that familiar calm bloom again, spreading from her chest outward. Her thoughts slow. The sharp edges of her worry dull. The house, the boys, Bruce’s stare, Dick’s unsettled silence, it all fades into background noise.
But beneath it, there’s a pull.
A hollow tug, almost like gravity misbehaving.
She glances at Blake, just briefly. He’s watching Aggie now, chin propped on his hand, expression easy, amused, but his eyes are sharp in a way she can’t quite place. Not predatory. Not kind either. Just… focused.
Is it him?
The thought flickers, quick and instinctive. She’s felt this before, after all. The strange calm. The way her body reacts before her mind can catch up. Her heartbeat doesn’t slow around Blake; it speeds up, light and skittering, like it’s anticipating something and wanting something.
But the calm itself doesn’t deepen when he speaks. It doesn’t anchor there.
Her gaze drifts back to Aggie instead. A memory surfaces —her first visit to Aggie's parlor. She recalls the soothing way Aggie's voice had woven around her, the gentle pressure of a question that had unfurled an unexpected answer from her lips. Aggie is smiling softly, nodding as Y/N talks, fingers wrapped around her mug like she’s warming her hands at a fire only she can see. There is a steadiness to her presence, something grounding and ancient, something Y/N has leaned into from the moment they met.
Had it always been like this?
Y/N’s chest tightens slightly as the thought forms more clearly.
When did this start?
Not just today. Not just recently. All along, every visit, every conversation, every moment spent in this room. The way Aggie’s voice smooths her thoughts. The way decisions feel easier here. The way questions soften before they can hurt.
Why didn’t she notice?
She feels foolish for missing it, for assuming the calm was simply safety, simply kindness. Maybe it was. Maybe it still is. But the realization settles into her bones with a quiet weight.
Two forces are tugging at her now.
One sharp and bright, pulling her forward with curiosity and adrenaline.
The other slow and steady, pulling her inward, deeper, asking her to stay.
Blake nudges her knee lightly. “You just went somewhere,” he says, voice playful but eyes intent. “Earth to Y/N.”
She blinks, refocusing, forcing a smile. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
Aggie watches her over the rim of her cup, eyes unreadable for the first time since Y/N arrived. Not cold. Not warm. Just knowing.
“Well,” Aggie says lightly, setting the mug down, “thinking can be dangerous in the wrong company.”
Blake laughs. “Hey, I resent that.”
Aggie finally looks at him. “You should.”
Y/N feels the tug again, both of them this time, and for the first time, the calm doesn’t feel entirely like a gift.
It feels like a choice she didn’t know she was making.
And she isn’t sure who’s been guiding her hand.
Aggie carries on as though the air in the parlor hasn’t subtly shifted, as though she hasn’t just brushed against something she shouldn’t have. She moves with her usual unhurried confidence, kettle humming, cups arranged just so, her voice filling the space in a way that usually grounds Y/N without effort. The hotel room smells like old books and herbs, warmth layered over age, comfort built carefully over time.
“You always think better when you’re moving,” Aggie says casually, her back turned as she spoons grounds into the filter. “Fresh air helps. It always has.”
Y/N pauses near the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the frame.
Always has.
The phrase lands wrong. Not sharp enough to draw blood, just the faint pressure of a bruise she hadn’t known was there. Her gaze drifts to the mirror near the door. For a second, she expects it to ripple, to betray something lurking beneath the surface. It stays smooth, reflecting Aggie’s shape as she hums, unbothered.
“Always has… since when?” Y/N asks, keeping her voice even.
Aggie glances back over her shoulder, and for a fraction of a moment her eyes sharpen, measuring Y/N in a way that feels older than this conversation, older than the hotel itself. Then the look softens into warmth, the moment folding neatly back into itself.
“Since before you let that house hollow you out,” Aggie replies lightly. “Now, coffee. You need a break. Both of you.”
Blake, lounging against the couch with the easy confidence of someone who knows he belongs wherever he plants himself, perks up immediately. “Ah,” he says, grin widening. “An officially sanctioned escape.”
“A gopher run,” Aggie corrects, pointing her spoon at him. “You’re handsome, they’ll give you a good discount. Y/N, bring me back a latte. Extra foam.”
