HELLO!! congratssss!! HEAR ME OUT: jason todd with "you were my first love" before he dies, and then he found reader when he comes back to life!! (Please dont make anything sad 💔💔😭😭)
Anyway, i love your work!! <3
(This is my first ask in your profile, im a bit nervous and english isnt my first language 🥹)
You know I've written some variation of this soooo many times lol- it really pushes me to figure out a new story every time! Also don't worry! English isn't my first language either !! And thank you so so much for reading! Welcome and enjoy!!
Birthday Month Event!! <33
Jason fell in love before he even knew what love was. Back when he was Robin, he'd saved you and you'd thrown yourself into his arms with a big hug. You'd even given him a little kiss as a thank you because you knew that's what you were supposed to do, thanks to all the Disney movies.
That night, Jason had started to keep a diary. Everything about you, every time he met you, as a civilian or Robin, every time you'd smiled at him, every time he'd saved you, even when you didn't need saving. Bruce knew he might have a little crush on you since he always kept your house on his patrol route. But Bruce didn't know how deep those feelings ever ran.
Bruce never had the heart to ever clean out Jason's old room so he never found that diary.
But here you were. Years and years later, packing boxes to move to your own house together.
Jason had come back, found you, and you'd started to build a life together.
You were sitting on the bed, one hand on your swollen belly, the other sorting through Jason's books and papers, seeing what to keep and what to leave behind. It was all going fine until you came across an old book with block letters saying DON'T READ!!
You laughed softly and leaned back into the pillows, opening a random page.
She was wearing purple today! She looked so pretty. I still can't believe we get to go to the same school!! She's not in my class but I get to see her at recess and off time.
You giggled and flipped to another page.
I got to save her today! B says that she wasn't in any danger but it doesn't matter. She thanked me and gave me a kiss.
I asked Bruce to do patrol near her house but he said we can't give preferences to our crushes. I think he's onto me.
"Babe?" You called out. Jason was hunched over some boxes and hummed for you to continue. "Is this from your Robin days?"
"What- Oh!" He lunged at you. "Close that! Don't read!"
You laughed, "Why?? Tell me about this mystery girl!"
"Give it-" He whined like a child. "It's embarrassing!"
"Nuh uh! Tell me who-" You opened a random page again, "She has the prettiest smile. I wanna ask B if this is what love feels like but I'm too embarrassed. Awww- Babe!! This is so cute!"
He groaned and fell face first into the bed. "You're so mean to me."
You ran a hand through his hair and chuckled. "Come on, Romeo. Spill it."
Jason took a deep breath. "It's you. You were my first love. My only." He mumbled, his face squished against the pillows.
"What?" You asked dumbly. "But I-" You flipped through more and more pages. "You were my Robin?" You whispered. "I don't know why but I always just thought it was Dick."
"Nah. It was me." He said shyly. "It's so dumb." He took the notebook from you, flipping through the pages, reminiscing. "Ah- This one- That's the day Alfred and B did an intervention." He showed you the page.
The lights went out during the museum trip today and she held my hand because she was scared.
"I refused to wash my hand and they had to force me into the bath." Jason chuckled.
"I remember that field trip." You smiled. "I wasn't really scared. I just wanted a reason to hold your hand."
"Really?" He sat up, eyes wide. You nodded.
"Look at us now." You reached for his hand again and he melted to your touch. "Married- Baby on the way-"
"I can't wait to tell her everything." He leaned down and kissed your tummy. "I've loved your mom for longer than I've been alive." He whispered to the baby, "And I'll love you just as much."
request dollvan if it's not too much trouble, i wanted to ask for more about tamaran gn reader x damian wayne, more like a scenario. i'll leave it all to your imagination
content aged up!damian wayne x tamaranean!reader, gn!reader, blood/injury, near death experience, mutual pining, slow burn (except im bad at slow burns), teammates to lovers, oblivious!reader, accidental courtship, dick grayson being a matchmaker, sparring as flirting
wordcount 9.9k
masterlist | damian masterlist
The first thing Damian noticed about you was that you were loud.
Not merely in volume, although your laughter did carry effortlessly across the training deck and shake loose the careful silence Damian preferred to cultivate around himself. You were loud in colour, in movement, in the way you seemed to take up space without ever apologising for it. Your hair burned like a living banner behind you when you flew, your eyes caught every fragment of light, and your skin held an undertone that seemed warmer than the sterile illumination of the Titans’ headquarters deserved.
You arrived beside Koriand’r with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a smile broad enough to suggest you had not yet been warned about him.
That was Nightwing’s fault.
Grayson had greeted you first, sweeping into the hangar with his arms spread as though you were a beloved cousin rather than an unknown Tamaranean warrior who had been invited to join Damian’s team with very little notice.
“You made it!” Dick exclaimed.
“I said that I would,” you replied, immediately catching him in a hug that lifted him several inches off the ground.
Dick laughed instead of defending himself. Typical.
Kori watched from nearby, radiant with amusement. “You must remember that humans are very easily compressed.”
“I am being gentle.”
“You are holding me like a stress toy,” Dick wheezed.
You placed him carefully back on his feet. “Was I successful in relieving the stress?”
“Honestly? A little.”
Damian stood several paces away with his arms folded over his chest, watching the display with a tightening jaw.
Beside him, Jon leaned closer.
“They seem nice,” Jon whispered.
Damian did not look at him. “That remains to be determined.”
“You say that about everybody.”
“Because everybody must be determined.”
Jon gave him a long look that Damian chose not to acknowledge.
The team had been expecting a new recruit, though Damian had received very little useful information beforehand. You were from Tamaran. You had previously worked alongside Kori during several diplomatic and humanitarian missions. You possessed the standard Tamaranean gifts of flight, immense strength, durability and starbolt projection, though Kori had warned them that your energy manifested differently from hers.
You were, according to Kori, “a brave and most affectionate friend.”
The word affectionate had concerned Damian immediately.
He did not dislike affection. He simply believed most people used it carelessly, like an untrained swordsman waving a blade in a crowded room. Grayson weaponised hugs. Kent leaned against people with the boneless entitlement of a house cat. Brown had once kissed the crown of Damian’s head after a mission and then fled before he could retaliate.
Affection created vulnerabilities.
It also created witnesses.
You turned towards the waiting team, your gaze moving curiously over each of them. The expression on your face was open and unguarded, but Damian did not mistake that for carelessness. Your stance was balanced. Your weight remained light on your feet. You had catalogued every exit within seconds of entering the room.
Then you looked at him.
Something in your expression brightened.
“You are Damian.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
“I have heard many things about you.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “From whom?”
“Richard.”
Dick made a sound that might have been a laugh and might have been the squeak of a man who had suddenly realised he had left classified documents in a public library.
Damian looked at him.
Dick smiled innocently.
Damian returned his attention to you. “Anything Grayson has told you should be treated with extreme scepticism.”
“That is similar to what Koriand’r says.”
Kori folded her arms. “It is because Richard enjoys making his stories more exciting.”
“I add flavour,” Dick protested.
“You add lies.”
“Colourful context.”
You laughed again, your eyes remaining on Damian. “Richard said that you are the fiercest warrior among the Titans.”
The compliment should not have affected him. It was merely an accurate observation. Even so, Damian felt the smallest shift beneath his ribs.
“He also said that you pretend not to care for anyone while caring so intensely that it causes you great emotional distress.”
The shift vanished.
Damian slowly turned his head.
Dick was already backing towards the exit.
“I’m going to let everyone get acquainted,” he announced. “Have fun. Don’t break anything expensive. Or, if you do, make sure Bruce thinks it was Gar.”
“You will not escape this conversation, Grayson.”
“Love you too, Dami.”
Damian’s glare followed him until the hangar doors closed.
When he faced you again, you were smiling.
Not mocking him, exactly. That would have been easier to handle. Your smile was softer than that, threaded with something warm and curious.
“I believe he cares for you very greatly,” you said.
“That has never prevented him from being insufferable.”
“On Tamaran, those qualities are not always considered opposites.”
Damian did not know how to respond to that. He settled for turning towards the training deck. “You will require an assessment before joining field operations.”
Jon groaned behind him. “They just got here.”
“And if they intend to remain here, they will demonstrate their capabilities.”
Your smile sharpened, suddenly bright with challenge. Green light began to gather around your hands. “Is the assessment combat?”
Damian paused.
For the first time since your arrival, he felt something dangerously close to approval.
“Yes.”
Your grin widened. “Wonderful.”
You put him through three reinforced walls.
In your defence, Damian put you through two.
The spar lasted just under nineteen minutes, which was significantly longer than most people lasted against him without outside interference. You moved with none of Kori’s elegant restraint. Your fighting style was brutal, fast and joyful, a collision of Tamaranean aerial combat and hand-to-hand techniques Damian did not recognise.
You did not merely endure being struck. You seemed delighted by the challenge of it.
Every time Damian adapted to your movements, you changed them. Every time you thought you had cornered him, he used the environment to create an opening. You fought in the air, across the ground, along walls and ceilings, leaving scorched metal and fractured concrete in your wake.
Damian landed on the edge of a broken platform, one hand gripping his sword, blood warm at the corner of his mouth.
You hovered opposite him, hair drifting around your face like fire beneath water. There was a bruise developing along your jaw. Your uniform was torn at the shoulder. Green energy flickered around your fingers.
You looked exhilarated. Damian suspected he did too.
“You are skilled,” he admitted.
Your eyes widened slightly, as if the praise meant more than he had intended. “You are magnificent.”
Jon, watching from behind a reinforced barrier with the others, made a choking sound.
Damian ignored him.
“You leave your left side exposed when launching your starbolts,” he continued. “A faster opponent could exploit it.”
You tilted your head. “You were unable to.”
“I was evaluating your endurance.”
“Of course.”
“Do not be smug.”
“I do not understand. Is this not the correct response when one has impressed their commander?”
“You have not impressed me.”
Behind the barrier, Raven coughed into her fist.
You looked past Damian towards the cratered training room. “Then I must improve.”
The challenge in your voice settled between you.
Damian raised his sword. “You must.”
You collided again before anyone could stop you.
By the end of your first week, Damian had established several facts.
You woke before dawn, but only because you enjoyed watching the sun rise from the highest available point. You hated artificial sweeteners, loved spicy food and considered coffee “a bitter punishment humans inflict upon themselves for failing to sleep correctly.” You were incapable of entering a room quietly despite possessing enough stealth training to infiltrate a secure alien warship.
You touched people constantly. A hand on Jon’s shoulder when you laughed. An arm linked through Raven’s when you walked. Your forehead pressed briefly to Kori’s in greeting. A hand curled around Jaime’s wrist when you wanted his attention. A full-body embrace for Gar whenever he transformed into something you considered particularly delightful.
Damian watched these interactions with increasing distrust.
Not jealousy. Distrust.
You were unfamiliar with Earth customs. Your behaviour could easily be misunderstood. Someone needed to ensure you did not inadvertently create complications for yourself or the team.
That was all.
Unfortunately, Damian was beginning to suspect that person would have to be him.
The issue came to a head during a routine mission briefing.
A weapons shipment had been intercepted near Jump City, containing technology traced to a Psion research facility. The Titans intended to investigate the warehouse where the shipment had originated, retrieve any remaining technology and determine whether the Psions themselves were operating on Earth.
You stood beside Damian at the central table, leaning over the holographic map. Your shoulder pressed against his. Your hair brushed the side of his face whenever you moved.
Damian attempted to ignore both details.
“The eastern entrance appears most heavily fortified,” you said.
“Which likely indicates either a decoy or the primary storage area.”
“Then we should enter there.”
“No. You and Kent will create a diversion on the western side while I enter through the roof.”
You frowned. “You wish to enter alone?”
“I am capable of doing so.”
“I do not question your capability. I question the wisdom.”
Damian lifted his eyes from the map. “Elaborate.”
“If the enemy expects us, they may have prepared for your methods. You are the leader. You would be the most desirable target.”
“I am aware.”
“Then I should accompany you.”
“You are our most visible member. Your presence would compromise the stealth approach.”
Your brows drew together. “I can be stealthy.”
“You knocked over three shelves while attempting to retrieve a glass of water last night.”
“The kitchen was dark.”
“You possess enhanced vision.”
“I was hungry.”
“That does not explain anything.”
“It explains much.”
Gar snorted from across the table. Damian’s glare silenced him.
You straightened, though you did not move away from Damian. “Then take Raven. Or Jaime. Do not go alone.”
“I have completed more dangerous infiltrations without assistance.”
“That does not make the choice less foolish.”
The room fell quiet.
Damian could feel the attention of the entire team turn towards them.
He should have been offended. Perhaps he was. Yet beneath the irritation was the inconvenient awareness that your concern was genuine. You were not challenging his authority for the pleasure of it. You were worried.
For him.
An unfamiliar pressure gathered in his chest.
“I will take Raven,” Damian said.
Your expression softened immediately. “Good.”
Before Damian could anticipate the movement, you placed one hand against the centre of his chest.
The contact lasted only a moment.
“Your life should be guarded as fiercely as you guard ours,” you said.
Then you turned back to the table and began discussing entry routes with Jon.
Damian remained perfectly still. He could feel the lingering warmth of your palm through the layers of his uniform.
Raven was staring at him.
“What?” Damian demanded.
Her mouth twitched. “Nothing.”
The mission was successful, though Damian found himself more distracted than he would ever admit. Twice, he caught himself monitoring your position despite knowing Kent was with you. Three times, he altered the formation to keep you closer to the centre. When one of the Psion drones struck you across the back, Damian crossed the warehouse fast enough that Raven later described it as “deeply alarming.”
The drone did not survive. Neither did the two behind it.
Afterwards, you cornered him in the medbay while he was attempting to treat a shallow cut along his ribs.
“You are injured.”
“It is superficial.”
“It is bleeding.”
“Those statements are not mutually exclusive.”
You approached with a medical kit. Damian stepped back.
“I am capable of tending to it myself.”
“I know.”
“Then leave.”
“No.”
Damian stared at you. You stared back.
Neither of you moved.
After several seconds, Damian realised you were prepared to continue doing this indefinitely.
He exhaled sharply and sat on the edge of the examination table. “You are remarkably stubborn.”
You smiled as you moved closer. “Koriand’r has told me this is why we are becoming friends.”
“We are teammates.”
“Yes.”
“That is not the same.”
“Not yet.”
Damian looked away before you could notice the brief, strange flutter those words caused.
You knelt to inspect the wound, your hands surprisingly careful as you peeled back the damaged edge of his uniform. Damian’s muscles tightened instinctively.
You noticed.
Your touch stopped immediately.
“May I?”
The question was simple. Quiet.
Damian looked down at you. Your eyes, usually so bright and fearless, held only patience. You were strong enough to tear through reinforced steel. You could have moved him without difficulty. Instead, you waited.
“Yes,” Damian said.
Your hands resumed their work.
You cleaned the cut with steady precision. Your fingertips were warm against his skin, almost feverishly so, but not unpleasant. Damian watched the concentration settle across your face. You treated the small wound with the gravity of a battlefield injury, checking twice for foreign material before applying a sterile dressing.
“You have received medical training,” he observed.
“All royal guards are taught basic healing practices.”
“You were a royal guard?”
“For a time.”
There was something in your voice he had not heard before. A closing door.
Damian understood closed doors. He did not press.
Instead, he said, “Your technique is adequate.”
You looked up at him, visibly pleased.
It was ridiculous how easily you accepted the scraps of approval he offered. It was more ridiculous that Damian began searching for additional ones.
“Thank you.”
You secured the dressing, then rested your palm briefly over it.
The gesture should not have felt intimate. It was practical. Meaningless.
Damian’s heartbeat disagreed.
You rose, remaining between his knees for half a second too long. Your face was close to his. Close enough for him to notice the faint gold scattered through the green of your eyes. Close enough to feel the warmth of your breath.
You smiled.
Then the medbay doors opened.
Jon stepped inside, took one look at the two of you and immediately stepped back out.
“Absolutely not,” Damian snapped.
The doors had already closed.
You glanced towards them. “Was he injured?”
“Only if he returns.”
Later that night, Damian travelled to Blüdhaven.
He did not tell anyone why. He did not need to. His visit to Grayson’s apartment was a tactical consultation. Nightwing possessed greater experience working alongside Tamaraneans, and Kori in particular. Damian needed to understand whether your behaviour indicated cultural misunderstandings that could compromise team cohesion.
That was the sole reason.
He entered through the window at half past midnight. Dick, who was sitting on the couch eating cereal directly from the box, barely flinched.
“You know,” Dick said, “most people use the door.”
“Most people lack imagination.”
“Most people also text before showing up.”
“You would have asked why I was coming.”
“And apparently that would’ve been a problem.”
Damian removed his cape and folded it over the back of a chair. Dick watched him with growing interest.
This was already intolerable.
“I require information.”
“Okay.”
“Regarding Tamaranean customs.”
Dick’s expression changed. It was subtle. A fraction of a second in which surprise became comprehension and comprehension became something far too delightful for Damian’s liking.
Dick placed the cereal box on the coffee table. “What kind of customs?”
“General ones.”
“That is wildly unspecific.”
“Social interactions. Displays of loyalty. Physical contact.”
Dick leaned back against the couch. “Oh.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Do not make that sound.”
“What sound?”
“That one.”
“I just said ‘oh.’”
“You said it suggestively.”
“I didn’t know a vowel could be suggestive.”
“You make everything suggestive. It is one of your least tolerable skills.”
