Chapter 18
The weeks that followed Tom's conversation with Oliver Queen passed in a blur, marked by slow recovery, unexpected visitors, and the steady rhythm of Kaelith's guidance.
Tom's days were largely the same—painful but productive. His body, battered and broken when he first arrived at the Watchtower, began to heal, albeit slowly. The infirmary became a second home, with its sterile walls and the ever-present hum of monitors. Nurses and medics checked in frequently, ensuring his injuries were mending properly. Though progress was painstakingly slow, each small milestone—a rib knitting back together, a deeper breath without agony—felt monumental.
Visitors from the Justice League came regularly, each one bringing their own mix of curiosity, guilt, and gratitude. Diana visited often, offering quiet encouragement and wisdom. Clark checked in between missions, his warmth a steady presence that Tom came to appreciate. Others came and went as well: Barry Allen, full of energy and stories meant to distract; J'onn J'onzz, whose calm demeanor always left Tom feeling more centered. He even got a letter from Alfred, wishing him well and a short apology that he couldn't see him in person.
Then there was Batman.
His visit was brief and without fanfare. Tom woke one morning to find Bruce Wayne standing near the door, arms crossed, his unreadable gaze fixed on him. The familiar silhouette of the Dark Knight was as imposing as ever, but there was something slightly less rigid in his stance—a quiet acknowledgment of the weight both of them carried.
"Bruce," Tom said, his voice still rough from sleep.
Bruce stepped forward, his cape trailing behind him, his movements deliberate but lacking the usual theatrical menace. For a moment, he hesitated, his eyes scanning Tom's face before settling on the monitors beside the bed. "I wasn't sure if I should come," he admitted, his voice low, tinged with an uncharacteristic uncertainty.
Tom frowned, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
Bruce exhaled, his jaw tightening. "After what happened… after you were taken… I didn't know if you'd even want to see me. We are responsible for what the Light did to you."
Tom blinked, sitting up slightly. "Bruce, you didn't—"
Bruce cut him off, his voice firm but not unkind. "I should have done more. I should have seen the risks, anticipated Klarion's move. But I didn't."
Tom stared at him, his chest tightening. For all of Bruce's stoic confidence, there was something raw in his tone—something that felt deeply human. "It wasn't anyone's fault," Tom said quietly. "You couldn't have known. No one could've. If anything I should have."
Bruce shook his head slightly, his gaze dropping for a brief moment before returning to Tom. "That doesn't change the fact that it happened. That you were tortured because of what information you gave us. Because of us."
Tom hesitated, then shrugged faintly, a small, humorless smile tugging at his lips. "Well… I'm still here, aren't I?"
Bruce's expression softened just slightly, the faintest flicker of relief crossing his face. "You are. And that's a testament to your strength, not ours."
The room fell quiet for a moment before Bruce spoke again, his tone softer. "How are you holding up?"
Tom hesitated, glancing down at his hands. "Healing. Slowly," he admitted. "It's… a lot to deal with."
Bruce nodded, his posture relaxing slightly. "You're doing better than most would in your position. But you don't have to do it alone, Tom. If you need something—anything—you let me know."
Bruce stepped back, his usual stoic demeanor returning. "You made a difference."
Tom nodded, his chest tightening with a mix of emotions.
As Bruce reached the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "The League owes you, Tom. Don't forget that."
And with that, he was gone, leaving Tom to stare after him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. For all his gruffness, Bruce Wayne had a way of cutting through the weight of the moment and making you feel like you mattered—even if he'd never admit it outright.
—BREAK—
The meetings Tom dreaded the most, though he knew they were necessary—even Kaelith agreed they were needed—were the mandatory therapy sessions. A League-trusted professional had been assigned to him, and while he didn't particularly dislike her, the vulnerability required during those meetings made him uncomfortable.
He vividly remembered his first session with Dr. Eliza Hartwell, a middle-aged woman with kind but probing eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. She had greeted him warmly, but there was a sharpness to her professionalism, like she was sizing him up from the moment he walked in.
After exchanging pleasantries, she cut to the chase. "Tom, I won't sugarcoat this. Given what you've been through, I expected you to be… in rougher shape mentally. Yet, here you are, seemingly better than anticipated."
Tom had snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Not a drooling mess, right?" he quipped, his tone dry.
