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GOTHAM CITY — NOW.
“Have you ever thought about how your life has changed so much for the better ever since you quit Batgirl?”
The Manor’s kitchen is a mess, pea pureè splattered all over the table and walls, and you’re sure that once he comes back, Alfred will skin both you and Bruce alive — but he doesn’t seem to care; not when Tommy has been laughing for the last thirty minutes non-stop. He must think that making you and his grandpa look like you just killed a vegetable monster is hilarious, because most of his lunch ended up flying on your faces rather than going in his stomach. He’s amused now, but you know that in less than thirty minutes he’s going to be whining and grabbing at your collar for some well-deserved milk snacktime.
The question catches you off guard — it’s not because you never thought about it, but rather because you never expected Bruce to ask something like that right now. He’s been softer around the edges lately, and the detachment between Bruce Wayne and Batman has never been so evident in your eyes. Maybe that’s why you’re surprised; because he’s talking about your time as Batgirl — something that once took you months to open up about — on a normal Friday, while trying and failing to feed your kid pea mousse.
You shrug, trying to play cool like you don’t still have nightmares about Batgirl coming back and getting her revenge on you for abandoning the cowl. “I do. Still– without her, Tommy wouldn’t be here right now.” you wipe away a smudge of green mush on the corner of his mouth, and he instantly reaches out to you, babbling ‘mamamamamama’ in hopes to get you to lift him in your arms — and as much as you’d like to, he’s going nowhere but on the highchair until he finishes everything on his plate. “I mean– I met his dad while in the suit.”
The engagement ring on your left hand shimmers under the light coming from the window — Kyle had proposed on the first date the two of you had following the birth of Tommy, as despite the two of you having never cared for a shiny party and being comfortable in your relationship as it was, he still felt like showing you openly that he had no intentions in spending his life with anyone but you. The wedding’s all but near, as you both agreed to let your son grow up a bit more before organising anything, but it is nice to have a fiancèe, and the thought of Kyle being your husband in the future makes you giddy. “Why do you ask?”
He hums, raising the silicone spoon to feed his grandson, who in response sticks his tongue out at him in such an innocent manner that it’s difficult to get frustrated at him. “It’s just that I often wonder how things would be if I didn’t drag you or your brothers into the whole Batman madness — but, you were the first one. And you were also the one who took it harder upon you.”
You stay silent for a moment. “Nah,” you opt to reply, “it’s all good. I’ve left those years behind me.” Sure, you have a nightmare here and there, but it’s nothing in comparison to all the violent nights you spent out there beating up people just because.
You don’t miss the remorseful twitch of Bruce’s mouth. “You may have, but it sure wasn’t thanks to me — and it was my duty to understand that you weren’t okay.” you can see the strain it takes him to say the next phrase, “And as much as I act like I don’t like him, I’m aware that I have to thank Kyle for your sanity.”
GOTHAM CITY — THEN.
You’ve heard of him — the new Green Lantern — from Clark.
They fought Mongul together, apparently; he said he looked like a kid (which, by Clark’s standards, meant he could be either your age or a few years older) and still didn’t really know how to use the ring. Hal Jordan was still missing and probably in deep space, and until Superman or one of the others didn’t have a breather from all the people that have been plaguing the Earth recently to go and search for him, he is to remain missing.
A shame. He was kinda funny.
You guess it comes with the job. When the ring chose him, he didn’t really have a choice — there’s a reason why it went looking for him, and that was because of his morals, who wouldn’t have let him leave bad deeds unpunished. And talking about bad deeds…
“Are you sneaking up on me?”
The breeze behind you stops — whoever was flying, stopped. You have a hunch for who it could be: Conner, who in Tim’s absence always tried to pull a prank or two on you; Donna, for an impromptu girl’s night; Kory, for the same reason; Shazam, for the mere reason that he has taken a liking into you and loves to interrupt your patrols regularly. It surely isn’t a malevolent presence, because if they were, they would’ve already pushed you down the railing of the building you're perched on. But then you turn, and all the hope for a girl’s night vanishes as quickly as it had appeared.
“Ah. It’s you.”
The new Green Lantern — Kyle, if you remember correctly from Bruce’s research — doesn’t look too bummed about your clearly dismissive tone. “Hi,” he holds his hand out, and if he didn’t have a mask, you’re sure you’d see his eyes shine like children’s do on Christmas. “Green Lantern. Big fan of yours.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Piss off.”
He doesn’t let your comment ruin his happiness, and takes out a pen and a comic from whatever green pouch he’d made with that big head and ugly ring of his. “The biggest fan! Could you sign this, before we get to the chase of the bad guys? It’s the limited edition one shot about that run-in you had with Professor Pyg! They only made about a hundred copies but I was able to snatch one the day they were released. I also have, like, lots of posters back at home — but I guess that it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask you to sign those too, right?"
You take the comic from his hands as he goes on, looking briefly at the cover, “I also have one of your twenty platinum-plated cards in the Bat-cards game– hey!”
He stops his ramblings when you throw the comic off the building, and immediately goes after it to retrieve the thing. “This is collection material, you know! I had to fight people to get my hands on it, and believe me, sixteen year old me wasn’t that athletic!”
Your expression is one of pure disgust. “What kind of Green Lantern are you, creep?”
“I’m not a creep! I’m a dedicated fan!”
“That’s even creepier. I don't have fans.”
He gasps dramatically. “That's not true! Don't talk about yourself like that!”
Your expression seems to get more skeptical by the minute. “Please, dude, have you ever read a newspaper? They're begging me to hang the cowl up.”
GL seems flabbergasted, “Well, uh, actually, not– but you won't do it, right? Hang the cowl, I mean. Please, don't — there's people like me out there that like you!”
You don't look too relieved about it. “Yeah, because that's reassuring.” Of course the only times you have fans it's when they're weirdos or violence fanatics. Why can't you have normal fans, or just don’t have them at all? Can’t people leave you alone? “Just get away from here before things go downhill.”
You jump off the railing and land in the alley beside the building, but that doesn’t deter him from following you. In fact, he’s attached to your tail in a way that reminds you of baby ducks waddling behind their mother. “Didn’t you hear me? I want you to leave me alone. I’m not going to be your babysitter, and things are really about to get ugly.”
“Hey, if you’re trying to score a hit on the Joker or something I can help!”
Really, just who is this guy? “This isn’t the Joker. This is Falcone — worse, if you ask me. He has resources, and two dozens more henchmen than the clown does. His crimes are pretty standard in comparison to the Joker’s, but that doesn’t mean you can stay here.” the last thing you need is a rookie on the scene.
He pouts, “But I could never let a lady go through the trouble of fighting all the bad guys alone. I could take them down–”
“This lady,” you snarl, finger pointed at his chest aggressively, “is more than capable of handling herself, and you would not be of any use but alert Falcone of a presence he doesn’t want. So you go right back where you came from — Coast City, LA, I don’t care — before anyone sees you, because I. Work. Alone.”
He raises his hands in defeat. “Whoa, I didn’t mean to say you couldn’t handle it alone! I just offered some help. You know– just lending a hand to a fellow hero.”
“Then don’t. Go bug Batman, and if you see him, tell him that I ask him to fuck off.”
Ouch. That was harsh. “I thought that you and Batsy were, like, besties or something. Isn't he the whole reason you're Batgirl?”
You laugh bitterly. “Oh, no, not him.”
Whatever– he’s not going to leave you alone in a fight — you’ve been his favourite hero since he was twelve! This was his chance to fulfill his dream of fighting alongside– nevermind. You’ve already disappeared.