Dick’s mouth twitched, but he managed to keep his expression almost neutral.
Almost.
“So,” Dick said slowly, “this is about our new Tamaranean teammate.”
“This is about maintaining professional boundaries within my team.”
“Obviously.”
“Your tone implies disbelief.”
“My tone is being supportive.”
“Your tone is being Grayson.”
Dick patted the couch beside him. “Sit down.”
“I will stand.”
“Then loom less aggressively.”
“I am not looming.”
“You broke into my apartment at midnight to ask about alien affection rituals.”
“I did not use the word affection.”
“You didn’t need to.”
Damian considered leaving. Unfortunately, that would mean admitting defeat.
He sat in the chair opposite Dick, posture rigid.
Dick studied him for another moment. There was amusement in his eyes, but something gentler beneath it. Damian mistrusted both equally.
“What exactly happened?” Dick asked.
“Nothing happened.”
“Great. That really narrows it down.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. “They touch everyone.”
“They’re Tamaranean.”
“I am aware.”
“Then why is that an issue?”
“It is not an issue.”
Dick waited. Damian hated when he did that. Grayson’s silences were worse than his questions. They created a space people felt compelled to fill.
Damian refused.
Dick waited longer.
Damian’s fingers tapped once against his knee.
“They touched my chest during a briefing,” he said at last. “They insist upon treating minor injuries. They stand unnecessarily close. They have referred to us as becoming friends despite insufficient evidence.”
Dick nodded solemnly. “Tragic.”
“Do you intend to be useful?”
“I’m trying. I’m just processing the horrors you’ve endured.”
“Grayson.”
“Okay. Tamaraneans are generally more physically affectionate than humans. Kori definitely is. Touch can be casual, friendly, familial, romantic or a combination that doesn’t map perfectly onto Earth customs.”
Damian absorbed that. “Meaning the behaviour cannot be interpreted without further context.”
“Exactly.”
“And what context would determine the nature of the interaction?”
Dick’s eyes gleamed. Damian recognised the warning too late.
“Well,” Dick said, “Tamaranean courtship tends to be very direct.”
Damian’s spine stiffened. “I did not ask about courtship.”
“No, but it helps to know the difference, right? Professionally.”
Damian should have left then. Instead, he said, “Continue.”
Dick’s expression became almost painfully innocent. “It varies. Tamaran’s a whole planet, not one culture, and Kori’s royal upbringing influenced a lot of what she was taught. But some gestures tend to carry more weight. Sharing food is significant. Especially fruit or sweet things.”
“Humans also share food.”
“Sure, but offering someone the best portion can be a sign of devotion. Warm food, too. Tamaraneans associate heat and sunlight with life, safety and home.”
Damian filed the information away. “Anything else?”
“Flying together.”
“That is hardly unusual for them.”
“Not just flying in formation. Inviting someone to fly with you for no reason. Sunrise flights are especially intimate.”
Damian frowned. “Why?”
“New beginnings. Shared warmth. Trusting someone beside you when the rest of the world is still asleep.”
Grayson’s voice had softened. Damian suspected he was recalling something.
“And combat?” Damian asked.
Dick smiled faintly. “Sparring can be flirtatious.”
“That is absurd.”
“Says the guy who communicates primarily through attempted murder.”
“I communicate clearly.”
“Yeah. With knives.”
Damian ignored him. “They spar with several members of the team.”
“But do they choose you when they have other options?”
Damian thought of the training deck. Your bright, challenging grin. The way your eyes followed him whenever he entered the room. “That proves nothing.”
“I didn’t say it proved anything.”
“You implied it.”
“Maybe you inferred it.”
Damian’s glare sharpened.
Dick raised his hands. “There are other things. Direct praise is important. Tamaraneans can be pretty emotionally open, so vague hints tend to get lost. Complimenting someone’s strength, courage, or appearance is meaningful.”
“They called me magnificent.”
Dick went very still.
Damian immediately regretted speaking.
“When?” Dick asked.
“After our initial assessment.”
“You fought for nineteen minutes and then they called you magnificent?”
“How do you know how long we fought?”
“Jon sent me the security footage.”
Damian made a mental note to dismember Kent.
Dick was visibly struggling not to smile. “Anything else happen?”
“No.”
“Damian.”
“They put me through three walls.”
“That might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for you.”
“This conversation is over.” Damian stood.
“Wait, wait.” Dick caught his wrist before he could leave. “I’m sorry. I’ll behave.”
“You have never behaved a day in your life.”
“True, but I can fake it for ten minutes.”
Damian looked at the hand on his wrist. Dick released him.
“There are ways to show respect without making assumptions,” Dick continued. “You could learn more about Tamaran. Ask about their home. Offer food. Invite them to train. Tamaraneans value honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable.”
“I am always honest.”
“You once claimed you weren’t worried about me while carrying me three miles with a bullet in your shoulder.”
“I was concerned about blood loss compromising the mission.”
“Whose blood loss?”
“Yours.”
“Right.”
Damian looked towards the window. The conversation had provided useful information. He saw no reason to remain.
“Damian,” Dick said before he could move. “One more thing.”
“What?”
“If a Tamaranean gives you jewellery or clothing in their family colours, that can be a pretty serious gesture.”
“I have no intention of exchanging clothing.”
“Good to know.”
“And I am not courting anyone.”
“I never said you were.”
Damian turned back.
Dick was smiling now, not mockingly. Warmly. It was somehow worse.
“I am ensuring a new member of my team feels understood,” Damian said.
“Of course.”
“That is all.”
“Absolutely.”
“Your agreement is suspicious.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“For what?”
“For caring enough to ask.”
Damian’s shoulders tightened. “I care about the effectiveness of my team.”
Dick’s smile did not change. “Sure, baby bird.”
Damian left through the window.
He ignored the laughter that followed him across the rooftops.
The following morning, you found a bowl of fresh fruit outside your door. Not the bruised apples and underripe bananas Gar had purchased during his last disastrous shopping trip. These were blood oranges, mangoes, pomegranates, starfruit and peaches, each one perfectly ripe.
A small card rested beside the bowl.
You turned it over. The handwriting was precise, angular and unmistakable.
The fruit currently stocked in the kitchen is nutritionally and morally offensive. Use these instead.
You read the note twice. Warmth spread through your chest.
On Tamaran, food was rarely a thoughtless gift. To feed someone was to recognise their continued existence as desirable. To choose fruit—sweetness grown beneath sunlight—and arrange it so carefully felt almost ceremonial.
You knew Earth customs differed. Damian was likely only being practical. Still, you carried the bowl to the common room as though it were made of gold.
Damian sat at the table, reviewing mission reports. His posture was as rigid as ever, his dark hair falling across his brow.
You placed the bowl beside him.
He glanced up. “You received it.”
“I did.”
“Good.”
You selected the ripest peach and held it out to him.
Damian stared at it.
“You should have the first taste,” you said.
Something changed in his expression. Not understanding, exactly. Caution.
“I purchased them for you.”
“And I am sharing them with you.”
“I have already eaten.”
“Then eat again.”
“That is not how nutrition works.”
You continued holding out the peach.
Damian looked at it, then at you. You smiled.
With the solemn air of a man accepting a blood oath, he took it.
You sat beside him and chose a pomegranate for yourself.
Across the room, Raven lowered her book. Her eyes moved from the fruit to Damian, then to you.
“Oh,” she said.
Damian looked at her sharply. “What?”
“Nothing.”
It was the same nothing she had offered in the medbay.
Damian disliked patterns he could not interpret. He disliked them more when they involved you.
The fruit became the first of many inexplicable changes.
Damian began inviting you to train with him in the mornings, claiming your aerial combat required refinement. The sessions occurred earlier and earlier until you found yourselves sparring beneath the pale gold of sunrise, the air cool against your skin as the city slowly woke below.
He did not fly, of course, but he learned to move with you.
Damian adapted grappling equipment so he could meet you in the air. He launched himself from rooftops, using momentum and precision to strike before disappearing again. You learned to predict the pull of his lines. He learned to read the shifts in your shoulders before you fired a starbolt.
It became a dance performed at dangerous heights.
Sometimes, when the fight ended, you remained above the city together. You hovered while Damian sat on the edge of a building, one knee raised, the rising sun turning the edges of his hair bronze.
During those moments, he seemed younger. Not childish. Damian was never childish, even when he had been a child. There had always been too much history behind his eyes. But the tension left him. The hard lines of his posture softened. He watched the sun emerge between the buildings with a quiet that felt different from his usual silence.
“You enjoy this,” you said one morning.
Damian glanced at you. “Training?”
“The sunrise.”
“It is adequate.”
You smiled. He scowled.
“You could simply admit that it is beautiful.”
“Beauty does not require my admission to exist.”
“No. But your admission would allow me to know you see it.”
Damian looked towards the horizon again. The sky burned orange and pink, spilling colour over the windows below. The city looked gentler in that light. Nearly innocent.
“It is beautiful,” he said.
The words came quietly.
You drifted closer until your boots touched the ledge beside him.
“Yes,” you replied, though you were no longer looking at the sky.
Damian continued offering you food. He brought spicy dishes from restaurants you had not yet discovered. He learned which Earth fruits you preferred and which reminded you of Tamaran. When you mentioned that one of Alfred’s desserts resembled something served during a Tamaranean festival, Damian demanded the recipe and spent an afternoon attempting to recreate it.
The first attempt was nearly inedible. The second was burned. The third was perfect.
Damian presented it without ceremony, setting the plate beside you while you reviewed footage from a previous mission.
You stared at the warm pastry. Then you looked at him.
“You made this.”
“It is not complex.”
“You were in the kitchen for four hours.”
“I was correcting Pennyworth’s inadequate instructions.”
“Alfred’s instructions are never inadequate,” Tim said from the other end of the communications link.
Damian reached forward and ended the call.
You picked up the pastry, feeling the warmth seep into your fingers.
“On Tamaran,” you said slowly, “this would be considered a gift of devotion.”
Damian froze.
For one brief, brilliant second, you wondered whether he understood what he had been doing.
Then his expression settled back into familiar certainty. “Grayson informed me that warm foods are culturally comforting.”
Of course. Richard. You should have known.
You took a bite to hide your smile.
The pastry was sweet and rich, spiced almost exactly like the ones made in your childhood home. Not perfect, perhaps, but close enough that memory rose in your throat. A courtyard beneath three moons. Music carrying over warm stone. Your oldest sibling stealing pastries from a ceremonial table and pushing one into your hands. Koriand’r laughing as you ran from the furious cook.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
Damian noticed. His posture changed at once.
“What is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You are crying.”
You touched your cheek. Your fingers came away wet. “So I am.”
Damian stepped closer. His expression was guarded, but concern moved clearly beneath it. “Is the food unpleasant?”
“No.” You laughed softly, even as another tear escaped. “It tastes like home.”
Damian’s face went still.
You had told him very little about leaving Tamaran. He knew there had been conflict. He knew you had served the royal family. He knew returning was presently impossible.
He never pushed.
Now his gaze lowered to the pastry in your hands. “I see.”
You reached for him without thinking. Your fingers closed around his wrist.
Damian did not pull away.
“This is a precious gift,” you said. “Thank you.”
The pulse beneath your fingertips beat faster.
“You are welcome.” His voice was quieter than usual.
You remained like that for several seconds, your hand around his wrist, his body close enough to share warmth.
Then Tim’s face reappeared on the monitor.
“I’m not saying I hacked back into the call,” he said, “but the silence got suspicious.”
Damian threw a knife at the screen.
You began to laugh so hard that your tears no longer felt painful.
The team noticed.
Of course they noticed. The Titans might have respected Damian’s authority, but they had never respected his privacy.
Jon noticed the early training sessions and began smiling whenever Damian mentioned your name. Raven noticed the food and started leaving the common room whenever the two of you entered together, claiming she “did not consent to being trapped in the emotional radius.” Gar noticed Damian allowed you to touch his shoulder without threatening amputation. Jaime noticed that your uniform had gradually gained dark green accents matching Damian’s.
That last detail was not Damian’s fault. Your original uniform had been damaged during a mission. Damian had offered to redesign the replacement because the construction was inefficient and insufficiently armoured.
He spent three nights working on it. The final design incorporated Tamaranean materials with reinforced Earth technology. It allowed for unrestricted flight while offering additional protection across the ribs, shoulders and spine. The dark green sections were chosen because they best concealed damage from energy discharge.
That was what Damian told himself.
You stepped onto the training deck wearing it for the first time, the black and green fitting close to your body, gold fastenings catching the light. Your hair was braided away from your face. You turned slowly, examining the way the material moved.
Damian forgot what he had intended to say.
You looked powerful. That was not new. You always looked powerful.
This was different. The colours made you appear as though you belonged beside him. Not behind him. Not beneath his command.
Beside him.
Your eyes met his. “What do you think?”
Damian’s mouth was suddenly dry. “The armour is functional.”
Gar made a wounded noise from the observation deck.
You tilted your head. “Only functional?”
“It fits correctly.”
“Damian,” Jon muttered. “Come on.”
Damian ignored him.
You smiled, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed your face.
He hated it immediately.
“The colours suit you,” Damian added. “You look…”
Magnificent.
The word rose unbidden. He remembered you saying it to him after your first fight, blood on your mouth and delight in your eyes.
“You look formidable,” he finished.
Your uncertainty vanished. Warmth spread across your face. Tamaraneans did not blush exactly as humans did, but your skin gained a faint glow, as though light had gathered beneath it.
Damian stared.
Behind the glass, Raven covered Gar’s mouth before he could make another sound.
You stepped closer.
“On Tamaran, wearing another’s colours can signify alliance,” you said.
“That is appropriate. You are a member of my team.”
“It may also signify loyalty to a chosen family.”
Damian’s chest tightened.
“You are a member of my team,” he repeated, though the words sounded different now.
Softer.
You looked at him for a long moment.
“Yes,” you said. “I am.”
Then you embraced him.
Damian went rigid.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders. Your body was warm against his, your strength carefully restrained. The clean scent of your hair surrounded him, something bright and unfamiliar that reminded him of sun-heated flowers.
Every instinct told him to move.
He did not.
Slowly, uncertainly, Damian placed one hand against your back.
You held him tighter.
The observation deck erupted.
Gar cheered. Jon shouted something unintelligible. Jaime slapped both hands against the glass. Raven simply closed her eyes, as if the emotional noise had become physically painful.
Damian stepped away from you at once and turned towards them. “You have five seconds to evacuate.”
They disappeared in three.
You laughed against his shoulder before releasing him.
After that, the rumours became unbearable.
Damian ignored them with the discipline of a trained assassin. You remained blissfully unaware. Or perhaps not unaware. You understood that the others believed there was something between you and Damian. What you did not understand was why this was considered humorous.
Something did exist between you. Trust. Loyalty. A growing collection of sunrise memories and shared meals. The knowledge of how Damian’s footsteps sounded when he was angry versus merely irritated. The awareness that he slept poorly after missions involving children. The fact that he preferred jasmine tea but drank black coffee when he wanted others to believe he was not tired.
You knew he sharpened his swords when anxious. He knew you sang quietly when homesick. You knew he fed every stray animal within three streets of the headquarters. He knew you kept a piece of red stone from Tamaran beneath your pillow.
Something existed between you, and it felt far too precious to be reduced to the team’s teasing.
You simply did not realise it was love. Not yet.
Damian’s realisation came during a mission six months after your arrival.
It was not gentle. There was no sunrise. No shared fruit. No warm laughter or quiet touch.
There was only blood.
The Titans had been dispatched to stop an alien vessel descending over the Atlantic. The ship carried mercenaries trafficking stolen technology and living weapons between systems. Their shields resisted most external attacks, forcing the team to board while the vessel was still moving.
The mission deteriorated almost immediately. Gravity shifted without warning. Communications failed. The interior corridors separated, sealing members of the team into different sections.
Damian found himself beside you in the engine chamber, surrounded by armed mercenaries.
Under ordinary circumstances, the odds would have been insulting.
Then the vessel activated a red-sun emitter. The effect on Jon was immediate, wherever he was. The effect on you was slower but no less dangerous. Tamaranean abilities came from absorbed ultraviolet radiation. The weapon did not strip your strength entirely, but Damian watched your flight falter. Your starbolts dimmed.
You landed heavily beside him.
“Can you fight?” Damian asked.
You rolled one shoulder, breath unsteady. “I can always fight.”
There was no time to argue.
The mercenaries attacked.
Damian moved without hesitation, blades flashing beneath the emergency lights. You fought beside him with your remaining strength, no longer able to fly but still powerful enough to break armour with your hands.
The two of you had trained together for months. You knew each other’s rhythms. Damian ducked before your elbow passed over his head. You turned before he warned you, catching the enemy attempting to strike from behind. He used your shoulder as a platform, launching himself into the air. You caught him by the waist when the gravity shifted again.
For several minutes, you were unstoppable.
Then Damian saw the weapon aimed at him. It was Psion technology, compact and ugly, its centre burning with contained red energy.
He calculated the angle.
Too close to evade. Too powerful to block.
Damian raised his sword anyway.
You struck him from the side.
The blast hit you instead.
Your body arched. For one frozen second, green and red light burned through the room.
Then you fell.
Something inside Damian broke open.
He did not remember crossing the distance to the shooter. He did not remember what happened to the remaining mercenaries. Later, Raven would tell him that she felt his rage from three sections away. Jon would say Damian moved like he wanted to tear the entire ship apart with his hands.