Dr. Hartwell had raised an eyebrow, her expression unchanging. "I wouldn't phrase it like that," she said, carefully neutral, neither agreeing nor denying his statement.
Tom smirked, folding his arms across his chest. "I can't take all the credit," he admitted, his voice softening. "It's thanks to Kaelith—the not-a-demon who lives in my shadow. I actually don't know what she is."
He still remembered the way her expression faltered, the poorly disguised sadness flickering in her eyes. She must have thought he was delusional, just another survivor grasping at straws to make sense of what had happened. Before she could say anything, Kaelith had decided to intervene.
"Perhaps I should make myself known before you start prescribing medication," Kaelith's voice echoed from the shadows in the room, smooth and sharp as silk.
Tom watched as Dr. Hartwell stiffened slightly, her eyes widening as Kaelith's form emerged—a blend of flickering light and shadow that coalesced into her familiar, graceful presence. Kaelith folded her arms, her expression unreadable but her gaze steady on the therapist.
Dr. Hartwell recovered quickly, her professional mask slipping back into place, though her voice was cautious. "So… this is Kaelith?"
"In the flesh," Kaelith said with a wry smile. She glanced at Tom. "See? I told you I could prove you're not completely unhinged. Only mildly so."
Tom rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small grin tugging at his lips. "Thanks for that. Real confidence booster."
The therapist blinked, clearly processing the situation, but she nodded slowly, her voice calm. "Well, I'll admit… this isn't what I expected. But it does explain a lot."
Kaelith inclined her head slightly, her tone softening. "Tom has been through far more than anyone his age should endure. My role is simple: To help him, in whatever capacity I can."
Dr. Hartwell studied Kaelith for a moment before turning back to Tom. "And it seems to be working," she said. "Though I'd still like to explore how this dynamic impacts you, Tom. Whether it's a source of stability—or stress."
Tom shrugged, leaning forward. "Stability. Kaelith's been here through everything. She's the reason I didn't break during the Light's torture. And she's the reason I can sit here now and talk about it without falling apart."
Kaelith's presence flickered slightly, her voice carrying a warmth that matched her usual teasing. "Flattery will get you everywhere, my friend."
Dr. Hartwell allowed herself a faint smile. "Then I suppose I have two patients in this room," she said lightly, though her tone carried no malice. "This is certainly… unorthodox. But I'd like to continue exploring this in future sessions, if you're both willing."
Tom glanced at Kaelith, who gave a slight nod of approval. He turned back to the therapist. "Sure. Why not? Not like I have anything better to do."
Despite his initial dread, those sessions became a strange mix of catharsis and self-discovery. With Kaelith's occasional input and Dr. Hartwell's steady guidance, Tom began to unpack not just what had been done to him, but how he had survived it—and how he could continue moving forward.
For all his resistance to therapy at first, Tom found himself appreciating the space to speak freely, even if he didn't admit it aloud. And with Kaelith beside him, both in his mind and in the room, he knew he wasn't facing it alone.
—BREAK—
In the quiet hours, when his body rested but his mind remained active, Tom trained with Kaelith in the infinite green plains of his mind. The sessions were both challenging and cathartic, each one helping him reclaim a sense of control over the magic that had once felt so foreign and unpredictable.
Kaelith's guidance remained as steady as ever, her tone a perfect balance of teasing and support.
"You're rushing again," Kaelith chided one evening as Tom struggled to summon a steady stream of energy. Her form flickered beside him, arms crossed, her expression bemused. "Magic isn't a race, Tom. You can't just bulldoze through it."
Tom groaned, rubbing his temples. "Easy for you to say. How do you even know how to do this?"
"I was given the knowledge," she replied smoothly. "Relax. Breathe. Trust yourself. You've already proven you can do this."
Despite his grumbling, Tom found himself improving under her guidance. Each session brought a little more control, a little more confidence. By the end of the month, his once-clumsy efforts at summoning and shaping energy had become fluid and intentional, though there was still much to learn.
—BREAK—
The quiet hum of the Watchtower filled the room as Tom sat reading, his body still healing but stronger than it had been weeks ago. The door to the infirmary slid open, and Tom glanced up, expecting a nurse or maybe Diana. Instead, Roy Harper rolled in, seated in a wheelchair, his right arm missing, his frame gaunt and weak from years of being on ice.
