.ᐟ You decide to launch Operation: Live the Teenage Dream! after a certain encounter with DAMIAN WAYNE—what started as a joke that amused you and irritated him slowly becomes something more when the ‘missions’ stop feeling like missions.
.ᐟ CONTENT: slow burn, bittersweet w a mix of everything, both of them are emotionally constipated tbh, its friends to lovers now, sorta proofread wc: 1.3k+
.ᐟ a/n: took a break from the angst </3 ima be real school is starting in less than a week, i probably won't be able to write as much anymore :') also tumblr wont let me use the dividers grr
School had been over for an hour.
Most of the students had already gone home. Without the usual busy crowds, the campus felt strangely larger and quieter. Too quiet.
You sat alone on the bench, one hand clutched around your bag as you lightly kicked your feet against the pavement. Your phone rested casually in your free hand.
Scroll. Refresh. Scroll. Refresh again.
You weren't even paying attention to the screen anymore. At some point in time, it had stopped being about entertainment. It was just something to do to fill the time. You glance at the time on your phone.
4:47 PM.
A soft exhale escapes you. Just a little longer.
“You're still here.” The sharp voice cuts through your peaceful atmosphere so smoothly that your phone almost drops from your hands. Dang it. With a hand over your chest, you look up slowly and unsurprisingly—it was Damian.
Still dressed in his soccer uniform, looking down at you with an unimpressed look. His gaze moves from you, to the bench you're sat at, then briefly to the time displayed on your phone. “School ended an hour ago.”
“I know.” you say casually, turning off your phone and slipping it into your skirt pocket. For a moment, Damian just stares at you. Like he was trying to figure something out.
“You're aware of that.” He had initially assumed that you just lost track of time. “Yep.” you nod. “Yet you're still here.” He raised a brow. “Also yes.”
Damian studies you again for a second, it's the same expression he has when he's solving an equation. Not because you stare at him during class or anything. “Why?” You blink once.
“Why what?” You furrow your brows at him. “Why are you still here?” he clarifies. “Because I feel like it.” you shrug. “And why not?”
His lips pressed into a thin line. There wasn't anything necessarily wrong about your answer. That was the problem. As far as he knows, most people had somewhere they needed to be after school—home, practice, other extracurricular activities. Maybe even out with friends.
You didn't seem to be doing any of those things. And yet, you were still here.
“Are you waiting for someone?” You shake your head. “Then why stay here?” He couldn't wrap his head around it. Why were you wasting your time lingering here on purpose? “I just like hanging around.”
There it was again. Another response that explained everything and absolutely nothing simultaneously.
“Why do you care?” You couldn't help but notice how weirdly he was acting. “I do not.” he answers instantly. Too quickly for you not to notice. “Then why are you asking me so many questions?”
“Because every answer you give me creates even more questions.” Hm. Well, he wasn't wrong. It was easier to give vague answers than actually giving it some thought. “Are you leaving?”
“Eventually.” Damian's eyes twitched so hard again that it might just pop out of his sockets. “Eventually.” he repeats, closing his eyes briefly. “Yep.”
“That's not an exact time.” He opens his eyes again. “It's close enough for me.” His stare sharpens towards you. You smile back sweetly. For some reason, it only makes it worse. Because every answer told him one thing. You weren't staying here because you enjoyed it. You were staying because you didn't want to be somewhere else.
The realization settles into his mind with an irritating sense of certainty. “Then what are you waiting for?” The smile on your face falters for just a second. “Maybe I just don't feel like going home yet.” The answer comes out lighter than it should. Like you've repeatedly practiced saying it to yourself before.
“Why?” A soft laugh escapes you. “There you go again.” His expression remains completely unchanged. “That's not an answer.” You groan, leaning back into the bench.
“Do you ever stop interrogating people?”
“Only when they actually provide useful information.”
“God, you’d be terrible at making friends.” You try to make it sound like you're joking, because you could feel him picking away at the walls you’ve spent years carefully building.
That wasn't supposed to happen. That wasn't the mission.
“Yet here you are.” His response catches you off guard. Just enough for him to notice the way your eyes widened. Just enough for him to notice you don't have a comeback ready like always.
The silence stretches between the two of you. You hate it. You never let it get silent for this long.
“So,” you clap your hands together, trying to distract him. Or yourself. “This is getting dangerously close to becoming another therapy session.” Damian was quick to catch on. Of course. “You're changing the subject.”
“I am!” you say with that exaggerated fake enthusiasm. “And because?”
“Because I don't want to talk about it.” Your honesty surprises the both of you. Then, you point at him. “See? Growth.”
“How is that growth? You admitted to avoiding the question.” He rolled his eyes. “Exactly. Usually I don't even do that.” The corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. But close enough. “That's concerning. Even for you.”
“Thank you.” You smiled brightly again. “That wasn't a compliment.”
“I'll take it anyways.” You push yourself off of the bench, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Alright,” you beam, clapping your hands together again. “Therapy session #2 is officially over.”
“We weren't in therapy.” You start walking through the school gates, while Damian follows you closely from behind. It doesn't take long for him to catch up, matching your pace with irritating ease. “Right. Tell that to the invasive questions.”
The two of you continue walking down the sidewalk. “You make it sound like you enjoy being alone.” You kept walking, but Damian doesn't miss the way your expression falters for a split second. “I never said that.”
“You implied it.” His gaze shifts away from you. For a brief moment, something unreadable crosses his expression. Then it's gone. Because being alone and lonely aren't the same thing. He knows the difference far too well. And he's starting to suspect that you don't.
Damian knows he didn't have to keep following you. He could've left, called his ride, or taken the bus stop you just passed a few blocks away. Yet, he keeps walking.
Except, you keep stopping. Not because you dropped something or had your shoelaces untied. Just because. A window display at a clothing store (It was displaying baby clothes??), a street performer, a dog.
The first dog was understandable.
The second dog was questionable.
By the third one even Damian became suspicious. (Damian stopped too.)
When the two of you have stopped for the third time, Damian slowly realizes that you're stretching out the walk. You were purposefully delaying. Again. “You're doing it again.”
“Hm?” You glance up from where you were crouching, enthusiastically cooing at a golden retriever who seemed more interested in a crunch leaf on the ground than either of you. “Delaying.” You blink. The dog sneezes, not in your face thankfully. “Wow. What a bold accusation.”
“You stopped to look at infant clothing.”
“It was pink.”
…
“And it had fuzzy bears on it.”
“You don't even have a child.” A pause. “Not yet.”
Damian closes his eyes for a moment. Was this what he practiced his patience for?
“Please never say that again.” You look amused, mainly because you managed to get Damian to say please. “Why? I'm just responsibly planning for the future.”
“We’re fifteen.” You only nod further. “Exactly. Preparation.” He rolls his eyes. “You're impossible.” Your grin only gets brighter. “Yet here you are.” His glare sharpens. Did you just throw his words back at him? But to your surprise, he doesn't deny anything this time.
You finally check the time again.
5:31 PM.
It was getting late, and you've run out of excuses. (Would Damian mind if you started stopping for each cat instead of dogs now?) Nevermind. Much to your dismay, you should probably start heading home.
“I should probably get going.” you say, actually stopping in your tracks for a reasonable reason this time. You technically should've gotten home hours ago. “Probably.”
“You didn't have to walk this far, y’know.” you smile. And instead of getting the usual annoyed look that you’d grown fond of, Damian simply nodded. “I know.”
.ᐟ After a devastating breakup, you let your friends drag you out to a party, meant to distract you momentarily. There you meet BRUCE WAYNE, and what started off as another innocent candlelit dinner—became much more. But Bruce’s entire existence is the textbook definition of complicated. And when the arguments start becoming constant and distance becomes a necessity, you couldn't help but ask yourself: Was loving him always going to end up the same way?
.ᐟ CONTENT: angst, miscommunication, relationship issues, emotional unavailability, some fluff and crack, bruce kept a secret from u, i gor lazy at the end so the writing might be sloppy, not proofread as always wc: 6.6k
.ᐟ a/n: i love this album ehehe wow this my 1st time writing 4 bruce ALSO u guys have to deal with the corny dialogue mwah plus me making bruce unable to cook is just self projection
𝓗𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝓦𝑒 𝓖𝑜 𝓐𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛...!
Love 💗
Hey, I hope you're feeling great. This might be sudden but I think it's time we took a break, so I can grow emotionally.
In other words? I'm breaking up with you and I'm never going to show my face to you ever again.
You’ve been staring at the message lit up on your screen for who knows how long now. A flurry of emotions rush through you: heartbreak, disbelief, and anger.
Did he really not even have the guts to break up face to face? He had to hide behind a contact number and a screen, what a coward!
Your grip tightens on your phone, your thumb hovering over the keyboard before reluctantly tapping away from his message. Hell, he didn't deserve your reply now. You blink, trying to get rid of the way your eyes glossed with tears. He didn't deserve that either.
You sat up straight on your twin bed, letting out a shaky breath. You know the feeling settling down on your chest all too well. It's quiet, sudden, and heavy. Too much for your heart to handle even if it's felt this way many times before.
Almost like it was second nature, your thumb moves until you find a familiar contact. You press call. And the ringing barely lasts two seconds when you hear two voices you could recognize from a mile away.
“Hey, girl!”
“Hey, what's up?”
And just like that, your voice breaks as all of your emotions were let out like a dam.
“He broke up with me..”
For a moment, there was only silence from the two other ends. Like they somehow had expected this already.
“Seriously?! I told you before that I had a bad feeling about him..” one of your friends, Sienna, groaned through the speaker, her irritation mixing with concern.
“Okay, wait—” your other friend, Clara’s voice cuts through, her motherly worry evident even from behind the screen. “Are you okay? What happened?”