When Damian returned to himself, he was kneeling beside you.
Your eyes were closed. There was a blackened wound across your chest, the edges glowing faintly beneath torn armour. Your skin had gone cold.
Tamaraneans were never cold.
“No.”
The word left Damian before he could stop it.
He pressed his hands around the wound, though he knew pressure would do little against an energy injury.
“Open your eyes.”
You did not move.
Damian’s heartbeat thundered against his ribs.
He had seen death too many times. He knew its shapes. He knew the slackness of a body no longer occupied, the terrible absence that arrived before anyone was willing to name it.
He looked at you and saw every sunrise you would never witness. Every argument left unfinished. Every word he had refused to say because he believed there would always be more time.
The truth entered him like a blade.
He loved you.
It was not new. That was the worst part. The love had been there for months, growing quietly beneath every offering and every touch, beneath every spar and shared meal. Damian had mistaken it for responsibility because responsibility was safer. He had called it loyalty because loyalty demanded nothing from him that he did not already know how to give.
But this was not the love he offered his team.
This was terror sharpened into longing. This was the unbearable knowledge that the world would be altered beyond repair if you left it.
Damian bent over you, one bloodied hand cradling the side of your face. “Do not do this.”
His voice cracked. He despised it.
He would have allowed the entire universe to hear him break if it meant you opened your eyes.
“You will not die for me.” Nothing. “Do you understand? I forbid it.”
Your face remained still beneath his hand.
Damian lowered his forehead to yours. The gesture was Tamaranean. He had seen you exchange it with Kori, a greeting shared between those bound by trust. You had never done it with him.
Perhaps you had been waiting for permission. Perhaps he had waited too long.
“I was not ready,” Damian whispered. “I did not know.”
A weak sound escaped you.
Damian stopped breathing.
Your fingers moved against the floor.
Then your eyes opened.
The green within them was faint, but alive.
“You are… very loud,” you murmured.
Damian closed his eyes. Relief struck so violently that it was almost pain.
“You are insufferable.”
Your mouth curved weakly. “Yes.”
He lifted his head and activated his communicator. “Raven. Respond.”
Static cracked through the channel.
Then her voice emerged. “We have control of the bridge. Jon is injured but stable.”
“I require immediate medical support in the engine chamber.”
Raven heard something in his voice. Her reply came faster. “We’re coming.”
You tried to sit up.
Damian pressed you back down. “Do not move.”
“We must disable the engine.”
“It has already been done.”
“When?”
Damian glanced towards the ruined control system, a sword embedded through its centre. “While you were unconscious.”
“You destroyed it.”
“It was inefficient.”
“You are angry.”
“I am considering several forms of murder.”
“Of me?”
“Particularly of you.”
Your smile faded. “You would have been killed.”
“That was my risk to assess.”
“You are my commander.”
“I am not asking as your commander.”
The words escaped before Damian could contain them.
You stared up at him. Damian stared back. The room seemed to narrow around you.
Your gaze moved over his face as though searching for something he was no longer capable of hiding.
“Then what are you asking as?”
Footsteps thundered in the corridor beyond the sealed door.
The team was approaching.
Damian could have answered. He should have answered. Instead, fear rose in a form he knew too well: not fear of battle or injury, but exposure. The kind that came from placing something vital into another person’s hands and trusting them not to crush it.
His jaw tightened.
“As your friend,” he said.
Something in your expression dimmed. It was small, nearly invisible beneath the pain.
Damian saw it anyway.
The doors opened before either of you could speak again.
The medical team carried you away.
Damian remained standing in the engine chamber with your blood on his hands.
Recovery took three weeks. The blast had disrupted your body’s ability to process solar energy. Kori stayed for the first several days, hovering protectively near your bed while the medical staff created a concentrated ultraviolet treatment.
Damian visited every day. He never stayed long.
He brought food, mission reports and books you had once mentioned wanting to read. He adjusted the blinds so sunlight reached your bed in the afternoon. He replaced the red stone from Tamaran after it went missing during the destruction of your quarters.
He did not mention the engine room. Neither did you.
The silence between you changed. Before, it had been comfortable, filled with all the things neither of you needed to say. Now it felt like a wall Damian had built and regretted before the mortar dried.
You remained kind to him.
That made it worse. You thanked him for the gifts. You listened while he updated you on the team. You smiled when he criticised the medical staff’s security protocols. But you stopped touching him.
No hand on his wrist. No shoulder against his during briefings. No thoughtless embrace when he brought something that made you happy.
Damian discovered, with growing horror, how accustomed he had become to your affection. Its absence followed him everywhere.
On the fourth day after your release from the medbay, Damian returned to Blüdhaven. This time, he used the door.
Dick opened it wearing sweatpants and an expression of immediate concern.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Damian walked past him.
Dick closed the door. For once, he did not make a joke.
Damian stood in the centre of the apartment, fists clenched at his sides.
Grayson waited.
“I require advice,” Damian said.
“Okay.”
“You deliberately misled me.”
Dick blinked. “That could refer to a lot of things.”
“The fruit. The sunrise training. The food. The colours.”
Understanding crossed Dick’s face. “Oh.”
“Do not make that sound.”
“Sorry.”
“You instructed me to court them.”
“I gave you ways to make them feel welcome.”
“You knew how those actions might be interpreted.”
“I did.”
Damian turned on him. “Why?”
Dick did not retreat. “Because you liked them.”
“I did not know that.”
“I know.”
“That does not justify manipulating me.”
“No,” Dick said. “It doesn’t.”
The immediate agreement disrupted Damian’s anger.
Dick sighed and leaned against the counter. “I’m sorry. Really. I thought you’d figure it out faster.”
“That was your first mistake.”
“Apparently.”
“And your second?”
“Underestimating how stubborn both of you are.”
Damian looked away.
The city lights filled the windows, blurred gold against the night.
“They nearly died.”
“I heard.”
“I thought they had.”
His voice came out lower than he intended.
Dick’s expression softened.
Damian hated pity. This was not pity. That almost made it harder.
“I realised,” Damian continued. “In the engine room.”
“That you love them.”
The words settled into the apartment.
Damian did not deny them.
Dick drew a slow breath. “Did you tell them?”
“They asked what I was speaking as.”
“And?”
“I said a friend.” Dick closed his eyes. “I panicked,” Damian snapped.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face has always been expressive.”
“It is a character flaw.”
Dick approached carefully, stopping within arm’s reach. “Why did you say that?”
Damian’s laugh held no humour. “Because they were bleeding out beneath my hands and I had only just understood that I loved them. Because the possibility that they might not return the sentiment felt like another wound I was ill-equipped to survive.”
Dick remained silent.
Damian’s throat tightened. “They have stopped touching me.”
“Oh, Dami.”
“Do not.”
“I wasn’t going to hug you.”
“You were considering it.”
“I’m always considering it.”
Damian glared at him.
Dick’s mouth twitched, but the humour quickly faded.
“You hurt them,” he said gently.
“I am aware.”
“But you can fix it.”
“How?”
“Honesty.”
Damian scoffed.
“I’m serious. You can’t strategy your way around this.”
“Everything can be approached strategically.”
“Love can’t.”
“Then it is poorly designed.”
“Extremely.”
Damian paced towards the window. “What if they do not feel the same?”
“Then it’ll hurt.”
“Remarkably useless advice.”
“It’s the truth.”
Damian’s shoulders went rigid.
Dick moved to stand beside him.
“But,” Dick continued, “I’ve seen them look at you.”
Damian stared out at the city. “How?”
“Like you hung the sun.”
Damian’s chest tightened. “That is melodramatic.”
“They’re Tamaranean. Melodrama is part of the charm.”
“You dated Kori.”
“I did.”
“And you allowed that relationship to end.”
Dick’s expression shifted. Pain passed through it, old and familiar. “Yes.”
“Then why should I trust your advice?”
“Because sometimes loving someone and building a life with them aren’t the same skill. Because timing matters. Because people change. Because Kori and I loved each other, and part of loving each other was eventually accepting that we weren’t meant to keep hurting ourselves trying to fit into the same future.”
Damian looked at him.
Dick smiled sadly. “I don’t regret loving her. I only regret the times I let fear speak for me.”
The words struck too close.
Damian looked away again. “What should I do?”
Dick’s smile returned, gentler now. “Tell them everything.”
“That is an unreasonable amount of information.”
“Start with the important part.”
“And what would that be?”
“That you weren’t acting as their friend in the engine room.”
Damian’s jaw tightened.
Dick nudged his shoulder. “And maybe apologise for accidentally courting them for six months without realising it.”
“I will not describe it that way.”
“They might.”
“They would be correct.”
Dick’s brows rose.
Damian scowled. “Do not look pleased.”
“I’m always pleased when you demonstrate emotional growth.”
“I could still push you from this window.”
“There’s my baby brother.”
Damian did not hug him before leaving.
He did, however, pause at the door. “Grayson.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
Dick smiled. “Anytime.”
You were on the roof when Damian returned.
The sky above Titans Tower was clear, the stars faint beneath the city’s glow. You sat near the edge with your knees drawn to your chest, your hair moving slowly in the warm night wind.
Damian approached without attempting stealth.
You heard him anyway.
“You went to Blüdhaven,” you said.
“Yes.”
“To speak with Richard?”
“Yes.”
“About Tamaraneans?”
Damian stopped beside you. “About one Tamaranean.”
You looked up.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then you turned back towards the sky.
Damian sat beside you, leaving a careful distance between your bodies. It felt enormous.
“I owe you an explanation,” he said.
“You owe me nothing.”
“That is untrue.”
Your hands tightened around your knees.
Damian forced himself to continue. “Grayson informed me of several Tamaranean customs shortly after you joined the team.” You glanced towards him. “He told me that sharing fruit, offering warm food, flying at sunrise and wearing another’s colours could have cultural significance.”
Understanding spread slowly across your face. “Oh.”
“Yes.”
You looked down at the green sections of your uniform. “Did you know?”
“Not precisely.”
“You did those things because he told you to.”
“At first.”
The words left Damian quickly.
You went still.
He looked at you fully. “At first, I intended only to make you feel welcome. I believed understanding your culture would improve your integration into the team.”
“That is very romantic.”
“It was not intended to be.”
“I know.”
Your voice was soft.
Damian pressed his palms against the rooftop. He had faced gods with steadier nerves.
“I continued because I wanted to.” Your gaze lifted to his. “I sought out food you would enjoy because your happiness became…” He paused, hating every inadequate word available to him. “Necessary to me.”
Your expression changed.
Damian continued before courage abandoned him. “I trained with you at sunrise because those hours were the only time I had your attention entirely to myself. I redesigned your uniform in my colours because the sight of you wearing them satisfied something possessive and irrational within me.”
A breathless sound escaped you.
Damian’s face heated. He persisted. “I did not understand the nature of these feelings until the mission.”
“The engine room.”
“Yes.” His voice lowered. “I believed you were dead.”
You turned towards him completely.
Damian looked down at his hands. “When you asked what I was speaking as, I lied.”
“You said you were speaking as my friend.”
“I was afraid.”
“You are never afraid.”
“I am frequently afraid. I have merely been trained not to display it.”
You watched him in silence.
Damian’s heartbeat felt violent enough to bruise. “I was speaking as someone who loves you,” he said.
The world did not end. The roof remained beneath him. The stars remained distant. The city continued moving far below, indifferent to the fact that Damian had just removed his heart from behind his ribs and placed it between you.
You stared at him.
Damian’s mouth tightened. “If you do not return the sentiment, I will accept that. Our professional relationship need not be compromised. I only ask that you—”
You moved.
One moment, you were sitting an arm’s length away.
The next, your hands were against his face and your mouth was on his.
Damian forgot every prepared sentence.
The kiss was warm, almost unbearably so. Tamaranean heat sank through his skin, sunlight given shape. Your fingers curved carefully along his jaw. You kissed him with the same openness you brought to everything else, without hesitation or disguise.
Damian’s hands hovered uselessly for half a second.
Then he caught your waist and pulled you closer.
You made a soft sound against his mouth. It travelled through him like electricity.
Damian had been kissed before. He understood the mechanics. He understood breath, angle, pressure and the chemical reactions associated with physical intimacy.
None of that knowledge prepared him for you. You tasted faintly of the spiced tea you drank at night. Your hair brushed his hands. The heat of your body surrounded him as you shifted closer, one knee pressing against his thigh.
Damian kissed you until breathing became unavoidable.
When you separated, your forehead rested against his. The gesture he had offered in the engine room.
Trust. Recognition. Home.
“You are a fool,” you whispered.
Damian’s eyes opened. “That is not the response I anticipated.”
“I have been in love with you for months.”
His grip tightened around your waist. “You said nothing.”
“You said we were teammates.”
“You could have corrected me.”
“I believed you did not feel the same.”
“I prepared Tamaranean pastries from memory.”
“You also threatened to remove Gar’s spleen for eating the last dumpling.”
“That was justified.”
You laughed, and the sound broke through the final tension between you.
Damian stared at your face, at the glow beneath your skin, at the joy he had nearly convinced himself he would never be permitted to cause.
“When did you know?” he asked.
You considered. “Perhaps when you gave me the fruit.”
“That was the first week.”
“Perhaps before that.”
“Our initial spar?”
“You looked very beautiful while bleeding.”
Damian blinked.
You smiled. “On Tamaran, this is a reasonable observation.”
“It is a reasonable observation anywhere.”
“Then you agree?”
“That I am beautiful?”
“Yes.”
“Objectively.”
Your laughter grew louder.
Damian allowed himself to smile.
Your eyes widened. “You should do that more often.”
“I smile frequently.”
“No.”
“I do.”
“You bare your teeth in warning.”
“That is a type of smile.”
“It is a threat.”
“The concepts are not mutually exclusive.”
You touched your nose to his. Damian’s breath caught at the tenderness of it.
“Richard knew,” you said.
“Grayson suspected.”
“He arranged this.”
“He interfered.”
“He helped.”
“He manipulated us for his amusement.”
“He gave you courtship instructions.”
“Without adequate disclosure.”
“You followed them very faithfully.”
“I was attempting to be culturally sensitive.”
“You invited me to watch the sunrise every morning.”
“For combat.”
“You fed me by hand after I injured my wrist.”
“You were incapable of holding a fork.”
“You gave me your colours.”
“They provide tactical camouflage.”
“Damian.”
He looked at you. Your expression was bright with fondness.
Damian exhaled.
“I courted you,” he admitted.
“Yes.”
“Accidentally.”
“Only at first.”
The accuracy of that statement settled warmly inside him.
Damian lifted one hand to your face. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, following the faint line where your skin glowed brighter. “I would like to continue,” he said.
“Continue what?”
“Courting you.”
Your smile softened. “This time intentionally?”
“Yes.”
“And what does intentional courtship look like for Damian Wayne?”
He considered. “More efficient.”
You laughed again.
Damian’s mouth curved. “It would involve honesty,” he added. “Shared meals. Training. Regular opportunities for flight.”
“You do not fly.”
“I am capable of using a jetpack.”
“That is not the same.”
“It is safer.”
“For you, perhaps.”
“And,” Damian continued, “I would attempt to express my feelings before either of us is critically injured.”
“That seems wise.”
“I would also prefer that you refrain from intercepting weapons intended for me.”
“I cannot promise that.”
“Then this relationship is already experiencing conflict.”
You leaned into his hand. “On Tamaran, conflict is not considered the opposite of love.”
“So you have said.”
“It can make love stronger.”
“Within reason.”
“Of course.”
“And if you nearly die again, I will personally revive you in order to kill you myself.”
“That is the most romantic thing you have said tonight.”
“It was not intended to be.”
“I know.”
You kissed him again.
This time, Damian was ready. He wrapped his arms around you as you lifted from the rooftop, your body rising easily into the night. His feet left the ground, but he did not look down.
You held him securely, one arm around his waist while your other hand remained against his cheek.
The city spread beneath you.
Damian had travelled through the air in countless ways. Grappling lines. Aircraft. Jetpacks. The arms of Kryptonians who made jokes about his weight. This felt different. There was no engine, no metal, no line tethering him to the earth.
Only you.
“Do you trust me?” you asked.
The wind pulled at his cape.
Damian looked into your eyes. “Yes.”
You smiled and carried him higher. The tower became small below. The city lights blurred into constellations, streets transformed into glowing rivers. The air cooled as you climbed, but your body remained warm against his.
At the edge of the clouds, you stopped.
The moonlight touched your face. Damian understood then why flying together carried such meaning. It was not merely the height. It was the surrender. The willingness to leave solid ground and trust another person to hold you above the world.
You turned slowly through the air, allowing him to see the ocean stretching black and endless beyond the city.
“It is beautiful,” Damian said.
You looked at him. “Yes.”
He recognised the echo of your first sunrise together. This time, he did not pretend you were speaking about the view.
Damian leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours.
Your eyes closed.
On the roof below, hidden behind an industrial ventilation unit, several heads appeared.
Jon grinned so broadly his face had to hurt. Gar was recording until Raven lowered his phone with her powers. Jaime whispered something that made them all duck when Damian glanced towards the tower.
He could not see them clearly from this distance. He did not need to.
Damian sighed. “We have an audience.”
You looked down. The team scattered with all the subtlety of startled pigeons.
Your laughter rolled across the clouds. “Should we return?”
“No.” Damian tightened his arms around you. “Let them wait.”
You smiled. “As my commander orders.”
“I am not speaking as your commander.”
