CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: A PLACE TO REST

The drive to Wayne Manor was silent.

Not the comfortable kind of silence, the kind she had learned to value during late patrols back in Brockton Bay, or even here in Gotham—the quiet where she could hear the wind rushing between rooftops, the distant hum of traffic, the world breathing around her.

This was something else.

A silence thick with things unsaid, an expectation lingering in the space between them.

She sat in the passenger seat of one of Bruce Wayne’s cars—nothing flashy, just something sleek and unobtrusive, a practical kind of expensive that suited the man behind the wheel. Nightwing—no, Dick Grayson—was in the back, watching her. She could feel his gaze even though she didn’t turn to meet it.

No one had forced her into this. That was the worst part.

They had extended the offer, laid it all out in front of her, and left the choice in her hands: Live at the Manor. Train with us. Figure out where you fit in Gotham.

No pressure. No ultimatums. Just an opportunity.

And for the first time in a long time, she had no excuse to turn it down.

She still kind of wanted to.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her pants. It would have been easier if they had tried to manipulate her. If there had been strings attached. That, at least, she knew how to fight against.

But this? This strange, unwanted sense of belonging they were offering—

It unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of the gates of Wayne Manor. The building loomed in the distance, half-shrouded in shadow, its gothic architecture striking against the night sky.

She exhaled slowly. She wasn’t used to houses that looked like they belonged to someone. Not in a way that meant anything.

“Last chance to back out,” Dick said, voice deceptively casual yet edged with something. “Once you step inside, Alfred’s gonna start treating you like a stray we picked up, and trust me, you will be force-fed tea and biscuits before the night’s over.”

She shot him a dry look. “I’ll manage.”

Bruce didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His presence was a weight beside her—steady, unreadable.

Then he reached for the dashboard, pressed a button, and the gates to Wayne Manor began to open.

. . . . .

She expected Wayne Manor to feel sterile.

That would have been easier.

Instead, she was met with warmth—not just in the physical sense, though the house was well-kept, its hallways lit with soft, golden light. No, it was something in the air, in the atmosphere of the place.

This wasn’t just some billionaire’s house. 

It was lived in. It had history.

And that threw her off more than she cared to admit.

She followed them inside, Dick leading the way, Bruce bringing up the rear. It felt vaguely like being escorted somewhere important, like a prisoner walking into court.

Then, the moment was shattered by the sound of approaching footsteps.

A man stepped into view, dressed sharply in a dark vest and tie, his expression calm but assessing.

Alfred Pennyworth.

Taylor had known of him, of course. Gotham’s shadows were thick with stories about the man behind the Wayne family—the ever-present figure who kept the household running, who had a sharp tongue and an even sharper mind.

None of it had prepared her for the way he looked at her now.

Like he saw her.

Not just the enhanced monomaniacal survivor scraping by on Gotham’s streets. Not just the outsider who had forced her way into their world.

Just—her.

Taylor. 

And she wasn’t sure she liked it.

“Miss Hebert,” he greeted smoothly. “Welcome.”

She hesitated. “Just Taylor.”

“Very well.” He inclined his head, unruffled. “I imagine you must be exhausted after the night you’ve had.”

“Not really.”

He studied her for a moment, then gave her the kind of smile that had likely been honed over decades of dealing with stubborn vigilantes.

“Of course not. That would be reasonable.”

Dick made a quiet choking noise behind her.

Alfred turned on his heel. “Come along, then. I’ll show you to your room.”

. . . . .

The room was too big.

Too spacious. Too well-kept. Yet intentional.

There was a bed, a desk, bookshelves that had already been filled with a careful selection of titles—someone had tried to guess her taste, and they weren’t far off.

She stood in the doorway, staring at it, waiting for the catch.

“Figured you’d be more comfortable in one of the side wings,” Dick said from behind her. “Less foot traffic. More privacy.”

Taylor didn’t answer right away.

She had slept in abandoned buildings. Had curled up in tight, cramped spaces because the smaller the room, the easier it was to defend. Had learned not to sleep too deeply, not to let her guard down, not to let herself get used to anything she might have to leave behind.

This felt too… stable.

And for the life of her, she didn’t know what to do with that.

Dick hesitated, then—because he was too good at reading people, because he saw more than he let on—he said, “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. Just try it out for tonight.”

No pressure. No ultimatums.

But still a test. 

Taylor exhaled slowly.

“…Fine.”

He grinned. “Atta girl.”

She shut the door before he could say anything else.

. . . . .

She didn’t sleep.

Not really.

She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the unfamiliar quiet of the Manor.

It wasn’t the kind of silence she was used to.

It wasn't the heavy anticipation of an ambush in a back alley, the quiet moments before gang enforcers moved in, or the eerie pause before a rooftop chase erupted.

It was soft.

A silence built from the absence of threat. No promise of violence. 

And that, more than anything, was what unsettled her.

She turned onto her side, curling slightly, letting her body rest even if her mind wouldn’t.

She wasn’t sure what came next.

But for now—for tonight—

She would stay.