A humorless chuckle escapes your lips, you could honestly only shake your head at the situation. “He said he needed to grow emotionally. Whatever that means.” you practically scoff, sinking further into your bed. A part of you honestly wanted for it to swallow you whole at this point.
“Oh my goodness.” Sienna gasped in disbelief. “That’s the most breakup text I’ve ever heard. I bet he would say something cliché like ‘It’s not you, it's me.’ or something stupid like that!”
You let out a sniffle, and a choking sound that was sort of a mix of a sob and laughter. You couldn't say you were surprised, but it still didn't change the fact that it hurt.
“I don't understand.” You rest your head against your cheek, feeling how dampened it was from tears you had no idea were even falling. “We were literally fine yesterday.”
Silence again. Like they had all gotten used to this cycle already: breakup, ice cream and ranting, getting over them.
“Alright.” Clara says in a firm tone, the one she uses to let you know that you aren't getting out of this that easily. “We aren't letting you rot and cry over this for the rest of the week.” You could hear Sienna’s hum of approval from the other end.
“You say that like I have a choice.”
“You do,” she replies. “We're going out this weekend.” You stare at your ceiling light, as if you wanted it to just claim you already. How did your life choices come to this?
“...Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes!” Both of them exclaimed in unison.
—
That's how you ended up here. In a party fancier than you had originally anticipated, but at least the ambience was nice and the music was calming. Otherwise you might've just sunk your head into a bowl of wine and drowned yourself right there.
And of course. Your friends brought their boyfriends along with them. Just your luck that you were third wheeling tonight. But on the bright side, you haven't shed a single tear tonight. That was still something.
After a while, you let yourself stray away from the group. It wasn't the hardest thing to do considering they were mostly occupied by their partners. You walk over to a more secluded corner, champagne glass in hand as you plan to simply watch the event unfold from the sidelines.
The wall was cool against your back as you leaned against it slightly. You finally let yourself breathe properly. Everything actually feels peaceful for a moment, like you weren't actively at war with the demons in your mind.
Then, it's warm—the wall is warm. You simply can't have nice things, can't you? You blink in confusion, adjusting your position before you turn around to see what it was. Or who, rather.
You were surprised to see that the wall you had been leaning on wasn't actually a wall at all. It was a person. A very still, expensive looking person who was already looking down at you.
Bruce Wayne.
Oh.
Oh shit.
You've been leaning against Bruce Wayne, like he was the finest piece of architecture here. Your whole career might've been over.
He doesn't move. You don't either, you could barely even breathe because the man in front of you could probably buy your whole existence with the snap of his fingers. The music continues playing anyway.
“I–uh…” you start, already dreading this entire conversation. “I really…did not mean to uhm..I just didn't-I wasn't..” Great. A third grader could construct a better sentence than this.
You quickly step back upon noticing how close you two were. Gosh, he was probably thinking about how personal space was probably a foreign concept to you.
”I am so sorry.” you blurted out, looking so incredibly apologetic. “That…That wasn't on purpose, I didn't mean to do that. I just–uh…thought you were the wall.”
A beat passed, but that beat felt like it was going to determine your fate. Then, a small exhale followed by a controlled chuckle came from Bruce. “It's alright,” he said calmly, and you felt a weight being lifted off your shoulders. “I don’t mind.”
His gaze flickers over you briefly—not judging, just observant. “You look like you need a quiet corner.” Your embarrassment melted into something different when you nodded. “...I did.” you admitted quietly, and he looked like he had expected it.
“Then you're fine,” he says. “Stay.”
You hesitate for a moment.
Stay?
That felt like a generous invitation coming from a man like him. Still, you don't move. “Okay,” you say carefully, as if you were still testing out the waters. “Thank you again.”
He nodded once, and everything was settled.
Neither of you spoke, just basked in each other's silence as the both of you took in the party continuing. Glasses clinking, friends laughing—but every sound from here felt muted and distant.
“You're not used to these, are you?” he asks eventually, not condescending. “Is it that obvious?” You huffed out a quiet laugh, taking a sip from your glass.
“Just a hunch.” You gave him a skeptical look, it couldn't be just that. “...It's the expression.” he replied mildly, scanning your face.
Your eyes shot up slightly, you’d be lying if you said you weren't even just a little bit curious. “Wow, okay. Hm…what does my expression say then?”
His eyes swept over your face for another time, like he was actually considering this and taking the question seriously. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he says. “But you're trying not to show it.”
That was…uncomfortably accurate.
“...Yeah.” you admit quietly. “Something like that.” You take another pause, as if you were still testing out the waters around him. “You don't seem to be enjoying this either.” You gesture over the party.
“I don't really attend things like this for enjoyment.” That much was obvious, considering how he’s probably been here in the corner for the majority of the party. “Then why do you attend them?”
“Obligation.” he says simply, like there was never another option. “That sounds miserable.” You gave him a sympathetic look, it sounded unbearably boring.
Something unreadable flickers under his expression, before a soft yet tired looking smile appears on his face. “It can be.”
Somehow, the conversation continued after that.
And it also somehow ended up with you and Bruce exchanging each other's phone numbers and planning a dinner date next weekend.
—
You’ve been staring and checking your phone for approximately twelve times in the past fifteen minutes. Your lips twitch slightly despite yourself, and that little reaction doesn't go unnoticed by your friends. Damn them for being so observant.
“Oh my God.” Sienna pauses from across the couch, a knowing smile on her face. “You're smiling. Who are you talking to?”
“I’m not smiling.” you dismiss, trying to feign nonchalance. “And I’m certainly not talking to anyone.” Sienna rolls her eyes, evidently far from believing you.
“Yeah, and we're supposed to believe that?” Clara chuckles, looking up from her drink. “You're definitely talking to someone, babes.”
You knew there was no denying or hiding it from your friends now. Whether or not you’d tell them, they would find out one way or another. They could compete for the title of World's Greatest Detective.
“It's nobody.” You trail off, and Sienna narrows her eyes. “Just someone I met at the party.” The room goes silent, Clara raises a brow while Sienna gasps in disbelief. No wonder, Clara noticed you being gone for a portion of the party.
“Who's the mystery man then?” Clara leaned in closer to you, before being shoved to the side (gently) by Sienna whose eyes were still wide in shock. “Tell us!” Clara glares at her, but Sienna pays no mind to it at all.
You hesitate, just long enough for them to notice but not enough for them to point it out. “...Bruce Wayne.”
Clara blinks. Sienna blinks. They both share a look before looking back at you. “Bruce Wayne?!” They shriek in sync, looking mildly impressed but also horrified.
You wince immediately, but you weren't surprised by their reactions. You just told them you were talking to one of the richest men ever like it was nothing.
“You met Bruce Wayne at a random party?!” Clara looked horrified. “And you're only telling us now?!” Sienna added.
“It's only been a day—”
“Still!” They both said in unison again.
It takes a few minutes to calm the two of them down. Clara didn't fail to threaten Bruce (spiritually) if he ever hurts you, while Sienna collapses back onto the couch, sighing dramatically.
“Do you think he can pay off my student loans?”
“You don't even have any student loans—”
“I do now.”
—
You don't know how long you've been staring at the multiple outfits you've laid out. None of them felt perfect. You were starting to stress and overthink again. It was a miracle that Sienna and Clara were there to help you like the godsent angels they were.
“You can literally wear a trash bag and I’m sure he’d find you stunning.” Sienna raises her hand and swears with her life, promising that her opinion was completely unbiased.
“If you really can't decide, I think that dress looks gorgeous on you.” Clara added in, pointing to the navy blue dress. They both knew very well that you were probably the most indecisive person on this planet. “Yeah, I second that! It really brings out your smile.”
You take a second look at the dress, before nodding. “Thank you, guys. You're literally lifesavers.” They both shoot you a smile before shooing you off so you could change.
After a few minutes, you step out casually, like you weren't practically a walking and living goddess. The pair squeal in unison, gushing over you.
“It's just dinner.” you mutter for the sixth time this whole evening. But Clara and Sienna could literally care less.
“With Bruce Wayne.” Sienna says immediately, emphasizing his name like you got amnesia and couldn't remember who he was.
“You really got to stop saying his full government name like that.” Clara gives Sienna another look, before turning back to you and giving you a reassuring smile and hand to your shoulder.
“We're just one call away, in case you need us.” You nodded, you've always known that the two of them had your back. No matter what.
Then—the doorbell finally rings. And the most awaited moment of the night has started. You wave to the two of them, thanking them again as they encouragingly push you to the front door.
They not so subtly watch you step out of the house, hand in hand with Bruce. Sienna swears she wasn't crying, your…lightbulbs just look really interesting. Might need a change soon.
“We're totally following them, right?” she whispers.
“Oh, definitely.” Clara replies, already grabbing her keys.
—
The drive to the restaurant was quieter than you expected. Not awkward, just calm in a strangely intimate manner. The soft glow of the streetlights passing through the window catches your attention. Gotham feels a lot more peaceful like this, in its own twisted way.
You glance over to him briefly.
He had one hand resting against the steering wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead. Hm. You did like safety and protection. His expression was relaxed, not in the way you’ve seen on TV. No rehearsed smiles, just him.
“You're staring.” he says suddenly, eyes still fixated on the road. Damn his peripheral vision. Heat reaches the tip of your ears, you instantly look away. “I was not.”
“Right.” He sounded far from convinced. You just slump down on the fancy leather seats, wanting it to swallow you whole if it was possible. The corners of his lips curl up slightly at the sight of you.
And something in your chest flips. Because you recognized this awful and dangerous feeling.
The restaurant slowly comes into view. It was elegant and polished, in a way that didn't make it seem like it was trying too hard. Bruce stepped out of the car first, making his way to the passenger door to guide you out.