“No?”
Damian kissed you beneath the moon, held aloft by green fire and the strength of your arms.
“No,” he murmured against your mouth. “Not this time.”
Dick received a message at six the following morning. It contained no greeting.
You interfered in my personal affairs without permission. Your methods were manipulative, presumptuous and intolerable. If you attempt anything similar again, I will expose the location of your emergency snack reserves to Todd.
A second message arrived before Dick could respond.
They have agreed to intentional courtship.
Dick smiled down at his phone.
Kori, sitting across from him in the twenty-four-hour diner they had chosen for breakfast, leaned forward. “Is it Damian?”
“Yeah.”
“And our friend?”
“Apparently, they’ve agreed to intentional courtship.”
Kori’s face lit with delight. “I knew they would be well matched.”
Dick laughed. “Damian thinks this was all my idea.”
“It was.”
“Okay, it was mostly my idea.”
Kori reached across the table and stole a strawberry from his plate. “You told him of Tamaranean courtship traditions?”
“I told him enough.”
“And did you tell him that many of the traditions you described are primarily associated with royal courtship?”
Dick paused. “No.”
Kori smiled serenely. “Then Damian has accidentally been courting them with the intensity of a Tamaranean prince.”
Dick stared at her. Then he began to laugh so hard that the waitress looked concerned.
Across the city, Damian stood in the headquarters kitchen, preparing breakfast while you sat on the counter beside him.
You wore his sweatshirt over your uniform.
Not a similar sweatshirt.
His. The dark green fabric hung loosely from your shoulders, the sleeves falling past your wrists. You had taken it after returning from your flight and shown no intention of giving it back.
Damian found that he did not mind.
He placed a plate of cut fruit beside you. You selected a piece of mango and held it towards him. Damian accepted it without complaint.
Then you leaned down and kissed him, sweet and brief, your fingers curling beneath his chin.
Behind you, the kitchen doors slid open.
Jon stepped inside. He stopped.
Damian’s hand moved towards the nearest knife. Jon slowly backed out. The doors closed again.
You smiled against Damian’s mouth. “He will tell the others.”
“They already know.”
“Richard will be pleased.”
“Grayson’s happiness is irrelevant.”
“Will you tell him that?”
“I already have.”
You laughed and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Damian stepped between your knees, his hands settling at your waist.
Morning light poured through the kitchen windows, gilding the edge of your hair. The sight of you still struck him with an intensity he was learning not to resist.
For most of his life, Damian had understood love as a duty. It was standing guard. Sharpening weapons. Memorising injuries. Knowing which exits to use and which enemies to kill. Love was vigilance, sacrifice and the promise that no harm would reach the people under his protection without passing through him first.
You had taught him another shape. Love could be fruit left outside a door. A ruined recipe attempted three times. A sunrise watched from the edge of a roof. Love could be laughter after battle, a hand offered before touching, a body carried safely through open air. It could be green fire burning above a sleeping city. It could be the terrifying, impossible choice to be known.
You rested your forehead against his.
“Where are you?” you asked softly.
Damian understood the question. Not where his body stood, but where his thoughts had gone.
“Here,” he said.
Your smile warmed. “Good.”
Damian kissed you again as the sun rose over the horizon. Intentional courtship, he decided, was not significantly different from accidental courtship.
The food remained. The training remained. The stolen clothing, shared flights and direct praise remained. The primary difference was that now, when you called him magnificent, he kissed you instead of pretending the word meant nothing.
And when Damian looked at you as though you had hung the sun, he no longer looked away before you could notice.
a completely harmless amount of power - damian wayne
request anon could you please maybe do damian wayne x reader where they're low key all powerful but constantly insists they're not evil and the hero teams can trust her like queen whateveriwannabe from the lego movie (request so key inspired by her song not evil totally go give it a listen if you wanna get in the headspace) even they totally sound like they're lying about being completely innocent and trustworthy they're not and literally just tone deaf 🥲
content aged up!damian wayne x gender neutral!reader, cosmic entity reader kinga, mutual pining, oblivious reader, sorta crack, slightly ooc damian sorry, mild violence, psychic attacks, temporary memory loss, existential/cosmic horror imagery, threats of reality destruction played for humour, brief fear of death, near-sacrifice, injury/recovery, mentions of kidnapping/forced marriage as jokes
wordcount 7.9k
masterlist | damian masterlist
The first thing you said upon entering the Justice League Watchtower was, “Before anyone becomes alarmed, I would like to make it explicitly clear that I am not evil.”
Every person seated around the conference table became alarmed.
Batman’s expression did not noticeably change, but the muscles beneath his cowl tightened by a fraction. Superman’s shoulders drew back. Wonder Woman’s hand shifted closer to the golden lasso hanging at her hip. The Flash stopped tapping his fingers against the table.
Damian, standing at his father’s right shoulder, merely stared at you.
You stood at the opposite end of the room with your hands folded neatly in front of you. You had arrived without triggering the Watchtower’s alarms, without using a Boom Tube, and apparently without requiring oxygen. The enormous observation windows behind you framed the curve of the Earth in brilliant blue, making the edges of your silhouette shimmer like something cut from the fabric of the universe itself.
Your clothing looked harmless enough. Soft trousers, boots with silver buckles, a loose shirt beneath an embroidered coat that seemed to change colour depending on the angle of the light. There were stars woven into the cuffs.
Actual stars, Damian suspected.
They pulsed.
“I understand,” you continued, with the solemn patience of someone explaining a simple concept to particularly nervous children, “that appearing unannounced within your fortified orbital headquarters could be interpreted as threatening.”
“You think?” Green Lantern muttered.
You smiled at him. “Yes. That is why I am clarifying my intentions before anyone makes an unfortunate decision.”
There was a faint creak as Superman’s chair shifted beneath the sudden tension in his posture.
You glanced around the table and added, “An unfortunate decision such as attacking me, which would force me to defend myself and potentially erase this entire station from the timeline.”
Silence descended.
The stars on your cuffs twinkled cheerfully.
You tilted your head. “But I would not enjoy doing that.”
“That,” the Flash said slowly, “did not make it better.”
You frowned, genuinely troubled. “It did not?”
“No,” Batman said.
“I see.” You looked down at your hands, considering. “Perhaps I should have begun with the baked goods.”
A plate appeared on the conference table. It did not teleport in. It did not shimmer into existence or emerge from a portal. Reality simply seemed to remember that there had always been a plate of iced biscuits sitting between Batman’s files and Green Lantern’s elbow.
The Flash recoiled hard enough to nearly tip over his chair.
“They are not poisoned,” you said quickly. Green Lantern leaned away from them. “They also do not contain any parasitic organisms, mind-altering spores, concealed tracking devices, or fragments of my consciousness.”
Green Lantern leaned farther away.
You looked helplessly at Superman. “I am making it worse again.”
“A little,” Superman admitted.
Damian pressed his lips together. It took considerable effort.
His father turned his head slightly. Damian knew that look. It was the silent warning Bruce had used since Damian was ten years old and discovered that openly mocking frightened diplomats was considered impolite.
Damian was not mocking you.
Not yet.
He was, however, beginning to suspect that you were the strangest person he had ever encountered.
Considering the company he kept, that was almost impressive.
Batman placed both gloved hands on the table. “Start again. Who are you?”
You straightened, apparently grateful to be given a question with a clear answer.
You spoke your name.
The lights flickered.
Somewhere beneath Damian’s boots, the Watchtower groaned as if the metal itself recognised the sound.
You winced. “Apologies. Your current reality is somewhat sensitive to my full designation.”
“What are you?” Wonder Woman asked.
“That is more complicated.”
“Try us,” Green Lantern said.
You glanced at him. “Once, before the first stars formed, there was a thought.” Green Lantern closed his eyes. You continued, oblivious. “The thought became lonely, and therefore divided itself so it might have someone with whom to converse. One half became time. The other half became possibility.”
Damian watched your expression rather than listening to the quiet calculations happening around the room. You did not appear proud. You did not appear threatening. If anything, you seemed faintly embarrassed, as though your ancestry were an inconvenient childhood story your parents insisted on telling at dinner.
“Which half are you?” Superman asked.
“Possibility. Mostly.”
“Mostly?” the Flash echoed.
“I misplaced several pieces of myself during the collapse of the Seventh Continuum.”
The Flash stared at you.
You added, “I recovered most of them.”
Damian’s mouth twitched.
Your gaze immediately snapped toward him.
For an instant, the entirety of your attention settled over Damian like the gravity of a star. The room remained unchanged, but he could feel the weight of you—the vastness concealed beneath skin, cloth, and carefully folded hands.
“You are amused,” you said.
It was not an accusation. You sounded fascinated.
Damian lifted his chin. “Your attempts at reassurance require improvement.”
“I practised.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“I stood before a mirror for three hours.”
That did it.
A quiet sound escaped Damian before he could stop it. Not quite a laugh, but close enough that every person at the table looked at him.
His father’s stare became distinctly disapproving.
You brightened. It was a small change, but impossible to miss. Your entire face softened, delight blooming across it like dawn breaking over a dead planet.
“Oh,” you said. “You find me funny.”
“I find your lack of self-awareness astonishing.”
“Is that similar?”
“No.”
“Perhaps it could become similar with time.”
Damian narrowed his eyes. You smiled at him.
Batman deliberately shifted the conversation away from whatever had just occurred. “Why are you here?”
“A hostile force has entered this universe.”
Every trace of levity vanished from the room.
You lifted one hand. A miniature image formed above your palm: a twisting mass of black tendrils surrounding something that resembled a fractured moon. Countless pale eyes opened and closed along its surface.
“It calls itself the Sovereign of Silence,” you explained. “It consumes consciousness. Entire civilisations disappear without physical destruction. Their cities remain. Their machines continue operating. Their bodies remain alive, but empty.”
“How long until it reaches Earth?” Superman asked.
“Thirty-one days.”
“Can you stop it?” Wonder Woman said.
“Yes.”
Everyone waited.
Your image of the creature folded in on itself and vanished.
“But?” Batman prompted.
“I have been informed that solving every conflict through unilateral reality alteration is ethically troubling.”
Damian’s attention sharpened.
You said the words with the weary cadence of someone reciting a lesson after being repeatedly scolded.
“Who informed you?” Superman asked.
“A coalition of intergalactic governments. They were very loud.”
“Did they have a point?” Wonder Woman asked.
You looked offended. “I restored the planets afterwards.”
Damian folded his arms. “After what?”
“After temporarily transforming the invading armada into decorative glass.”
The Flash leaned toward Superman. “I think we should circle back to the not-evil thing.”
“I returned them to their original state,” you said. “Most of them.”
“Most?”
“One vessel was accidentally made into a chandelier.”
Green Lantern stared at you. “Accidentally?”
“It was an extremely complicated chandelier.”
Against all reason, Damian wanted to laugh again.
You seemed to notice.
Your eyes flickered toward him, hopeful. Damian maintained his expression with the discipline of a trained assassin.
The corners of your mouth turned down.
Something unpleasant tugged beneath his ribs.
Ridiculous. He did not know you. You were an incomprehensible cosmic entity who had invaded the Watchtower, threatened to erase it, conjured suspicious biscuits, and apparently committed acts of military interior design.
He should not care that you looked disappointed.
“Why involve us?” Batman asked.
“Because I wish to demonstrate that I can cooperate with mortal heroes without dominating, manipulating, imprisoning, transmuting, unmaking, remaking, absorbing, or marrying anyone against their will.”
There was a pause.
“Marrying?” the Flash asked.
“A misunderstanding involving a moon kingdom.”
Batman rubbed two fingers against his temple.
Damian finally reached for one of the biscuits.
His father caught his wrist.
“They are safe,” Damian said.
“You don’t know that.”
“If they intended to kill us, Father, we would already be dead.”
You nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly.”
Batman’s grip tightened.
“That was not comforting,” Superman said gently.
You sighed. “I thought that one was better.”
Damian took the biscuit anyway.
It tasted of orange, honey, and something warm he could not name. A memory, perhaps. Sunlight on the manor’s library floor. Alfred setting tea beside his elbow without interrupting his sketching. Titus asleep across his feet.
His jaw went rigid.
You watched him anxiously. “Is it acceptable?”
Damian swallowed. “Adequate.”
You beamed as though he had declared it a masterpiece.
That was the moment, though he would deny it for months afterwards, that Damian Wayne’s downfall began.
It started with biscuits.
Most catastrophes did not.
Then again, you were not a catastrophe. You simply sounded like one.
The League agreed to accept your assistance under several conditions.
You were not to alter anyone’s mind. You were not to restructure inhabited planets without permission. You were not to reverse time unless the League approved it. You were not to resurrect anyone. You were not to create sentient life aboard the Watchtower. You were not to consume anything with a soul.
You had objected to the final condition on the grounds that you did not consume souls.
“Not intentionally,” you had clarified.
Batman added three more restrictions.
You accepted every rule with grave sincerity. A glowing contract appeared in the air before you, written in a language that caused Green Lantern’s ring to issue an error message.
You signed it using a quill made of blue flame.
“Completely harmless,” you assured them as the contract vanished into your chest.
Damian heard Nightwing whisper, “Oh, this is going to be incredible,” from the back of the room.
Because the approaching threat affected thought itself, Batman decided to involve several younger hero teams. The Titans, Young Justice, and a rotating group of magical specialists were brought aboard the Watchtower for training and strategic preparation.
Damian, as one of the most experienced Titans and one of the few people aboard who did not appear terrified of you, was assigned as your primary liaison.
“You mean babysitter,” he said when Bruce informed him privately.
“I mean liaison.”
“You wish for me to observe them.”
“I wish for you to help them integrate with the team.”
“Because I ate a biscuit.”
“Because they respond well to you.”
Damian stared at his father. Bruce stared back.
They both knew what had happened during the second meeting.
The League had been discussing potential containment measures when you politely informed them that no prison in this universe could hold you.
Batman had produced six theoretical designs.
You had examined each one with growing delight.
“These are very creative,” you had told him. “Would you like me to pretend they could work?”
Bruce had gone silent.
Damian had laughed aloud.
You had looked at him as if he personally hung the stars embroidered in your sleeves.
“They like you,” Bruce said.
“They have known me for less than forty-eight hours.”
“You like them.”
“I tolerate them.”
Bruce’s expression became insufferably knowing.
Damian scowled. “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You have adopted Grayson’s habit of lying poorly.”
Bruce leaned back against the Batcomputer. “Just keep an eye on them.”
“They have eyes on several galaxies simultaneously. I doubt my surveillance will prove useful.”
“They’re powerful, Damian.”
“So are you.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No,” Damian agreed. “They are far more polite.”
Bruce’s stare flattened.
Damian left before his father could reassign him.
He found you in one of the Watchtower’s training rooms, surrounded by half the Titans.
Beast Boy had transformed into a green mouse and was currently perched upon your shoulder. Blue Beetle’s armour was scanning you so aggressively that the scarab’s warnings had become audible. Raven stood at a cautious distance, her dark eyes narrowed.
Starfire floated in front of you, beaming.
“You are saying that you can become any form you desire?” she asked.
“Within reason.”
“You became a mountain yesterday,” Raven said.
“A small mountain.”
“You blocked out the sun.”
“Only locally.”
Damian stepped into the room. “What are you doing?”
Everyone turned.
You lifted a finger to your lips.
“Do not be alarmed,” you whispered.
Damian immediately became alarmed. “What did you do?”
“Nothing evil.”
The Titans collectively groaned.
Beast Boy scrambled from your shoulder as your body began to ripple. Your outline stretched upward, then outward, bending like reflected light on water. For one brief second, Damian glimpsed something vast beyond comprehension: branching limbs holding galaxies like fruit, thousands of eyes gleaming through endless dark, a crown fashioned from collapsing stars.
Then you became a cat. A very small cat.
You sat in the centre of the training room, blinking up at him with enormous eyes. Your fur was midnight black except for faint constellations scattered across your back.
Starfire clasped both hands beneath her chin. “Glorious.”
Beast Boy transformed back into himself. “Okay, that’s adorable.”
Raven’s mouth softened by a fraction.
Damian looked down at you.
You chirped.
“No,” he said. Your ears lowered. “You cannot gain my approval by becoming a feline.”
You walked across the floor and sat directly on his boot.
“Manipulation will not work.”
You placed one paw against his shin.
Behind him, Blue Beetle made a strangled sound.
Damian glared over his shoulder. “Silence.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
Damian bent and lifted you.
Your small body settled immediately against his chest. You weighed almost nothing, though he was deeply aware that the creature purring beneath his hand could probably fold the moon in half.
He scratched beneath your chin. Your purr became loud enough to vibrate through his armour.
“This proves nothing,” Damian informed the room.
“Of course not,” Raven said.
He turned his glare on her.
Raven’s expression remained perfectly blank.
You stayed a cat for the rest of the meeting.
Damian did not put you down.
You were not evil. This became apparent within the first week.
It also became apparent that convincing anyone of this fact would remain an ongoing struggle.
You assisted Superman in diverting an asteroid away from a populated world. When the alien government thanked you, you responded, “Your continued survival benefits my long-term plans.”
The entire delegation paled. You had meant that you wanted to remain friends.
You brought emergency medical supplies to a planet experiencing an epidemic. Upon presenting the cure, you announced that no one would die “unless I permitted it.” You meant that the medicine was highly effective.
You rescued a school bus from falling through a collapsed bridge, suspending it in midair with a gesture. When frightened children asked whether you were a superhero, you smiled and told them that resistance was unnecessary. You meant that they were safe.
