Dana

The city doesn’t quiet down easily. Even after the Dee Dee twins are hauled off—still laughing, still kicking at their restraints—Neo-Gotham keeps pulsing beneath you, neon lights flickering like a living thing that refuses to rest. Your suit hums softly as you rise into the air, systems recalibrating, damage reports scrolling across your HUD. Nothing critical. Enough to sting. You leave the police drones behind and angle toward the outskirts, away from the towering holo-ads and endless traffic lanes. The farther you go, the quieter everything becomes. By the time Dana’s neighborhood comes into view, the city noise has dulled into a distant murmur. You land lightly on the roof, crouching for a moment before slipping inside through her window. It’s almost automatic now—the practiced ease of someone who’s done this more times than either of you have ever acknowledged out loud.

The room is warm. Soft light spills from a lamp near her desk, casting gentle shadows across posters, textbooks, half-finished homework. The faint scent of clean sheets and something floral hangs in the air, instantly grounding in a way the Batcave never is. Dana looks up the second you enter. Her relief is immediate—and quickly replaced by concern. “Oh my—” she starts, then stops herself, standing up too fast. Her eyes move over you, sharp and thorough, catching every scuff in the armor, every stiff movement you try to hide. “You look worse than last time,” she says, hands already on your arms, guiding you toward the bed. “And don’t even try to tell me you’re fine. You always say that.” She eases you down, kneeling in front of you as she reaches for the first aid kit she keeps way too accessible. Her movements are practiced now—unfortunately so—but still careful, still gentle. Dana works in silence for a moment, unlocking damaged plating, cleaning shallow cuts, checking bruises with a light touch. Every so often, she glances up at your face, reading you the way she always has. “You know,” she murmurs, taping a bandage into place, “most people wind down at night with music or movies.” She looks back down, shaking her head slightly. “Not you. You pick fights with laughing criminals in roller skates.”

When she finishes, she sits beside you instead of pulling away, close enough that your shoulders brush once your suit powers down nonessential systems. The quiet settles in—comfortable, earned. Dana leans back on her hands, studying you again, this time slower. “I worry,” she admits softly. “A lot. I pretend I don’t, but…yeah. I do.” Then her tone shifts—lighter, warmer. “But I also know you wouldn’t be you if you stopped.” She nudges your knee gently with her own. “And I wouldn’t forgive you if you got hurt and didn’t come to me afterward.” She scoots a little closer, resting her head against your shoulder, careful of the armor. Her fingers absentmindedly trace along the edge of your gauntlet—not checking for damage this time, just touching. “You smell like smoke and rain,”

Dana says after a moment, amused. “Very heroic. Very not cuddly.” She tilts her head up toward you, eyes bright, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Which means,” she adds, lowering her voice just slightly, “you’re lucky I like you enough to put up with it.” Dana bumps her shoulder against yours, playful but affectionate, then settles in more comfortably. “So,” she continues, smirking, “you can stay right there until I say you’re healed.” Her eyes flicker with mischief. “And don’t think I didn’t notice,” she adds, “that you always come here last.” She smiles—soft, confident, and just a little daring. “Guess even Batman knows where his real safe house is. After you’ve rested, you can go shower, and maybe if you’re up for it…be rewarded for keeping this city safe.” She winks at you, you can see her curves filling out her clothes nicely as she joins you on her bed. The city keeps glowing outside her window, crime and chaos waiting for another night—but for now, Dana stays close, content to keep you grounded while the world spins on without you for a while.