“Careful.” He placed a hand on the small of your back, closing the door behind you. The warm lighting and soothing music of the restaurant, usually would've made you feel welcomed. But tonight, it was different. It didn't feel like you belonged.
The waitress straightens almost instantly upon seeing Bruce enter, but he barely reacts to it. It was just another Wednesday evening to him. Plus, his attention was on you.
“Right this way, Mr. Wayne.”
You try to ignore the glances people give you as you walk besides Bruce. Some whispered under their breath to their friends, some didn't look surprised.
Bruce notices immediately, of course he does. This obviously wasn't his first rodeo.
“We can leave if you feel uncomfortable.” The offer surprises you enough that your brows practically shoot up to your hairline and you look up at him.
You were quick to shake your head, you couldn't let the stares ruin your night with him. “No, I'm okay.” you assure him. “Just not…used to all of this.” You gesture to the place.
His expression changes slightly, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he continues guiding you to the table. Once the two of you are sat down across from each other, a waitress arrives to carefully place menus in front of you both.
“I'll get you two started with some drinks.” she says politely. But before she walks away, her gaze flickers over to you for a moment that you barely see it. A look.
Not impolite. Not judgemental either. More like curiosity hidden under a practiced customer service smile.
And in that moment, it became painfully obvious to you who exactly was sitting across from you. And there's a strange feeling that comes with it.
You grab the menu and quickly lower your gaze, and when you open the selection, it feels like your eyes are being flashed. The prices alone make you want to put the menu down, grab your purse and just walk out of here.
And across from you? Bruce doesn't look phased at all. Unsurprisingly. He was probably in his element here. He looks perfectly at ease, blending in with the environment effortlessly.
“Your expression is telling me something again.” he says after a moment. When your head snaps up from the menu, you find him staring at you. “And what exactly is it saying this time?” you ask carefully, wondering if you even want to know.
“It means,” He places the menu down, folding his hands together. “That you've been looking at the same page for the last two minutes.” Heat creeped up your face instantly.
“I'm just reading it.”
“You haven't turned the page.”
“Oh my God…” you mumble, burying your face in your hands. At this point you were questioning yourself if you even wanted to be seen out here like this.
His gaze softened, the faintest trace of amusement flickering across his expression. “I can promise you,” he says calmly, wanting to soothe your worries. “Nobody cares as much as you think they actually do.”
Slowly, you remove your hands from your face. You study him carefully for a moment after that. You expected someone like him to feel intimidating up close, the kind of intimidating that was too polished, too distant, and intensely aware of the effect they had on people.
Instead, he was just easy to talk to. Dangerously easy.
—
Dinner somehow stretches far longer than you intended it to be.
Between the conversation flowing with ease and food being better than anything you're used to, you end up losing track of time. Like the clock behind you or the watch on his wrist was simply a suggestion.
The tables around you empty one by one. And by the time you've managed to glance around, the restaurant is nearly empty. Still, Bruce and you barely make any effort to leave.
Eventually, reality catches up with you two when a waitress approaches and politely informs the both of you that the restaurant would be closing soon. You blink in surprise, finally taking a look outside.
Darkness has already fully washed over the skies of Gotham, the city lights glittering against the glass like scattered stars. And judging by the look on his face, you weren't the only one surprised by it.
A quiet laugh escapes from your lips as you gather your things and clean as you go, mildly surprised at how easily you lost track of time while talking to him.
Bruce stood from his seat, reaching for his coat before moving to pull your chair out for you. The gesture was simple, yet the effortless way he does it makes your heart stumble anyway.
A few moments later, the two of you step out of the restaurant with your fingers loosely interlaced with his. The cold air instantly hits you right in the face, sending a shudder down your spine.
Bruce, of course, notices. Without a word, he slips his coat over your shoulders to shield you from the cold before gently guiding you towards the passenger door.
The city feels different this late. Quieter. But never asleep, because Gotham never sleeps.
The drive back to your home passes far too quickly. Before you know it, the familiar street you live on slides into view, pulling you back into reality.
Bruce parked smoothly in front of your apartment building, stepping out first and then walking around to open the door for you before you even get the chance to reach it.
“Thank you.” you mutter as you step out carefully. “For dinner?” he asks casually, holding your hand so you wouldn't stumble in your heels. (God knows how people walk in them..)
“For everything, I guess.” Something in his expression after that.
The two of you linger near the entrance for a moment afterward, neither of you ready to say goodbye yet. Then, the weight of his coat around your shoulders served as a reminder.
“I should probably give this back.” you say quietly, starting to slip it off of your shoulders. “No, keep it.” He quickly raises a hand to stop you, putting it back on.
Your breath catches slightly, still holding onto the fabric. “It's a little big on you. But you pull it off anyway.” There it is again. That…awful feeling in your chest. The one that whispered trouble into your ear.
“Text me when you get inside.”
—
One dinner turns into several. Then, text messages turned into late night phone calls that somehow stretched for hours after work. Somewhere along the way, both of your homes were filled with traces of each other. The lingering scent of his expensive cologne lingering in the corners of your apartment, your house slippers sitting at the shoe rack of the manor like it belonged there.
And maybe the part that unsettles you the most, is how natural it all feels.
The line between it being something more than just seeing each other had quietly blurred along the way.
“The gossip pages already think we're dating, y’know.” you joke one morning, scrolling through an article with a photo of you and Bruce being spotted together one evening.
Bruce glances up from his cup of black coffee. (How could he drink that without being disgusted??) “They're late.” he says simply as he takes a sip from his mug, barely sparing a glance at the article.
“What?” you try to hide the surprise in your voice, but he catches on like he always did. Bruce looks at you for a moment before answering. “I was under the impression that we already belonged to each other.”
—
The relationship settles into your life far easier than you expected it to.
Some days are glamorous—expensive candlelit dinners at fancy restaurants, charity galas, cameras flashing.
Others are painfully ordinary, but familiar. Late night takeouts for whenever the two of you were too exhausted to cook, double dates with your friends, resting your head on his shoulder while he responds to e-mails.
And somewhere in between everything, Gotham begins to see the two of you as something permanent. More importantly, so do you.
—
You stop checking the time after the fifth time you've glanced at your phone. No calls, no messages. Nothing.
The food sitting across from you has gone cold in the hands of time. And around you, conversations continued easily. Couples and friends laugh over shared drinks, waitresses slip between tables with practiced ease, carrying fresh meals you don't have the appetite for anymore.
Still, your gaze lingers at the entrance anyways. Still hopeful. Just in case.
Finally, your phone rings. You scramble to get it (gracefully).
Bruce 💕
I'm sorry, dear. I don't think I'll be able to make it tonight.
You stare at the message for a moment, all hope and anticipation in you disappearing as you exhale softly. Forcing yourself to relax into your seat.
You tell yourself it's nothing personal. It's fine. It's Bruce.
And everyone wants a piece of him.
The city. The media. His company. Strangers who think they know him just because they constantly see his face splashed on television and magazine covers.
So when plans get changed or canceled entirely at the last minute, or when his attention starts to drift elsewhere more often than not. You try not to let it bother you.
You keep telling yourself that loving someone like Bruce comes with the cost of sharing him with the rest of the world.
By the time Bruce arrives at your apartment, you had already convinced yourself not to bring up the cancelled dinner last week. It would be unfair to him. You knew he had a lot of things going on.
He looked like absolute hell (affectionate) when he walked in, dark circles sinking beneath his eyes, tension weighing down his shoulders.
So instead, you simply let him pull you into an embrace and pretend that the disappointment wasn't still lingering inside your heart.
“Mhm.”
“Yeah.”
“Right.”
Those were the only words he has said in the past twenty minutes of you talking about your day. He's distracted and on autopilot. And before you could think, you spoke up.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“I'm trying to.”
You decided to whip up some dinner for yourself and Bruce one evening. Nothing fancy—just something warm and homemade that was sure to fill up your stomachs after a long day.
For once, you let yourself feel hopeful again. Especially when your phone lights up with a message from Bruce, telling you he's on his way.
Maybe tonight will be different. Better.
You hear the familiar sound of keys jingling at the door before he enters, looking as exhausted as ever, dark hair that was usually so neat now messy, tie slightly loosened.
Still, something in his eyes softens when he sees you.
Before you could greet him, he was already in front of you, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead while his hands rested around your waist instinctively.
And just like that, it was like you were never frustrated with him to begin with. “You're late.” you mumble, but your words lack any real bite to them.
“I know,” His voice was quieter now. “I'm sorry.”
The apology sounds sincere enough that you decide not to press further. Not yet, at least.
Instead, you take his hand and gently guide him toward the kitchen. The smell of the home cooked meal filled the apartment, enveloping the two of you in a way that made everything feel comforting and warm.
“You made dinner?” he asks, curiously glancing towards the stove. “I figured one of us should probably eat something that didn't come from a personal chef for once.” you joke lightly, heading to the stove to heat the meal up.
A hum of amusement comes from Bruce as he carefully watches you move around the kitchen like a natural. “You're telling me I can't cook.”
“You burnt toast so badly last time that it looked like ash.” You don't deny it, he was a walking tornado in the kitchen. “That was one time.” Bruce exhales through his nose, making a sound that was dangerously close to a laugh.
For a moment, things feel light again. Normal. Like you were simply dating a man—not the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, just him. Like he wasn't something you had to share with the rest of the world.
You hand him a plate before settling beside him, talking absentmindedly about your day while he actually listens quietly and provides occasional short comments and reactions.
It was nice enough that you almost forgot and forgave him for the past week. Almost.
Then, his phone lit up with a buzz against the counter. He glances at it automatically. And even though he doesn't say anything about it, you notice the shift. How his attention shifts, how his gaze grows distant for just a second too long.
Something inside of you sinks before you can stop it.