The public relations department developed headaches. Damian developed a private collection of recordings.
He told himself he kept them for training purposes. It was, after all, useful to review your mistakes so he could correct them. There was nothing sentimental about the folder hidden on his personal computer labelled Diplomatic Incidents.
There was especially nothing sentimental about his favourite clip, in which you attempted to reassure a group of diplomats that their children would remain untouched.
“The young ones are beneath my notice,” you had said.
Damian had turned away from the camera because his shoulders were shaking.
You found him afterwards in the Watchtower corridor, arms folded and expression wounded. “You laughed at me.”
“I did.”
“I was attempting compassion.”
“You informed several parents that their children were insignificant.”
“I said they were beneath my notice.”
“That is worse.”
“I meant I would not harm them.”
“Then say that.”
“I thought it was implied.”
“It was not.”
You fell into step beside him.
By then, the two of you had spent enough time together that your presence no longer set every instinct in Damian’s body on edge. He had learned the subtle tells of your power: the way shadows leaned toward you when you were annoyed, the faint glow beneath your skin when you were pleased, the static taste in the air when you concealed fear.
He had learned other things, too.
You loved Earth’s oceans but disliked sand. You considered ice cream one of humanity’s finest inventions. You did not sleep, but sometimes lay down and pretended because you enjoyed being included. You could hear music from dying stars. You had witnessed the birth of Saturn’s rings. You adored pigeons.
This final revelation had nearly destroyed Damian’s remaining patience.
“They are resilient,” you had said, scattering birdseed across a Gotham rooftop. “Adaptable. Social. They thrive despite widespread contempt.”
“They are vermin.”
“So have I been called.”
Damian had looked at you sharply.
You were still watching the pigeons. A grey one hopped onto your knee, cooing as your fingers carefully stroked its feathers.
Something old and quiet had moved in your face. Something too human for a being who claimed to predate stars.
Damian had not insulted the pigeons again.
Now, walking beside him through the Watchtower, you twisted your fingers together.
“I should prepare written statements,” you said. “That may reduce misunderstandings.”
“You attempted that yesterday.”
“The phrase ‘your world remains unburned by my mercy’ sounded better on paper.”
“It did not.”
You sighed.
Damian glanced at you. Your gaze remained fixed on the floor. The lights overhead flickered as you passed beneath them, reacting to the slow dimming of your mood.
“Why does it matter?” he asked.
You looked at him. “Why does what matter?”
“Their opinion.”
You slowed.
Damian stopped with you.
Beyond the observation window, Earth turned silently below them. Clouds curled over blue oceans. City lights shimmered on the darkened half of the planet, fragile and distant.
You looked toward it.
“Because I like them,” you said.
Damian waited.
“I like this place. I like that humans make small spoons specifically for stirring tea. I like that your species writes songs about feelings too complicated to say aloud. I like umbrellas, though I have no need for them. I like that you name machines and speak to animals as if they understand.”
“Many do understand.”
“I know. They have much to say.”
Damian made a mental note to ask you about that later.
You pressed your fingertips to the glass. “I have spent a very long time entering worlds only when something terrible has happened. By the time anyone sees me, they are already afraid. I thought perhaps if I explained immediately that I was not evil, it would prevent that fear.”
“It does the opposite.”
“I am becoming aware.”
“You also threaten people while attempting to reassure them.”
“I do not mean to.”
“I know.”
The words emerged more softly than Damian intended.
You turned your head. Your eyes were not any unusual colour. They could have been brown, or green, or grey depending on the light. Yet something moved deep within them, an endless scattering of possible worlds that appeared and vanished with every blink.
“You know?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
Damian frowned. “Because I pay attention.”
The air changed. It became warmer, carrying the scent of rain against hot stone. Somewhere inside the observation window, impossible flowers bloomed across the glass before fading.
You stared at him.
“No one has said that before,” you murmured.
“That is because the people around you are easily frightened.”
“You were not.”
“I am rarely frightened.”
You smiled faintly. “That is untrue.”
Damian’s spine stiffened.
“You are frightened frequently,” you continued. “You simply do things while afraid.”
He should have resented the observation. He should have bristled at the suggestion that you could see through him so easily. Most people required years to understand the distinction between Damian’s courage and fearlessness. Even those who loved him sometimes mistook the sharpness of his voice for certainty.
You had known him for two weeks.
“How dare you,” he said.
Your smile widened.
Damian looked back toward Earth before you could see his own.
The first time you came to Wayne Manor, you promised Bruce that you would not bring about the end of the world while inside his home.
Bruce had replied, “That wasn’t one of my concerns until you said it.”
You considered this. “Then I have helped you identify a potential security flaw.”
Bruce looked at Damian. Damian walked past him into the foyer.
“Pennyworth will expect us for dinner,” he said.
You followed immediately.
Alfred, unlike every superhero, diplomat, and government official you had met, displayed no fear whatsoever. He accepted your coat, informed you that reality-altering powers were not an excuse to neglect table manners, and asked whether you had any dietary restrictions.
“I can consume any substance,” you said.
“I shall avoid serving any substances not generally considered food.”
“That is wise. The previous table did not survive.”
Alfred’s eyebrow rose.
You hurried to clarify. “That was several centuries ago.”
“I am relieved to hear it.”
Damian had to leave the room.
Grayson cornered him in the hallway. He was grinning.
Damian continued walking.
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
Grayson caught Damian by the shoulders and steered him toward the library, ignoring his protests.
“You brought a date home.”
“They are not my date.”
“A cosmic entity met Dad, threatened the architecture, and followed you into the dining room like a duckling.”
“They are our guest.”
“Your guest.”
“They are working with the League.”
“And apparently flirting with you.”
Damian went still. Grayson’s grin became unbearable.
“They are not flirting with me.”
“They made you a sword out of a meteor.”
“It was a practical gift.”
“They engraved your name on it.”
“So others would not mistakenly claim it.”
“They engraved little hearts around your name.”
“Those were not hearts.”
“They were anatomically accurate human hearts, which is somehow more romantic and deeply unsettling.”
Damian shoved Grayson’s hands away. “You are projecting meaning onto meaningless details.”
“Sure.”
“There is no romantic interest between us.”
“Of course.”
“You are insufferable.”
“And you’re blushing.”
Damian struck him.
Grayson dodged, laughing as Damian chased him through the library.
They returned to the dining room several minutes later to find you speaking with Alfred.
You had taken the seat beside Damian’s.
Not across from him, where Bruce had originally placed your name card. Beside him.
Your expression brightened the moment he entered.
It happened every time. It should not have affected him.
It did.
“Damian,” you said. “Alfred has explained the concept of childhood photographs.”
“No.”
You looked at Alfred.
Alfred calmly poured wine into Bruce’s glass. “I made no promises.”
“Pennyworth.”
“It seems only fair that our guest be given the full family experience.”
Jason leaned back in his chair. “I’m suddenly loving family dinner.”
Tim was already opening an album.
Damian crossed the room with murder in his heart.
You watched the photographs with astonishing focus.
You admired every picture. Damian scowling in formal clothes. Damian asleep beside Titus. Damian at thirteen, covered in mud after attempting to relocate an injured fox from the manor grounds. Damian glaring at the camera while Grayson hugged him from behind.
“You were very small,” you said.
“I was a child.”
“I know. It is strange to imagine.”
“You have seen civilisations develop from single-celled organisms.”
“Yes, but I was not fond of any of them.”
The table went quiet.
You looked around. “Was that inappropriate?”
Jason coughed into his fist. Tim looked down at his plate. Dick’s shoulders began shaking.
Damian leaned closer to you. “You implied that you are fond of me.”
Your face changed.
The stars embroidered across your collar flared brilliantly.
“I did,” you said.
“Was that intentional?”
“I am uncertain.”
Damian stared. You stared back.
Neither of you noticed the exchange of money beneath the table.
Alfred did.
He collected his winnings after dessert.
Preparation for the Sovereign of Silence intensified. The creature moved faster than expected. Entire outposts vanished from communication networks. Ships were discovered drifting through space, their crews breathing but unresponsive.
Magic provided little protection. Technology failed to identify the method of attack. Even telepaths could not locate the minds stolen by the creature.
You attended every strategy session. You answered questions patiently. You accepted restrictions even when they frustrated you. Most importantly, you did not attempt to take control.
Damian knew how difficult that must have been.
He had been raised to believe that power justified authority. Competence meant leadership. If others could not accomplish a task, then the duty fell to him. It had taken years to learn that teamwork was not merely several people following his commands simultaneously.
You possessed enough power to solve almost any problem through force. Yet you asked permission before using it.
Sometimes badly.
“May I obliterate the hostile vessel?” you requested during one confrontation.
“No,” Superman said.
“May I frighten the occupants until they flee?”
“No.”
“May I cause them to experience a brief but educational vision of their own mortality?”
Wonder Woman paused.
“No,” Batman said.
You looked at Damian. He shook his head.
You sighed and disabled the vessel’s engines instead.
Afterwards, Damian found you seated alone in the Watchtower’s botanical garden. Several flowers had turned toward you despite the artificial lighting.
“You are sulking,” he said.
“I am reflecting.”
“You transformed Green Lantern’s coffee into a liquid that whispered his childhood secrets.”
“He said I lacked subtlety.”
“That was not subtle.”
“It only whispered.”
Damian sat beside you.
The garden was empty. Most of the League had returned to Earth for the night, leaving only essential personnel and those preparing for the Sovereign’s arrival.
You drew your knees toward your chest.
“I am trying,” you said.
“I know.”
“I could stop it.”
“You have said.”
“I could reach into the empty space between moments and remove the Sovereign before it ever formed. Every mind it consumed would return. Every planet would be restored. No one would remember that it existed.”
“Except you.”
“Yes.”
“And what would that cost?”
You were silent.
Damian turned his head.
“What would it cost?” he repeated.
The flowers around you closed.
“A portion of this universe,” you said at last.
“How much?”
“I do not know.”
“Then it is not an option.”
“I could choose which portion.”
“No.”
“I would avoid inhabited systems.”
“No.”
“I could select realities already approaching collapse.”
“You would still be destroying them.”
“They are possibilities, Damian. Some outcomes are born only to become suffering.”
“That does not give you the right to erase them.”
Your jaw tightened.
For a moment, Damian remembered what you were.
The air darkened. The garden walls disappeared beneath an endless expanse of stars. Your shadow spilled across the floor, rising behind you in shapes too large and complex for his eyes to understand.
“You speak confidently for someone whose existence occupies less than a heartbeat of mine,” you said.
Damian did not move.
The words should have sounded cruel. Instead, they sounded wounded.
“You are correct,” he said.
Your eyes flickered.
“My life is insignificant compared to yours. You could end it before I drew breath.”
The shadow behind you shuddered. “Do not say that.”
“It is true.”
“I would never harm you.”
“Then listen to me.”
The stars around them stilled.
Damian leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. “You came here because you wished to be trusted. Trust is not earned by possessing the ability to control every outcome. It is earned by allowing others to choose, even when their choices frighten you.”
Your voice became quiet. “And if their choices lead to death?”
“Then we face the consequences together.”
“I do not want you to die.”
The confession struck him more forcefully than any threat could have.
You looked furious about it. Furious and frightened and unbearably alone.
Damian’s chest tightened.
He understood then. You did not crave control because you believed yourself superior.
You craved it because you had lived too long. You had watched people die across centuries. Civilisations rose, flourished, and vanished while you remained. Every attachment became another future grave. Every person you loved was a fragile, temporary thing.
Power had taught you that loss was optional. Loneliness had taught you that love was not.
Damian shifted closer. “I do not intend to die.”
“You cannot guarantee that.”
“Neither can you.”
“I can.”
“No. You can preserve my body. You can alter history. You can build another version of me from memory and starlight, but you cannot guarantee that the person returned would be precisely the one you lost.”
Your expression crumpled by a fraction.
It was enough.
Damian reached for your hand.
You stared down at his fingers around yours.
The shadows withdrew. The garden returned.
“I have rules,” he said.
“You have many.”
“Do not interrupt.”
“Apologies.”
“You will not erase anything without the League’s agreement.”
You nodded.
“You will not sacrifice yourself without telling me.”
Your brow furrowed. “That sounds unfairly specific.”
“It is.”
“Why only you?”
Damian’s grip tightened.
Because the thought of you vanishing into the spaces between worlds made something inside him feel flayed open.
Because he had begun measuring his days by the sound of your voice.
Because he kept finding you in every room, as though his body had become a compass designed solely to point toward yours.
Because you looked at him and saw fear without weakness, saw tenderness without shame, saw a man rather than a weapon or heir or impossible child.
Because when you smiled at him, the universe seemed briefly smaller.
Manageable. His.
“You respond well to me,” Damian said.
You considered this. “That is true.”
“It is therefore efficient.”
“Of course.”
“You are smiling.”
“I find your lies endearing.”
Damian glared.
You leaned your head against his shoulder. He allowed it.
After a moment, he rested his cheek against your hair.
Neither of you mentioned it.
The Sovereign arrived three days early.
It came without warning. One moment, Damian was aboard the Watchtower reviewing evacuation plans. The next, every screen went black.
A low sound moved through the station. It was not audible. It appeared directly within the mind, a vast and hollow note that made Damian’s thoughts scatter like birds beneath gunfire.
People collapsed.
Superman struck the floor first, hands clamped over his ears. The Flash staggered into the wall. Wonder Woman fell to one knee, teeth bared as she fought against an enemy no strength could touch.
Damian remained upright for six seconds.
Then memories began disappearing.
He forgot the name of his first dog. He forgot the colour of his mother’s eyes. He forgot why the symbol on his chest mattered.
Panic surged.
He fought it, grasping for fragments of himself as they slipped away. Names scattered. Faces blurred. His father became a shadow. Grayson’s laugh vanished. Todd’s voice. Drake’s tired smile. Alfred’s hands.
Damian stumbled.
Someone caught him.
You.
Your arms wrapped around him as the Watchtower trembled.
The power beneath your skin was no longer subtle. Light poured from your eyes and mouth. Your shape flickered between human and something endless, something made of every path reality might take.
“You came,” the Sovereign spoke through every unconscious person aboard the station.
Their mouths moved simultaneously.
“You who contain possibility.”
Your hold tightened around Damian.
The Sovereign’s presence pressed against his mind. It wanted emptiness. Silence. A universe freed from the pain of thought.
“You cannot take them,” you said.
Your voice shook the station.
Metal warped. Glass cracked. Earth’s atmosphere rippled below them.
The Sovereign laughed through a hundred stolen voices. “You could stop me.”
You went still.
Damian forced himself to focus.
The garden. Your hand in his. Rules.
Do not erase anything. Do not sacrifice yourself.
The Sovereign showed you something. Damian could not see it, but he saw the reaction on your face. Horror. Longing. Temptation.
It was offering you a solution.
“Do not,” Damian managed.
You looked down at him.
For one terrifying instant, there was no recognition in your eyes.
Then your expression softened.
“Beloved creature,” you whispered.
Despite everything, Damian felt offended. “Do not call me that.”
A broken laugh escaped you.
The Sovereign pressed harder.
Damian’s knees buckled. You lowered him carefully to the floor, one hand cradling the back of his skull.
“I can end this,” you said.
“Not alone.”
“It is already inside their minds.”
“Then go into mine.”
Your eyes widened.
Damian could feel pieces of himself crumbling. His memories were rooms with the lights going out one by one.
He seized your wrist.
“You said minds are possibilities,” he forced out. “Every decision. Every memory. Every path not taken.”
“Yes.”
“Use mine as a doorway.”
“It could destroy you.”
“You will not allow it.”
The faith in his own voice surprised him. It surprised you more.
The Sovereign screamed through the station.
Damian held your gaze. “I trust you.”
Something in you broke open.
Power exploded outward.
The Watchtower disappeared.
Damian found himself standing in a forest.
Not a real forest. His forest. The grounds of Wayne Manor stretched beneath an impossible sky. Trees grew from memories. Each branch held moments in place of leaves: his father wrapping a bandage around his hand, Alfred teaching him to bake, Grayson catching him during a fall, Todd handing him a book without comment, Drake falling asleep at the Batcomputer beside him.
The Sovereign moved between the trunks like smoke. Where it passed, leaves withered.
You stood beside Damian.
Here, inside his mind, you looked different. You wore no coat. No embroidered stars. Your body was formed from silver light, your edges shifting through a thousand possible versions of yourself. In some, you wore armour. In others, a crown. In one, you had no human shape at all.
Yet your hand felt warm when Damian took it.
“How do we kill it?” he asked.
“We cannot.”
“Then how do we stop it?”
“The Sovereign feeds upon isolated minds. It silences each consciousness by separating it from every other connection.”
Damian looked at the memory-trees. “Then give it too many connections.”
You stared at him.
Understanding flashed across your face. Then delight.
“Oh,” you breathed. “You are brilliant.”
“I am aware.”
You lifted your joined hands.
Every branch in Damian’s forest ignited.
Not with fire.
With connection.
The memory of Dick laughing linked itself to the memory of Bruce’s exhausted smile. Jason’s anger joined Tim’s loyalty. Alfred’s grief wound through Talia’s pride. Jon’s friendship, the Titans, the League, every animal Damian had saved, every person he had protected, every enemy who had shaped him.
Damian was not one mind. He was a constellation of every life that had touched his.
The Sovereign recoiled.