Blake laughs, tipping his head back. “She’s using us.”
Aggie doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, she steps closer to Y/N and briefly touches her wrist, the contact light but deliberate. “Go,” she murmurs. “You’ll feel better once you’re out.”
Y/N nods, even though she doesn’t fully understand why she’s agreeing so easily. Maybe it’s the promise of space away from the Manor, away from the constant pressure of eyes and expectations. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Or maybe it’s that quiet instinct she’s learned to listen to lately, the one that whispers when something is already decided.
The moment they step outside, the city greets them with cool air and distant traffic, Gotham breathing around them in its usual restless rhythm. And just like that, the calm descends.
It isn’t gradual. It doesn’t ease in politely.
It settles over Y/N all at once, smoothing the sharp edges of her thoughts, pressing down until everything inside her slows. Her shoulders drop. The vigilance she carries loosens its grip. She exhales, only now realizing she’s been holding her breath.
Blake walks beside her, close but not crowding, hands tucked into his pockets. He doesn’t look at her right away. He just matches her pace, steps syncing effortlessly with hers.
“You good?” he asks, tone casual, almost careless.
“Yeah,” Y/N answers, and the word feels true in a way that unsettles her.
They approach an intersection, the light shifting from green to yellow as cars roll through. Y/N registers the crosswalk signal only distantly, as if it’s happening somewhere far away. Blake steps forward.
It’s subtle enough she could excuse it later. A half-step too far. A moment of inattention. Like he just misjudged the curb.
She follows him without thinking.
A horn blares, loud and sudden, snapping through the air. Tires squeal as a car brakes hard, the driver shouting something sharp and angry out the window. Y/N hears it all, registers it, but her body doesn’t react.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t freeze.
She walks.
They cross the street like nothing’s wrong, like danger hasn’t brushed close enough to taste. Her heart doesn’t race. Her breath stays even. The calm holds her steady, wrapping her instincts in something soft and unyielding.
They reach the opposite curb, and only then does Y/N stop.
Blake turns to face her, concern flickering across his expression just enough to seem convincing. “You alright?” he asks. “Sorry about that. Guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
Y/N looks at him, really looks, and her pulse stutters now that it’s safe. His smile is still there, warm and boyish, but his eyes are different. Focused. Still. Watching her, not the street.
“I should’ve been scared,” she says quietly, more to herself than to him.
Blake tilts his head. “Most people would’ve been.”
“I didn’t feel anything,” Y/N whispers.
The realization sinks slowly, heavy and cold. This isn’t Aggie’s calm, the familiar steadiness that feels like being wrapped in a well-worn blanket. This is something else entirely. Something precise. Something that responded to him beyond mere presence. She wonders if he knows, if that ever-present warmth in his gaze is acknowledgment or simple charm. Blake’s smile softens. "You’re fine," he says gently. "Nothing happened."
That’s what frightens her.
Because something did.
She follows him into the coffee shop on legs that feel slightly disconnected from her thoughts, the calm still coiled tight around her ribs. The smell of espresso and sugar rushes to meet them, grounding and surreal all at once. As they wait in line, Y/N glances at him again, her heart beating faster now, finally catching up.
The calm hasn’t faded.
It adjusted.
And for the first time, Y/N understands that what just happened wasn’t a mistake. It was a test, quietly administered.
And she passed without even realizing she’d been examined.
Y/N doesn’t resist the calm at first.
It happens almost by accident—a reflexive tightening of her shoulders as she walks beside Blake, coffee warming her palms. She thinks of the crosswalk, the horn, the way the car should have frightened her. She tries to summon the feeling, to drag the memory back and make it hurt the way it should.
Nothing happens.
So she pushes harder.
She deliberately slows her steps, digs her nails into her palm, tells herself that something is wrong, that she should be afraid, that this is not safety but something masquerading as it. For a fleeting second, she feels the faintest flicker of resistance, like the first tug of a current against her legs.
And then the calm tightens.
It doesn’t fight her. Doesn’t push back. It just closes in, smooth and suffocating, wrapping around her thoughts until the panic dissolves before it can form. The sharp edges blur. Her breath evens out against her will. The instinct to flee goes quiet, like someone reached inside her and turned the volume down.
