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jackoquako

6 days ago

Burning from the Inside

Yan! Batfamily x neglected! male! meta! Reader

Chapter one: Enter the Manor

Summary: The first few months of living in the manor and your impressions of the inhabitants. Word Count: 2805 Reading Time: 11:14 (mins:secs) Notes: Uh yeah this was meant to be maybe like 1000 words max. Oopsies 😬. I thought I’d do an honorable mention of @sitepathos and their series Gold to Mold bc while the influence may not be obvious, that story was one of my main influences to finally write the story in my head. Also any OOC behavior can be chalked up to the characters being emotionally inept (Bruce), not fully capable of raising a child that’s not Robin (Bruce again), or deal with their own emotional baggage of not being Robin anymore (dick). Also it’s important to note that I do look through the interactions with my fic and block profiles that only use she/her or say “cis girl”. The idea of being used as a tool for someone else’s gratification makes me uncomfortable and this is my blog, I do what I want. No current release date for the second chapter, it’ll get done when it gets done I guess.. 🤷‍♂️😓 Warnings: written in first person, talks of a young child (11) dealing with depression but the word isn’t used. Aggressive behavior from an adult to a child, and neglect from a parental figure.

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The first week in the manor was actually rather.. nice. The car Alfred had taken you to the manor in was a shiny black, the interior coated in an oil-like black leather that made noise when you moved on it. There’d been a bag of fast food waiting for you in the back seat of the car when Alfred ushered you in. You’d devoured the meal hastily- not out of any sort of food deprivation or malnutrition, but because it never seemed like you could sate your appetite. No matter what, you were always a little hungry, a little more ravenous than the other boys your age. He’d talked sparingly as he drove, rarely talking his eyes off the road. It seemed like he understood. Unlike the cops and the foster families and the social workers, Alfred didn’t say “I’m sorry” or “that must hurt”. He didn’t really say anything about it at all.

He’d asked you what your favorite color was, what style of decoration you’d want for your room, if you enjoyed your current clothes and style or if you’d rather have something else, and other similar questions. It was slow going, moving your mouth to form answers. Since the house fire, you’d grown to be unlike your past self, retracting into your shell like a snail, and barely speaking unless absolutely necessary. He didn’t seem to mind silence, though. It made a knot in your shoulders, that you never noticed, come loose.

The ride wasn’t very long, or maybe it was, you didn’t pay much attention to the time. It didn’t feel like a long ride. You’d spent the majority of it resting your head on the car door and staring out the window, watching buildings and trees pass by. The squat, brick buildings of mom-and-pop businesses of the town you’d been moved to gradually gave way to towering skyscrapers and bustling streets, although that eventually fell away to a thinned forest and big houses that stood proud among manicured lawns. The houses faded away too, leaving miles of sprawling woods the only thing to look at. Watching the trees pass by was a rather calming experience, your heartbeat slow and steady in your chest. You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling that ever-present heat under your skin settle, like a cat laying in the sun. It never left, like a permanent fever, but it could calm down, it could go dormant for the moment.

The car rolled to a stop and you opened your eyes. A mansion stood alone in the middle of the woods, a driveway leading up to it and ending in a roundabout with a fountain in the middle. The front of the house was framed by well-loved hedges and flower beds which bloomed with brilliant white and red flowers. The house- mansion- itself was a deep red brick, the stone worn by weather, and framed by snow-white columns of marble. It was imposing, looming over the surrounding trees. Alfred stepped out of the car and moved around to the side, opening the door for you.

“Master yn, we have arrived.” He said with that same kind, elegant manner he’d greeted you with, back at the social worker’s office.

As you climbed out of the car, Alfred moved back to the trunk and opened it, grabbing your singular bag of belongings before closing the trunk. He walked to the pristine marble stairs that led up to the tall mahogany doors, the gravel crunching under his shiny black shoes. You followed loosely behind him, looking around at the outside of the house. The thought hadn’t quite managed to break through the fog that always seemed to cloud your mind nowadays, but it suddenly dawned on you that this isn’t exactly a normal foster family. You hurried to the door when Alfred held it open for you, stopping only for a moment to glance down at the outdoor mat resting outside the door. It was black with a gold logo printed onto it; the logo looked like a highly stylized W with an E beside it. An unsettled feeling rested in your stomach at the sight of it and you couldn’t quite grasp why.