You reached through him. Through every bond Damian possessed. The power travelled outward, passing from mind to mind across the Watchtower. Superman’s love for humanity. Wonder Woman’s devotion to truth. Batman’s impossible, terrible hope. The Flash’s joy. Green Lantern’s will.
The Sovereign drowned in connection.
It shrieked as millions of thoughts surged through it at once. It had consumed isolated consciousness for so long that it could not withstand people choosing one another.
You could have destroyed it. Damian felt the possibility open beneath your feet: a bottomless void, ready to swallow the Sovereign and everything it had touched.
You closed it.
Instead, you separated the stolen minds from the creature one by one.
You returned them.
Every civilization. Every crew. Every person emptied and abandoned.
The work tore through you.
Damian felt your pain as cracks of darkness spread across your silver body.
“You are sacrificing yourself,” he said.
“I am not.”
“You are lying.”
“I am revising my structure.”
“You are breaking apart.”
“Temporarily.”
“Stop.”
“Not yet.”
He pulled you toward him.
The Sovereign thrashed overhead, shrinking as stolen consciousness poured away from it.
“You promised,” Damian said.
“I promised to tell you.”
“That is not sufficient.”
“It was your rule.”
“I am changing it.”
Your smile was faint. “You cannot change agreements during execution.”
“I am Robin. I can do as I please.”
“That is not how agreements work.”
“I will find you.”
Your smile vanished.
Damian pressed his forehead against yours. “If you break apart, I will find every piece.”
“You do not know where they will go.”
“I do not care.”
“Some may fall beyond time.”
“Then I will go beyond time.”
“Some may become new stars.”
“I will search every one.”
“Damian.”
“You do not get to make me love you and then disappear.”
The world went still.
Even the Sovereign seemed to pause.
You stared at him.
The silver light of your body flickered violently.
“You love me?”
Damian’s face burned. “This is not the appropriate moment.”
“You love me.”
“I will rescind the statement if you continue behaving foolishly.”
“You cannot rescind love.”
“I can certainly rescind admitting it.”
The Sovereign lunged.
You turned. With one raised hand, you sealed the creature inside a sphere no larger than a pearl.
The forest returned to silence.
Damian stared at the tiny sphere floating above your palm. “You said you could not kill it.”
“I did not.”
“What did you do?”
“I placed it inside a harmless pocket reality where it will experience the combined internal monologues of every person who has ever lived.”
Damian considered this. “That seems cruel.”
“It will be released once it learns empathy.”
“So never.”
“Possibly never.”
You closed your fingers around the sphere.
It vanished.
Then your knees gave way.
Damian caught you.
The forest dissolved.
Damian woke in the Watchtower infirmary.
His father sat beside the bed. He looked terrible.
Damian pushed himself upright. “Where are they?”
Bruce placed one hand against his shoulder. “Damian.”
“Where?”
“They’re alive.”
Air returned to Damian’s lungs.
Bruce’s eyes softened.
“They’re stable,” he continued. “As stable as anyone can determine. Their physical form was damaged during the separation process.”
“I need to see them.”
“You suffered a significant psychic attack.”
“I am aware.”
“You need rest.”
“I will rest in their room.”
“Damian.”
“Father.”
Bruce stared at him. Damian stared back.
Bruce sighed.
Some battles were decided by experience. Others were decided by having the more stubborn son.
You were lying beneath enough monitoring equipment to track the vital signs of an entire army.
None of it seemed particularly useful. Your heartbeat changed every few seconds. Sometimes it stopped entirely. Your body temperature moved between freezing and fever-hot. The machine attempting to measure your brain activity had begun displaying weather forecasts for planets that did not exist.
Damian sat beside you.
Your face appeared peaceful. Too peaceful.
He hated it.
“I know you can hear me,” he said.
Nothing happened.
“You are attention-seeking.”
The lights flickered.
Damian leaned forward. “If you wished for flowers, you could have asked.”
A vase appeared beside the bed. It contained black roses with silver thorns.
Damian’s chest tightened. “You are awake.”
Your eyes remained closed.
“You are avoiding me.”
A small line appeared between your brows.
“You heard what I said.”
Your eyes opened.
The universe moved inside them.
“Which part?” you asked weakly.
Damian’s face heated. “Do not test me.”
“You said many things.”
“You remember them.”
“I sustained extensive damage.”
“You imprisoned a cosmic predator inside the collective annoyance of all sentient life.”
“It seemed appropriate.”
“You remember.”
Your gaze slid away.
Damian stared at you. You, who had stood before gods and armies without flinching, suddenly seemed deeply interested in the infirmary ceiling.
“I did not expect you to say it,” you murmured.
“I had not intended to.”
“That is somewhat less romantic.”
“You were disintegrating.”
“I was reorganising.”
“You were dying.”
“Only in certain interpretations.”
Damian took your hand. Your fingers were cool.
“You are impossible,” he said.
“I have been described as inevitable.”
“That is worse.”
“I know.”
He traced his thumb across your knuckles. “You frightened me.”
Your expression changed immediately. “I am sorry.”
“I do not require an apology.”
“I frightened you.”
“And I remained.”
You looked at him.
Damian brought your hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against your knuckles.
The monitors began producing sparks.
He glanced at them.
You smiled sheepishly. “Apologies.”
“Control yourself.”
“You kissed me.”
“I kissed your hand.”
“You have never done that before.”
“You nearly ceased existing.”
“Would you do it again if I remained intact?”
“Perhaps.”
Your eyes brightened. “Would you consider kissing somewhere else?”
Damian’s eyebrows rose.
You looked horrified by your own words. “I meant my face.”
“I assumed.”
“Not that I would object to—”
“Stop speaking.”
You immediately closed your mouth.
Damian leaned closer.
For all your power, you trembled.
That endeared you to him more than he could express. You could tear holes through dimensions. You could transform armies into chandeliers. You could hold collapsing stars between your hands.
Yet you were nervous because Damian Wayne might kiss you.
He cupped your jaw.
“Before you become alarmed,” he murmured, “I would like to make it explicitly clear that I am not attempting to kill you.”
Your mouth fell open.
Damian kissed you before you could respond.
For one perfect moment, nothing happened.
Then every flower in the Watchtower bloomed at once. The station’s artificial gravity failed. Somewhere in the distance, Green Lantern shouted.
Damian floated several inches above the floor, still holding your face between his hands.
You pulled back, eyes wide. “I lost focus.”
“I noticed.”
“I can fix it.”
“Do so.”
Gravity returned.
Damian landed neatly.
A tray crashed in the corridor.
You covered your face. “This is humiliating.”
“You brought the entire Watchtower to a halt by being kissed.”
“I have never been kissed before.”
Damian stilled. “You have existed since before the first stars.”
“I have been busy.”
His mouth curved.
You peeked at him through your fingers. “You are amused.”
“Very.”
“Is that bad?”
Damian lowered your hands. “No.”
You searched his face. “You find me strange.”
“Yes.”
“Frightening.”
“Occasionally.”
“Tone-deaf.”
“Constantly.”
Your mouth twisted.
Damian kissed the corner of it.
“And,” he added, “endearing.”
The room brightened. Not the electrical lights. The world itself seemed to soften around you, colours becoming warmer, shadows gentler.
“You find me endearing,” you repeated.
“Do not force me to say it twice.”
“I would never force you to do anything.”
“I know.”
There it was again.
Those two words.
I know.
Trust given without fear.
Your eyes filled with something endless and tender.
“I love you,” you said.
Damian inhaled.
“You need not say it in return,” you continued quickly. “I understand that mortal courtship traditions contain complicated stages. There may be rituals. Gifts. Battles against rival suitors. The kidnapping of relatives.”
“There will be no kidnapping.”
“Of course. Because I am not evil.”
Damian closed his eyes.
You looked wounded.
He laughed.
Not quietly this time. Not hidden behind a hand or turned shoulder.
The sound filled the infirmary, bright and helpless.
You stared at him in awe.
Damian pressed his forehead against yours, still laughing as you began to smile.
“I love you,” he said.
The Watchtower trembled.
You winced. “Sorry.”
Three weeks later, Damian took you on what you insisted on calling a strategic interpersonal meeting.
“It is a date,” he said.
The two of you were walking through Gotham Botanical Gardens after closing hours. Damian had obtained permission. You had offered to temporarily remove every other person from the city.
He had refused.
“A date implies romantic intentions,” you said.
“Yes.”
“And the possibility of physical affection.”
“Yes.”
“And potentially a formal union if compatibility is established.”
Damian stopped.
You stopped beside him.
“Do not propose to me on our first date.”
“I was not proposing.”
“You created a ring.”
You looked down.
A ring had appeared around Damian’s finger. It was made from dark metal, set with a stone containing a tiny rotating galaxy.
You stared at it.
“I did not do that intentionally.”
Damian examined the ring. “Your subconscious is proposing.”
“It is enthusiastic.”
“I can see that.”
“I will remove it.”
Damian curled his hand into a fist. “No.”
Your eyes widened.
“I will keep it,” he said. “For now.”
The garden lamps flickered. Flowers unfolded along the path despite the midnight hour.
You walked beside him in silence for several moments.
Then you said, “I should clarify that the ring does not contain surveillance magic.”
“Good.”
“It does not bind your soul to mine.”
“Excellent.”
“It does not mark you as my property to predatory entities.”
Damian looked at you. You smiled nervously.
“Does it do anything?”
“It will protect you from most forms of psychic intrusion, temporal displacement, molecular disintegration, possession, accidental dimensional exile, and moderate curses.”
“Moderate?”
“Powerful curses require the matching bracelet.”
“Of course they do.”
The bracelet appeared around his wrist.
Damian sighed.
You reached toward him, then paused. “May I hold your hand?”
He looked at you.
The question still came carefully. Despite all your power, despite knowing he loved you, you asked.
Always.
Damian threaded his fingers through yours. “Yes.”
You continued through the garden together.
Above you, Gotham’s clouds parted to reveal a sky full of impossible stars.
Damian glanced upward. “You are doing that.”
“I thought the natural sky lacked drama.”
“It is sufficient without your interference.”
The additional stars vanished. The ordinary night returned.
After a moment, Damian squeezed your hand. “You may restore some of them.”
The sky burst into colour.
Damian rolled his eyes.
You smiled.
Anyone watching might have found the sight alarming: Gotham’s most severe vigilante walking hand in hand with a being capable of remaking creation, both surrounded by flowers blooming out of season.
Perhaps you were dangerous. Damian had never doubted that. You were vain without realising it, dramatic by accident, catastrophically bad at reassurance, and powerful enough to make gods reconsider their life choices.
You also cried during animated films. You carried injured insects out of buildings. You remembered everyone’s preferred tea. You once paused a battle because you noticed Damian had skipped lunch. You loved mortals despite knowing you would outlive them. You chose restraint even when destruction would have been easier.
You had been feared for so long that you announced your goodness before anyone could accuse you of its absence.
Damian understood that. He had spent much of his own life insisting he had changed before anyone believed him. Sometimes the truth sounded most suspicious when spoken by someone desperate to be trusted.
You rested your head against his shoulder as you walked.
“I am very pleased,” you said.
“With the date?”
“With you.”
Damian looked ahead to hide his expression. “You should be.”
“I am also pleased that I resisted the urge to eliminate all potential romantic competition.”
Damian stopped walking.
You stopped with him.
A pigeon landed on a nearby statue.
You glanced toward it. Damian stared at you.
“That was a joke,” you said. He narrowed his eyes. “I have been practising.”
“A joke.”
“Yes.”
“You have not eliminated anyone.”
“No.”
“Or imprisoned them.”
“No.”
“Transformed them.”
“Certainly not.”
“Married them against their will.”
“That only happened once.”
Damian’s stare sharpened.
You lifted both hands. “Not evil.”
The pigeon cooed.
Damian exhaled through his nose. Then he pulled you closer by the front of your coat and kissed you beneath a sky you had rearranged solely because you thought he deserved prettier stars.
You melted against him.
The garden lifted three feet into the air.
Neither of you noticed for several minutes.
When the League questioned you about it later, you promised that the levitation had been entirely harmless.
summary: when midnight marks the second year anniversary since damian's death, you make one desperate wish in the midst of your grief before falling asleep. when you wake, you find damian waiting in the apartment—as if he never left.
pairing: damian wayne x reader
content/warnings: angst, hurt-comfort, grief and loss, mentions of previous death, emotional reunion, yearning
Grief is a companion fond of making you dream.
"Beloved."
Damian stands before you in the kitchen, in his most-worn sweater, the one you swore you stuffed in the back of your shared closet when it had lost his scent.
The scent of toast, your favourite kind slathered with jam, lingers in the air and the familiarity of this sight—of him awake at an earlier hour to prepare you a simple breakfast, feels like a faraway dream.
You're struck by his voice, the tone and cadence your memory never managed to capture. You had to be dreaming still. Even when the edges of him are so life-like, not fuzzy like you're used to when you reach for the figment of him in your sleep.
He can't be standing in your kitchen, the one you used to share with him two years ago, because he is dead. Your Damian is dead.
You don't move, not immediately. You watch life breathe in and out of his chest, and feel the long, dragged seconds stretch between the distance, the pads of your fingers pressing into the cold slab of the counter, frozen in place.
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t corner you, or raise some pointed remark on your distance. He only waits, as if that’s everything he’s willing to do. Damian has never been good at being patient, but in the wake of his appearance, it’s all he seems to be doing.
You're afraid. To speak, make a sound or move that could shatter the perfect image. You expect to turn your head just slightly off-angle, and find yourself in your sheets once more, and the life-like version of him will be gone. The ache of his absence still clung to you, even more so at the sight of him, like a sore wound you can't resist running over.
Your stomach grumbles lowly at the scent of breakfast, empty from a near sleepless night and a skipped dinner. At that, he finally shifts his gaze, and you find your breath stolen from the way that striking, unwavering green pierces through you.
“You’re starving.”
The prospect of a dream falls away, and reality strikes you hard when the stature of him remains, words falling out his mouth—something your dreams have never achieved. You don’t listen, coming up to him like a storm—hands trembling as you raise them to slowly, tenderly cup his face.
He lets you, unmoving as his gaze sinks deep into yours. Your fingers trace over his cheekbones, where that scar should be. The last you had saw of him, unmoving in the hospital—when the mere sight had rendered you immobile, shaking uncontrollably till someone had to drag you out the room. Your hands trail down his jawline, over his neck—your touch trembling over his unharmed skin. When your hand dips to where his heart should be, he captures your hand and guides it back to his face, fingers laying over yours as he presses it against his cheek, soaking in your warmth.
His own skin is barren of its expected, scorching warmth—and his lashes flutter once before his eyes fall shut, mesmerised.
"Damian." You gasp softly.
He shakes his head faintly, almost in warning not to question further. His gaze opens, and it pours over you openly, hungrily.
"Are you real?" Your whisper comes out as a broken plea, head tilting as you look at him. There are no inconsistencies, even the faint scar where a blade had passed through his palm when he was but a boy, the same raised skin you used to press your lips over in the solemnity of the night, wishing he never experienced a pain like that again.
An undercurrent ripples below his steady gaze, conveying an answer you can't uncover. "I am here, beloved."
"How?" Your voice tremors, teetering madness.
“You called.”
Your brows furrow together, the vagueness of his statement twisting your thoughts into a whirlwind. “No.. I called for you every single day. Since you've been gone.”
His expression fractures in your admission, that undercurrent in the dark green, sweeping you with its darkened shadows. You can’t read it. Not fully, failing to truly understand the depth of his gaze that reminds you that this isn’t a dream or a recreation of any normal morning from before. Damian has always looked at you with want and devotion, yes, but it has never seemed almost inhumane.
Your burning questions still linger on the precipice, torn between relief and despair, when Damian closes in. His lips capture yours almost desperately, and you realise instantly in your grief that you had forgotten this side to him. Rare, and smothered by self-control—but existing regardless, is his intensity.
The sound of his name between your lips is lost, muffled by the way his free hand manoeuvres the back of your head to bring you impossibly closer to him. It’s real, it has to be, this push-and-pull as if he can’t decide whether he could ever get enough of the taste of you.
You have held yourself together for two years—but you’re close to falling apart in the scent of him, so overwhelmingly home, something you’ve been trying to capture through his cologne bottles, his shirts—but nothing compares to the real thing.
He doesn’t fare much better, lost of all his composure as he consumes you. It’s devotion, the way he holds you like you’re the only anchor keeping him tethered to reality. “I am here.” His lips brush over the corner of your mouth, tremoring. “I’m home.”
"We need to tell your family." It's the first logical thought that's formed since you lost strength in your legs, landing on the tiles with your hand still grasped in his, knees pressing against one another. "I should be calling Dick."
His lips press together, something manic crossing his gaze but you don’t see it—too wrapped up in the novelty of a miracle that shouldn't exist. You needed to hear it, have it confirmed for you to your own face— that you weren’t the only one who sees Damian. Your steps quicken towards the entrance, hands reaching for your coat that has your phone right by the front door—tossed on the ground after stumbling home the night before.
Damian grabs you by the wrist right as your fingers brushed the fabric, tugging you back. Your widened gaze meets his own fervent expression. "Damian?"
"I can’t predict—” His hold falters, softening in its clutch. “—what happens when you walk through that door."
Your brows furrow, letting him pull you gently back towards him. Your free hand comes up to press gently against his cheek, caressing once. "What do you mean?"
His jaw clenches, a rare tension seizing his features. Or rather, one you didn't recognise on him at all. Fear.