Y/N stumbles, not physically, but mentally, and Blake’s hand comes up just long enough to steady her elbow.
“You okay?” he asks, still casual, still easy.
She nods. It’s easier than arguing with her own body.
Later, much later, she will replay the crossing in her mind like a broken reel of film. She will slow it down, examine each frame, searching for the exact moment her instincts went silent. Was it when Blake stepped forward? When she followed him without question? Or had it started even earlier, when she’d first stepped out of Aggie’s hotel and felt that soft, false peace settle over her shoulders?
She can’t find the answer. That terrifies her more than the near-miss itself.
By the time Dick pulls up to collect her, Y/N is quiet in a way that has nothing to do with obedience and everything to do with being trapped inside her own head. She slides into the passenger seat, buckles automatically, and stares out the window as Gotham blurs past.
“So,” Dick says after a few minutes, trying for light, “how was your day?”
“It was… fine,” Y/N replies, the word thin and unconvincing.
He glances at her, then back to the road. “Just fine?”
“Yeah,” she says again, already distracted, her thoughts looping back to Aggie’s voice, Blake’s eyes, the way the calm had tightened when she fought it.
Dick exhales through his nose. “You went to Aggie’s, right?”
“Mhm.”
“And?”
“And we talked,” Y/N says vaguely. “I got coffee.”
“With Aggie,” Dick presses.
“Yes,” she answers, too quickly.
Silence stretches between them, taut and uncomfortable. Dick’s jaw tightens. He hates when she does this, when she retreats so far into herself that it feels like he’s talking to a wall instead of a person. He tries again, softer this time.
“Y/N. You’re not even looking at me.”
She blinks, startled, and turns her head, guilt flickering across her face. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”
“You’ve been tired a lot lately,” Dick says, the edge creeping back into his voice despite his effort to keep it steady.
She nods, then looks back out the window, the words slipping before she can catch them. “Blake said the same thing.”
The car goes very quiet.
Dick’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Blake,” he repeats carefully. “Who’s Blake?”
Y/N freezes, then frowns, as if only just realizing what she’s said. “No one. I mean… just… Aggie’s nephew.”
“Aggie has a nephew,” Dick says slowly, suspicion flaring. “And you didn’t think to mention that?”
She shrugs, already withdrawing again, her attention sliding back into the maze of her thoughts. “It didn’t seem important.”
“It seems important now,” Dick snaps before he can stop himself. “How long have you known him?”
“I don’t know,” she mutters. “A bit.”
“What does ‘a bit’ mean, Y/N?” Dick asks, frustration bleeding through. “Did you go somewhere with him?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and that hesitation is answer enough.
Dick’s chest tightens. “You could’ve told me.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” she says, still not looking at him. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
“That’s not the point,” he says sharply. “The point is you keep shutting me out.”
She winces at that, but the reaction fades quickly, swallowed by the noise in her head. Aggie. Blake. The calm. The way it scared her even as it soothed her.
By the time they reach the Manor gates, Dick is wound tight with questions she isn’t answering and resentment he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He pulls to a stop, barely glancing at her.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he says, already reaching for the door handle.
“Dick…” Y/N starts.
But he’s gone before she can finish, the car peeling away down the drive toward Blüdhaven without so much as a backward glance.
She stands there for a moment, the quiet rushing in to fill the space he leaves behind, then turns and heads inside.
Alfred meets her just beyond the foyer, relief flickering across his face when he sees her safe. “Welcome back, Miss Y/N. Master Dick promised he’d assist me with something this evening. Is he…?”
“He left for Blüdhaven,” Y/N says quietly. “Right after dropping me off.”
Alfred’s brows knit together, concern deepening. “That’s odd,” he murmurs. “He was quite insistent he’d stay.”
Y/N offers a weak shrug, the weight of the day pressing down on her again. Alfred studies her for a moment longer, clearly sensing that something is amiss, but he doesn’t press.
As Y/N climbs the stairs, her mind returns, unbidden, to the street, to the moment her fear failed her.
And to the unsettling certainty that the calm is still there, waiting.
Dick doesn’t head straight back to his apartment in Blüdhaven.