“You can answer it.” you say, trying to sound more supportive than disappointed. “It's probably not important.” Bruce looked up immediately.
Still, the two of you couldn't exactly ignore the persistent buzzing coming from his phone. The sound felt unbearably loud inside the quiet apartment.
Reluctantly, he reaches for his phone. Just to check. Just to see if everything was alright.
Bruce's eyes scan whatever was on the screen, his expression tightening almost instantly. Not dramatically, just enough for you to notice like you always did. You know that look.
“Is everything okay?” you ask. He doesn't respond immediately. “...Yeah.” It was automatic, something that told you he didn't mean it entirely. And somehow that bothered you even more than if he had simply admitted something was wrong.
He sets his phone back down after, trying to return his attention to what was in front of him. To the conversation, dinner, and you.
He really does try. But you continue to notice it anyway.
The way his gaze unconsciously drifts back towards the phone beside him. The tension returned to his shoulders. The halfhearted replies he gives you.
And suddenly, the apartment doesn't nearly feel as warm as before.
“I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending that this doesn't hurt.” you admit quietly through your clenched jaw, trying to keep your composure.
The already quiet apartment falls silent after your words. Bruce finally gives you his full attention. No distractions, just you. “Do you think I want to hurt you?” Your chest twists immediately. “Bruce, that's not what I said.”
“But it's what you meant.”
“No,” you exhaled shakily, trying to make sense of your thoughts. “I'm trying to say that I miss you all the time and we've been feeling distant, and I don't know if you even notice.”
“I'm doing my best.” he says quietly, not defensively or angrily. And his words scare her even more. If this was his best, what could happen later?
For a while after that, things between the two of you improve. Or maybe the two of you had simply gotten better at pretending that they have.
Bruce starts making more of an effort again. Missed dinners became less frequent, late night phone calls turning into nights actually spent together, remembering little details you mentioned in one of your ramblings.
But some part of you still notices some of the things that haven't changed.
The way he occasionally disappears without any explanation. The mysterious wounds and bruises that he brushes off too casually. (He couldn't have fallen off the stairs a third time in a week.) The phone calls he takes in private.
At first, you try not to think much of it. After all, everyone’s entitled to their privacy, right? Even then, you still catch yourself wondering if you even know Bruce at all. When entire pieces of his life are tucked away from you behind polite smiles and charming deflections.
This wasn't the first time you’d been over to Wayne manor. But this was the first time you’d used the keys Bruce had given you. It feels strangely intimate somehow. A quiet acknowledgment that you belong here now, that you had a place in his life now.
At least that’s what you tell yourself when you click the heavy wooden doors shut.
Alfred had informed you that Bruce was running late. As always. And with nothing else to do, you decide to wander around the manor for a bit.
You spot a pair of boots by the door. They seemed way too small to belong to Bruce, Dick, Jason, or even Tim. You pause for a moment before shrugging it off, it may have been one of their old pairs that Bruce was too sentimental to get rid of.
The manor’s kitchen has always been a lot more welcoming compared to the rest of the estate. Less grand and more lived in. The kind of room that always felt warm no matter the season.
You grab a glass from the cabinet and casually fill it with water. That's when something catches your attention mid-sip.
A textbook sat on the counter, a pencil neatly tucked in between its pages. You pause, then curiously take a look at the cover. Algebra.
Your brows knit together. You knew the boys were nerds in their own ways but you doubt they want to spend their evening reading an Algebra textbook. Despite that, you shrug it off after a moment of staring.
A lot of people come and go in the manor. It's probably nothing.
And if that wasn't enough, when you turn around, your gaze finds a drawing pinned on the fridge. A drawing of Bruce. The pencil strokes are…surprisingly skilled, capturing Bruce’s likeness with unsettling accuracy.
As if on cue, Alfred enters the kitchen. You offer him a smile. “Who drew this?” you ask curiously, staring at the drawing for another moment. Alfred’s posture straightens ever so slightly. You didn't think much of it, Alfred always carried himself with that composure.
“Someone in the family, miss.” You blink, and before you can ask another question, Alfred glances at his watch and excuses himself. Which honestly just left you more confused to begin with.
The drawing, the textbook, the boots. The pieces don't quite fit together. You decide to brush it off again, wanting to keep your peace.
While continuing to wait for Bruce’s arrival, you wander into the library. You let your fingers mindlessly run through the rows of books, trying to pass the time.
That's when something catches your eye again. You stop in your tracks, then you see a photograph tucked in between the books. It was small enough that you normally would've walked past it.
Bruce is in it. Of course. But standing beside him is a boy you don't recognize. It isn't Dick. It isn't Jason. And it certainly wasn't Tim either. And what unsettles you the most is the resemblance the boy has with Bruce.
The same dark hair, the same brows, even the slight almost permanent scowl was there. It was like looking into a younger version of Bruce. You barely notice how your fingers tighten around the frame. Who was this?
“There you are.” You nearly drop the frame. You didn't have any time to put it back or hide it when you saw Bruce standing in front of you.
Neither of you speak for a moment, but you see it. How his gaze moves to you then towards the photograph. Something flickered in his expression. Not shock, not panic, not even anger. Just recognition.
“Who is this?” you ask quietly, your fingers still curled around the wooden frame. The question cuts through the air, and Bruce doesn't answer immediately. The hesitation tells you more than his words ever could.
“Bruce?” You try to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach, like you were drowning in the ocean while Bruce just stared at you with a life jacket in hand.
You’d seen this look before, the one he had whenever he didn't want to talk about something. Something he wasn't ready to share. “Who is he?” You repeat.
This time, Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose. Like he was weighing his options. His eyes linger on the photograph for another moment before answering. “His name is Damian.” You wait for him to continue, for him to say more about this Damian kid you didn't even know the existence of until now.
But he doesn't. And the silence stretches uncomfortably. “...Okay.” you pause. “And who’s Damian?” His jaw tightens again, and suddenly you already know.
Not the full truth. Not yet. But enough for you to understand his hesitation. Enough to understand why Alfred had to choose his words. Enough to understand the boots, textbook, and drawing from earlier.
“Bruce.” This time, your words were a pleading demand to know the truth. “He's my son.” The room goes completely still. You stare at him and blinked once. Twice.
You waited. You weren't sure what for. Maybe a punchline, maybe even a laugh. But nothing comes after. “Your…son?” The words struggled to come out, as if they were stuck to your throat.
Because this wasn't a nephew, not a cousin, not even another child he took in. It was his son. His biological son. Bruce nodded once.
And somehow that single nod was worse than any explanation he could've given you. Because it was final. A confirmation that it was real.
Your hands loosen against the frame slightly, like your body was struggling to function properly. Your breath catches. “You have a son.” you say slowly, like you were still bracing yourself.
He doesn't correct you, doesn't hesitate or try to soften the blow. Just—”Yes.” You stare at his face, searching for anything that suggests that he understood what you felt in your perspective.
But Bruce just looks steady. Like he was already bracing for impact, like he expected this to happen. That was worse somehow. Your throat tightens, and you look down at the frame again. You weren't even sure why you were still holding onto it.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to be. Less angry, more hurt. You watch him closely, and the brief silence says more than enough.
“I know you keep a lot of parts of your life private, and I respect that.” you try to ignore the slightest shake in your voice. “But this isn't just privacy.” You gesture at the photo faintly.
“This is your child.” You couldn't help the way your voice wavers at the last word. “I didn't–” he started, pausing. “I didn't know how.”
His words land wrong, it lands worse even. And suddenly, all you can think of is how he knew. He simply didn't tell you. Something twists in you immediately. You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice even. “What does that even mean?”
“I didn't plan to keep him from you.” he says quietly. “That's not what I asked, Bruce.” You blink, and he pauses.
“I know.” He looms away for a moment. “...It's complicated.” You couldn't help the short humorless breath you let out. “Of course it is.”
He knew it wasn't a reasonable explanation, knew it wasn't what you deserved. “I kept thinking it wasn't the right time…Then it just kept not being the right time.”
“That's not a reason.” you whisper. He doesn't argue, doesn't deny it. And that might be the worst part of it all. “I know,” he admits, but it doesn't make it any better.
You carefully set the frame back where you took it, like anything sudden might shatter the entire room. “I was here, in the manor. Sleeping in your bed, sitting in your space.” You manage the courage to look at him again. “He was here too, wasn't he?”
He doesn't answer immediately, doesn't have to anymore. The answer was written all over him like a neon sign. “He was here.” you echo. “And you just didn't tell me.”
You take a step back away from him before you even notice it. Like being in the same space as him right now was unbearable. “I need..” your words struggle to catch up with you. “I need a minute.”
You turn slightly, already heading to the door. “Wait–” It was a plea, and despite everything you still pause. Behind you, Bruce doesn't do anything to physically stop you. He doesn't reach out. He doesn't close the distance.
“I should have told you.” You let out a small broken laugh, not turning around. You couldn't face him now. “I didn't mean for it to be like this.” That makes you turn slightly, just to look at him from over your shoulder.
“I kept telling myself that there would be a right moment,” he says. “That I’d explain it to you, that I’d…” “And it never came.” you finish for him, and he doesn't deny or correct you anymore.
And he's looking at you like he wanted to reach out and not let go, but he doesn't. That's the problem. And for once, he doesn't know how to make things right either.
You don't say anything else, he doesn't either. So you leave. Not dramatically, not with a loud door slam or anything. Just a quiet click of the door shutting behind you.
You don't remember the walk back home clearly. Just the feeling of your phone weighing down your hands. Your thumb hovers over your contacts, your friend's names sitting at the top.
The same two people who carried you before when it felt like you were crumbling apart. You exhale shakily, then you press call.
And before either of them could speak. “Can you guys come over?” you try to hide the tremble in your voice. “Please.”