"Earlier, I had tried the door." He explains slowly, as if the words pained him. "I had reached for the lock—and something changed. I wasn't here, or anywhere. It was silent and I didn't truly exist, not till I found myself back in the kitchen."
Your mouth dries at his words, lips parting with the low thud of anxious dread gnawing away at your gut. You had been so relieved, you hadn't even begun to name all the possibilities of this miracle having a short-end you haven't seen coming.
"Oh." You mutter, fingers fumbling loosely in the air as your hand drops to your side. "Okay. That's—"
Scary. So fucking terrifying that you can't even voice it out, the thought that he could just disappear as quickly as he reappeared back into your life.
"Maybe we can try?" Your voice lacks the confidence of someone who's willing to put the possibility of never seeing the only person she's ever loved again on the line. "If I go with you this time, it might—"
Might work. There is nothing you detest more than the what-ifs that overpower the old, a bitter habit that's sprung to life now that it has new fears to feed on.
He nods briskly at the suggestion, but the tension in his jaw doesn't fade. "Listen to me. If—"
"Damian, if what you're about to say is anything to do with disappearing or leaving—you're not allowed to say it." You cut him off.
His lips clamp together, gaze averting to the door. "I only aim for us both to be prepared."
Unlike last time. The insinuation lands coldly against your exposed skin, and you immediately move to tug the coat on to rid yourself of the forming goosebumps. You didn't want to be reminded of that first lonely night in the apartment, when the news hadn't yet settled in—and you were surrounded by bedsheets that were filled with his scent.
Call it human desperation, needing to believe in only the good outcomes—but you refuse to think further than the events that have occurred in the past twenty minutes. Damian is back, that is all that matters. The rest, you'll both figure it out together.
His hands immediately come up to the sleeves, helping you to put the coat on. The simple action renders you breathless, the way he was equipped to you like a shadow, tuning himself back into step with your own movements. You had forgotten that feeling, of puzzles pieces fitting perfectly together that it made life easy.
"I'm more than prepared." Your reassurance for him, or yourself—you’re not sure which bears more comfort. "Come on, Dami." The nickname rolls off like a soothing mantra, one normalcy laced within all the abnormality of the situation, of his presence lingering near your side like a shadow. "You better prepare yourself. You're about to experience intense familial affection."
It's easier to pretend, that anything other than a happy family reunion was bound to happen, to seal in the fact that he's really here. That's all your mind is leading towards, this impossibility existing on the morning of what should've been your second year anniversary.
His lips finally twitch, a soft smile gracing his lips as he takes your hand. It's warmer now, as if life was slowly bleeding back into him. It reassures you immensely, and your fingers tighten into a reassuring squeeze around his.
"How have—" He falters, grip tightening unintentionally over your fingers. "—they been?"
"It’s not been easy." You answer truthfully. "Bruce is taking it the hardest, his habit of burying himself in work has worsened. He needs you to snap him out of it the most, I think. Dick—he's trying to keep everyone together, but I worry for him even if he keeps pretending he's fine."
Your fingers twist the lock, opening the door. His hand still remains firmly in your grasp, and your eyes widen, gaze twisting to him in hope. "Still here." You murmur, waving your interlocked fingers with yours in his gaze.
You see it too, the faint relief that flickers in his expression. That's the very last thing you see.
The moment you take one step out the door into the threshold of the hallway, your raised hand comes up bare. The space where Damian used to occupy—is now empty.
"I swear he was here." You plead, watching as Dick paces around the apartment. "Damian was right here, and he was talking to me—and we were coming to see you."
He runs a hand over his locks, and you can tell he doesn't believe you, as much as he is trying to genuinely listen. You know it sounds cruel, going on about how his deceased baby brother is alive and well. That it makes you sound insane, overcome with grief enough to hallucinate Damian's existence—but you know that he was really here.
You aren't hallucinating, even if you had to push down any arising doubt as Dick finally stops in his tracks, turning to face you.
He looks exhausted. Packed with cases, wrinkled shirt haphazardly put on, bags under his eyes. Still charmingly Dick, but drained of the spark that used to brighten his gaze.
He calls out your name, and you hear it immediately. His deflection, his concern. You shake your head, but he raises a hand.
"You—" He swallows, and you see him assessing the right way to deliver his words. "—have been through a lot. I understand, I really do."
"Dick." Your voice comes out as a plea.
"But if you've been seeing Damian." He goes on. "I think it's time we find someone. For you to talk to."
He thinks you've gone crazy.
"Dick, I'm not crazy." You plead. "Or grieving. Damian was right here, I was telling him about you and Bruce. He made me toast."
His gaze switches to the uneaten plate, and softens into what could only be pity. You have to swallow back the bitter taste at the sight of it.
"It's your anniversary, right?" He asks.
You stiffen, before giving him a bare nod.
"I should've called." He sighs, placing the blame on himself. "I had remembered it being around this week, but work's just been so busy and—I'm sorry. I know it must've been difficult to go through this day alone."
"Please, Dick." You stand up from the couch, walking over to where he stood. "You have to believe me."
His expression tightens, a sigh leaving his lips. "I can't."
"Why?" You plead.
"Because if I do, I would've lost him twice." He admits honestly, a rare fracture of truth beneath his usual composure. "I can't let myself think that, because I have people who need me to be here, to be grounded."
You flinch, as if he struck you. His expression immediately crumbles in regret, but he doesn't take back his words. His lips part in an effort to try and smooth out the mess laid out in front of him, when his phone rings.
He curses inaudibly, tugging at his pockets to take out his phone. His gaze falls to the contact name, and his lashes narrow. He looks to you, an apology already splurging out of his lips. "I'm sorry, I really have to go. It's an emergency—but I will come visit right after."
You shake your head. There isn't a point if you didn’t have proof, and if he wasn't going to believe you, it'd do you both better if you didn’t dig into the wound so carelessly. "It's fine." Your throat squeezes tight on itself, making it hard to form your words coherently. "I'm sorry I called you all the way here, I know you've been busy."
"Hey." He calls out to you reassuringly, even as his ringtone vibrates lowly between the two of you. "I'm always here if you need me, you got that? Being busy doesn't mean I can't make time for you if you need a listening ear."
You nod stiffly, as convincingly as you could. "You should go, Dick. City needs you."
He stares at you, concern flooding his gaze once more. You smile weakly at him, pushing at his shoulder towards the door. "Go." You reassure him. "I'll text you if I need anything, okay?"
He nods once, lips pulling downward in consideration before his phone starts ringing again at a louder volume. He lets out a low sigh, hand coming up to squeeze yours over his shoulder in a comforting manner. "Anything, alright?" He murmurs.
You give him the barest nod, watching as he walked out the door, closing it behind him. The moment the door clicks shut, you find yourself on the kitchen floor.
Your sobs rack your body violently, your palms covering your mouth as you let it out. You don't know how long you spend, keeling over yourself as you rock back and forth, tears streaming down your cheeks before you eventually found yourself laying on the cool tiles, the only sensation that registers to your body.
You don't know how many minutes you spent going over the words shared between you and the Damian you swore was right in front of you, the scent of toast still lingering in the air before your eyes finally fall shut, body shutting down from exhaustion.
When you wake, you find yourself tucked in your sheets. You vaguely remember laying on the kitchen floor, not even having the energy required to drag yourself to your bedroom. The room is dark, which means the entire day has passed. Did Dick—or someone else come in through the door and carry you onto the bed?
You don't think you locked the door, but you don't trust in your memory to recall any recurring events in a faithful manner. Your gaze shifts from the window where the glow of the street lamp illuminates a warm tint over the streets, before your neck cranes to your right.
A shadow sits at the corner of the bed, back facing you.
Your heart nearly drops to your feet. Your call doesn't dare sound hopeful, almost frightened. "Damian?"
His head shifts, and green eyes, haunted by shadows—meet yours.
"Are you my imagination?" You whisper. "Am I dreaming again because if I am, this is just—” Cruel.
He doesn't answer, lifting himself off the corner to sit beside you instead. Slowly, his hand takes yours—and there it is again, that fading ebb-and-flow of warmth between his fingers.
"Talk to me." You say numbly. "Or I'll really think I'm going insane."
"I don't know—" His voice fills your ears, and the relief is almost sickening. "—how to fix this. Or make it easier to bear. I am only worsening your pain."
Your lip trembles, and you bite at it to keep something, anything from flooding out. "Do you know what day it is today?" You murmur, exhaustion plaguing your voice.
Damian doesn't even pause to think. "Our anniversary."
"Yeah." You smile wryly. "You missed it for the second time this year."
His fingers running over the beat of your pulse, freeze. The faintest whisper leaves his lips, and it is nothing short of broken. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. You’ll make it up to me, won’t you?" You swallow thickly, trying your best to keep it together. "I was going to take you to that Thai place we love down the street, after meeting your family. Thought it'd be a good welcome-back present of some sorts, y'know?"
He stays silent, but you spot the clench of his jaw, the thick lump forming at his throat.
"This is so sick." You laugh weakly, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes. "What kind of reality is this?"
You hear the faint whisper of your name. His hand traces over your temple, brushing back the loosened strands. "I'm sorry." It comes out stronger this time, as if the vowels have finally found suit a place in his vocabulary.
"Stop apologising." You scold softly. "I want you here."
He understands your request immediately, scooting closer and falling into the sheets as his arms wrap around you. In the weight of his embrace, you finally let yourself fall apart a little, face buried into his chest and inhaling his comforting scent.
"Your heart.” You whisper, unable to sense the rhythmic beating you’re used to finding. “Where is it, Dami?”
“Where it’s always been.” He murmurs, arms pulling you impossibly closer.
There is a missing link, something you’re terrified of missing. He is real, as even your mind can’t conjure something as complex as the halftime beat of his thumb brushing against your lower back, or the way his fingers brush through the nape of your neck, finding your temple and resting over it with a soothing amount of pressure.
“You—” Your voice trembles, afraid to ask. “How is any of this possible?”
“I don’t know.” He answers honestly. “I only know that you called. I was finally able to answer.”
The rules settle quickly, the do’s and don’t’s of his existence. When you walk out the front door, he disappears, but not entirely. He merely reappears in the kitchen as he did the morning you found him, time operating as a frozen capsule within the walls of your apartment, with your current present tuned down to a low, buzzing hum—enough for his presence to stay. When you exit the apartment, it’s as if life comes flooding back in motion—roaring in its intensity that Damian simply vanishes. Not home, or anywhere. As reality intended.
You can’t have people enter the threshold of the apartment either, not without Damian completely disappearing from the rooms. Your only attempt had ended with Dick pleading with you to see a professional.
The conversation still lingers like a bitter aftertaste of stale coffee, when you let yourself imagine his exhausted, frantic expression when you searched the apartment upside-down in the hopes of letting him see his baby brother again.
You don’t call Dick over much after that, only the here-and-there messages that you've recovered and that you're doing better. You don’t mention Damian, and the texts tentatively recover into a semblance of the norm, his usual check-ups and quips before he disappears into his long list of responsibilities.
You adjust, creating something sacred out of the cruelty, and you make things work, to reduce the risks of his disappearance to only what was needed—for work, or quick supply runs that are now meant for two. You have to, because you’d rather have Damian with the shattered edges of reality falling in on you, than lose him forever.
Your head rests on his chest late in the night, updating him on the past twenty-four months of your life through your photo album while he watches you, trying to bring some of the outside world in for him. That’s one strange loophole, that so long as it’s only you who witnesses it, he doesn’t fade from existence. You had tried face-timing Tim once, and felt the sudden emptiness of Damian’s weight beside you. The tears were difficult to explain, as was the way you frantically ended the call after, refusing to show how shattered you felt.
Loopholes were small miracles, ones you were trying to exploit in the hopes the world would carry on without punishing either of you for testing the waters. That eventually, you’d find a way to right the mess.
But you know it’s not enough. How could it be? When paranoia runs so rampant, or the quiet lingers too long when you’re in a different room, and you can’t stop yourself from checking—from slamming yourself into the door to catch him staring at you, as if he expected your anxious movement minutes before.
Damian is nothing but a master at concealing his own doubts, from letting his frustrations plague your own wearing strength. It does not change the fact that he is still human. You find him mostly at your desk when he assumes you've finally fallen asleep, pen in hand with his hand running through his thick locks, growing out at the edges from not having been cut for weeks. You never see what he’s writing—not before he hears your quiet footsteps and gently folds the paper away.
He would reassure you silently, a warm, gentle touch over your face, cupping them in his hands and pressing soft kisses over your skin to replace your worries. He’d whisper ‘I’m real’ over and over again till you’re sure even your imagination couldn’t conjure the trace of his fingers down your lower back, the way his gaze softens when you finally let yourself fall into his embrace.
You don’t ask unless he’s willing to speak of it, because Damian in his own way is coping with this fractured reality, where you are only able to have each other in the confined walls of your home, without him being able to truly live in this world. You know it takes a toll on him, you’re just waiting for him to realise he doesn’t have to remain strong for the both of you.
You let him have the peace of doing what he feels he must, scribbling away in urgency into the paper, because for as much as Damian has lost normalcy in his life, you could only give him whatever he was able to still grasp.
“Hey, you! It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other!” Steph exclaims, pulling you into a hug.
“Missed you too, Steph.” You huff at the impact, a warm smile spreading across your lips.
“Where have you been?” She continues, pulling back to analyse your face with a scrutinising expression. “Woah—actually, you look great. Have you been skipping less dinners?”
Your lips part automatically, almost wanting to say Damian’s taken up the cooking. It falls shut immediately, along with your expression. Your voice is tender, testing your words carefully. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Good. I’m obliged as the wiser one to have nagging privileges since Dick isn’t here—no matter how busy life gets, you can’t skip what makes life worth living.”
“Chocolate chip pancakes?” You raise a brow.
“That too.” She grins. “But I’m really glad to see you. It’s been ages.”
Your heart tremors with guilt. Ever since Damian reappeared back in your life, you’ve been putting off so much. Life outside had begun to feel like an intrusion, a compulsory step before you made it home to where the miracle sparked, suspended in time. Even now, you’re terrified the one night you let your guard down, you might come back to an empty apartment. Where you’ll fall asleep and he won’t be there at the corner of the bed, waiting for you to bid him closer and being dragged into his embrace.
“It’s really good to see you.” Your voice softens, taking in the sight of her blond locks, her purple sweater, and the underlying relief in her expression.
Her smile brightens and her arm wraps around your shoulder, dragging you along. “Come on, I’ve got this new place I want to check out. Heard the owner’s a huge fan of Spoiler.”
“You’re not going to bargain deals with your merchandise, are you?”
She hums a sweet tune, head facing forward.
“Steph.” You snort.
“What—it’s a good strategy.” She shrugs. “Tell me it’s not genius.”
“It’s definitely classic you.”
“Yeah, classic me is a genius, same diff.” She grins, steps rushing slightly whenever she gets excited, particularly when it comes to food. The door bell jingles when you both step into the small bistro, the scent of honey and sugared powder filling your nose.
You can imagine Damian’s nose wrinkling at the overly sweet scent, but the thought doesn’t have time to stick before Steph’s already pulling you over to the corner seating, with a perfect view of Wayne Tower in the distance. Your gaze flickers to the tower, before drawing it back to Steph who’s looking over the menu.
“Damian would hate this place.” She says suddenly.
The tilt of your lip freezes, and she casts you a knowing look. “You thought it.” Steph murmurs, placing the menu down. “I know that look.”
Your lips part, mouth dry. “We don’t have to, Steph.”
“No, it’s okay. I don't want you feeling like it's a no-go zone with me.” She smiles gently. There’s that part of her you never stopped admiring, her bravery to speak for what others never dared to see. “I do actually miss making fun of him.”
He misses you too, you want to say. He misses you all.
“Sometimes, I wish he left something for us.” Steph murmurs, her smile lessening into something honest. “He was loud with his actions, and he could never resist an insult but—it just feels like I have nothing much to remind myself of him.”
You pause, her suggestion seeping into your bones. Your gaze widens imperceptibly, but she doesn’t notice.
“There’s Titus, of course.” She jokes wryly. “That beast always tackles me whenever I visit the manor. Guess I know where he got his manners from.”
You’re half-tuning out, because that could be it. Damian could write something so personal to each of them—so they’d at least he know he exists somehow. In this world.
“You’re right, Steph.” You mutter, lost in thought.
“Of course I am. Have you seen Titus recently?” She snorts. “Weighs a truck if he jumps you from the back.”
You shake your head, a fond smile tilting your lips upward. Maybe finally, you have a chance through this loophole, a way to bridge the unseen and the present. You may have a way to bring him back—past the walls of your home.
The nature of Damian is beginning to reform under his bones. The burn of his questions, how he goes silent when he formulates a plan, only without the hesitation he once held in the first few weeks on the prospect of breathing life into the abnormality of his existence.
“What was your wish?” Damian murmurs, gaze peering over you as you tumble into the sheets, feeling his arms slowly wrap around you, pulling you closer to his side of the bed. “I heard you call my name, but nothing of your request.”
“It was the same thing, always.” You recall faintly. “That I didn’t want to ever get used to coming home to our apartment alone. That I could see you again, and remember what life used to feel like with you.”
The specific details of your wish echo in your thoughts, your mind capturing onto the specificity of your words. You feel his mind register it faster than yours, but he doesn't form any accusations, not the way your own brain immediately pinpoints to.