He tells himself he is, tells himself the irritation curling tight in his chest will burn off once the city skyline changes and the Manor is a smear of stone and shadow behind him. But somewhere between the bridge and the first familiar stretch of neon-lit streets, his hands tighten on the steering wheel and his jaw locks.
Blake.
The name echoes, unwanted, lodged under his ribs.
Y/N hadn’t even looked at him when she said it. That’s what bothers him most. Not secrecy, not the possibility of another person in her orbit, but the absence of awareness. She hadn’t been defensive. She hadn’t been careful. She had been distracted, distant, as the word slipped out of a different mouth entirely.
That isn’t like her.
By the time Dick pulls into his parking garage, the decision has already been made. He doesn’t bother taking his jacket off once he’s upstairs. He drops his keys on the counter, boots still on, and opens his laptop with the same quiet efficiency he uses before a patrol.
If Y/N won’t tell him who Blake is, he’ll find out for himself.
The name is frustratingly common at first. Blake Selvyn returns too many results, most of them dead ends or people who don’t fit. Dick refines the search, cross-references it with Aggie’s name, with property records, business licenses, hotel registries, anything that might create a line between them.
Aggie, as always, is a maze.
She doesn’t appear where she should on paper. Her hotel exists, but its ownership trails off into shell companies and trusts that fold in on themselves. Dick has seen this kind of thing before. Usually, it screams 'criminal enterprise' or 'money laundering'.
This doesn’t feel like that.
He digs deeper, pulling old census records, archived city permits, anything historical enough to slip past whatever digital obfuscation Aggie favors. That’s when he finds something that makes him pause.
Blake Selvyn did grow up in Gotham.
Not recently. Not continuously. He appears in school records for a handful of years, then disappears entirely, only to resurface elsewhere under the same name with the exact birthdate—no criminal record. No arrests. No obvious red flags.
Too clean.
Dick leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. Clean records no longer comfort him. They unsettle him. In Gotham, clean usually means someone worked very hard to make it that way.
He pulls up traffic cam data next, searching for any overlap between Y/N’s known movements and Blake’s car. It doesn’t take long to find the Accord. It’s been in Gotham for weeks. Longer than Y/N implied. Longer than Dick likes.
There are gaps in the footage, too. Not enough to raise alarms on their own, but enough that Dick notices. Cameras that should have caught the car don’t. Feeds that stutter or loop for a second too long.
That bothers him more than anything else.
He exhales slowly, staring at the screen, replaying Y/N’s face in his mind. The way she hadn’t flinched when he pressed her. The way her attention slid away from him was like water off glass. Dick has spent his life reading people, tracking micro-expressions and tension shifts, the subtle tells that betray discomfort or fear.
With Y/N, something is different now.
It’s not that she’s hiding something badly. It’s that she doesn’t seem to feel the need to hide it at all.
Dick closes the laptop and stands, restless energy coiling in his limbs. He paces the length of the apartment once, twice, his thoughts circling tighter with every step.
Who is Blake Selvyn to her?
And why does the idea of Y/N not needing him itch so sharply under his skin?
He hates that question even as it forms. Hates the answer it threatens to imply.
Outside, Blüdhaven hums, loud and alive, but Dick barely hears it. His mind is already back in Gotham, tracing unseen lines between Aggie, her nephew, and the girl who has somehow become the axis his family is quietly unraveling around.
Whatever Blake is, Dick knows one thing for sure.
He isn’t accidental.
And Dick Grayson has never trusted coincidences.
Y/N becomes aware of Dick’s attention the way one becomes aware of pressure changes before a storm. There is no announcement, no confrontation, just a subtle shift in the air that tells her she is no longer moving unseen. His eyes follow her more often now, not openly, not in the sharp way Damian watches or the hungry, searching way Tim does, but with a thoughtful quiet that unsettles her far more than either of them. Dick watches like someone cataloguing patterns, like someone trying to remember when a room started feeling unfamiliar.
So Y/N adjusts.