The mission is simple: gather up enough evidence of all the drugs that they’re smuggling, maybe get to beat up either Falcone or his bootlickers, and tie them up real nice for the police to find — hopefully that’ll make Gordon hate you a little less than he already does, because you know he’s been on Falcone’s tracks for weeks.
He settled in an abandoned building in the last few months, going under Jean-Paul’s radar — not that it took that much, anyways; the guy is, in fact, crazy, if not a complete schizo. He sees criminals that aren’t there, and while you may understand the whole beating goons to a pulp thing, that does not include jaywalkers. It’s a wonder that he has managed not to end up in Arkham, though; you have to give him credit for that.
The thugs outside of Falcone’s hideout are barely awake, and are playing tic-tac-toe with two sticks on the mud of the porch just to stay alert. They don’t expect you to jump over their heads and knock them out cold, face-down in the mud, nor do their peers inside the building: they start blindly shooting everywhere as soon as you turn off the lights — a real show of the IQ test that Falcone surely makes every aspiring hoodlum take before hiring them — but ultimately slump to the floor when you drop down a gas bomb full of sedatives.
And of course, things always go south when they start looking a little too easy.
You barely dodge a bullet on your way up to the stairs, and the same guy that shot it — who must’ve forgotten to load his gun earlier, because that was the last shot he had apparently — lunges at you, and while you manage to avoid the fall by shooting a grapple gun into the upper floor, the guy’s elbow on your nose is a completely other story, as you find yourself sneezing blood on the stairs beneath you while Falcone’s lapdog tumbles down the staircase.
Congratulations! You now have a probably broken nose and an aware-of-your-presence mafia boss who won’t be happy about you meddling into his affairs. Still better than how Jean-Paul handles things, anyway–
That is, until a crashing sound comes from the upper floor — where you were headed until the thug tried to topple you down the stairs — and a familiar scream echoes throughout the building– Falcone.
You run up the last steps left to his floor, where you find him hanging upside down, swaying like a wrecking ball in motion, his bodyguards not too distant from him — tied up like a salami. You blink, unamused, at the green light that surrounds the bindings, only to huff at the voice that comes out of Falcone’s office. “Awe, stop screaming like that, I didn’t even touch you!”
Green Lantern comes out of what you guess to be the boss’ office, some papers in hand, and lights up when he sees you. “Hey! Thought I could’ve handled the last bit for you, figured you’d want a break from all the fighting.”
You stomp up to him, snatching the papers from his hands, “Has anyone ever told you about Gotham’s no-metas rule?”
He frowns. “But I’m not a meta.”
“Aliens and humans powered by alien technology count as metas.”
He's pretty sure they don't, “I was just trying to help–”
“You did not want to help. You wanted to impress me.”
He pouts like a kid caught stealing candy. “I mean… also that, but not entirely.”
“Get out of my way.” You shove him away from the doorway and enter the office, not losing any time rummaging through drawers and shelves. He frowns, “Your nose is bleeding. I just wanted to–”
”Yeah, yeah, to help. Whatever. You’ve already said that, like, five times.” Your tongue peeks out from your lips, licking the blood that dripped onto your upper lip, and Kyle feels like his knees could collapse any moment now. “Just like I’ve already asked you to leave me alone at least six times.”
He snaps, “What is your problem? What happened to Batman and why are you mad at him? Why are you two not working together and why did I only see you and Robin out in the streets tonight?”
You come up close to him, so close he can smell the metallic scent of blood — and, if he dares to, kiss you by lowering his face the smallest bit. “None. Of. Your. Concern.” Your stare is one of pure disdain, so much so that he can feel it despite the domino mask.
Kyle falters the littlest bit. “…So, no autograph?”
“Oh, just get outta here.”
Falcone and his thugs are handed to the GCPD still in GL’s green handcuffs, even if he had fled the scene a while ago. Gordon frowns at them, questions swarming through his mind, before he sighs and chooses not to ask any. He looks at you, dark bags under his eyes, too tired to reprimand you about… well, about everything he usually complains to you about. “Just don’t let the other bat-maniac see him, or he’ll start going around lookin’ for green demons or somethin’.”
You get back home — a loft in Gotham Heights — at almost four in the morning, after patrolling around for the rest of the night, and after a shower you launch yourself on the bed and try your best not to think about the meeting with the executives of WE that you have in four hours. Of course, even in your own home you can’t have a moment of peace, because soon after — right when you’re about to fall asleep — a tap comes from your window.
You groan loudly, covering your ears with your pillow, “Whoever you are, go away.”
“Awww, c’mon,” from the voice, you guess it’s Tim, “won’t you open up? Not even for your little brother who just wants a break from whiny and boring Bruce?”
You freeze — argh, he knows your weak spots! Bitching about Bruce and running away from the Manor– a classic. You barely manage to drag yourself out of bed to open the window, and Robin laughs as he plops down on your carpet. “Careful with the rug, Boy Wonder– one mud stain and I’ll make you scrub it off with your toothbrush.”
“Grouchy today, eh?” You go back to bed, barely hearing him in your haze. “Huh-uh.”
“Have you seen Green Lantern? He passed by the Narrows during patrol and asked me about you.” Tim throws himself on your bed, smug, “Batgirl and Green Lantern, K-I-S-S–”
You slap a hand over his mouth, face still snuggled in your pillow, “Not another word.”
He grins underneath your palm, tearing it off gently, “I’m just saying, you could really use a superhero boyfriend — try to find out if he can get rid of Valley for us.”
You wave him off, voice muffled by the cushion, barely coherent. “Yeah, like a boyfriend is what I need right now.”
“You could try.”
“Or I could not. Besides, he’s creepy.”
Tim perks up, “You talking about that comic he had? I thought it was cool. I have the Batman version of that edition, second hand — you don’t want to know how much it cost me. He’s a dedicated fan, and I respect that. It’s cute — cute in a rom-com way.”
“More like a non-con way,” you grumble, managing to raise your head from the pillow, “so what, you came here just to complain about my non-existent love life and to try to set me up with a guy I just met and don't like?”
He thinks about it for a moment. “No, not only that. Do you know who the new Green Lantern is?”
“Uh…” your sleepy, fuzzy brain only manages to come up with his first name — it's not like you read the file Bruce had made about him with much interest, anyway. “Kyle? Cole?”
He nods, “Kyle Rayner. Sounds familiar to you?”
You think hard. “No, not really.”
“Tomorrow you have a few meetings. One of those is with the new graphic designer of the marketing department — and guess who that is!”
You groan loudly, “Please, don’t let it be Rayner,”
“Jackpot! It’s Rayner!” Tim smirks, “What would you do without me? You don’t even remember your own meetings.”
“I have a secretary for a reason, Timothy. Did you stalk my schedule for fun or were you looking for something?”
He shrugs. “Curiosity.” Yeah, he was definitely looking for something.
Irritated, you look over at the clock — five in the morning now. “I’ll deal with it in the morning — later on in the morning, anyways. Now, can I go to sleep or what?”
You wake up three hours later feeling like you slept two minutes, already late for work and with bags under your eyes so big that not even the concealer can really do anything about it — so you end up slapping a pair of sunglasses on in hopes that the executives just think that you’re hangover or something. You wake up Tim, who slept in the guest room, and tell him that the fridge’s stocked and you’re leaving $20 on the kitchen counter if he wants to buy anything for breakfast, and then you’re off to Wayne Enterprises.
With Bruce half-dead in the Manor — or, in a spiritual retreat somewhere in Tibet, as far as the tabloids knew — all the weight of WE fell upon your shoulders, considering that out of Bruce’s alive children the only ones able to do math are you and Tim — and with the latter being fourteen, it’s not like he can actually work as CEO. So you barely make it through finance, hiring and budget meetings, and when the time comes for the marketing one, you’re running on caffeine and smoke breaks, shoulders slouched and too close to sleep to direct another meeting with anyone but Mr Sandman.
