Archive of Our Own ^beta

The box was heavier than she remembered.

Dust clung to its corners like cobwebs, the cardboard softened and frayed by time. It had been years—maybe longer—since she last touched anything inside it. One of those things you promise to go through eventually but never do, because some part of you knows it won’t just be old notebooks and birthday cards. It’ll be her. And them.

Kate sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment, sleeves pushed up, fingers already smudged with dust. A half-hearted spring cleaning project, meant to clear out space in the closet. Not to stir up ghosts.

She flipped through a few things—some pressed flowers long browned and brittle, a tangle of ribbon necklaces, a plastic sheriff’s badge she barely remembered pinning to Beth’s shirt. Then she saw it: a pink journal, the kind with a cheap lock and glitter peeling off the cover. Her name was scribbled in all-caps marker: KATE (DO NOT OPEN!!!)

She huffed out a laugh through her nose. God, she must’ve been eight when she wrote in that.

Inside the journal, nestled between pages filled with lopsided hearts and rambling diary entries about school and cereal, was a folded piece of glossy paper. No envelope. Just tucked carefully between “I hate piano lessons” and “Beth and I saw a butterfly and she screamed.”

Kate unfolded it.

The photograph nearly took her breath away.

She was young—maybe nine. Beth sat beside her, both of them wearing paper party crowns. In the background, bent slightly to wrap her arms around the girls from behind, was Martha Wayne. Her smile was warm, effortless. You could almost hear her laughter. The room was softly lit, streamers drooping from the ceiling, a birthday cake with pink frosting slightly out of focus.

And at the bottom, in gentle, flowing cursive—Kate and Beth with their Auntie Martha.

Her mother’s handwriting.

Kate stared at it. Blinked.

Her throat felt tight.

She didn’t remember putting this here. Didn’t remember the photo being taken. But suddenly, the moment bloomed in her memory with sharp clarity—Martha humming softly while tying ribbons into their hair. Beth giggling as cake frosting smeared on her nose. Her mother watching from the kitchen with that tired but content smile she only wore on quiet days.

It felt like another lifetime. It was another lifetime.

Kate exhaled slowly. Her fingers trembled as she traced the curve of her mother’s handwriting. Then she folded the photo back up—delicately, like it might shatter—and sat with it in her lap for a long, quiet while.

She held the photo to her chest and leaned back against the wall, knees drawn up loosely, lost in memories of days long past. The journal lay forgotten beside her, its glittering cover catching the last bits of fading sunlight.

Time passed, unmeasured. The hum of the city outside her window shifted with the afternoon, voices drifting in and out, sirens wailing somewhere too far to matter. She sat there, still as stone, her fingers gently pressed to the glossy back of the photo, like she could hold it tight enough to bring them all back.

It wasn’t until the light outside turned gray-blue and the shadows lengthened across her floor that she realized how long she’d been sitting there.

With a quiet curse, Kate scrambled to put the box away, shoving memories back into the cardboard like closing a door she’d opened too wide. But even as she straightened the apartment and tossed a frozen meal into the microwave, her thoughts clung to the photo—her photo. That smile on Beth’s face. The way Martha’s hand rested protectively on her shoulder. Her mother’s handwriting, the way her t's curved just like hers did.

It stayed with her through dinner. Through the clink of her fork, the hiss of steam, the hum of Gotham beginning to darken beyond her window.

And it was only when she was strapping on her boots—halfway through pulling on the familiar armor of Batwoman—that it hit her.

Tomorrow.

The Wayne's death anniversary.

Kate paused, glove half-pulled on.

She hadn’t forgotten the date, not really—but the weight of it hadn’t landed until just now. Bruce would retreat into that quiet place he always did this time of year, haunted but unreachable. And everyone would tiptoe around him, offering condolences he never quite accepted.

And here she was. With a piece of his mother. With his family.

But also hers.

Kate sat back down on the edge of the bed, photo in hand again, now pulled from the pile of gear she’d almost set it on by mistake. She stared at it—really stared this time.

It hurt, giving it up.

Beth’s birthday. Her mother’s handwriting. A life that never came back.

But Bruce had lost them too.

She wasn’t the hugging type. Hell, she barely knew what to say when people were grieving. But this? This was something real. Something tangible she could give him. A reminder that he wasn’t alone in what he lost. That maybe... he didn’t have to be.

Kate drew in a breath through her nose, slow and deep. Folded the photo with care. Slipped it into a fresh envelope from her desk drawer, intent on dropping it off at the Manor so he could find it come morning.

No note. No explanation.

She figured he’d understand.

The manor was silent.

Not the heavy silence of night, but the kind that settled after something—the hush of a house that had learned to grieve without sound. Even Alfred moved differently on days like this, soft-footed, reverent.

Bruce descended to the study with the weight of ritual in every step. He hadn’t slept. He didn’t need to check the date. His body remembered.

An envelope was waiting for him on the desk—unmarked. Plain. Quiet.

He opened it without a word. The photo inside nearly made him forget how to breathe.

Kate and Beth. Paper crowns. Frosting-smeared smiles.

And her.

Martha Wayne.

Mom.

Her arms wrapped protectively around her nieces, head tilted mid-laugh, utterly alive in a way photos rarely captured. There was light in her eyes, warmth in her smile. Joy. The kind that didn’t come from anything grand—just from being there.

And at the bottom, in a looping script:

Kate and Beth with their Auntie Martha.

He didn't recognize the handwriting, but he could guess all the same.

Bruce stared at it.

Sat down slowly.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel alone in it.

Kate, who had lost all of the people in the photo too, and yet—somehow, through all that loss, she’d chosen to give this piece of Martha back to him. A reminder. A kindness. A connection.

His mind drifted to the photos he kept tucked away in a corner of the Batcave—faded snapshots of Jason in the garden, Dick grinning with his arm slung around Damian, Cass curled up asleep on the couch with Titus. Family, all of them. In their own jagged, bruised, stubborn way.

He stood, walked down to the Cave.

Found the quiet corner—near where the suits were kept, under the soft glow of the old monitor light. A place where he always passed by. Where he always looked.

He framed the photo, placed it next to the others.

A small shrine of family. Of what was lost. And what still remained.

And for the first time in many years, the ache in his chest didn’t feel quite so hollow.

He didn’t call Kate, or corner her when he saw her swinging around during patrol.

But later that night, after patrol, he left a note tucked where she’d find it—folded in between her mission reports:

Thank you.

—B