She has lived long enough in other people’s spaces to know that survival is not about disappearance but about control of perception. She alters her routines by inches rather than miles. She lingers in doorways she used to pass through quickly, takes the long stairs instead of the shortcut, and pauses to pet the dogs or comment on a painting she’s already seen a hundred times. If Dick expects secrecy, she gives him transparency so mundane it becomes useless. If he expects avoidance, she offers brief warmth that never quite turns into intimacy.
A soft greeting in the morning. A casual question about Blüdhaven. A smile that fades at precisely the right moment.
She lets him see her, but never quite long enough to understand her.
Dick doesn’t relax because of it, but neither does he advance. He remains suspended in that uncomfortable middle space where suspicion has nothing solid to grip. Y/N can feel him recalibrating every time she moves, and she makes sure that recalibration never resolves into certainty.
Tim, by contrast, is painfully easy.
He always has been.
She finds him when his guard is naturally lower, not by accident but by design. Late nights in the Cave when the hum of machines fills the silence and his thoughts spill out faster than he can organize them. Quiet mornings in the kitchen when he’s running on caffeine and habit and doesn’t notice how quickly he leans toward anyone who listens. She asks him about his projects, about half-formed theories and ideas he hasn’t shared yet, and she listens with a sincerity that makes his shoulders loosen before he realizes they were tense.
Sometimes Damian is there, a sharp-edged presence hovering just close enough to remind Y/N that she is being watched. Other times, he isn’t pulled away by Bruce or by his own relentless discipline. Y/N adjusts without effort.
When Damian is present, she keeps her tone measured and thoughtful, positioning herself as a calm contrast rather than a challenge. She never excludes him outright, never dismisses him, but she never gives him control of the exchange either. When he isn’t there, she leans a fraction closer to Tim, asks questions that brush against trust and concern without ever demanding anything in return.
“You should sleep,” she tells Tim once, glancing at the dark circles beneath his eyes as he stares too intently at a screen.
He laughs it off, rubbing at his face. “I’ll sleep when Gotham stops being weird.”
She hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and lets the silence stretch just long enough for him to keep talking on his own. He fills it eagerly, words tumbling out, explanations turning into confessions before he realizes what he’s doing.
Her tactics work whether Damian is present or not. Tim responds to attention like a starved thing, turning instinctively toward warmth without questioning its source. He begins offering information unprompted, reassurance without being asked, glancing at Y/N for approval before making decisions he used to make alone. He doesn’t notice the shift because it feels good. After all, it feels like being seen.
Y/N notices everything.
She catalogs the changes with quiet precision, filing them away alongside the rest of her plans. Tim is becoming predictable, and predictability is a gift.
Damian feels it too.
And where Tim opens, Damian tightens.
The pressure Damian applies is subtler than his usual confrontations, more controlled and far more dangerous. He positions himself closer when Y/N enters a room, interrupts conversations with surgical timing, and corrects her phrasing even when she hasn’t technically said anything wrong. His presence sharpens the air, turns every exchange into a test she didn’t agree to take.
“You are being deliberate,” he tells her one afternoon, voice low and tight, the words vibrating with something barely restrained.Y/N turns to face him slowly, expression mild. “About what?”
“Everything,” Damian snaps, then reins himself in with visible effort. His hands curl at his sides, fingers flexing as if they want to become fists. “You believe yourself subtle. You are not.”
She studies him for a moment, not with fear, not even with irritation, but with something closer to assessment. There is something wrong behind his eyes lately, something strained and stretched thin, like a wire pulled too tight.
“You’re exhausted,” she says instead, voice calm. “You should rest.”
The laugh he gives is sharp and humorless. “Do not patronize me.”
“I’m not,” Y/N replies easily. “I’m concerned.”
It is a lie wrapped in silk, and Damian feels the cut anyway. His jaw tightens, his gaze darkens, and she can almost hear the gears grinding in his head as he tries to decide whether she is mocking him or manipulating him or both.
From that point on, his pressure increases. He questions her movements with pointed casualness, challenges her explanations as though they are puzzles to be solved, and positions himself between her and Tim whenever he can, like a guard dog that no longer remembers what it’s protecting. The intensity of it borders on fixation, and she lets it happen.