Your secretary knocks on the door of your office just when you’re about to open the window and take the fourth smoke break in less than three hours, and you scramble to close it back up and hide the cigarette in your pocket — you feel like a high-schooler caught smoking in the bathroom, but alas… “Uh… come on in.”
“Miss,” she greets, then makes way for Rayner to come in,“your appointment of three o’clock,”
Considering the amount of papers and tubes he’s holding, you can’t even see his face — and you wonder if he can even see where he’s going. He’s got jeans on and, from what you can see, a rumpled white shirt. A green — laaame! — jumper’s tied to his waist, and since you’ve been in the game of let’s just pretend we’re all the best version of ourselves for a long time, you can tell he’s just started playing it.
“Um, evenin’?” he says, even if it sounds more like a question than anything, as he takes a peek out of what you guess to be all his drawings and projects.
You blink, unimpressed. “Please, feel free to sit down. And you can set your… bags down in the other chair, if you want.”
“Oh– yeah, yeah, thanks, um… boss?” you have to bite down your tongue to hold in an incredulous laugh — if it’s for actual amusement or simple exhaustion, you’re not sure. He unceremoniously lets the drawings down onto one of the two chairs, moving to sit on the free one. He then holds out his hand — calloused and with faint ink stains on the palm — for you to shake, “Pleasure to meet you, sorry about the mess.”
You take a look at his hand and then sigh, reluctantly taking it in yours and shaking it, “The pleasure is mine,” lie, “please, Miss Wayne will do.” presumptuous much? Maybe, but you’ve got no intention of being on a first name basis with Green Lantern.
He smiles awkwardly, “Um– sorry if I’m, I don’t know, a bit anxious. I’ve been a freelancer up until now, so all of this is kinda new to me.”
You blink — honestly, you couldn’t care less. You just want to get this over with and go to sleep. “Yeah, sure. I usually don’t do this kind of interview, but the girl that runs your department went on maternity leave last week, and while we look for a substitute I’m mostly handling her duties.”
You take a paper from one of your drawers, pushing it towards him on the table. “These are all the things you need to start out. Your floor is the 36th, and as soon as we find one I’ll let you know who your supervisor is. Lunch is on the 20th floor from 12 pm to 2 pm, either way you can get a lunch bonus from the reception on the ground floor and go eat outside. If you ever need to report anything, HR is on the 28th floor, and your working hours are from 9 to 5, but we’re pretty flexible on that if you’ll ever need to get in later or get out sooner.” you hide a yawn into a cough, “Any questions?”
Before he can say anything, your phone rings. “Sorry about that,” you hang up without even seeing who the caller is, because it’s still working hours and the last thing you want to do is the new Green Lantern thinking you’re anything but professional, but the phone rings again not even two seconds later. And when you look at the screen just to understand who’s the spammer whose name you’ll have to wipe all over the next unsolved case you come across, your eyes widen at the realization that it’s Tim. “Uh… yeah, forget it, I’ll have to take this one– give me a minute, please.”
You get out of the office, because whenever Tim calls, it’s either because one, he got in trouble at school and doesn’t want to call Bruce, or two, a catastrophic disaster has just happened. It’s definitely the latter, as his school day usually ends at two. “Tim, be quick because I’m in the middle of an appointment–”
“Maroni just blew up the old mill near the Narrows,” just like you feared, “Dick and Babs are already on their way. I’ll be waiting for you in the cave.”
The pounding in your head could just get better at this point. You try to keep your voice low, even if aside from your secretary and Kyle, there’s not many people who could hear you right now. “...Okay, okay. I’ll take the underground route and meet you there in fifteen. If Jean-Paul gets there before me…”
“I know, I know. The cave’s already sealed– we’re waiting for you. If he does enter, I’ve told Alfred to close the airways and go off with the sleeping gas.” He never disappoints, does he?
You hang up and get back to the office, where Rayner is sitting like a kid whose mother told him to sit up straight during Thanksgiving dinner. “I’m sorry, Mr Rayner, but I have a family emergency to take care of — the meeting ends here, but feel free to rely on my secretary for any question you might have.”
You wait until he scrambles back up on his feet with all his drawings in his arms and sigh, resigned, as he joins you in the elevator. You press your thumb on the button for the 36th floor, already accepting the fact that it’s going to be a long 24 floors. You were hoping you’d be able to get in alone and immediately put in your key for the unknown-to-staff option of the superspeed ride to the underground passage under Wayne Tower, but fate must not be on your side.
“Sooo…” he mumbles, side-eyeing you, “Hope the emergency isn’t anything too serious.”
“I wouldn’t have stopped the meeting if it wasn’t,” you grumble — professionalism isn’t his best asset, huh?
He freezes. “I meant… uh, yeah, sorry.”
You rub your eyes under the lenses of your sunglasses, groaning, still tired out of your mind, and lean onto the elevator’s wall, “Nah. ‘S okay.” 20 more floors to go and you already want to throw either him or yourself off of the building. To fill in the silence, he even starts whistling, and the glare you send him can be seen even through the sunglasses, “Stop that,” you hiss.
Kyle grimaces, “Sorry– I do that when I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be. I’m not the one in charge of firings.”
His surprise is obvious, “You’re not?”
A yawn escapes you before you can reply, “I’m not. Unless someone really pisses me off.”
In exchange for not whistling, he starts tapping his fingers against the plastic tube in his arms, “Hey, I know this is probably the least professional question I could ask you right now,” he says, and you prepare yourself to be asked out by an employee for the… what? Fifth time in a month? Only, that seems to be the last thing on his mind. “But do you know bars that make decent drinks and maybe put on nice music? I haven’t been able to find one ever since I got here.”
You’re surprised by the question — you’re always so engrossed in your life, both the normal and the vigilante one, that you often forget that your peers are actually able to enjoy their twenties. “Uh… I wouldn’t know. I don’t really get out there.”
He seems pretty bummed about it. “Oh. Okay. Well– I’ll try to let you know if I find one.”
Your face is blank. “I’ll pass.” When you drink, you usually do it at home and let yourself pass out from the alcohol, but you’re not going to tell him that. “Do avoid the Iceberg Lounge, though.”
He nods, and finally, the 24 floors are over. The elevator dings and Kyle exits it at the same time as you take out the key for the underground floor, “Well, have a good–” by the time he turns around to say goodbye, the door’s already closed, and you’re already thinking about why the hell Maroni would care about the old mill. “...day. Whew, these billionaire people are as weird as the tabloids say.”
GOTHAM CITY — NOW.
“Who’s the cutest boy in the world? Why, of course, you are!”
If anyone had told Bruce that one day he would be sitting on the edge of the bathtub, watching his first daughter give a bath to his grandson while using that voice that people use just for babies, he would’ve actually laughed, because there was no way that the little girl who had to be hauled into the bath by Alfred actually came to accept hygiene. Yet he’s watching that same girl gently scrub her baby’s head with shampoo as he coos and blows raspberries, all the while trying to sink a boat toy.
Tommy tries to gnaw at your arm — he started teething a few months back, and since then he's been nothing but a bite monster. His favourite victim is his father, but in his absence, he usually makes do with you. “Mama,” he says, looking at you like you hung the stars and the moon.
Bruce thinks that you might as well do, because the look you give back to him is just as full of love. “Yes, baby?”