“Is that why you can’t step a foot out of our home?” You realise, dread thumping patiently as it inches closer to guilt. “Why no one can see you except for me?”
He calls out your name, stopping you in your tracks. “It is not your fault.” He says before you’ve even voiced it out. “Do not carry on a burden that isn’t yours to bear.”
“What if—if that's the reason, would you stay?” You ask in the dark. “This doesn’t feel—”
Sustainable or fair or—horrible words pile on top of the other, right at the tip of your tongue. You feel the paranoia that traces along the edge of every conversation you have with him—like the waiting still hasn’t ended. That the world hasn’t quite let loose of its claws on either of you.
“For as long you want me, I’ll always be here.” Damian reassures you, hand lifting to press against your cheek, grounding you.
That’s impossible, you almost want to say. You’ll always want him.
“What about you?” You ask quietly. “You look tired, Dami.”
He stares at you for a beat, and you feel the gears in his mind turning. His under-eyes are clear of dark circles, his body shows no signs of exhaustion, although you know he hasn’t truly slept since his return. You feel it sometimes in your half-awake state, when he lets his guard down—and the trace of his fingers over your pulse.
“It is difficult to rest.” He answers honestly, a dry swallow in his throat. “It does not feel like living. There is no calling for survival, not when I am trapped in place. I am not whole—but the feeling fades when you are here.”
“I want to make things better for you.” You wish desperately.
His gaze softens at the edges. “You are.”
“I want to actually try something. I have an idea, I’m not sure if it’ll work or change anything.” You admit. “I know you’ve been writing every night. I was thinking—would you write letters? To your family? Steph mentioned that she’d like to have something to remember you by.”
His hold tightens over your shoulders, before forcing himself to relax.
“I just think—it might work.” You go on, fingers pressed softly against the expanse of his chest, right where the fabric bunches over your grip—where his heartbeat should be. “If they believe it too, I don’t know—it sounds silly.”
"Beloved.” He calls, his expression twisting in consideration. “I’ve… already written letters.”
Your lips part in astonishment. Has that been what he’s been doing this entire time? “Leave it to you to already have a plan.” You tease softly.
His lips quirk slightly, but there’s still that lingering solemnity in his gaze that’s never fully lifted. “I’ve written letters for you too.”
Your brows furrow. “Why—”
Looking into his eyes, you spot the knowing—the underlying preparation of a man not truly believing the cards are in his favour.
“No.” Pushing yourself away from the sheets, out of his embrace—you stare at him wordlessly, that familiar pounding beginning in your chest.
“Tell me you haven’t been writing goodbye letters, Damian.” You plead.
He only watches you, choosing to remain silent because—he could never lie to you. Not without you catching it in the twinge of his expression, the purse of his lips.
“No, I don’t want to think that—not when the impossible has already happened.” You shake your head. “I can’t handle a goodbye.”
“It is not a certainty.” He reminds you.
“I know but I have to believe.” Your voice breaks. “I believed every night, that somehow, you’d come back to me—and you did. So, I don’t want a goodbye, Damian.”
”I want you to live your life.” You admit in earnest. “Not to be sealed in here, waiting only for me. You are so great—you deserve the chance to be so much more. If there is even a possibility, I want you to fight—to get your life back.”
You are asking a difficult task, for Damian who doesn't put faith in what he can't predict without data or evidence. You see the argument, the calculation weighing in his mind but then he looks at you and—something in him gives. For all that he’s fought for, defying even the rules of the dead, half-whole in a world that once belonged to him as much as it does to you, he has never found the strength to say no to you.
“Alright.” He answers softly. “I will try.”
He has broken his promise only once in your entire lifetime of knowing each other, but tonight, you place your trust in him—that he’d keep this one.
The letters are a brilliant plan. It’s the most hopeful you’ve felt in weeks. Damian waits by the door, a safe two feet away from the threshold where he had last vanished through the hold of your fingers when you both attempted to cross.
“This will work.” You mutter, strapping on your boots.
Looking back to him, Damian’s already watching you, your favourite coat already over his forearm. He doesn’t make a comment, but when you lift your arms for him to put on the coat, as the sleeves loop through—he leans in and closes the distance.
He doesn’t loosen his hold, tugging you closer till you’re wrapped in his scent—and his lips crash into yours. It’s anything but soft, nothing withheld. It’s a promise—unspoken, and a Damian unraveled. Your free hand wraps instinctively around the nape of his neck, tugging softly at the dark waves that have grown past his usual desired length.
A low sound vibrates against his throat, the intensity of him burning through his skin. It is not a goodbye, you remind yourself, refusing to let anything wet prick at your eyes. You are going to fix this—and he was going to come home.
”I love you.” You gasp against his lips, mere seconds after he finally parts to let you have air.
His hand rises to cup your cheek, gaze focused over your features—before finally looking you straight in the eyes. “I am yours. Every part of me always.”
You swallow thickly. “Always.”
You want Damian. You want him in all the worst parts of him—the part of him that left and never came back, the part of him that immediately thought to make your favourite breakfast in the first instance of his return, the only person who you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.
“I’ll be right back.” You promise, grip tightening over the letters.
His gaze flickers with want, unease—a multitude of emotions so vulnerably human, and you understand. You’re the only who will. He lets you take a step back, and you can feel it even when you turn—that he never takes his eyes off of you.
It’s a reassuring weight—of course, till the letters disappear from the grip of your fingers the moment you step out the door. Time splits on itself when your heart drops—gaze snapping to your empty hand, proof of his existence written tirelessly in the thick stack of letters gone without a trace. When you spin back around to your apartment, the sight of Damian behind you disappears with it.
He's gone.
You don't move. Not for a few minutes, staring into the empty space where he once occupied. The door remains open, the buzzing roar of life beyond the threshold numbed to your senses. Eventually, when reality hits you right below your ribs, you do what was only inevitable. You break.
Damian reappears an hour past midnight, one of the longest instances he’s ever gone missing from the apartment. One of the days you truly needed him, you spent alone waiting. He finds you crumpled on the kitchen floor, hands empty—gaze staring blankly into the wall. The wall that holds memories, picture frames of your life with him—and your eyes peer soullessly into the distance.
You faintly register the stir of tension in the air, but you’re tired. Itching faintly for something to happen, the clock ticking down in your mind rendered useless. Your last solution has failed.
Damian stands in your kitchen as he did the first time, when it had all seemed like a dream, and you have nothing to say.
Damian eventually speaks, and it is nothing you want to hear. “We must cease this.”
Your head cranes, looking at him with defeat. Still, you shake your head weakly. You spot that familiar fire, lit in his gaze when his jaw clenches at your stubbornness.
Of course you recognise it. That fire you faced before he had gone out that door two years ago. Your biggest regret had been letting him go, not fighting harder. It’s just that—you’re so exhausted. You need time to think, to replan, to not feel like you’re on the verge of puking because you’re so afraid and you can’t do anything about it.
“There is no denying this. Every instance I reappear, I see your grief—and I am reminded that I am the cause of your suffering.” He says, low and pained. “That I have failed you, and even now, I chain you.”
“Damian, stop.” You plead, trying to shut it out.
“It is the truth.” He states numbly. “You are not living. For as long as I remain, you’ll be chained to the memory, and I have to watch you lose yourself because I am not able to let you go.”
“I have failed you.” He repeats. “But I will not be the reason that you do not live. For as long as I remain here, never truly whole, neither will you.”
“Don’t you understand?” You snap. “I haven’t been whole! Not since the day you died. You leaving won’t change that. Our reality—it isn’t ideal, and it’s terrifying that every time I open that door, I fear I won’t ever see you again, but I’ve lived more now than I have in these past two years.”
“You are still hurting.” His narrowed gaze assesses the trembling of your body, the dullness in your eyes. “Tell me it is enough. Having me here—a fracture of who I used to be.”
Your lips part, and your heart tremors with a painful ache. “I don’t care.” Your voice breaks. “As long as I have you, the pain is nothing compared to not having you at all.”
“But I do.” He pleads. “I refuse to be your chain. The reason your life is reduced to this. You told me that I deserved to be something more. Have you not considered that I want the same for you?”
“What do you want me to do, Damian?” Your voice croaks, exhausted. “What do you propose we do?”
“I want you—” His expression tightens. “—to rescind your wish.”
“No.” Stumbling in your step as you try and fail to rise from the tiles, he’s in front of you in seconds.
You push weakly at his grip that steadies you, anger churning something bitter in your gut that he’s so willing to throw away his promise—the only one you have left for him to keep.
He calls your name, pleading—urgent. "I think this is the end."
"No." You shake your head adamantly, tears soaking your cheeks. "Please."
"I love you." He murmurs. "I love you, and I do not expect your forgiveness."
"What about always?" You break. "Please, I can't lose you again. I can't—I imagined this life with you, Damian. I can't have you again, and lose you—please. Don't go."
His composure shatters the second those words leave you, regret sweeping his entire expression. "I have failed you."
You don't want to hear this. You want him to stay, and for this stupid wish to last—and for the universe to answer your desperate cries to not take him away.
"I love you." Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, you clench tightly as if it could prevent the striking of the clock taking him away. "I can't love anybody else, it's only ever been you."
"I love you." He whispers in devotion, voice raw. "I have only ever seen you. It was always you."
Was. As if he's already seen the inevitability of his going.
"Damian." Your voice is scattered, torn between misplaced rage and desperation—but none of it holds true. "You promised me—that you'd never break your promises. Why?"
Why did he go out on that mission? Why did he not heed your words on waiting for back-up, for someone to be by his side? Why did he leave you alone in this damned apartment, waiting for his return only to open the door to Dick's blank expression battered, where he had to watch you fall in on yourself.
"You should've listened to me." Your fists dig into his chest. "You should've stayed home, with me. Instead of that stupid mission—and leaving me alone. You idiot."
"I know." He murmurs, letting you take it out on him. Even now, he was accommodating you—taking in all your anger even when you didn't want to leave it at this.
You're picking a fight, because you didn't want this to end. Whenever you got in an argument with Damian, he'd refuse to leave it till it was solved. Somewhere in your logic twisted by grief, you wondered if even his determination for your forgiveness would outweigh the cruelty of your wish.
"Fight, damnit—Damian, fight." You cry out, tears forming a puddle onto his shirt. "Don't leave it at this."
"Beloved." He whispers, gazing at you with so much love, it leaves you hollow.
"I wrote letters." He whispers, memorising you with intent. "As many as I could."
You faintly register his words, somewhere beneath the numbness your body is undergoing to process the heavy, sinking chain dragging at your heart.
"I know it's not enough, it never will be." He mutters. "But I wrote them to keep you company. To scream at me, to hate me—everything. What I never got to say, nothing is amiss."
A low, mocking huff leaves his lips not long after his words. "You can burn them if it reminds you of my failures, or if you wish to be part of the memory of me when it only serves you pain. But—"
He swallows, fingers tightening around you. "If you wish to hear my voice, to have me by your side—I am there. In those letters, you'll have me, always. My last thoughts, my wishes—they're all of you. They've always been about you."
“No, this can’t end.” Your voice breaks. “Please.”
“It will end eventually.” His voice lowers, attempting to soothe the cutting truth of his words. “It is my only mercy that I can face you this time, before I go.”
”Why does it have to end?” You mutter into the dark. “Isn’t this enough?”
“It is more than I’ll ever deserve.” He confesses, pressing his lips softly to the crown of your head.
Your words are lost on your tongue, a horrible taste of grief rendering you immobile as you collapse fully into his touch. He holds you, that same pressure over your temple, fingers brushing over the nape of your neck.
“Tell me.” Your body succumbs before your mind, eyes closing shut. “Everything. From the start. I want to hear it all. Please.”
His fingers linger over your temple, before brushing back loose strands of hair to tuck behind your ear. You feel it then, finally, the low thump right where his heart should be. Then, he starts, and you hear the story of how the two of you met from his eyes. You let yourself fall into step with his memory, the last you’ll ever hear of it. In the knowing of a goodbye, you focus on the slight tremor in his voice, the tight grip of his hand—and how his faint heart was finally beating now that you’ve given it back.
You find the stack of letters in the morning, kept neatly in your drawer—all addressed to different names. Father. Mother. Brown. Drake. Grayson. Todd. Duke. Cassandra. The list went on. Your own stack is separated, in a thick bundle that must’ve began from the first time you caught him writing.
The world was impossibly cruel yet fair, his letters remaining despite the impossibility, the scent of him still coating the paper. He is gone, and the existence of him remains.
Life is heightened back to its usual roar, the faint chaos of the streets beyond the walls of your apartment playing as if nothing had ever changed. The quiet greets you like an old friend, and there is no shuffling of the sheets when you wake, no toast at the counter.
Your fingers grip at the first letter, trembling as you open the first. You hear his voice immediately—and nothing prepares you for it, as if he sealed himself within the pages. You feel the warmth of his touch, the low candor of his voice, reading it to you.
"To my beloved.”
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it's no secret you and damian have the most hectic schedules ever. you've been going in for morning shifts, while he indulges and takes the quiet night shifts. you always wave to him at the end of your shift, greeting him tiredly in the locker room while he gets ready to start his.
rushing out the door, you hop in the car, speeding towards the hospital. 9:08, only 8 minutes late. sighing with relief, you dash into the building, scanning in with your fob before streaking down the hall to the locker room. as you push open the door, your nose fills with the thick scent of anti-septic wipes.
wincing, you squint through the bright white lights flooding your vision. stalking towards your locker, pausing and groaning when you realize - you left your lunch at home. frowning, you slide into your scrubs, feeling the familiar fabric press against your skin.
a sigh of relief filling the room, you turn on your pager and round the corner of the lockers before running face first into a warm chest.
"oh shit, I'm so so-" you cut yourself off as you look up into a pair of familiar glittering emerald eyes. "oh, hi dami, sorry about that..."
laughing nervously, you take a step back before nodding once. feeling his gaze on you, you look down, your breath hitching as his nimble fingers wrap around your wrist, pointer and middle pressing down onto your pulse.
"you are stressed." damian's brows furrow, thumb gently smoothing over your wrists. "what happened?"
"oh nothing, I was just running late, forgot my lunch, the usual," you shrug it off, relaxing under his touch.
"I can grab your lunch from the fridge back home and bring it back." he frowns, taking your other wrist into his hands and rubbing his thumbs over your pulse points absentmindedly, taking in your frantic and fluttery pulse.
"really, dami, don't worry about it-" you interject, turning red from his touch, pulling away.
"ya amar, you need to eat. that is non-negotiable. i'll be back within 30 minutes with your lunch, okay?" he shakes his head, taking a step back as you back away from him.
watching him walk away, you cross your arms as you try to hide your not-so-subtle grin. beep! pager ringing, you tear down the hallway to tend to your first code of the day, lunch forgotten.
-
by the time your break rolls around, your legs feel like they're about to give out on you.
sighing from relief as you take in the familiar smell of antiseptic in the locker room, you swing open your locker door, greeted by the sight of your lunchbox.
he actually grabbed it for you.
the stiff back of the plastic chair greets your spine as you unzip your lunchbox, eagerly reaching in for your tupperware before freezing as your hand brushes against a cold slip of paper. pulling it out with a confused huff.
flipping it over, you hum as you notice the familiar cursive scrawl-and the initial signing off on the note.
'you deserve to eat. enjoy, amar. - d'
letting out the smallest giggle, you read over the note once more before pulling out your food and beginning to eat, giddy.
-
the end of the week rolls around and you've got a small collection of post-its hanging up in your locker. the colorful papers flutter every time you open up the door. damian watches from afar as you swing open the metal, first taking in your grin as you open your lunch bag, and then watching as you re-read each note, reveling in your joy.
'have a good shift, amar, i'll see you when you get off.'
'you have the kindest soul.'
'you make everything brighter.'
'looking forward to seeing you later, habibiti.'
'you are very strong and capable. I am proud of you.'
'أنتِ جميلةٌ حقاً يا حبيبتي. (you are truly beautiful, my love).'
turning and catching his eye, you run up to him, gently cupping his jaw before pressing a kiss to his cheek. "thank you, dami."
you're grateful you were running late that one day.
a/n: here's the long awaited second one, posted just under a month later. it's taking me a while to write because I legit have no motivation. BUT ENJOY! I feel a lot better about this one and i'm glad to be able to write again and I can't wait to make this into a series, I have another one lingering in my drafts but ok love you guys bye :)
how it feels when you're reading a fic and a character you love is mischaracterized so horrendously to the point where it's not even them but everyone in the comments love it
Look, I LOVE writers and their creative liberty don't get me wrong... it just physically pains me when it happens. The writing is so peak yet the mischaracterization is just so hard to ignore. It's like finding a good pair of jewelry but not in the metal you wear (if you get what I mean) ☹️☹️
I think people should relearn the etiquette of "Don't like, don't read" and "you're not forced to engage"
Fanfic writers are writing for fun and shouldn't be taking the brunt of online hate for sharing what they wrote. People who can't keep themselves from being rude to others won't fix anything. In fact, they'll just complain about the lack of fics in the fandom.
What we need in a community is to uplift one another not tear someone up because they didn't write something that was your perfect cup of tea. You don't even need to comment anything! You have no obligation to do so.
"there's too much x, y and z, why can't people write a?"
Hmm, I don't know, maybe because fanfic writers write what they want? Maybe the people who're complaining should start writing the things you want to see more of? People aren't going to be at your beck and call because you want them too. It's so tiring to see this happen so often in fandom culture.
