𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒊𝒇𝒕 𝑰 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒅 (Batfam FanFic)

38. Back to Reality (sort of)

Lucille's POV

They think I'm asleep.

I've gotten really good at pretending over the last few weeks. When you're stuck in a hospital bed, in a world you weren't even born in, where the people around you wear masks for a living and your ribs feel like splintered wood every time you shift slightly, there's not much else to do but listen.

So I listen. And I think. And then I listen some more.

Jason. He killed Joker.

I should be relieved. Elated, even. That the monster who had destroyed my face, cracked my ribs, and made me wish I could wake up from this bizarre comic book world nightmare was dead. But mostly? I'm just... tired. Tired of the constant whiplash of loyalty, of trying to understand this family that isn't mine but somehow is.

Tired of being a side character in my own goddamn life.

My fingers twitch under the blanket. It's the only movement I allow myself. The pain meds have dulled the sharp ache in my chest, but the burn underneath remains. Every breath is like inhaling smoke — hot and bitter.

I hear the soft squeak of the door open. It's quiet, measured. Not like Wally's usual entrance or even Dick's. No. This one moves like a ghost. I don't even need to open my eyes.

Damian.

I hear the rustling of fabric, the subtle click of something being set on the table beside me. A book. He's always bringing me books. Some fiction, some history, one time even a poetry collection with an aggressively long note that read, "Don't become soft. But read this anyway."

I wait. And then I hear his voice, soft and clipped like it always is when he doesn't want to admit how much he cares.

"You are remarkably fragile for someone who talks so much."

A breath leaves me, half a wheeze, half a laugh.

"Is that... your way of saying 'I'm glad you're alive,' or...?"

My voice is rough. Sandpaper and nails. But I force my eyes open and turn my head toward him. Damian stands there, arms crossed, green hoodie zipped up halfway, his brows slightly furrowed like he's pissed off at the universe. But he's here. And he hasn't left.

"Tt. Do not flatter yourself." But he pulls a chair closer to my bed and sits. Not even pretending he doesn't care.

I stare at the ceiling for a moment, my voice quiet. "You know, I thought I was going to die."

Damian doesn't respond right away. He lets silence stretch between us, but I see the way his fingers flex against the armrest. Then:

"You were unconscious for 28 days. On the second day, Grayson had to pull Drake off a punching bag. He was destroying it. On the third, Father stopped talking. On the fourth..." he trails off. "Tt. Irrelevant."

I look at him.

"No. Not irrelevant."

He shifts, uncomfortable. "You... mean something. To them."

"To you?"

A pause. Damian's lips press into a line. Then he mutters, almost inaudible, "To all of us."

I blink, taken aback. Damian's never been good with vulnerability. But something in me softens — something that's been hardened by days of pain and confusion and fear.

"Thanks, Dami."

"Tt. You're welcome."

~~~

Later that day, the hospital lights dim as sunset rolls in, bleeding orange and gold across the room. I've finally been cleared to sit up with support, though every motion feels like I'm trying to move glass inside my chest.