You stare up at Wally who was still yawning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, then you glance at your ridiculously pink Hello Kitty and strawberry hair-clips which slightly revealed his hairline. (Please don't tell him it's receding. Unless you want to destroy him emotionally.)
"My hair was getting in the way." he replies, running his hands through it. "It suits me anyway." He flashes you an unapologetic boyish smile, then his gaze lowered.
"...Are you wearing my boxers?" You follow his gaze and look down yourself. Right, you may or may not have forgotten. "All of my underwear was in the wash. Hope you don't mind."
He quickly shook his head. Way too quickly. "Huh–yeah! I don't mind at all. You can keep borrowing them." He gives you a nod of approval and a thumbs up.
And you figured that was the end of it, but before you could walk away, he spoke again.
"Does that mean I can borrow your panties too—"
"Don't you dare, Wallace."
a/n: still working on the mans best friend thingy have this</3 so just have this idk bruh i made it in like 5 minutes so very not proofread
➤ After a devastating breakup, you let your friends drag you out to a party, meant to distract you momentarily. There you meet Bruce Wayne, and what started off as another innocent candlelit dinner—became much more.
But Bruce’s entire existence is the textbook definition of complicated. And when the arguments start becoming constant and distance becomes a necessity, you couldn't help but ask yourself: Was loving him always going to end up the same way?
𝓓𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝓖𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 ᛝ wc:
ꨄ︎𝓢𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝓣𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔:
➤ He loves you—to the moon and back, to the ends of the Earth, and from the bottom of his heart. Dick Grayson is everything you could ever ask for—handsome, kind, attentive, charming.
But when every single heart to heart conversation dissolves into soft touches and sweeter yet empty words, you couldn't help but wonder: is he really being honest with you, or is he only telling you what you want to hear?
𝓙𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝓣𝑜𝑑𝑑 ᛝ wc:
ꨄ︎𝓦𝑒 𝓐𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝓑𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝓤𝑝 𝓐𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝓛𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝓝𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡
➤ Surprise! You two broke up for the fifth time this month! It's become a routine that you've mastered at this point—fighting, distance, reconciliation. A cycle you know like the back of your hand. With Jason Todd, you've grown familiar with the walls he's built around him. And sometimes you wonder if you ever had a place behind them all.
But it's not just him. You both pull away when things get too real. You both shout things you don't mean. And no matter how many times you swear it’ll be the last—the two of you never fail to end up in the same bed again.
𝓣𝑖𝑚 𝓓𝑟𝑎𝑘𝑒 ᛝ wc:
ꨄ︎ 𝓖𝑜 𝓖𝑜 𝓙𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑒
➤ When Tim Drake breaks up with you one night, it wasn't explosive and dramatic—just careful, and irritatingly reasonable. It wasn't the type of breakup you could even be angry at, no matter how much it shattered you.
So you do what anyone would do when they lose someone dear to them—drink to your heart's content like every bottle was bottomless.
But one night turns into too many drinks and too many bad decisions. Your fingers hover over your phone, scrolling through your contacts full of people who barely even mattered anymore. Until you land on one that does. Jim, Kim? It doesn't matter.
You press call anyways.
𝓓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝓦𝑎𝑦𝑛𝑒 ᛝ wc:
ꨄ︎𝓜𝑦 𝓜𝑎𝑛 𝓞𝑛 𝓦𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟
➤ Damian Wayne always treated you like a queen. He was unexpectedly soft in ways he never let himself be with others. Careful touches, steady loyalty, and a quiet devotion.
Until one night everything goes south.
You were kidnapped and used against him, although you walk away unharmed, something in him doesn't. After that, something in Damian shifts. The warmth fades into measured distance, his affections restrained until you were convinced that he wouldn't even touch you with a twenty-foot pole.
Loving you is a dangerous decision. And no matter how hard you try to reach him, he continued to choose safety and control over loving you. Did he just see you as a weakness he’ll never forgive himself for having?
.ᐟ You decide to launch Operation: Live the Teenage Dream! after a certain encounter with DAMIAN WAYNE—what started as a joke that amused you and irritated him slowly becomes something more when the ‘missions’ stop feeling like missions.
.ᐟ CONTENT: slowburn, emotional tension, not proofread, street food hangout, mostly banter but deeper, theyre both emotionally constipated tbh wc: 2.3k
.ᐟ a/n: guys nasa fusion alley or quiapo talaga sila WAHAHAHA emz—ima be honest, it's mostly a similar conclusion from the last part, but this mission just helped damian understand it better. And i didnt want to rush and escalate things.
The silence doesn't bother you. Not really. After all, you've grown used to it. It's just…loud in its own way. The type of loud that the only sound you hear is your breathing and heartbeat.
You're sprawled out on your bed, sheets rustling with every movement you made. You look down at your phone that was resting on your chest, the faint glow making you squint.
You just stare at it for a moment. Then, you open your messages.
You
u up?
It takes less than a minute, of course it does.
Dami 👻
It is 7:49 PM.
You
exactly ure awake
stop judging me i can feel it
Dami 👻
State your purpose.
You grin at your screen. At least he wasn't outright rejecting you anymore. That was progress!
You
ok first, i should rlly teach u how to text soon
u sound like a mob boss again
Dami 👻
I’m being direct.
It saves precious time.
You
its weird
Dami 👻
If you have nothing useful to say, I will be ending this conversation.
You sit up slightly, his message awaking you.
You
wait wait don't do that
were going out
The pause was longer this time.
Dami 👻
No.
You blink, seriously?
You
u didn't even ask where!
Dami 👻
It doesn't matter.
You
wow
so open minded of u
Dami 👻
We don't even have a proper itinerary.
There it was. You anticipated this.
You
perfect
Dami 👻
Explain.
You
the 2nd mission, teaching u to be spontaneous
You could feel his skeptical glare from the screen, but that was never enough to shoo you away.
You
no planning, no schedules.
Dami 👻
No.
Dang it, he probably didn't even consider it. You purse your lips together and brows knitted together, focused on convincing him.
You
oh cmon ure no fun
live a little dami
On the other end, Damian rolled his eyes at his phone. Live a little. You say it so easily. He already has. Just…not like this. He's done more than that, probably far more than you ever will.
If only you knew what that meant to him.
You
or r u scared? 🤨
…That does it.
Dami 👻
Send the location.
You couldn't help the smug grin on your face. That was a lot easier than you honestly expected. You quickly send the location to him.
You
don't be late!!
Dami 👻
I’m never late.
You smile to yourself, locking your phone and staring back at your reflection on the dark screen. The quiet creeped back in almost immediately, making you stand up to go grab your jacket.
Anything was better than this.
You spot him in the crowd almost immediately. Which was…a bit concerning honestly.
He stands out, and you weren't entirely sure if it was in a good way. He looks completely out of place, like he should be lurking in the shadows or some fancy gathering.
You don't think twice, you don't have to. You just walked straight towards him.
You blended in easily with the crowd, posture relaxed and smiled casually. And despite that, you barely made it halfway before his eyes landed on you.
Jesus. That was scarily quick.
You lifted your hand and gave him a small wave. And he doesn't wave back. That was awkward. You kept walking, until you stopped in front of him with a cheeky grin like you had just won the lottery.
“Alright,” you clap your hands together once. “Mission 02. Let's get started.” He doesn't get the chance to ask or say anything when you grab his sleeve and start dragging him further into the crowded street.
“Where do you exactly plan on going?” He asks, his voice flat and brows lifting slightly. “I heard there was a stall with really good fruit juice. We should try it!”
He looked at you, then closed his eyes for a moment as if to recollect himself. He was already regretting this.
The stall was louder than he expected. Not literally.
But the type of loud that had bright neon signs, a menu that had slightly crooked cursive, and a line of people that moved slower than the two of you could ever imagine.
“This…is the stall?” he asks flatly. “Yep!” you beam in return, already lining up. His eyes scan over the stall, clearly unimpressed and looking like it had personally offended him.
“It seems questionable.” he mumbles under his breath with a shake in his head. By the time you two reach the counter, he was already assessing everything. Until your voice cuts through his train of thought. “Two fruit juices, please!”
“I didn't-” His eyes shot down to you, only to see you already paying for the drinks and looking way too pleased with yourself. “Too late.” He instantly goes still. For a moment, you could see his mouth part slightly, probably to argue. Then close again.
Because somehow that look on your face was a lot more frustrating than the situation itself.
The vendor moved swiftly, while Damian stood rigidly. He scanned everything, the ingredients, the cleanliness, the preparation. “You're doing that face again.”
“This is just how my face looks.” He frowned deeper. “...That doesn't make it any better.” You shake your head slightly. The vendor calls out your name, sliding the two cups over to you.
You grab one cup first, then push the cup closer to him. He doesn't take it right away. Just stare at it, judgingly. You take a sip of your own juice, he watches your reaction carefully before he grabs his own cup cautiously. Like it had to earn his trust.
For a moment, his expression changes. Barely. Just a tiny raise in his brows that suggested he was a lot more impressed than he’d like to admit. “It is…acceptable.” he hummed, taking another drink as you both walked away from the stall.
“There it is.” You grin instantly. He doesn't respond or react to that, but he doesn't put down the drink either.
The ice in your drinks had already half melted from the heat of your hands when you stepped back into the crowded streets again. You were already searching through the rows of stalls, trying to find any remotely interesting snack.
Damian, on the other hand, was being hyper vigilant of his surroundings. His attention split effortlessly. His ears picking up on the sound of a group of friends laughing uncontrollably behind you, street vendors calling out to get people's attention, bells ringing when bikes passed by.
He doesn't mean to. But places like this—bustling and unpredictable—were ideal for trouble. There were too many blind spots most people wouldn't notice, too many distractions.
If something bad were to happen, it would be quick and easy. And most likely people wouldn't notice until it was too late.