Tom blinked in surprise, sitting up straighter. "Roy Harper," he said, his voice uncertain.
Roy looked at him, his expression guarded, his eyes hard but filled with a fire that spoke of pain and anger in equal measure. "You're Tom," Roy said, his voice low and edged with something sharp.
"Uh, yeah," Tom replied. "That's me. And you're… well, you're Roy Harper."
Roy gave a curt nod, wheeling himself closer. "I've heard a lot about you," he said, his tone measured. "From Oliver. From the League." His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze unwavering. "Wanted to see you for myself."
Tom raised an eyebrow, unsure of where this was going. "And?"
Roy's expression softened slightly, though his voice remained firm. "I'm not big on gratitude these days, but… you gave me back what's left of my life. So, thanks. For that."
Tom shifted awkwardly, feeling the weight of Roy's words pressing against him. "I just passed along what I saw. That's all."
Roy's eyes narrowed slightly. "Don't sell yourself short," he said, his tone hardening. "You did more than that. You gave the League a wake-up call they desperately needed. They failed me bigtime, and you? They let you get captured as soon as you start to make a difference."
Tom hesitated, swallowing hard as he studied the man in front of him. Roy's anger was palpable, but beneath it was something deeper—something raw and fractured. "I didn't know if it would even help," Tom admitted quietly.
"Well, it did," Roy replied firmly. He hesitated, his voice dropping. "But it doesn't change the fact that they failed me. They didn't even know I was missing for three years. Three. Years. And when they found out? It took them another four to do anything about it. Seven years of my life, gone."
Tom opened his mouth to respond, but Roy continued, his voice gaining an edge. "My friends moved on. My life? It's gone. And I get it—logically, I know they had to keep going. But emotionally? It feels like everything's just… left me behind. Like I don't fit anywhere anymore."
Tom's chest tightened as he listened, Roy's words stirring a deep empathy within him. He remembered watching Young Justice, seeing Roy's journey, the pain of being displaced, of fighting to reclaim what was lost. That struggle had always struck him as brutal, and now, sitting in front of the real Roy Harper, it felt even more devastating.
"I can't say I understand what you're going through," Tom said carefully, his voice steady but filled with sincerity. "But from one displaced person to another? If you ever need someone to talk to, I'd love to be there for you. You might not feel it, but you're also a hero I look up to."
Roy frowned slightly, caught off guard by the statement. "What?"
Tom smiled faintly, leaning forward. "You're Roy Harper. Speedy. You're a guy who's always fought for what's right, no matter how hard it gets. You got your own comics from my world, you know," he added with a small chuckle. "I saw you take down villains twice your size, go toe-to-toe with Green Arrow himself, and still keep going, even when things were stacked against you. You've gone through some horrible things, but you never gave up, Roy. That's something I've always admired."
Roy stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he let out a soft, bitter laugh. "I don't feel like much of a hero these days."
"That's okay," Tom replied gently. "You don't have to feel it for it to be true. You've been through hell, Roy, but you're still here. You're still fighting. That's what makes you a hero. Not just to me, but to a lot of people."
Roy's jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to his missing arm. "It doesn't feel like enough."
"It is," Tom said firmly. "It is enough. And if it doesn't feel like it now, that's okay too. You'll figure it out."
For a long moment, the two sat in silence, the weight of their shared understanding hanging between them. Finally, Roy nodded, his expression softening just slightly. "Thanks," he said quietly, his voice lacking its earlier edge. "For saying that. For… offering."
"Anytime," Tom replied with a small smile. "Seriously. Anytime."
Roy gave a faint, tired smile of his own, wheeling himself back toward the door. "You're all right, Tom. Don't let the League screw you over."
Tom chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll try."
As the door slid shut behind Roy, Tom let out a slow breath, his gaze lingering where the man had just been. Kaelith's voice stirred softly in his mind, her tone thoughtful.
"He carries much," she said simply.
"Yeah," Tom murmured, his chest tightening again.
Kaelith's voice warmed with quiet support. "And yet, you still manage to remind others of their strength."
Tom smiled faintly, her words settling over him like a balm. The path ahead wasn't just his—it was shared by others like Roy, people fighting their own battles.
