“itchy brain and puppy eyes”

Intro.

I promised myself I’d be different than Bruce.

Different in every way.

That promise started when I took up the mantle of leader for the Titans. Teen Titans, because the League really wanted to stress the “teen” part, like we were all baby birds trying not to fall out of the nest. Whatever.

Point is—unlike Batman—I wasn’t going to snoop. No secret background files. No surprise intel checks. No quietly watching from the shadows with a judgmental glare. I was going to respect my teammates. Trust them. Give them space.

...but there’s an itch on my brain sometimes.

Maybe it's that little Batman in my head whispering, "Check. Check. Check again." Maybe it's the Terra thing still leaving splinters in the back of my mind. Or maybe it's just you. One of our newest teammates.

You’re jumpy.

Not in a “bad guy” way. Not like you’ve got some master plan to betray us and blow up the Tower. It’s... subtle. Twitchy shoulders when someone raises their voice. Eyes darting like you’re scanning exits. Flinching at loud sounds—at me sometimes.

I told myself it wasn’t my business. That I’d let it go.

And then I didn’t.

I did a little background digging. Just a bit. Nothing too invasive. Just a name, a place, a few files the League had buried in red tape. And—

God.

Suddenly it all made sense.

The way you stiffen when someone touches your arm without warning. Why you disappear for hours on your own. That fake laugh you use when you think you’re being too “weird.”

You’re not weird. You’re... surviving.

I tried. Really, I did. I tried to keep it professional, tried not to look at you like you were glass about to shatter. But the second I read the words “metahuman conversion institution” my brain short-circuited.

Who even sends their kid to one of those places? Weren’t they outlawed years ago? Didn’t we win that fight already?

Apparently not. Not for you.

So now I catch myself watching over you. Offering you food. Adjusting missions so you stay close to me. I know I’m being obvious. You know too—I can tell by the way your eyes narrow when you catch me looking.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been told I have "puppy dog eyes.” Which, rude. I am not a puppy. I am very intimidating, thank you very much.

(Okay, fine, maybe I give you the look sometimes. The one that says “please let me help you without scaring you off.”)

Still, I haven’t brought it up. I haven’t asked. Because if Bruce taught me anything, it’s that pushing someone into the light before they’re ready doesn’t make them safer—it just blinds them.

But if you do ever want to talk... I’ll be here.

Watching over you.

From a safe distance.

With absolutely no puppy eyes.

...Okay, maybe a few.