The noise felt like it was surrounding Damian for a second, a caged feeling washing over him. Too many variables pressing in from all sides. His gaze shifts, to the left, right, behind you—shoulders tense and alert as he anticipated.
“Hey.”
Your voice cuts through the noise. He pauses, taking in a breath he had no idea he was holding. You're already a few steps ahead, facing him as you trusted the crowd behind you not to completely swallow you whole. (Which he finds questionable.)
You only needed to take one look at him to know what he was doing. “Relax,” you tell, voice softer this time. “Nothing's going to happen.”
His eyes scan everything around you out of habit. Then went back to you. “That is not a guarantee.” You couldn't help but smile way too fondly. Because everything wasn't a guarantee, hell—waking up in the morning isn't even a guarantee.
“Yeah, but at the moment? It's good enough.” He waits for a moment. Everything was still there. The noise, the people, the unpredictability. But it fades into background noise, not completely. Just..enough for him to actually lower his guard down.
You turn forward like nothing happened and start walking again. “Come on,” you say lightly, expecting him to follow. “I saw some empanadas over there.” He exhaled quietly, and reluctantly followed you.
This stall was quieter, tucked in between brighter and flashier stalls like a hidden gem. Your eyes light up at the sight of the golden pastries. Damian stopped beside you, seeing your delight. “Hm…deep fried.”
You barely give him a glance. “Two, please!” Because you were already ordering. “I did not—” You raise your finger at him and wiggle it in a ‘no’ motion. “Too late.”
A few seconds later, a warm paper bag was pressed into your hands as you handed over the payment again. You wasted no time and pulled one out quickly, softly blowing on it before you bite. “Ow ow ow, oh my gosh—it's delicious.”
Your cheeks puff up each time you attempt to cool down the food in your mouth. “At least wait for it to cool down.” he tells, watching you like you were a fish forming bubbles.
“You need to try this.” You turn to him, already pulling out the second empanada from the paper bag. “I will not.” You pause, as if you were waiting for him to give in. You slowly took another bite of your own empanada, and he ends up watching you chew it in a deliberate manner. “Whatever. You're definitely missing out.”
He looks at you, then at the empanada, then back at you. “Fine.” You freeze mid-chew, your eyes practically saying “Really?” He rolls his eyes and reaches out his hand, waiting for you to offer the pastry to him. “I’m only confirming if you're telling the truth.”
You hand it to him, nodding with an unconvinced but pleased smile on your face. He takes it and takes a moment to look at it carefully. It's mostly cooled down by now when he takes a bite. His expression remains unreadable with each chew. “It's acceptable.”
You end up rolling your eyes, not bothering to make a comment about how boring his compliments were. You would've been better off reading reviews off of Google. You step away from the stall, taking another bite yourself. “Come on, let's find someplace to sit.”
Damian followed beside you, eating his own empanada silently. You glance around the place, trying to look for any spots where you two could sit down and rest.
Bingo! A bench.
It wasn't exactly far away from the crowd, but the distance was enough to dull down the noise, just enough to breathe. “Over there.” You point, already rushing over there because you’d be damned if anyone got there before you.
You drop down on the bench with zero hesitation when you get there, leaning back into the cold wood as you let out a relaxed sigh. Ick. You stick your tongue out when you take a sip of the fruit juice. It did not taste good warm..
Damian sits at the other end, not too far and not too close. The atmosphere was a huge contrast to the busy streets earlier, here—things finally slowed down.
You turn over to him, just scooting an inch closer. “So, do you always go out like this?” He blinks down at you. He thinks about it for a moment. Technically, yes. In fact, he was always out at night—not in places like this though.
“...Occasionally.” He answers, which again—technically wasn't a lie either. He attended galas, and sometimes his brothers dragged him out of the house. Still, you raise a brow.
When silence falls between you two, not uncomfortably, just…natural. It gave him an opportunity to talk this time. “You seem used to this.” He gestured subtly at the crowds of people and the noise drifting in from the street.
You glance towards the street, taking it in. “Yeah, I guess so.” You rest your face against your hand. “It's a lot better than being bored.” You could almost grimace at the thought of spending your night scrolling on your phone and sulking in bed.
You simply weren't that type of person to stop when it felt like your world was crumbling. The world always kept on spinning. It wouldn't pause for some teenage girl just so she could get a breather.
He watches you closely, a bit too closely. “How about when it's quiet?” He could see you pause, only for a split second. Then you smile again, casually. “I just find something to do.” You lean back further, stretching your arms idly.
Then a much cheekier smile appears on your face. “Or someone to bother.” you add, giving him a knowing glance. “Obviously.” He sighed, making you grin wider. He doesn't look away this time.
He's starting to understand that you don't fill in the silence because you enjoy it. You fill it because you can't stand the feeling that comes with it.
“Enough serious talk.” You sat up straighter, taking the final bite out of your empanada. “This is starting to sound like a therapy session.”
He doesn't push, letting the quiet moment slip away.
You hop up from the bench, tossing the paper bag into a nearby trash can. “Alright,” You brush your hands together, ridding of any crumbs. “I believe Mission 02 is a success.” You pull out your phone to check the time. It wasn't too late. Not that it mattered.
A little girl runs past, her childish carefree laughter spilling into your world even as you tried to ignore it by not looking. She darts down the street, a man—her father, chasing her down with a tired smile.
Her laughter fades into the street behind you, leaving a hollow feeling in your chest. And you pretend you don't feel it. A beat passes in the uncomfortable silence.
“We should head back.” You blink once, as if his voice pulled you out of a moment you had no idea you were still stuck in. “Right, yeah..” you agreed with a hum, a softer smile returning to your lips.
“We can walk.” he says, already angling himself towards the street. And this time, you follow him without a word.
No one’s waiting for you.
The words return to his thoughts uninvited, too familiar to ignore. So he kept walking, a bit more aware. Not of the city's danger this time, but of you.
.ᐟ All that remains of BRUCE WAYNE’S daughter is everything she left behind: her belongings, her room, and a diary no one knew existed. And inside of it, she's still there, alive—in ink, in pages, and in quiet entries.
.ᐟ a/n: ty all sm for 1k+ followers! <3 :D srry if i didn't include every1 in the batfam, it was easier for me dis way. and i didnt want to mischaracterize them.
The ride home from the funeral was painfully silent save for the soft tapping of rain on the fogged up window and some light jazz playing on the radio, just loud enough so the silence doesn't drive anyone crazy or swallow everyone whole.
No one spoke. No one dared to.
Not when Bruce’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. Not when they had to stop when the traffic light turned red. And not even when the manor that seemed even gloomier than before came into view, gates already open. As if it was waiting.
Except this time, they weren't greeted by your warm open arms.
The large menacing doors of the manor opened easily. What wasn't easy was what they had to face. Damian still, foolishly half expected you to come running over to them, ready to smother him in kisses just to annoy him. But now, only the cold wind from the inside greeted them all.
Nothing was out of place. No signs of trouble, no chaos. Everything looked normal. Too exact. Too still. And that was what made it even more unbearable.
They see it in the ghosts of your everyday routine.
Your sneakers resting on the shoe rack, almost like you’ll slip them on any second to tell Bruce you're going out with your friends he never got to know because he never asked.
Your favorite mug neatly tucked in the cupboards. Almost like you’ll reach for it later because you wanted to have some hot cocoa to battle the cold weather.
Everything simply felt…paused.
Like you weren't gone, just delayed, got into traffic, running a bit late.
Maybe because some part of them still wanted to believe you’d enter the manor any moment now—coming back from school, or maybe a late night out with some friends.
And then, without uttering a single word, Damian turned to the grand staircase and made his way to the East Wing of the manor—where your room rested.
You and Damian had never been particularly close. Well, that's what he says at least whenever someone asks. But it was undeniable that the two of you were closer than either of you admitted.
Through shared blood, the same dark hair, and even the same stern resting face—even though you were, in every possible way, the complete opposite.
The closer Damian got to your door, the heavier the silence weighed down on his shoulders. His hand hovering over the doorknob before his mind betrays him for a brief moment.
You call his name, either for help or just to irritate him. You, laughing way too loudly at a joke he never found funny. And how you always leaned closer to him like you had no concept of personal space.
Although, on some nights, he’d let you rest your head on his shoulder. As long as you made sure not to tell anyone the next day.
His hand finally closed around the doorknob. The coolness of the metal is like a sharp sting against his skin when it reminds him of how cold your hand felt the last time he got to hold it.
The door eased open easily, slow and quiet—like it was trying not to disturb anything.
The curtains were hung exactly how you did them, your bed fixed in that rushed manner. Everything sat where it belonged, untouched and unchanged.
Damian stepped in, not closing the door behind him. It was already too suffocating. He hesitates, because for the first time, he had no idea what he was doing here. His feet simply brought him up here with no clear purpose.
Damian stood still in the doorway. His eyes moved around on their own.
Polaroids of you and your friends taped onto the wall, certificates and awards he never knew about on the shelves. He’d seen them countless times before without truly seeing them.
His eyes shift to your desk. He could almost picture you sitting on it, back hunched like a shrimp as you complained about your back aching.
Looking closer, he spots something laying on the desk. At first, he didn't register it as anything important. Probably just clutter, another ordinary object. And for a moment, a part of him wanted to leave it that way.
As if that meant you were still going to come back to it.
It was a notebook, small and unsuspecting enough to be overlooked, but worn down to suggest that it's been with you for a while. There wasn't anything particularly special about it, yet he couldn't get his eyes off of it.
He approached the desk, and up close that's when he realized it wasn't just some notebook. It was your diary. His expression doesn't change much, because it was just a diary.
People kept diaries all the time, it wasn't anything unusual. Still, there was still something about it he couldn't ignore.