“Mamaaaa,” he whines, holding his arms out for you to pick him up. “A minute, baby,” you hum, taking a towel to wrap him in as soon as you're done rinsing him off. He snuggles in your arms, wrapped like a burrito in the fluffy bath towel while you press kisses to his damp tufts of hair. He looks more and more like Kyle as the days pass — he has your eyes and his dark hair, and also that really dumb look his father sometimes makes.
Tommy holds his hand out for Bruce, opening and closing the palm while giving him the big eyes, “Babababababa–”
Bruce gives him his hand, and Tommy's fingers wrap around his index and medium, quietening down. “Hi, bud.”
As you dress him in the spare clothes you brought with you, Bruce is quiet. “Penny for your thoughts?” you say, offering him a small smile.
He shakes his head, “Nothing,” he murmurs, “I was thinking about what we talked about earlier and– I hate to say this, but I don’t think you actually ever told me how you and Kyle got together.”
You blink, surprised, “I didn’t?”
GOTHAM CITY — THEN.
You don’t know when you start being friendly with Green Lantern.
How you went from absolutely despising him to almost accepting him as one of Gotham protectors is a mystery, even to you. Your best guess is that it all started when he brought you a sandwich during patrol, or that time when he saved you from drowning in the Gotham River and it was really cold outside and he was… well, pretty much the only warmth source available. Anyways, it’s thanks to you if Kyle Rayner gets eventually admitted into the Justice League.
After Hal went rogue, the others have been nothing but doubtful of him — probably because one, they wondered how he was able to have a ring when technically Parallax had them all, and two, he is kind of a goof. He’s still new to the hero world compared to you and the others, despite being in it for almost two years now.
(Yes, it took over a year for you to even start being friendly with him. A girl has her boundaries to respect, and tall, tanned. pretty men who have no sense of danger are no exceptions to that.)
Still, it is your fault that he finds out your identity — you should’ve been more careful, really, but you were so tired that night that you didn’t even notice that half your mask kinda got fucking blown away in an explosion.
Despite his amusement at finding out his boss (now ex-boss, because he got back in the comics freelance business after barely five months into his office job) was Batgirl, his heart laid in the right place — it always did. After denying multiple times to having seen anything, he insisted to let you know about his secret identity, too, leading to the awkward conversation of ‘I knew who you were ever since you first landed in Gotham and I just pretended not to know’.
Anyways, it’s kinda nice to have a friend around that isn’t Dick or Tim (he’s been a real bore lately — all that teenage angst really got into his head). You still don’t understand why he would want to be around you, but you guess he’s still not quite found a crew to hang with yet ever since he moved. That means Friday nights — very early nights, before patrol — become pizza movie nights, and as much as you pretend you don’t like them, the fact that you let Kyle show up again and again at your apartment is a statement as big as they can get.
“You know, I really think you should take a break,” he mutters one evening, forty minutes deep into Mean Girls, mouth full of pizza and popcorn.
You look at him, suspicious, “Meaning?”
He looks off to the side, “Y’know… from Batgirl. Just one night. I’d…” he’s as red as a tomato, "I was thinking that I’d, well, it would be nice– you know, that I’d like to…”
“Just spit it out,” you urge him.
“Well, I’d like to take you out on a date,” he finally concedes, ears pink. “Only if you want to, obviously.”
You think about it — a date.
You haven’t had a date since… high school. Senior prom, maybe. Even if you don’t know if that counts, since the whole thing was stopped by Joker and you had to step in as Batgirl not even an hour after the music started. You’ve had people ask you out these past few years, but dating never looked that appealing to you — after all, it never ended well neither for your father nor brothers, so why would it be different for you? You still had a whole secret identity nobody could know about, and it was set to become a problem in any relationship with civilians.
But Kyle is different. He already knows about the whole Batgirl thing, he has a secret identity too, and while you ponder about his easy smiles and blushing cheeks, for a moment you think that for once in your life, it could actually work. So, before he can start doubting himself, you hear yourself uttering out a small, “Yes.”
When Saturday rolls around, you find yourself in front of your closet, wondering what exactly possessed you to say yes — you’ve been out of the dating game ever since you were a teenager, and you’re not sure your wardrobe was ready for you to be back in it. “He said to dress casual,” you tell Donna over the phone, “what does that mean? Do I wear the Louboutins or not?”
She deadpans, “Girl, I knew you were rusty, but I didn’t think the situation was that desperate. If I had known, I would’ve flown over there to help.” she stretches her arms, “Okay, turn the camera around– lemme see what you have in store.”
After countless tries — and making Kyle wait outside with flowers and a box of chocolates in hand for thirty minutes — Donna ends up choosing an off shoulder cream sweater paired with a pair of black low-rise jeans (no Louboutins, unfortunately) and as soon as you hang up on her and take your Birkin, you’re ready to go. You open the door of your apartment, almost startling him, “Okay, where are we going?”
He looks at you as you take the flowers, mouth hung open, ears red. “I… you look really pretty.”
You feel yourself trying to get smaller under his gaze. “Don’t say things like that so suddenly,” you manage to stutter out, heat creeping up your cheeks. God, how old are you, five? How many years has it been since you found yourself blushing?
He grins, “Ooh, I think I’ll keep saying those things,” he holds out his arm for you, ever the gentleman, “I was thinking about going to the fair– what do you think?”
You perk up, “Oh, that sounds fun! Last time I went there I was eight, it was the first time Bruce ever took me anywhere,” he doesn’t miss the way your smile turns into a grimace, “oh, yeah, Dick’s parents also died that night.” you shrug at his baffled expression, “What can I say? It happens.”
Throughout the various dates that follow, Kyle learns that this is a staple that comes with dating you — you seem to have at least one bad story about every single place he takes you to, and if he has to be honest, he has to admit that it’s quite disheartening. He likes going out with you, though; he doesn’t mind taking things slowly, and as of now, he’s just waiting until the time for the right move comes.
Which is why, when a new nightclub opens downtown, he’s ready to go all-out for your first disco night.
He’s already checked the background of the club — no criminal affiliations, no incidents involving the previous owners in the last fifteen years (a miracle in Gotham, really) and it’s near a place open 24/7 that makes cookies just the way you like (perfect for post-drinks munchies!). He’s got the whole night planned out and nothing is going to stop him.
… Except the fact that you’re simply terrible at chilling out.
He gets it, okay? You’ve spent years breaking into the Iceberg Lounge to find out about Penguin’s schemes, so your trust in clubs of any kind is completely demolished — but the funniest thing is that you aren’t reluctant to go with him for that; you’re reluctant because apparently, you don’t know how to dance.
Kyle blinks in shock when you first tell him. “What do you mean? I thought you rich people took classes in everything when you were young. Didn’t you have dance lessons or something? Did you never dance at those fancy galas your dad forces you to go to?”
You scowl, hiding deeper into your couch, “I did take dance lessons,” you grumble, “classic dance lessons. Ballet, if you will. I know how to waltz, but not to… y’know…”
He raises an eyebrow, “Know what?”
“…Do that thing Shakira does.”
He smirks, and you’re sure you’re giving him laugh material for the next ten years, “You mean, moving your hips?”
You hide your face into a pillow when he chuckles, “Stop making fun of me!”
“Awe, come on, I’m not making fun of you!” He still can’t hold back his laugh, but he rubs your arm comfortingly, “I just think it’s really sweet that you’ve never partied before– it’s easy, you just need to relax and follow the beat.”
And follow the beat you do — because later on that same week, as he watches you (just one drink in, by the way) go all out on the dancefloor, he’s sure that you thought you couldn’t dance just because you never even tried. “Having fun?” he asks you — basically yelling to be heard over the loud music — as he comes up from behind, his hands tentatively on your hips.