Entering the mansion, you were struck with the smell of cleaner and, very faintly, cologne. It smelled like an expensive store, the kind of place you and your mom would walk past on the way to your usual shopping area. The entryway had an open doorway that offered a small glimpse into the rest of the manor. A grand staircase ran down the side of the wall, the room entirely lit by a chandelier hanging from the high vaulted ceiling. Alfred moves past you, closing the door behind you both, and talks while gesturing for you to follow him up the grand staircase.

He’d taken you down a long hall that was lined with closed doors, explaining where everything was located whilst walking.

“Now, Master Bruce’s bedroom is.. further down the hall.”

You must’ve given him a curious look as you both arrived at your new room. Alfred opened the door for you, allowing you to enter in front of him.

“He wishes to give you space during this time.”

Your stomach churned at those words. They were perfectly designed, like what a PR team would tell their talent to say after screwing up massively. It left a sour taste in your mouth and you couldn’t quite meet Alfred’s gaze after hearing that. You looked around the room as Alfred set down your bag on the bed. It was much larger than anywhere you’d lived before, considering both foster homes and your real home.

Despite the size, though, the room was bare of any decoration. A single twin bed laid under the brightness of the single window in the room, only blinds blocking the sunlight. Along the far right wall stood a sturdy wooden dresser and mirror. The walls were a blank white wallpaper and the floor was the same shiny deep-colored wood as the hallway outside. There was no side table for the bed, no carpet despite how cold the floor would definitely get, no posters or paintings, just the bare necessities. It was the picture of utilitarian. Alfred spoke up, clearing his throat as if he was embarrassed.

“Unfortunately, we were unable to source more furniture before your arrival.” He said with the same elegance as everything else he’d said, despite his expression figuratively shouting how upset he was about what he was saying.

It intrigued you more than it should’ve. You shrugged and went to the window, pulling down one of the blinds to look outside.

“It’s fine.”

It’s not. You didn’t turn to look back at Alfred as you spoke, nor did you look back when you heard his fancy dress shoes shuffle against the floor. You heard the door creak.

“I’ll let you settle in, sir.”

You heard the door shut behind Alfred as he left. The minute you were alone, you fell back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

The first few weeks had been rather boring, admittedly. You’d often stay in your room for days at a time, only wandering out to explore the house when you got bored of staring at the ceiling. You’d stroll up and down the halls, discovering the library, the private study that Bruce Wayne used, the various staff quarters, and more guest bedrooms than you thought was possible. None of it really excited you, though. A numbness had invaded your mind and made you into a living ghost, something human in name only. You no longer looked in mirrors and spoke very little, if at all. Not like there were very many people to talk to.

Bruce Wayne was as elusive as rain in the desert. He flitted about the manor, only ever coming home very late at night and leaving in the morning. You didn’t really want to know what he was doing so late in the evening, but you figured you’d find out about it someday. Secrets between you and your mom didn’t last very long, so most family secrets should be the same.

The very few times you interacted with Bruce Wayne, he seemed distracted or discomforted by your presence, like he was seeing your mother, not you. If you happened to be in the kitchen when he came in, he’d stare at you for a long moment before attempting some sort of small talk. When you didn’t respond, he’d just leave. After the first three days, he avoided you completely. Maybe it was because you were both orphans or maybe there was just something unsettling about you, but Bruce Wayne didn’t want you in his house. Maybe he saw the same in-humanness that the foster families saw. Whatever was wrong with you was palpable, apparently.

Bruce Wayne wasn’t the only person in the manor who avoided you.

Richard Grayson was, according to google, an orphan Bruce Wayne took in. Grayson didn’t care for your presence either. He was eighteen and seemed to be genuinely disgusted by you. Maybe he saw something too. Or maybe he was just a dick. The first incident with Grayson happened not too long after you moved in. You’d been wandering towards the direction of the kitchen when the front door burst open. He’d stood in the doorway, framed by the light around him, like an action figure in a commercial, all stoic and proud. You stopped to look at him and he looked back, like two animals spooked by the other’s existence. He’d scowled and glared down at you, crossing his arms as he approached. The rude dick left the door open behind him.