His fingers twitched at his side as he told himself that it was irrelevant. Just words on paper. Nothing more.
And yet, Damian opened the diary.
The pages rustled beneath his hand. For a second, nothing has changed. Just words on a page waiting for someone to read them.
“Damian.”
His eyes snapped to the doorway where Dick stood, the voice stopping him mid-breath. Meanwhile Dick’s gaze instantly drops to the diary in Damian’s hands. “What's that?”
Damian doesn't answer immediately, but his grip on the diary gets noticeably tighter. His eyes don't meet Dick’s, instead fixed onto the page. “It's nothing.”
His words were final, like the decision had already been made. Dick notices the way Damian holds the diary closer to his chest, as if it was an attempt to protect you from the world for the last time.
“It doesn't look like nothing.” Dick slowly steps into the room. Damian doesn't answer, letting the silence stretch. “Damian.” He calls, softer this time. “Let me see.”
Damian didn't move right away. His grip on the diary remained strong, curled tight against the cover as he refused to let go. A pause.
Then he let his hold loosen, only slightly. Just enough for Dick to be able to read the written words. The page settled between them, and there it was. Your neat and familiar handwriting. Too familiar.
September 17
Dear Diary, today was a good day. I just wish I had someone to tell. But everyone was busy, even Alfred. It's fine. I do hope tomorrow is even better.
Neither of them spoke. The silence stretched uncomfortably until they heard faint footsteps echoing from the hallway—gradually getting louder as they got closer.
Tim appeared first, too quickly for them to even bother closing or hiding the diary. His eyes swept over the room instantly, taking everything in. The stillness. How everything in your space looked frozen in time. The tension between Dick and Damian.
Then his gaze drops to the diary.
“You found something.”
He stepped closer, eyes focused on the item Damian was holding. It didn't take long for him to realize it was a diary. Your diary. His expression tightens slightly, but he continues to approach.
And as if on cue, footsteps followed to the doorway. “What's that?” The air shifted when Jason entered, clearly not waiting for an answer.
And just like that, they found themselves gathered around your diary. All of their eyes linger on the first page, and before Damian could flip over to the next one.
“...You think she’d want this?”
Damian didn't look up, as if he couldn't be bothered to. But his hold tightens. “You're free to leave if it bothers you.”
Jason presses his lips together, clearly far from pleased. And yet he couldn't find it in himself to leave.
No one moves. Still, Damian’s fingers hesitate to move to the next page. As if he was letting the weight of your first entry sink in first before whatever came next.
Then footsteps could be heard coming from the hallway again, heavier and full of grief this time. They didn't turn, didn't have to. They knew.
Bruce stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the room. But not analytically like Tim’s, and not sharply like Jason. Just…steadily, taking everything in and remembering.
“Read it.”
Bruce didn't have to look twice to know it was your diary they discovered. He’d seen it before. A couple of years ago when he caught you scribbling on it once like a little schoolgirl that tried to hide their secret crushes from everyone. He remembered letting you be.
He found it endearing. Now though, that memory felt different. A part of him wished he asked about it, and maybe you would have shared it with him.
Damian nodded slightly as his fingers moved to turn to the next page.
September 20
Dear Diary, today was just a little more different than usual.
I had breakfast with Alfred because apparently dad already headed to work early. Anyways, Alfred’s pancakes are always delicious. He’s got to teach me the recipe some time!
He's like a grandpa to me, but he's got a whole manor to run. Still, he tries to make time for me and I try to make time for him too.
And I never really liked my dark hair, I’ve always wanted to dye it. Probably blonde. I think that’d bring out my eyes. But Alfred always tells me that my hair is like Gotham’s sky, mysterious and beautiful in its own way. So I guess I should keep it.
And when I got home dad was there surprisingly. He asked me about my day and I told him that it went nicely, though I don't think he really heard what I said.
It's okay though. He’s busy and has a whole company to run. Not to mention the nightly activities, but he doesn't know that I know. So it should be our little secret.
October 2
Dear Diary, today was normal.
It was a weekend, but I had a buttload of homework. :( And Tim was around so I figured, why not do some work together? It's like efficient family bonding.
I slipped into Tim’s room with all my stuff when he didn't respond to the first three knocks I gave. He was working on another case, no surprise there. I got into the space next to him and he said “Hey.” to me. I think that was acknowledgement.
We worked for a while in silence, not the bad kind. The usual.
I actually managed to do most of my work, so yay me!
October 14
Dear Diary, today was sorta weird…
Jason was home today. He was in the kitchen, having some tea while reading a book. That was good, I liked books. We could talk about that!
I said “Hi.” first though, before sitting across from him. But he just looked at me and nodded, and that may have been a smile on his face. I'm not too sure.
It was quiet for a while. The noise was mostly just me trying to talk about books accompanied with Jason’s grunts of acknowledgment. That's fine, at least he was listening. I mean, I hope he was. I don't know.
At some point I don't remember, I just stopped talking. He left a little after that, but I noticed that he looked tenser than before.
I don't think I said or did anything wrong, but it felt like I did.
October 29
Dear Diary, today was really nice! :D
This time, Dick was home! And I ended up hanging out with him in the living room. We decided to watch a movie together like old times and he even let me pick!
I ended up choosing one of our old favorite movies, just to reminisce. It was nice. Dick kept making jokes that made me laugh.
It feels easy being around Dick. It's been lonely ever since he moved out, and after that it's felt like he keeps me at an arms length.
Anyways, I hope we do this again sometime.
The pages stilled under Damian’s hands. The more they read the smaller the room felt, the more suffocating.
No one moved or said anything for a moment. Jason only lets out a quiet breath as the brothers share a look. They didn't know. “I thought she was okay.” Dick says under his breath, practically a whisper.
And no one responds to him, because they thought the same.
November 3
Dear Diary, today was nice.
It was just me and Damian today.
I saw him doodling something in the library alone, so I decided to keep him some company! I sat near him and before I could even mutter out a word he told me to be quiet.
…Rude. (Affectionate) I silently watched him sketch for a few minutes, and whenever I leaned to close he told me something about personal space. But he never moves away himself.
So I stayed.
I think he's gotten used to my presence, maybe even fond of it…Hopefully. And sometimes, he lets me rest my head on his shoulder. He never mentions anything about it after. So neither do I.
I think that's just our sibling thing.
November 17
Dear Diary, today could've been better honestly.
I mean, nothing really happened. I just wanted to hang out with somebody, but it was just my luck that everyone was busy. I understand though, and I tried keeping myself entertained but nothing has really stuck.
I think I just need a change of scenery. So I'm going out tonight by myself. :) #Independent
Just for a walk, I won't go too far. I know it's late, and it could be dangerous. But it's fine, I’m not helpless.
Oh—and I also made sure to give Damian a goodbye kiss on the forehead before I left even if he says he hates it. He'll probably complain about it later.
Damian's thumb hovered over the page, as if he was waiting for something. Then he turns it, again, again, and again. All blank, of course they were. What did he expect?
You never came back after that.
The city had taken you in the quietest, most ordinary way. All it took was one moment.
.ᐟ You decide to launch Operation: Live the Teenage Dream! after a certain encounter with DAMIAN WAYNE—what started as a joke that amused you and irritated him slowly becomes something more when the ‘missions’ stop feeling like missions.
.ᐟ CONTENT: OOC (?), cringe dialogue texts (i dont talk to ppl im so sorey), emotional neglect, slow burn, not proofread wc: 1.3k
.ᐟ a/n: i judt got braces and im hungry i cant eat,,tbh im not sure yet where im taking this fic so sorrie if its messy
You rarely ever rush home. There's never a reason to.
It's painfully obvious from the moment you open the door to see the house empty and untouched. It would have been really nice if it was a museum. You step inside, the door shutting with a click behind you.
Slipping off your school shoes and dropping your bag by the couch was routine. You set your keys on the kitchen counter.
The only proof of life was a sticky note from your mom and dad telling you not to wait up for them and that there was dinner in the fridge. You don't bother reading it twice, you never do.
“I’m home.” You mutter quietly out of habit. You've heard your dad say it countless times back when you were younger and he wasn't always busy. You remember how you’d run up to him and wrap yourself around his legs, like you were trying to stop him from leaving again.
The moment lingers longer than you would have liked honestly.
Then your phone buzzes.
Unknown Number
Good evening. State the objectives of the project.
Ah. You didn't have to check twice to know it was definitely Damian contacting you. You do wonder how he got your number, but you suppose the Wayne's always have their ways.
You
Heyyy Damiii
👆this is how u should greet someone. u sounded like a mob boss.
Dami 👻
I was simply being precise.
And do not call me that.
You
awhh, we’re not on nickname basis yet?
Your fingers pause and hover over the screen for a moment, it was almost like you could feel his judging eyes piercing you through the screen.
Yikes. That just gave you a creepy sensation. It doesn't help that you're home alone. In Gotham.
You
ok im making a gc with our other classmates
Biology Survival
Dami 👻
This is the worst possible chat name you could've chosen.
You
It's engaging.
Classmate 1
hii!! ^^
Classmate 2
oh there's a gc already!
so..what’s the project again?
Before you could finish typing out your answer, Damian had already replied. Hm. Maybe it was efficient. Considering the only reason you were slowed down was because you were trying to find a certain emoji.
Dami 👻
Group presentation. It's due next week, on Monday.
Classmate 2
what first? should we meet up?
Classmate 1
i’m free this Saturday!
You think about it, checking your own calendar. Sure enough, you were free. No plans with friends, and unsurprisingly no plans with your family.
You
how about the café near school? it's easier to focus there.
Dami 👻
Acceptable. What time?
The group argues for a bit before settling on the time. Two o’ clock was completely reasonable. But according to Damian 14:00 PM was a better way to refer to it. Maybe he really was a soldier ready for battle.