—BREAK—
By the end of the month, Tom's body was stronger, his mind sharper, and his confidence steadier. Though he wasn't quite at 100%, he had progressed enough to leave the infirmary, trading its sterile walls and constant hum of monitors for the open spaces of the Watchtower. Each step out of the infirmary felt like a milestone—a testament to how far he'd come since his rescue.
His movements were still careful, his ribs and arms occasionally aching from the strain of healing, but it was a relief to be free of the bed. The nurses insisted on monitoring his progress closely, but they no longer hovered constantly, allowing him moments of quiet independence.
In the evenings, his mind remained an expansive sanctuary where Kaelith's guidance continued to mold his growing magical abilities. The infinite green plains of his thoughts had become as familiar as the Watchtower's hallways, a place where he could push himself without fear of falling.
Kaelith's voice, ever steady and teasing, summed it up best one evening during their training. "Look at you," she said with pride.
Tom chuckled, the sound freer now than it had been in weeks. "Yeah, well, I've had the best teacher."
Kaelith's laughter echoed warmly through his thoughts. "And don't you forget it. Though, if you ever try to outdo me, we may have to reconsider this whole 'friendship' arrangement."
"Noted," Tom said with a grin, shaking his head.
Though the road to recovery wasn't over, Tom felt a spark of something he hadn't felt in a long time: readiness. The pain, both physical and emotional, still lingered, He didn't think it would ever fully dissipate.
Tom walked through the Watchtower's corridors, his footsteps steady but measured. The faint ache in his ribs was a reminder that he wasn't fully recovered yet, but it didn't matter—not now. For the first time in weeks, he felt a glimmer of excitement, a sense of purpose forming in his mind.
He had an idea. Something that had seemed impossible before, a pipe dream he wouldn't have dared to entertain. But now? Now it felt like it might actually be within reach. All he had to do was figure out how to bring it up to Bruce—and, of course, find the man first.
As he rounded a corner, Tom spotted a Watchtower staff member pushing a cart of medical supplies. The staffer, a younger man with glasses perched on his nose and an ID badge clipped to his pocket, paused as Tom approached.
"Excuse me," Tom said, his voice polite but carrying a hint of urgency. "Have you seen Batman around?"
The staffer blinked, clearly surprised by the question. He adjusted his glasses, shaking his head. "Uh, no, I haven't seen him today," he replied. "But if you're looking for him, you'd probably have better luck asking one of the League members directly. He kind of… shows up when he wants to."
Tom nodded, not entirely surprised by the answer. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Thanks anyway."
The staffer gave a small, awkward smile and continued down the corridor, the sound of his cart's wheels fading into the distance.
Tom leaned against the wall for a moment, tapping his fingers against the smooth surface. Finding Bruce in the Watchtower was like trying to track down a shadow in the dark—if he didn't want to be found, odds were you wouldn't. But that didn't deter Tom. He had an idea, and he was determined to see it through.
With a faint smirk tugging at his lips, he straightened and started walking again, his mind already turning over how to approach the next League member he ran into. He might not have all the answers yet, but he was certain of one thing: this idea wasn't something he could let go of.
Tom wandered through the corridors of the Watchtower, the hum of activity around him beginning to fade as he ventured deeper into the station. His determination to find Bruce Wayne kept him moving, but the enormity of the task was starting to weigh on him. Tracking down Batman felt like trying to catch a shadow in a maze.
As he rounded another corner, Tom's shoulders relaxed slightly as he spotted someone familiar standing near a console. Hal Jordan—Green Lantern—was leaning casually against the control panel, the green emblem on his chest glowing faintly as he studied a holographic display.
"Green Lantern," Tom said, relieved to see someone from the League. "Just the guy I needed to see."
Hal glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "Call me Hal," he said with a smirk. "And needed me? Wow, that's a first. What's up?"
Tom couldn't help but chuckle faintly at Hal's laid-back demeanor. "I'm looking for Batman," he said, getting straight to the point. "Do you know where he is?"
Hal laughed lightly, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the console. "Figures you'd be looking for him. You trying to start a new hobby? Collecting rare Bat sightings?"
Tom rolled his eyes, his tone light but insistent. "Not exactly. I just need to talk to him about something important. So, do you know where he is?"
Hal tapped his chin theatrically, as if considering the question deeply. After a moment, he nodded. "Actually, yeah," he said. "He's down in one of the observation decks. Deck Three, west quadrant. Probably staring out into space and planning ten steps ahead of the rest of us, as usual."