“What are you, another one of Bruce’s new bratty orphans?” His words dripped with anger and annoyance, like you were ruining something just by the virtue of being here. He scoffed before you could even respond and stomped off.

Luckily for you, though, Grayson didn’t live in the manor. He had his own apartment he’d disappear to for weeks. It was bliss, not having him around constantly. Living with Bruce Wayne already had your blood pressure high and your fuse short, but having someone as outright about their dislike of you- over something that you didn’t even understand- that made your blood boil. You had to physically stop yourself from launching yourself at Grayson every time he looked at you like you were a cockroach.

But there were redeeming inhabitants in the manor. One of which was Alfred. He never forced you to talk if you didn’t feel like it, which you often didn’t. When you crawled out of your room for food once a day, he’d prepare a meal for you whilst telling you a story. You enjoyed his stories; the stories reminded you of your mother.

“Once, when I was in the SAS,” He’d begin, chopping vegetables into fine little cubes and tossing them into a pan. He’d grab fresh herbs from somewhere and begin chopping those as well.

“There were two new recruits.” He focused on what he was doing as you rested your head on your palm and stood leaning on the dinner table. “And they thought they were just the sneakiest men in the platoon.”

Once the herbs were diced, he’d add them to the sizzling pan, and stir the concoction. The action sent a flurry of floral scents in the air, filling the kitchen with an inviting aroma.

Alfred continued whilst stirring the contents of the pan. “So the rest of us had dared them; said ‘if you’re really that good at sneaking around, then sneak up to one of the rabbits on base and put a ribbon on it.’”

“And by god, they did.” Alfred chuckled to himself as he turned off the burner and continued to stir, reaching over to the spice rack and picking out multiple bottles and sprinkling the contents into the pan. “They snuck out of the barracks that night and went out into the woods without any of us knowing.”

He gestured for you to sit at the bar and grabbed a plate from a cabinet, snatching a fork from an adjacent drawer. “By the time we all woke up and began our own duties, there were about twelve rabbits running around the base with little ribbon bow ties tied around their necks!”

Laughing softly to himself, Alfred scooped out the cooked vegetable stir-fry onto the plate and brought it over to you along with the fork. He’d sat with you as you ate, talking about other stories from his time in the SAS and his time working for Martha and Thomas Wayne. His genuine kindness made it almost worth it to be living in the manor.

The other inhabitant who didn't mind you being in the manor- and even seemed to like you being around- was Jason Todd. You’d met him while wandering around the manor like you often did. You’d just found the library for the first time when he popped up out of nowhere, appearing from behind a plush seat like a character from a horror movie. He’d bounded over to you like an excited puppy and began speaking a mile a minute. At first he’d put on this hyper-masculine deep voice that didn’t match his face or his age at all.

“Hey! Who are you?” He’d looked down his nose at you and you quickly realized that he, despite already being the same height as you, had stood on his tiptoes specifically so he could look down his nose at you.

Fixing him with the same blank stare you’d used on everyone, you answered simply. That numbness you’d grown accustomed to made it hard to put energy into your voice. “(Y/N).”

He blinked once, then twice, and then the facade broke. His voice softened into what you assumed was its normal state and he slowly lowered himself to his usual height. Tilting this way and that, he examined you with an almost-suspicious expression.

“Oh.” He suddenly light up with recognition. “You must be the other kid B took in. I’m Jason.” He pointed to himself with a prideful smile. “How come I haven’t seen you around?” The question was innocently curious, only prying on accident.

You stared blankly, no response leaving your lips as you stood still. He tilted his head and frowned, shrugging as he looked away, feigning disinterest.

“Strong and silent type, huh?” He nodded to himself as he said the words, still looking at some random book on the bookshelf. “I can work with that.”

And he did.

Jason’s friendship was unlike your relationship with Alfred. In the fogginess of apathy- depression, you realized- he cut through the clouds like a lighthouse. He’d follow you around when you left your room, finding you every time like he had a compass implanted in his head or something, and it exclusively led to you. You’d be just wandering, sometimes taking paths you already walked before, sometimes carving completely new wear patterns in the carpet, and he’d sidle right up next to you and begin talking.