She lets the tension build. She lets Damian’s frustration sharpen, lets Tim notice the strain and step in more often to smooth things over, to defend without fully understanding what he’s defending against. Every reaction Damian gives her is another thread she can pull, another confirmation that she’s standing exactly where she needs to be.
Dick watches all of this from the edges of the house, unease settling deeper into his bones. He doesn’t have the language yet for what he’s seeing, only the instinctive sense that something is off. Tim doesn’t see the manipulation, only the warmth. Damian sees too much, and it’s tearing him apart.
Y/N sees all of it and adjusts her pace accordingly.
She is careful. Never cruel. Never obvious. Just present enough to matter, just kind enough to be missed when she’s gone. But underneath the calculated moves and cautious interactions, there is a flicker of doubt. A quiet whisper that questions if the control she wields so effortlessly might one day cost her more than she anticipates. She wonders, in moments of solitude, whether the stability she's crafted for herself is worth the threads she pulls, the distance she quietly carves between herself and those who care for her, and if, in her pursuit of security, she has lost sight of something important within herself.
As the Manor subtly shifts around her, alliances tightening and tempers fraying, Y/N keeps her smile soft and her movements precise. Everyone else is reacting to what has already happened.
She is already planning what comes next.
Damian waits until the Manor settles into that peculiar hour where even the walls seem to listen.
It’s not quite night, not quite evening. The kind of in-between that sharpens his thoughts and loosens the restraints he’s been clinging to all day. The east corridor lies in half-shadow, sconces dimmed low enough to leave long stretches of stone untouched by light. It’s an old wing, forgotten by most of the house, and Damian knows every inch of it by heart.
Y/N rounds the corner with a book tucked under her arm, her steps measured, expression neutral. She’s already thinking ahead, already calculating, and that alone is enough to make his jaw tighten.
“Stop,” Damian says.
The word isn’t raised, but it doesn’t need to be. It lands with the quiet authority of something learned too young and practiced too often.
She slows, then turns to face him, annoyance flickering across her features before smoothing into something controlled and almost serene. “We’ve been over this,” she says, voice even. “If you’re here to accuse me again, don’t bother.”
He steps closer, not enough to corner her, not enough to touch, but enough to make the air between them feel dense. He can feel the pressure in his chest, the coiling sensation that hasn’t left him in days.
“You are doing this deliberately,” Damian says. “You are choosing Tim. You are trying to fracture us.”
Y/N exhales softly through her nose, the sound sharp with irritation rather than fear. That, more than anything, unsettles him. She should be cautious. She should be backing away. Instead, she looks at him as if he’s an obstacle she’s already accounted for.
“I’m not choosing anyone,” she replies. “Tim listens. You interrogate. If that bothers you, maybe look inward.”
The words are precise, honed. They strike where she intends them to.
For a moment, Damian can’t speak. The whispers swell, overlapping, urgent and insistent.
Don’t let her get ahead.
She thinks she’s more intelligent than you.
You are losing control.
Tim will protect her if you don’t stop this.
Y/N is your sister. Your blood. Yours.
His fingers curl at his sides. He doesn’t register the sting in his palms until a wet warmth reminds him that his nails have broken skin. The pain grounds him just enough to remain still.
“You are my blood,” he says finally, his voice low, carrying a conviction that borders on something dangerous. “You do not get to dismantle this family.”
Y/N’s gaze sharpens. For a heartbeat, something like triumph glimmers there, quickly masked. She thinks she’s winning. She thinks she’s pushing him far enough to break his composure, to expose the fault line between him and Tim.
“We’re not a family,” she says quietly. “Not in the way you think. And if things are falling apart, maybe they were already broken.”
The whispers go quiet.
Not gone. Quieted. As if satisfied.
Damian steps back abruptly, distance snapping into place like armor. His expression smooths, control reasserting itself in a way that feels colder, more absolute.
“This isn’t over,” he says. “You won’t break us.”
He leaves before she can respond, his footsteps precise, measured, disappearing into the darker stretch of the corridor. Y/N watches him go, heart steady, mind already filing the exchange away as progress. She believes she’s widened the wedge. She doesn’t see the way something has settled in Damian; instead, heavier and more resolute than anger.