"Thanks, Hal," Tom said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Don't mention it," Hal replied with a casual wave. "Just don't tell him I sent you. The guy's got a way of making me regret being helpful."
Tom laughed, shaking his head. "Your secret's safe with me."
With that, he turned and started down the corridor, heading toward the observation decks. The faint buzz of anticipation coursed through him as he walked. He wasn't entirely sure how his conversation with Bruce was going to go, but now, at least, he had a direction.
And a smirk from Hal as he called after him, "Good luck, kid—you're gonna need it!"
Tom didn't look back, his focus sharpening. It was time to attempt to sell his idea to Bruce.
Tom made his way toward Deck Three, west quadrant, his footsteps steady but his thoughts racing. Hal's parting words echoed in his mind—"Good luck, kid—you're gonna need it!"—and while he had laughed at the time, he now felt the weight of what he was about to do. Selling his idea to Bruce Wayne wasn't going to be fun.
As his nerves began to rise, he felt Kaelith's presence stir faintly in the back of his mind. It wasn't a voice or words, but a steady warmth, a grounding presence that seemed to wrap around his thoughts like a quiet reassurance. The knot in his chest loosened slightly, and a sense of calm settled over him.
Tom straightened his shoulders as the observation deck came into view, his resolve hardening, with Kaelith's encouragement steadying him.
The space was dimly lit, the vast expanse of stars outside casting faint light across the room. Standing near the edge of the large viewing window was Bruce, his silhouette unmistakable. His cape draped over his shoulders, his posture stiff yet contemplative as he stared out into the endless void of space.
Tom took a few steps forward, his shoes tapping lightly against the metal floor. "Bruce," he said, his voice breaking the quiet.
Bruce didn't turn, his gaze still fixed on the stars. "Hal told you where to find me, didn't he?" he said, his tone even but not unkind.
Tom smiled faintly. "He might have. He also told me not to tell you."
Bruce gave a quiet huff that might have been a laugh before finally turning to face Tom. His expression was calm but guarded, his dark eyes studying the younger man carefully. "What's on your mind, Tom?"
Tom hesitated for only a moment before diving in. "I want to join the Team," he said, his words direct and unwavering.
Bruce's brow furrowed immediately, his expression unreadable. His lips parted, as if he was about to speak, but no words came.
"Look," Tom said quickly, cutting off Bruce before he had chance to speak. "I already know your answer, but just listen, okay?"
Bruce's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt.
"Before, I wouldn't have even considered this a possibility," Tom began, his voice steady despite the nerves bubbling beneath the surface. "But I've been working with Kaelith on my magic. For Months now, we've been training, and I can use it consistently. I've learned control, and I've learned enough to know that it can be an asset. A real one."
Bruce folded his arms, his expression unreadable, but his silence encouraged Tom to continue.
"And it's not just the magic," Tom added quickly. "It's what I know. I don't… want to use the information I have unless it's absolutely necessary, but you know as well as I do that it could be valuable. And I want to help."
"You're still recovering," Bruce said, his tone calm but firm.
"I know," Tom admitted, holding up a hand. "I'm not saying I'm ready to jump in tomorrow. I know I've got a lot to learn, and I'm not 100% healed yet. But that's why this is a short-term goal. Something to work toward. To keep me moving forward."
Bruce's gaze narrowed slightly, but he didn't speak, letting Tom press on.
"My therapist thinks I'm good to go too," Tom added, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "Well, as good as anyone can be after everything I've been through. But I've made progress. Real progress. And I want to keep going."
Tom exhaled sharply, realizing he'd been talking faster and louder as he went. He caught his breath, his chest rising and falling as he looked up at Bruce, his expression earnest. "I know you're skeptical," he said, his voice quieter now. "And I get it. I do. But I'm asking you to give me a chance."
The silence that followed felt heavy, the quiet hum of the observation deck amplifying the tension. Bruce's eyes were locked on Tom, his expression giving away nothing as he considered the younger man's words.
Tom shifted slightly under the scrutiny but didn't back down. He had said his piece, and now all he could do was wait for Bruce's response.