Just like Alfred, he did the talking for the two of you, but he was different. Jason would pause occasionally after cracking a joke, glancing at you to see if you laughed, smiling if he saw you reacted at all. It was like he understood you in a way Alfred didn’t, like he’d been in your shoes before. Sometimes while walking through the halls of the manor, he’d take your hand and lead you to some unspecified place. Occasionally it was the library, but most of the time it was places you’d never gone before, like the rooftop, the garden, and the theater room.

Eventually, you learned through his one-sided conversations that Jason was only two years older than you at 13, and that he’d lived in crime alley. You didn’t really know where that was, but it sounded like a rough place to live. After a few months of being Jason’s unofficial sidekick, you began talking again. He never made a big deal out of it, but you could see his eyes light up when he finally got a response, even if they were one-worded at best. He’d cracked the hardened shell of emptiness that formed around your heart. The constant rejection by Wayne and Grayson didn’t help, neither did the gentle approach from Alfred, if you were being honest, but Jason had cracked it. He’d pulled you out of a ship you didn’t know had already sunk. And the first embers of happiness began to spark up again once more, even if it was faint. For the first time in a really long time, you had a friend.

And you had all the time in the world to get to know each other better.

Burning from the Inside

Yan! Batfamily x neglected! male! meta! Reader

Prologue: House Fire

Summary: A look back in your memories of a simpler time, and how it stopped being so simple. Word Count: 1463 Reading Time: 6:09 (mins:secs) Notes: I've wanted to write a batfam fic for a while but couldn't think of an interesting spin for the reader, that is until I read a oneshot about an Ice! meta reader that I can't seem to find again (😞) and my third eye opened. This reader is low-key inspired by an oc of mine, who I actually have a pinterest board for, but I've done my best to keep y/n fairly blank for people to project onto. It may or may not come up later in the story (haven't decided) but I'm imagining y/n as a trans man and as an unreliable narrator with memory issues so. First chapter is queued to go up in a week! Warnings: written in first person, anger issues (on reader's side), descriptions of a parent dying, lots of mentions of fire, reader being tossed around in the foster system. Please comment if you think I've missed a warning!

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Rage burned under your skin constantly. When you were young, still kind and innocent, it was easier to control, it didn’t burn quite as hot. You still had a temper- your mother would end up dragging you home from school after many arguments on the playground getting too loud, but it never felt so much like drowning before.

You were never certain of where your rage came from until an event when you were seven. The memory, clear as glass, would replay every night for that week. Whilst playing in the front yard, you had noticed a car pull up. It was shiny and silver, that you remembered. But the woman who exited the car was more blurred by time degrading the memory. She’d smiled at you as she walked up to the front door, knocking politely without acknowledging you any more. She’d excitedly talked to your mother, giving your mom a piece of paper before your mother blew up. You’d never seen her so angry before. She’d screamed at the woman, scaring her into running back to her shiny car.

The woman had driven off in a frenzy, the wheels kicking up dead leaves which showered over you in a confetti spray of autumn colors. Your mom had walked over and scooped you into a tight hug before pulling you inside. You didn’t play outside alone much after that. Your childhood had been normal beyond the odd moments like that.

You used to get ice cream with your mom after a particularly hard day at school, walking in the park as you shared a styrofoam bowl of slowly melting ice cream with her. You held onto that memory with an iron grip. She’d also take you to various garage sales and thrift stores, allowing you to buy the occasional toy or plushie every once in a while. It was only when you were older that you realized how tight of a budget you two had been on. You don’t worry about money much anymore. Maybe to someone who’d grown up richer your childhood sounded awful, but to you it was the golden years of your life. You’d never realized how much you valued your life in your small city with your mom, living in your tiny house at the edge of the city limits, until it was suddenly ripped away.