That was the right move, it seems, because while your left hand stays on top of his conjoined ones over your bellybutton, the right one moves to his nape, lowering his face down to yours so that you can press a kiss to his cheek. “Definitely more fun now that you’re here, pretty boy.”
As the night goes on, he assumes that it’s probably the alcohol that makes you more touchy — he is a bit concerned about how much you’ve drank so far, though, because you seem to have the ability to hold down drinks better than a sponge ever would.
By the time Kyle manages to drag you out of the club, it’s three am and you’re stumbling and barely able to stand up alone. He has to keep an arm around your back to prevent you from falling, and enters the diner near the nightclub with a reassuring pat on your shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get something in your system, huh?” It's a good thing he never drinks before finding out how much his date usually does, because either way, the both of you would probably have ended up falling on the sidewalk thanks to the smallest puddle.
Your eyes are barely open and you’re putting your whole weight on him by hugging him tight as you look at the menu. “Hmm… let’s– hic– see… I’ll take the salted caramel cookie and– uh– the white chocolate one.”
He pats the small of your back, looking at the unamused college student behind the counter, who has the face of someone who’s seen way too many drunk people enter in the last hour. He highly doubts two cookies will suffice to let your inebriation pass just what you need to be able to walk on your own, so he takes the matters into his own hands. “We’ll also take a strawberry smoothie, a jug of cold water and a plate of pancakes.” As for the strawberry smoothie, he just really wanted it.
As you wait for your order sitting on the booth by the corner of the shop, you rest your head on his shoulder, eyes barely open. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me, okay?” he mumbles softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
You nod, purring like a cat, “I feel bad,” you murmur, making him tense.
Kyle Rayner, catastrophe-preventing mode: activated. “What? How do you feel? What do you feel? Do you need to puke? Do I have to carry you to the bathroo–”
“Shhh,” you hold a finger over his lips, bleary, “I feel bad ‘cuz I made you pay.”
He blinks — he can’t decide if he likes the drunk version of you or if she’s just a you who isn’t holding anything back. “Oh, don’t worry about that– whenever we don’t split the bill you always pay anyways. It’s nothing.”
“Ye– hic– ah. But you’re broke.”
He deadpans — okay, maybe his salary can be considered to be the one of a brokie by someone who’s got millions under their name, but his situation is not that bad. “You know, there’s people who would consider my salary comfortable. I happen to be one of those people.”
You hum again, taking his hand into yours and intertwining them, the conversation already on the back of your mind. “You know, I had lots of fun tonight.”
His smile could light up the whole block, and he swears he feels his arm tingling from where it’s connected to yours. “Really?”
You nod, blinking blearily at the plates the waiter places in front of you. “Yeah, I’m not used to– hic– drinking like this.”
He pouts. “You’re reducing this whole night to drinking?” he didn’t even drink– that was all you!
You give him a soft, questioning look, already sipping on his strawberry smoothie before he can get his hands on it. “Well, ‘course not. I’m just not used to– hic– drinking for fun.”
Kyle frowns, “Watcha mean?”
“Usually I drink until I physically can’t handle it anymore, duh.” he can almost hear his stomach drop, and he doesn't even find it in himself to stop you from finishing his smoothie. He fears this isn’t one of your unfunny jokes, and even if it was, he can’t bring himself to laugh at it like he usually does. “I don’t even know why I’m telling– hic– you this but– hic– every year, I take two weeks off from both my jobs before or after my– hic– birthday.”
He’s dead silent, waiting for you to continue as you put down the smoothie and pick up his fork to try the pancakes — really, what about the cookies? “And I tell my family that I’m gonna spend them at some– hic– bougie resort God knows where, but then I just lock myself into my apartment and drink myself to unconsciousness for fourteen days straight.” and as if Kyle doesn’t already feel sick enough, you add, snorting, “I didn’t know drinking less could actually be funnier with the right company.”
This night has taken a bad turn — and as if he didn’t already want to vomit here and there, the fact that you talk about it like it’s normal makes him feel even worse. Horrified, he asks, “Why would you do that?” in such a quiet voice that he actually wonders if he really said it out loud or if it was just a thought.
You shrug, holding out a piece of pancake for him to bite into. “I dunno, dude. I guess it’s just to forget life for a while.” your nose scrunches, and if Kyle wasn’t so dazed about the whole bomb you just dropped on him, he would think that you’re really cute when you do that. “Even if it is gross to, y’know, wake up covered in your own puke.”
He watches you snuggle back into his shoulder like you didn’t just admit to something definitely out of the ordinary, chewing the pancake you fed him and trying not to make you understand that he feels like it’s made out of brickwall. “And… does Bruce know about it?” he asks, dumbfounded.
“What? No!” you sputter, shaking your head, “You remember Roy, right?”
He’s not good with names, but he tries his best anyway, “Harper, you mean?”
“Hic– yeah, that guy. When we were teens, he started using drugs — heroin, I think. Fact is, when Oliver found out, he disowned him and kicked him out. Even worse, when B found out, he gave me and Dick this long ass talk, saying that if we ever got addicted to anything, he’d kick it out of us. Anyways, Roy got clean, like, six years ago and there’s people that treat him like he’s still actively using.”
Kyle blinks, confused, “And… selective alcoholism was included in that?” Does selective alcoholism actually exist or is he just inventing things? He wouldn’t know how to describe someone who’s an alcoholic for just two weeks a year.
“How would I know? I never asked. I assume so.”
He frowns, looking down at you, “How are you even still alive? How is it possible that every year you spend two weeks getting black-out drunk and you still haven’t gotten into an alcoholic coma or something?” He's definitely making some things up.
“Hic,” you let out quite helpfully, with an opposed expression, “are you complaining?”
“No, I’m just concerned about your well-being. Do you know how much it takes for me to get concerned? I once drove my car into a stop sign and didn’t think it was a big deal until the cops showed up.”
You squint at him, “I think you’re being a little overdramatic about this whole thing.” you pat his arm, yawning, “Just forget about it, ‘kay?”
“How can I forget that now?” he mumbles, looking like a soldier in the trenches, “I just found out you have an alcohol problem and I let you drink freely the whole night.”
“I don’t have an ‘alcohol problem’,”
“You call drinking yourself to a stupor for two weeks straight ‘not having an alcohol problem’?”
You squeeze your eyes like the lights over your head are effectively hurting them, “Well, now that you word it that way, it does sound bad.”
He pauses, taking the jug of water still on the table and downing some in a glass, offering it to you, “Why do you even do this to yourself?” he mutters, now sad more than anything — he’s known you for two years, and he didn’t know anything about this. Two years where you could’ve drowned in your own vomit, fallen from your window, got into a coma and– and he doesn’t even want to think about all the other options possible.
You shrug yet again, still cuddled up to him while sipping your water. “She gets easier to handle whenever I do that.”
By his face, it’s clear that Kyle now thinks that you have some serious case of weird hallucinations going on. “She who?”
“Batgirl,” you whisper, so that only he can hear, “whenever I’m in the suit, I feel like I’ve got this– this rock in my chest and I take it out by beating the bad guys an inch away from death. But those two weeks I spend alone every year — sure, the aftermath is agonizing and the need to continue drinking makes me want to rip my hair out, but it’s the only time in the year where I feel almost okay with myself and how I turned out.”
His eyes are so sad that if you were just a little more aware of your surroundings, you’d probably start crying. “That’s… something.”
Your lips form a pout, “Too much information?”