Later, Dick finds her in the sitting room, the lights low, the furniture arranged to encourage conversation without forcing it. He doesn’t sit beside her. He takes the chair opposite, posture relaxed, expression carefully neutral.
“You’ve been busy,” he says lightly.
Y/N doesn’t look up from her phone. “That’s a strange opener.”
“Humor me,” Dick replies.
She lifts her gaze, meeting his eyes. For a fraction of a second, he catches something calculating there, something sharp, before it softens back into practiced indifference.
“You don’t like that I get along with Tim,” she says. “Damian doesn’t either. That’s not my issue.”
“You’re doubling down,” Dick observes. “Even after Damian confronted you.”
Her lips curve faintly. “I don’t respond well to threats.”
That’s the reaction he was looking for. Not fear. Not guilt. Defiance, clean and deliberate.
Before he can push further, Tim enters, drawn by tension as he always is. His eyes go straight to Y/N, concern sharpening his features as he subtly shifts his posture toward her.
“Is there a problem?” Tim asks.
“No,” Y/N says quickly. “We’re fine.”
Tim’s brow furrows. “You don’t look fine.”
Dick opens his mouth to respond, but Tim speaks first, his voice steady but edged. “She said she’s fine. You don’t need to question her every time she breathes.”
Damian appears in the doorway moments later, having followed instinct rather than sound. The air tightens instantly.
“You’re blind,” Damian snaps.
“And you’re paranoid,” Tim shoots back, the words leaving him before he can stop them.
Silence crashes down, heavy and suffocating.
Bruce stands just outside the room, unseen, absorbing everything. He notes the way Tim positions himself, the way Damian restrains himself with visible effort, the way Y/N remains centered between them, unreadable. This fracture. It's accelerating. Yet beyond observations, something tightens in his chest, a mixture of frustration and fear that he can't quite suppress. Bruce has always prided himself on maintaining control, but watching his family — his sons — on the brink of splintering, he feels the sting of helplessness that he rarely allows himself to acknowledge. His mind races through possible solutions, but a deeper, more vulnerable part resonates with the fear of irreparable damage.
He doesn’t intervene. He files it away.
That night, alone in the Batcave, Bruce methodically navigates the data. He pulls up every file tied to Y/N, every note, every thread that intersects with Thomas Vane. The boys have insisted it’s handled. The stalker quiet. The threat neutralized.
And yet.
The unease doesn’t leave him. It coils low in his gut, the same instinct that’s kept him alive long enough to see patterns others miss. Thomas doesn’t simply disappear. Men like him don’t go quiet without reason. And if Tim and Damian truly believed the threat was gone, they wouldn’t be circling Y/N like this.
Bruce exhales slowly and begins to assemble a contingency.
Not for his sons.
For Y/N.
He opens a fresh, encrypted, untraceable drive. He transfers everything connected to Thomas onto it: sightings, behavioral analysis, financial movements, half-formed theories he hasn’t shared with anyone. He adds resources with clinical efficiency—private investigators. Discreet security teams. Bodyguards that are trained to blend rather than intimidate.
He removes the data from the Batcomputer once it’s complete, wiping the traces clean. The boys won’t find this. They won’t interfere.
They’ve done enough.
This is Y/N’s problem now.
If she insists on being at the center of this, she will handle it with the tools she needs and without destabilizing his house any further. And if that requires distance, so be it. The thought of her leaving the Manor doesn’t trouble him the way it probably should. It feels like a necessary correction.
He pockets the drive, expression unreadable.
Upstairs, Y/N lies on her bed, phone buzzing softly in her hand.
Blake: Miss me yet, or are you still playing chess with billionaires?
Her heartbeat spikes, sharp and immediate. The calm she feels around him doesn’t reach her through text, but the anticipation alone is enough to send a shiver through her.
The timing is wrong. Too many pieces are already moving.
She types back anyway.
Y/N: Bad timing. I’ll explain later.
Down the hall, Damian sits alone, back against the wall, breathing carefully. His hands are clenched, blood dried beneath his nails. The whispers murmur approval, urging patience, control, possession.
And deep beneath the Manor, Bruce Wayne finishes laying the groundwork to remove Y/N from the equation entirely, convinced that whatever is unraveling his sons cannot be allowed to continue under his roof.