You’d been sitting in class, scribbling away at the margins of your notebook as the teacher droned on and on. Math was your least favorite subject since the teacher had the most monotonous voice ever. You’d only glanced out the window for a moment, staring at the birds in the trees, when the teacher was interrupted by a knock at the door. You watched as your math teacher walked to the door and opened it for an officer. Something like this would usually become the talk of the lunch period, concerned hushed voices slowly graduating into whispery gossiping over the course of a meal. So you’d watched intently as the officer spoke in a low, almost inaudible, tone to the teacher, who turned and locked eyes with you specifically. Your heart began to race as your teacher gestured for you- not another student, not anyone else- to come over. Your heartbeat had pounded in your ears as you got up, already hearing the concerned “what’s going on”s and “is everything okay”s from your classmates. Your teacher had an expression on their face that you couldn’t quite grasp in the moment. Later on, however, you’d later categorize it as something between sorrow and despair. It wasn’t the last time you saw that expression that day.

The officer had gently guided you into the hall where an administrator was waiting. Your worry shapeshifted into nervousness. You couldn’t remember doing anything horrible that’d warrant a police officer being there. Nervous that you’d be expelled over something you couldn’t remember, you began rambling apologies to the administrator, grasping at every single wrong thing you could remember doing. The man had just smiled and looked down at you with something akin to pity- the memory of that pitying expression made your skin crawl- and stopped your rambling with a single gesture. Then, the cop spoke. And the world you’d known shattered into bits.

The words came in bits and pieces as your brain struggled to adjust to this new reality you’d been thrown into.

Your mother. House fire. The cop was sorry.

That was the thing that always stuck out to you. The apologies from people; as if they’d been the ones to start the fire. It still felt like molten sugar on a burn wound when people responded with “I’m so sorry for your loss”, even so many years later. It seemed like this one tragedy had suddenly changed everyone’s perception of you, reshaping you into the poor boy who was orphaned at the age of 11.

That week (maybe it was a month, the specifics were hazy) turned into a blur as the world seemed to spin faster and faster around you. Suddenly, you were pulled from school and talking to social workers who had their own shiny cars, you were passed from adult to adult in a frantic bid for control over the situation your small city’s government found itself in. You remembered dizzy days in a guidance counselor’s office, then being rushed to a group home, then to a foster family, then another foster family further away, and again and again. Each time you were re-homed like a bad gift, you found yourself further and further from your little home town you’d loved. You don’t remember anything beyond the crushing weight of your mother being gone.

The only clear memory you have of that time was when a foster family took pity on you and drove you back home, to town. They brought you to the burnt-out remains of your old home. Neither member of the couple could hold you back when you ran towards the charred skeleton of the house. You remember crying and sobbing as hands pulled you away from the remains of the house, your own hands tightly grasping the one thing you’d managed to grab- a small book. You’d been shoved back into the car whilst hugging the book to your chest. Later, when you’d managed the courage to read that plain black book, you’d found that it was your mother’s journal.

Maybe it was the fact that things had slowed to a more comprehensible speed, or maybe it was because you had something of your mother’s now, but you remembered more from this time period. In fact, you even remembered the foster family you’d been staying with when it happened. They were a sweet couple with a daughter not much younger than you. They’d given you your space, acting unsure and awkward whenever they interacted with you. They’d almost seemed relieved when the social worker came to retrieve you once again, as if having a grieving little boy in their house was equivalent to living with a nuclear bomb. The social worker didn’t need to prompt you at all to gather up your very few belongings and get in her car. You’d leaned your head against the window as she talked about your new home, barely paying attention. She’d talked about how “they” (you didn’t remember who “they” were. Maybe it was the police) had tried to find your father but had been unable, until he came forward himself. That deep anger flared up, flames licking at the bones of your rib cage as you kept it in. So he waltzes out of your life before you’re even born, ignores your existence for 11 whole years, and then struts back in as if nothing happened? The thought made you want to hit something. Someone. It made you want to hurt him. You’d clenched your fist and gritted your teeth as you tuned out the rest of the social worker’s speech.

Then, sooner than you’d wanted, you were in a hallway in one of the many community centers you’d been in, standing across from an elderly man wearing a suit. The fire that made you want to scream and bite and claw like a feral dog was quenched for a minute. Surely this couldn’t be your father, he was far too old. You couldn’t punch him- he’d fall over and die! You simply stood still as the man walked forward and gave a little bow. His voice was posh and his accent was clearly British, not unlike the period dramas your mom used to watch.

“You, young man, must be (Y/N). Pleasure to meet you, my name is Alfred Pennyworth.”

He’d never know, but with that simple introduction, Alfred Pennyworth changed your world a second time.