“I– you know what? No information is too much information when you’re drunk. It’s okay.” he groans, “No, actually, it’s not okay at all. I mean, it’s okay that you told me, but it’s not okay that you feel so bad about a stupid costume that you’d spend two whole weeks getting alcohol poisoning. I didn’t know you felt so bad about your alias.”
You let out a very, very bitter laugh. “And you wouldn’t, after spending every night in almost fifteen years punching people left and right and not stopping until there was more blood on them than clothes?”
He says your name, completely serious, “You’ve been beating them up for fifteen years. You can stop whenever you want.”
Your voice is firm– firmer than it has been since you started drinking earlier when you got into the club. “And I’m telling you, it’s like that fuckass suit possesses me. You got me? I. Can’t. Stop. Being. Violent. Trust me, I tried, and whenever that happened, something would drive me up my walls and I’d end up hurting people again.”
Kyle’s eyes are soft despite the steadiness of his voice. “Why do you keep getting back into the suit, then?”
It’s like that single sentence sobers you up completely. You stare at him like he just grew horns, mouth agape, stunned.
You never thought about that. You guess that with your whole family and friends being in the vigilante business, you didn’t have much choice — hell, Bruce broke his back and still got back to fighting crime. Dick changed towns just to start anew as Nightwing, and Tim… well, Tim quite literally chased the Robin job offer like it paid him in anything but nightmares and traumatic experiences. And if Jason died as Robin, then what right did you have but to continue living this life? He sure as hell never got the choice to live it all behind.
But you’re twenty-four now. If you ever survive Batgirl, you think you’d like to live your life a little — who knows, maybe even get married and have a family someday. But as long as she’s in your life, you’re not going to have peace.
You find yourself grabbing Kyle’s face in your hands as you give him the sloppiest smooch ever — so much so that it leaves him stunned. “Kyle Rayner, you’re the sanest person I’ve ever met in my entire life."
He blinks, the tips of his ears even redder than his face, “…That bad?”
GOTHAM CITY — NOW.
Of course, you give Bruce the very watered down version of the story — the same one you’ll give Tommy: that his father just asked you out and boom, love was there. No alcohol abuse and no partying until three am in the morning. B does look suspicious, but given his own past romances, maybe he just guesses that it’s better if some things remain untold.
“I don’t remember the two of you being together until after you stopped being Batgirl, though,” he says while holding Bitey — the plushie looking very battered after not even a year with your infant — over Tommy’s head.
You nod, “Yeah, that’s because we only got officially together after the Scarecrow incident.” you blow a raspberry onto Tommy’s cheek like you didn’t just mention your and Bruce’s worst trauma ever.
Your father pales. “Yeah,” he mutters, “the Scarecrow incident…”
GOTHAM CITY — THEN.
Leaving the superhero business is much harder than you thought it would be. You tried talking to Bruce about it countless of times and instead got brushed off like it was nothing — even if you doubt you can blame B for the position you’re finding yourself in right now.
“…Gordon? Is that you?”
Your voice is so weak you barely recognise it. It’s scratchy from days of endless screaming, lack of water and also fear, undiluted and in its purest form. You can’t see him — you haven’t been able to see anything but hallucinations ever since Crane put his hands on you, despite not feeling a blindfold over your eyes — but you can hear his steps. The guy hates your guts, and in the past few years, you’ve come to learn to listen out for his footing, so that you could make yourself scarce whenever he didn’t.
For once in your life, you hope that this isn’t a fluke — that this is actually Gordon. Anything would be better than staying here.
“Go– Gordon, I asked, is that you?” You pull onto the restraints over your wrists right before a big, calloused hand goes over your arm, caressing the exposed skin gently before the other goes up to your head. When he does speak, the Commissioner sounds tired as you’ve never heard him before, “It’s me,” he mumbles, as someone curses in the distance, “everything will be okay now, you hear me?”
He loosens one of the belts tied to your wrist while barking orders at the other policemen you can hear, “Montoya– rip that IV off– no, I don’t care if it’s unsanitary, I won’t wait for the paramedics to get her off the fear toxin–”
“God, Commissioner, her legs–”
“I know, Kasinski, we all have working eyes–”
“Stop fucking yelling, chief, it’s been four rough days for everyone–”
“The second Robin only needed three days to die, Bullock, you imbecile–”
Four days? Only four days? It feels like you've been trapped down here a lifetime. Did the hallucinations really start just four days ago? Did you get any sleep at all? Why can’t you see?
“–Atgirl? Batgirl, you still with us?” Gordon taps two fingers on your cheek, “Can you hear me? Blink once for yes, twice for no, if you can’t speak.”
Your eyes feel like they’ve been wide open for hours as, with much more effort than you’d like to admit, you close them once. “Good, good. Can you see me, or were you just disoriented earlier?” two blinks. You can’t, in fact, see anything. Poor girl, you hear Montoya whisper from your other side of the bed, her hands working on the straps keeping you tied to the oparating table relentlessly. You hope the fear toxin doesn’t start acting up now of all moments, because it would be really unfortunate.
“Okay, hun, now listen to me carefully,” in all these years that he’s been so against you, you’ve almost forgotten that the Commissioner is, after all, a girl dad. You wonder if he's seeing Barbara after she was shot instead of you on this table, and if he does that every time he saves a young girl his daughter’s age. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise. You just need to stay awake and everything will be fine, you got me?”
“‘M not sure that’s the best idea,” you croak, your voice trembling in a way you haven’t heard since you were a kid. God, you feel like you’re eight again. You’re tired in a way that goes beyond the physical sense — your mind feels completely broken, scarred by thousands of sceneries happening all at once and by four days of fear toxin being pumped in your blood.
“It is when there’s no better option,” he replies, sliding one arm behind your shoulders. “Listen, the ambulance will be taking too long. I’m going to count to three, and then I’ll get you off this table, trying to be as careful as I can. Understood?”
You nod weakly, your head against his chest. His other arm slides behind your knees, and he starts, “One, two– three!”
You bite your tongue until it bleeds to avoid screaming out in pain — guess the comments about your legs weren’t just jokes, after all. You can’t see them, but by the feeling they give, you’d bet all your money on the fact that they’re both broken in various and different places. “It’s okay,” Gordon pats your hip where he’s holding you, and after four days of hell, a comforting pat feels so good you might just start crying. “We’ll ask the paramedics if they have some sedatives for you– would it be okay?”
You nod again, your form slumped over his chest as he moves– away from the warehouse, away from Scarecrow, away from everything you just went through. Your legs feel like a thousand splinters are going through them at once, and for all you know it might be so — but you also know that you’d rather spend the rest of your life feeling this pain than spending just another minute trapped there.
You don’t remember being loaded into the ambulance, but you do remember holding onto Gordon’s hand like a lifeline when he tried to leave you alone with the paramedics. “Please,” you whispered, eyes unfocused behind the white lenses of your mask.
And the Commissioner understood what it meant to be afraid — so he did the right thing and held your hand tighter, joining the paramedics in the ride to the hospital. And as the EMS quietly chatter in the background — probably trying to avoid thinking about the fact that they’ve just loaded a fucking vigilante in their ambulance — your lips tremble again. “I miss my dad.”
You’ve been plagued by visions of Batgirl — worse, you — killing him, or him slaughtering you, or him dying a terrible death– “Batman, you mean?” Gordon asks, quietly, a gentle hand coming up to brush your bangs away from a cut over your temple. You nod, a tear slipping out of your eye.
He hums, “Y’know, I’ve always wondered if all of you sidekicks were his actual kids or something. It would explain a lot.”
“Not all of us,” you croak. There’s still Steph and Barbara — and as much as Bruce would probably adopt them on the spot if needed, you doubt they’d be too happy about it.