Finally, Bruce spoke, his voice low and deliberate. "First, I'm going to assume that you know about the very covert, secret, not publicly disclosed 'Team' because of your… otherworldly knowledge." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "Am I correct?"
Tom nodded, keeping his expression neutral. "That's right."
Bruce sighed, his tone softening slightly. "As soon as it came out that you could use magic, your name was already being discussed as a potential candidate. I was the one who first proposed the idea."
Tom blinked in surprise, but Bruce continued before he could speak.
"However," Bruce said, his voice growing firmer, "after your kidnapping, I was going to scrap the idea entirely. Putting you in any kind of risk now is… very unpleasant to consider."
Tom's chest tightened, but he quickly found his voice, refusing to let the moment slip away. "Bruce, no matter where I go, no matter what I do, I'll always be a target," he said, his voice steady but carrying an edge of frustration. "That's not going to change. But I refuse to let myself be caged because of someone else's fears—yours or anyone else's."
Bruce's expression remained unreadable, but the faint tightening of his jaw betrayed his inner conflict.
"I get it," Tom pressed on. "You're trying to protect me. I appreciate that. I do. But sitting on the sidelines doesn't protect me from the dangers out there. If anything, it makes me more vulnerable. At least with the Team, I'll have a purpose. I'll be surrounded by people who can watch my back, and I can learn to watch theirs."
For a moment, Bruce said nothing, his gaze piercing as he weighed Tom's words. The tension in the room was almost palpable.
Finally, Bruce exhaled, the weight of the decision evident in the slight drop of his shoulders. His gaze softened just enough to suggest the internal struggle he had resolved. "I agree," he admitted quietly, his voice steady. "You've already proven that you can hold your own, but I'm not going to pretend this will be easy—for either of us."
Tom straightened slightly, his heart pounding with anticipation. "Does that mean…?"
Bruce gave a small, deliberate nod, his tone resolute. "I'll have you begin training beforehand to better integrate with the Team. You'll need to be ready—physically, mentally…" He hesitated, his lips tightening slightly, before adding, "…and magically." The word carried a subtle edge, as if he found it distasteful but couldn't deny its importance. "And it won't happen until you're fully healed. Understood?"
Relief and excitement bubbled to the surface as a grin spread across Tom's face. "Understood."
Bruce's lips twitched faintly, almost forming a smile, but he quickly returned to his usual stoic demeanor. "Then I suggest you make the most of your recovery time. Training starts as soon as you're ready."
Tom nodded, his determination shining through. "Well," he said with a faint grin, "I'm gonna go back to the infirmary now. Got to make sure I actually get to that recovery part."
Bruce gave a small nod, his expression softening just slightly. "Good idea."
Without another word, Tom turned and made his way toward the door, the quiet hum of the observation deck fading behind him. As he stepped back into the corridor, a spark of anticipation flickered in his chest.
Then, abruptly, he stopped. He turned back to Bruce, frowning slightly. "Hey, uh, one more thing."
Bruce looked up from where he had turned back toward the stars, his sharp gaze settling on Tom. "What is it?"
Tom hesitated for a moment before scratching the back of his neck. "How does the whole secret identity thing work here? I know it's a bit late to be asking, but… I realized I'm not entirely sure."
Bruce's expression didn't change, though there was a flicker of something—approval, maybe—that crossed his eyes briefly. "Every single staff member and faculty here has been extensively vetted," Bruce began, his tone deliberate and calm. "They've undergone rigorous background checks, polygraph tests, and signed NDAs that would leave them in ruin if breached. On top of that, they're routinely inspected mentally by J'onn—Martian Manhunter—to ensure loyalty and stability. And that's just the start."
Tom raised an eyebrow, but Bruce continued. "Yes, they know our identities. It would be almost impossible for the League's therapists, doctors, and other support staff to support us fully if we had to constantly conceal who we are. Their knowledge allows them to perform their jobs more effectively while keeping us secure."
Tom's frown deepened slightly as he processed the explanation. "And if something happens?"
Bruce's voice remained firm, steady. "The League's safety will always come first. If there's ever a breach, we handle it immediately. But the people here have proven their loyalty time and again. They're here because they believe in what we do, just like the rest of us."
He paused, his gaze fixed on Tom, his tone taking on a sharper edge. "Do you really think the League—comprising just under thirty members—is capable of properly responding to and acting on threats across an entire planet, not including the ones that originate beyond it, without extensive support? Without the doctors, therapists, engineers, and operational staff who keep everything running? They are just as vital to our mission as those of us who wear masks."