He chuckles quietly — that same tired laugh B lets out when he’s had too much coffee and too little sleep. “What about Green Lantern? Is he one of his spawns too?”
And if you had let out a small tear earlier, you find yourself bringing out the whole waterworks now. “Kyle,” you murmur, so low that only Gordon hears you, “I miss my Kyle so much…”
You can’t know that — because the sedatives are working egregiously — but soon after you pass out, the ambulance comes to a stop. Gordon’s ready to yell at the driver to move his ass and get back going, because they have an emergency going on, for God’s sake, but it’s only when the doors open and Robin steps inside that he understands what’s happening. “She needs a hospital,” he says, putting himself between you and your brother, “a real one. Not whatever care you have to offer.”
Robin doesn’t even seem to hear him — his gaze is first on you, then to the Commissioner, then back to you. In the end, he looks behind him and goes, “Nightwing, can you move her to the Batwing?”
The first Robin emerges from the other side of the ambulance, his movements stoic and almost robotic as he takes a good look at you. “Yeah, I can. Commissioner…” he spares him a glance, “Believe me when I tell you that it’s best if she comes with us.”
When you wake up two days later, you still can’t see anything — but the good news is, you can feel the bandages around your eyes this time. A machine is beeping in the distance, your arm feels sore from the IV that’s definitely attached to it and you can’t feel either one of your legs. A breathing mask is placed over your mouth, and the only reassuring thing you can feel on you are the warm fingers wrapped around your good hand. For a moment you wonder if Gordon really stayed with you this whole time, but the hushed whispers around you and the softness of the hand holding yours tell a whole other story.
You’re in the Batcave. The hushed whispers are those of Tim and Dick — they’re talking about Bruce, and about how he’s just back from space and already back in the streets to look for Scarecrow, and Alfred butts in to shush them both, pleading them to keep quiet at least until you wake up. And, judging by the snoring you hear on your bedside, and the fact that Dick is at least a bit far away from you, you’d guess the hand holding yours is Kyle’s.
You stir. The whispers stop immediately, and as you try your best to at least get up on your elbows, firm hands keep you down. “It’s okay,” it’s Alfred, voice tender and… teary, maybe? “It’s okay. You’re out of there. I’ll get the bandages off now– try to stay still, yes?”
You do as he says as he removes the gauze around your eyes, and after a few, pretty hurtful blinks, you manage to pry your eyes open decently. There’s a few black spots in your line of vision, but most of all, you can’t miss Alfred’s relieved smile. “Welcome back, Miss. How’s your sight faring?”
You blink up at him, confused, as Tim and Dick crowd into your visual, too. “Alfred… how…?”
“Witnesses at last week’s hostage situation involving Dr Crane told the GCPD you gave yourself up to the captors in order to assure the victims’ safety,” he explains, as resolute as ever, “Commissioner Gordon started the search before we were even aware of your disappearance, and as Master Bruce was still off-Earth, they also got lucky before us.”
Right. The off-world JLA mission that basically everyone with the minimum experience needed for space combat took part in. Considering that Kyle’s sleeping it off in the chair beside your bed, you’d guess everyone’s back, and since the Earth still hasn’t blown up, it must’ve been successful. “In the end, you were missing for four days. Both of your legs were broken, and Crane kept you on stimulants and constantly pumped fear toxin in your veins– no wonder you needed some well-deserved sleep. I’m administering the antidote every four hours as of now, but it’s impossible to tell if the toxin is going to have long-term effects. As for your eyes, Crane probably used tropicamide– it’s mostly used in eye surgeries, and it can turn the patient blind for up to a few hours. You shouldn’t have any long-lasting effects.” Scarecrow probably just wanted you terrified at the prospect of losing your sight.
He sighs — a long, dragged out sound of someone who hasn’t slept in a long time, “Master Bruce and Mister Rayner got back yesterday. Mister Rayner refused to leave your side ever since he heard what happened, while Master Bruce… well, what can I say? He’s being Master Bruce.”
“He took a look at you and fled,” Tim says helpfully.
You sigh, your throat scratchy, “Figured,” you rasp, “Alfred, can you help me sit up? Also, a glass of water would be nice…”
As soon as you so much as twitch your fingers in his hand, Kyle flinches like he’s just been slapped, then jumps up from his seat, “I’m up! I’m up! I swear I wasn’t sleep–” he looks at you, completely awake, then at Alfred, positioning some cushions behind your back, “–ing. Well, hi.”
“Hi, Kyle,” you murmur, and even if you can’t find it in you to smile, you wish you could give him one just to repay him for staying here with you. He’s still in his GL suit, looking as rough as they make them — you suspect he didn’t even change ever since he got back from space.
Your brothers and the butler try to make themselves scarce, because they know from their own experiences that maybe it’s better to leave the two of you alone — hopefully just to talk.
Kyle brushes some hair away from your forehead and caresses the skin under your eye with his thumb, “I know it’s a stupid question,” he whispers, “but… are you okay?”
You’re definitely not. You feel tears rushing to your eyes, heat rising up your neck and your throat closing, but before you can even start crying, Kyle’s already engulfed you in a hug, careful of your injuries. “I was so scared, Ky,” you sob, your hand coming up to his forearm, “and– and you weren’t there, and whenever you were, it was horrible–”
“Shh, I know, sweetheart, I know, I’m sorry–”
“And I can’t handle her anymore, Kyle, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fit in the costume ever again–”
“It’s okay, I understand, it’s–”
“No, Ky, you don’t, I swear she’s the one that scared me the most– she tried to kill me and the others– and you– and– and I couldn’t see, and when I had these– these lucid moments everything was black and too quiet– I– I thought I was dying, Kyle, I’ve never been more scared of death in my entire life–”
“I know,” he pulls back the smallest bit, and it’s just then that you notice he’s crying, too. His hand comes up to your cheek, brushing away your tears. “You can let it out. You survived– that’s all that matters.”
You shake your head, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. “I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again,” you admit, trembling, “I don’t want to put the costume on ever again.”
He cards a gentle hand through your hair and presses a gentle kiss over the crown of your head, “That’s okay,” he murmurs gently, holding you impossibly close, “nobody’s ever going to blame you for that.”
The recovery is excruciating.
You have to deal with the remainders of the fear toxin still in your blood every day — every shadow makes you flinch, every fast movement causes a panic attack — while the tabloids are talking about a fucking skii accident. Poor Wayne heiress fell down a slope in the Alps and broke both her legs. Yeah, what about the absolute horror your mind just went through?
The nights are the worst. Nightmares become a staple — you see Batgirl trying to kill you or, worse, the others and Kyle — and your family has to organize shifts to your apartment so that you’re never alone and stay trapped in your sleep for too long.
Bruce stays away — at this point in time, it’s what he knows how to do best. He can’t bear to see you in the wheelchair with both legs wrapped in casts, and when Babs once jokes that now the Batgirl alias has a 50% cripple rate, he turns visibly green and excuses himself from the room.
Kyle brings you to the hospital for your appointments — and he doesn’t miss a single one. Whenever he can’t attend one, he makes sure to call Dick or Alfred so that at the very least one of them will be able to be there, and you won’t be alone during the visits.
During the second month check up, you end up in the same elevator as Commissioner Gordon. He’s at the hospital to question some victim about a burglary and didn’t think he would get to see you, as that’s clear by the way his eyes widen when he does.
“Morning, officer,” Kyle says casually, pushing the wheelchair into the lift. You give the man a nod, and he gives you a small, imperceptible grimace back, as the younger man starts humming to fill out the silence in the stall.
“So, how were the Alps?” Gordon asks sarcastically.