Tom nodded slowly, the weight of Bruce's words settling in. "Makes sense," he said after a moment. "Just… good to know."
Bruce gave a faint nod, watching as Tom turned back toward the corridor. This time, he didn't stop, the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance.
—BREAK—
Bruce watched the heavily scarred teen walk out, his footsteps steady despite the faint limp that hinted at injuries still healing. For a moment, the observation deck was silent save for the quiet hum of the Watchtower. Bruce's gaze lingered on the door as it slid shut behind Tom, his expression unreadable.
It had always been his plan to integrate Tom with the Team eventually. From the moment he had reviewed the letter Tom handed him, filled with details no one would just know, Bruce had known Tom would an asset to the League. The letter alone confirmed that Tom was aware of the Team—its existence, its members, and its purpose. Batman was no longer surprised by what Tom knew, and that was just what he could tell them.
After Tom's kidnapping, Bruce had reconsidered everything. He had planned to postpone Tom's involvement indefinitely, perhaps even scrap the idea entirely. The risks felt too great, the cost too high. Bruce knew better than anyone what it meant to carry the scars of a mission gone wrong, but Tom's ordeal wasn't just a misstep—it was one of Batman's biggest failures.
The memory gnawed at him, pulling him back to another fateful night—a night he had spent racing to save Jason… and failed. Both boys, brimming with potential and fighting their own battles, had fallen into the hands of those who thrived on pain and chaos. The guilt that came with not being able to protect them felt just as heavy now as it had then.
Bruce's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. He had vowed after Jason never to let himself falter like that again, to never put someone in that kind of danger. But with Tom, it had happened again. He had miscalculated the risks, underestimated their enemies—and Tom had paid the price for it.
And yet, Tom had pulled through.
Scarred, yes, but somehow better than anyone had a right to be after what he endured. Bruce had seen countless people crumble under far less. But Tom… Tom had found a way to rise above it.
A large part of that, Bruce had come to realize, was due to Kaelith—Tom's mysterious passenger, the apparently not-a-demon who seemed to be both his anchor and his protector. Tom's therapist had clued Bruce into the depth of her influence, describing how Kaelith's presence had shielded Tom through the worst of his trauma.
For that, Bruce was grateful. Grateful that Kaelith had kept Tom grounded when he could have easily slipped into despair. Grateful that she had been there when no one else could.
And yet, he was still suspicious.
Kaelith's true nature remained a mystery, and Bruce had learned to distrust what he couldn't fully understand. Her motivations seemed aligned with Tom's well-being, but there was always the possibility of an agenda hidden beneath her enigmatic presence. He would have to keep a close eye on her—on both of them—as Tom continued his recovery and began training with the Team.
Bruce exhaled softly, turning back to the stars beyond the observation deck. For now, Tom was moving forward, and Bruce would make sure he had the tools and support he needed to succeed. But the weight of responsibility lingered, heavy and unrelenting.
Tom's earlier question lingered in his thoughts, poking at the edges of his focus. Support staff? What kind of question was that? Did Tom think the Watchtower maintained itself?
Bruce's lips pressed into a thin line as he tried—briefly and futilely—to imagine the Watchtower without the countless staff who ensured its upkeep and operational readiness. The chaos would be catastrophic. No therapists to help the team process their missions, no engineers to maintain the advanced systems, no doctors to treat the inevitable injuries. The place would collapse under its own weight in days, if not hours.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible shudder at the thought. What kind of world did Tom come from, where the League operated without such critical infrastructure? Did he think this was a comic book?
The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched briefly—though not into a smile—before his expression hardened again. Batman didn't make mistakes, and if he did, he corrected them. Tom's involvement was never a mistake—but this time, Bruce would ensure there were no missteps.
Author Note:
: Would've loved to read that chapter where Batman And Green Arrow rescued Roy.
I would Love that too, but unfortunately I did not write one. It might be something I write down the line for fun but for now it's not something I plan to do. But I do appreciate that you seem to enjoy the story thus far! Thank you all for reading and sticking with the story! It's one of my first ever fanfics, I know it's not perfect but I do hope that it has been at least mildly entertaining.