“Terrific,” you snort. Aside from being Batgirl, you know him because one, you’re technically his daughter’s friend, and two, he was the one who had to tell you that your parents were kaputt.
He hums, holding his hand out to Kyle. “And who’s this young man with you?”
“Oh– Kyle, Kyle Rayner, sir,” he shakes his hand enthusiastically, “thank you, um, for what you do for the city.”
You’ve always suspected that Gordon might know your secret identities, and the fact that he doesn’t react to Kyle’s name just makes your suspicions grow. If you recall correctly, you had said his name while in the post-saving haze. As you reach your floor, the Commissioner just pats your shoulder reassuringly, “Get back on your feet, okay?” he says, a crinkle in his eyes, “The casts don’t look too good on you.”
“Sure,” you find yourself muttering.
The worst part of it all, once the toxin completely wears off, is the physical therapy. Five months after the accident, you find yourself between two metal bars, struggling to even stand up by yourself while holding on to them, falling down to the cold pavement as Kyle reaches out for you.
“I can’t do this any longer,” you whisper, lips trembling. “I can’t even make my own body work properly anymore, Kyle.”
You know you’re selfish — because Bruce broke his spine and still recovered. Barbara won’t be able to walk ever again, but she’s still thriving. Jason is still fucking dead, and you’re whining because you can’t walk like you would want to.
And somehow, Kyle always ends up seeing the sunny side of it all. “It’s difficult now,” he murmurs, trying to smile, “but you just have to learn how to walk again. And it sounds complicated, but you already learnt to do it once, no? The sooner you’ll get back on your feet, the sooner we’ll go dancing together again. What do you think?”
You sniffle. “My treat this time.”
He laughs, giving your lips a soft kiss, “When isn’t it?”
You haven’t been down to the Batcave ever since the accident, and the crutches still feel new in your hands when you descend the stairs as carefully as you can. “Bruce, are you there?”
A grunt — his favorite answer — can be heard in the dark. You huff, reaching the floor and limping towards the Batcomputer — where, as always, he’s doing some research on his newest case. Looking around, you can see that the only costume not on display is yours, and that the glass case it was kept in is now left empty — courtesy of Alfred, no doubt.
B pushes his chair your way, “Sit,” he tells you, eyeing the crutches, “did you really take the stairs? There’s an elevator for these type of situations,”
You shrug, “Wanted to try using the stairs with the crutches,” you reply easily, “how’s the Riddler case going?”
“Slow.” A long pause follows, where neither of you speaks. Then, you start, “Bruce, I… I don’t think I’m ever going to wear the costume again.”
He freezes, and had you known your father less, you’d think he was disappointed. But the way his shoulders slump and his breath gets a little slowed tell you everything you need to know: he’s relieved. “…I figured.” he finally looks down to you, removing his cowl, “I’m… I’m sorry for not being there. I should’ve been more present for you. I think… I think we both needed to be there for each other at that moment.”
“It’s a thing we both do,” you tell him, “try to run away from our problems. I– I’m trying to be better, though. I, um… started therapy. I mean, I can’t tell the therapist about all the things that happened to me as Batgirl, but it might help with everything else, you know?”
The loss of your parents. The anger issues. Jason’s death. The whole alcohol problem Bruce is still completely unaware of. “That’s great,” you can tell he’s trying his best to be supportive, even if it might come out a bit rough, and one of his arms circles your shoulders, “I’m just grateful that you’re still with us. When I first got the call, I… God, I thought I was going to have to bury one of my kids again. When Jason died, I…” he shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I just couldn’t lose you, too.”
The hug he gives you is like nothing you’ve ever received from him, and silently, you wonder if he hugged Jason’s body the same way. After a few moments, he asks, “How’s Kyle, by the way? Thanks for not telling me the two of you were dating. When Dick told me, I nearly had a stroke.”
You chuckle tearily, “Oh, it’s going great,” you muse, “we’re going out for dinner tonight– and I think he’s going to ask me to be his girlfriend.”
GOTHAM CITY — NOW.
“Oh, how’s Batgirl, by the way?”
Batman frowns at Gordon’s question, the first morning lights just peeking out of Gotham’s skyline. “What do you mean?”
The commissioner raises an eyebrow, “You know… the first Batgirl. The one who got captured by Scarecrow… five years ago, was it?”
Batman hums, “She’s doing great.”
“I haven’t seen her in a long time,”
“She got engaged a few months ago,” B slips — he often lets things slip with Gordon, just because he knows that he’s not going to tell anyone about their conversations. “She’s got a kid now, and his birthday’s–”
“Move it, father!” Robin yells from behind him, “I still have to get more presents!”
His father sighs, “…Today. Robin, you already picked out enough presents for him–”
“No presents are enough for my nephew — he surely won’t choose his favourite uncle based on sympathy!”
Batman sighs, “Have a good day, Jim.”
The Commissioner blinks, surprised, “Well… wish happy birthday to the little chum from me.”
“Happy birthday, Bruce and Tommy, happy birthday to you!”
You’re pretty sure your son has got no idea what’s happening around him, but he wiggles happily in his grandfather’s arms as the cameras go off, and still tries to blow out his candles with the best raspberries he can muster up — he grins when they actually work, clueless to the fact that Bruce just blew them out for him.
“I still think it's so weird that your father and our son share a birthday, y’know?” Kyle whispers to you, still holding the camera to capture Tommy smashing his fist into his cake, “Like, are you sure that the guy who’s getting his face covered in cake by our infant is the same dude I had to convince I wasn’t using you for money by challenging him into a boxing match?”
You shrug, “What can I say? The universe has its ways,”
It’s been six years since you’ve spent a birthday alone, drinking yourself into oblivion. Six years since Kyle entered your life — since everything became a little easier, because you found out you didn’t need to necessarily do everything alone.
It’s been five years since the Scarecrow incident, and you’ve learned how to walk again in the year after it happened. Last week, you even managed to make a joke to Barbara about it, and told her that the Batgirl crippling rate is back at 25%. She laughed and told you that it’s better this way.
Jason — whose death had completely scarred your whole path of vigilantism — is now alive and, mostly, well. He's now choking on the cake with Damian, who you didn't even know existed until about three years ago.
You’ve been officially together with Kyle for four years, and he proposed a few months ago. Almost two years ago you found out you were pregnant, and a full year ago your boy — who is now using cake frosting as paint to draw on his grandfather’s Versace dress shirt — was born.
You were Batgirl for more than fifteen years, and to be honest, you didn’t completely hate it before Kyle came around. But as you hold Tommy in your lap and feed him little, much more dignified bites of his cake as he coos and laughs at the faces his dad makes at him, you think that you’d do everything again without changing a single thing if it only meant that you got to be here once again.
“Oh, by the way,” Babs comes up to you, another present in her lap, “my dad gave me this for Tommy — said it was ‘for old times’ sake’, whatever that means.”
Kyle makes a big show out of it, and when he sees what it’s inside, he’s even more excited than his own kid. “Finally, a Green Lantern plushie!” more specifically, a plushie modeled after him. All your kid got from close family were Batman-themed toys, and since the Lanterns have been banned from every Tommy related parties ever since they made the venue literally explode during his first six months celebration, their gifts are expected to arrive a little later this year.
Extatic, Kyle holds out GL Junior up to Tommy, who promptly takes it into his death grip. “What do we think, champ?”
Tommy looks at the plushie for a long time before biting into his arm — a sign of approval, no doubt. “Dada.”
Krysso Thu 25 Dec 2025 10:23PM UTC
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supermenz (potterspizza) Thu 25 Dec 2025 11:33PM UTC
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