Classmate 1
oh wait! what abt our roles??
Dami 👻
I will handle the research and present it myself.
I suppose the rest of you could do the presentation.
You
nope! 🩷
we’ve talked abt this. we're giving everyone a chance to contribute properly.
Damian only reacts to your message with a thumbs up. How cold of him. Usually you would have been dramatic about it, but you could just hear his reluctant sigh coming from the screen.
Eventually everyone decides on the distribution of the roles. One of them presents, the other makes the presentation. And you and Damian do the research. Of course you were left with him.
Saturday comes faster when the house is radio silent. When you came down stumbling into the kitchen though, you were pleased to see that your parents made and left you some pancakes. Chocolate chips too.
The café was already pretty crowded when you arrived. The scent of coffee hits you the moment you enter, and after the door chime rings which practically announces your arrival.
You hear the hum of all the overlapping conversations, cups clinking together, soft calming music. It all fills in the space nicely in a warm, busy, alive way that does feel just a tad bit too loud after the quiet of your home.
Amidst the chaotic yet soothing atmosphere, you spot him almost immediately. It wasn't exactly difficult when his posture is so straight it looks like his spine might snap and was observing everything in the room instead of simply being in it.
Has he ever heard of being in the moment?
You walk over and slip in the seat next to him, setting your things. “You're early.” You note, glancing around the place and at the empty seats. No signs of your other classmates.
“I arrived at the agreed time.” he replies evenly. “I’m just punctual. Would you have preferred I be late?” You pause for a second. Right..
“That's…reasonable.” You sigh, much to your dismay. After a few minutes, your other groupmates arrive one by one, filling the area with chatter and noise.
And just like that, the project begins.
It starts off smoothly enough. As smooth as a bunch of high school students could be at least. Everyone does their part, brainstorming together and contributing ideas.
The two of you end up leaning over the same laptop, occasionally bumping heads over something silly as wording. He corrects you more than necessary. And you annoy him more than necessary.
But despite everything that's happening. Actual progress is made. You glance at the screen, then at him for a moment. Not only on the project. But on the operation as well.
He continues to correct everyone, mostly you. Because that was just…him. But now, he lets you finish your sentences, lets everyone contribute their ideas while he listens with a skeptical look he can't quite seem to get rid of.
It's not much. But progress is still progress at the end of the day.
Damian would be lying if he said he hadn't been observing you. It was difficult not to when you were constantly at his side, being a pain in his neck.
At first, he assumes you're simply distracting. Unfocused, hyper, and talkative. But that doesn't explain how you fill silence way too quickly, how you deflect questions with practiced ease. You consistently kept everything light, like anything remotely heavy would weigh down on your heart greatly.
It's not normal careless behavior, it was controlled. You knew what you were doing, and you assumed no one would notice. And to be fair, no one did. Until Damian came along. His fingers are still over the keyboard for a moment. Interesting..
“I think that's enough for today.” One of your classmates says, stretching in their seat slightly. “We got mostly everything done.”
Everyone murmured in agreement, it was getting late anyway. And getting kicked out for loitering wasn't exactly ideal. The chairs shift, bags get packed, goodbyes are said.
And just like that, it was only you and Damian left.
“Well? First mission success?” You ask while slipping your bag over your shoulder, no rush or urgency.
“Partially.” He replies, finishing packing his own things with the same precise movement. You let out a quiet laugh, you supposed ‘partially’ was enough for you. “I’ll take it.”
“You're not in a hurry.” It wasn't a question, just an observation. You shrug like it was nothing. “Eh. Not really.” A beat passes, almost as if he was finding the right words to say.
“No one’s waiting for you?” With the way you glance at him briefly then look away like you couldn't handle eye contact, it was clear that you didn't expect his question.
“No.” You reply casually. For a moment, he stayed silent while subtly studying you. Your words held no disappointment, no frustration. Just acceptance.
He had been alone once before. But not like that, and things had changed. People expected him back now. And he isn't sure why the thought lingers in his mind.
And just like that, the mission becomes much more complicated. Because it stops being just about him.
.ᐟ You decide to launch Operation: Live the Teenage Dream! after a certain encounter with DAMIAN WAYNE—what started as a joke that amused you and irritated him slowly becomes something more when the ‘missions’ stop feeling like missions.
.ᐟ CONTENT: OOC (?), fluff, slight crack, slow burn, friends to lovers sort of thing, socially inept damian wayne (he improves over time pls) wc: 0.9k+
.ᐟ a/n: will i probably give up on this? probably but maybe not depends!!
Prologue
You notice Damian Wayne before you ever talk to him. Well, to be fair…how can you not? Everyone notices the Waynes, it was practically impossible not to. Although it may not have been in that way specifically.
The first thing you noticed about him was the sheer intensity surrounding him—like nothing should dare to disturb his focus. You always sat at the back, never too close but just enough to observe.
And unfortunately you see everything, friends whispering to each other, girls passing notes when the teacher looked away, and amidst the sea of noise and chaos—Damian is like a stubborn rock. His posture achingly straight as he listened to the teacher intently like he was waiting for a mistake he could correct bluntly.
And it was just your luck that you were late today just enough that the only seat left happened to be the one next to Damian's. Of course it was.
You walk over and slip into the chair, setting your things down. He doesn't even bother glancing your way, eyes glued onto the board.
The lecture was annoyingly boring, and you couldn't exactly people-watch properly in this position in hopes to keep yourself awake. Slowly, your eyes move to Damian. Posture was still as stiff as ever, and the way he was holding his pen made it look like he was going to snap it in half.
Curiosity never actually killed the cat, right?
When the teacher wasn't looking, you leaned over to him and lowered your voice before speaking. “Hey, are you always this intense?”
His eyes flicker to meet yours, a brief flash of annoyance and an edge of something else you couldn't quite name. Irritation, possibly. Or surprise.
Just as quickly though, his expression shifts into the same controlled and unreadable one he has everyday.
“This is an academic environment. Some of us are actually trying to learn.”
“Biology isn't a life or death situation though.” You point your pen at him, seeing how tense he seemed to be. Like he was preparing for a battle or something. And with what? The mitochondria?
“It doesn't erase the significance of the subject.” His gaze becomes sharper and calculating. “Then again, I wouldn't expect you to understand that.”
First, rude. Second, you weren't surprised. He was intelligent enough to boast and be arrogant. He was probably qualified enough to become a teacher himself here. Though you couldn't help but think that there was more to it. A front, maybe?
Well, unfortunately for him, his rudeness wasn't enough to discourage you to turn away. If anything, it does the opposite actually.
That's when you decided to sit next to him in every single class you share for the sole purpose of annoying him—never enough to cause a scene, but enough to make his jaw clench ever so slightly.
A week in of being ‘the nuisance who keeps sitting next to him’, everything starts to settle in what felt like a routine and less of a joke. It felt weird sitting next to anyone that wasn't him. Because oftentimes they would just laugh along with you and not reply with the smart and snarky comebacks you had grown to be fond of.
So when your Biology teacher decided to have a group project, you were unsurprisingly paired up with him along with a few of your other classmates. It feels less like bad luck and more of a challenge that you were more than willing to take.
“I’ll handle the research.” He says, like there wasn't any room left for arguments. “...and everything else.” You blink, looking around to see the varying expressions. Some ecstatic that they didn't have to do any work, some confused on why he was doing it all himself.
“That's not how group projects work.” He looks over at you, almost like he didn't expect you to argue. “It would be inefficient. It's quicker this way.”
“Nope.” You shake your head with certainty, crossing your legs casually. “You just have no idea how to work with people.” That…definitely got his attention. Because you felt like you just got stabbed with daggers when his eyes locked onto yours.
“I am perfectly capable.”
“I know you are. That doesn't make it right though.” You lean closer, tilting your head as you study his body language from head to toe. This was bad, possibly worse than you originally anticipated.
His lips curl downwards even more, but he couldn't help but be impressedly irritated at your pure audacity. He lets you observe, wanting to see how much you're willing to bite off.
You take your sweet time. Then with a small, satisfied nod. “Okay, I’ve already decided.” You grin widely, which does not put him at ease at all. “Operation: Live the Teenage Dream.”
He blinks and goes still, looking straight at you like you had just grown a second head. “What.” He found the whole idea ridiculous, and the name of the whole operation didn't help either. Seriously? Live the Teenage Dream? This wasn't some sort of high school movie.
“We start this weekend.”
Damian doesn't respond immediately. He knew it was a waste of his precious time. He should leave. He knows that fully well, yet you continue to persist. He found it illogical, but your determination was something he could respect somehow.
There wasn't a clear benefit from this for the both of you. But there's also no consequences or drawbacks. At most, it would be a temporary distraction.
His older brother's words surface in his mind for a moment. “An old man in a teenage boy’s body.” they’d said. The claim is far from the truth, clearly incorrect.
.ᐟ TIM DRAKE begins noticing strange things happening to you—photos blurring and family forgetting. It doesn't take long for him to realize that something is very wrong. (Sort of..)
.ᐟ CONTENT: OOC (?), established relationship, soft angst, not proofread, implied character death (kinda..), hurt/no comfort (maybe if u squint.), idk wc: 6.8k
.ᐟ a/n: admittedly i love tim but this also might be so ooc but it was worth a shot 💪i just missed writing prompts like these lol—i struggled writing this ngl :') this is why i dont write long fics, i dance arohnd the topic and end up forgetting what i was talking abt!! So if that happens here i apologize in advance dividers: @saradika-graphics
In every photo you were in, whether it was a selfie, candid, or a group photo, something was always slightly wrong about you. Never enough to question it, just enough to notice.
Tim knew you loved taking photos of practically everything: a stray cat, him sleeping—you name it. So at every gathering, Tim already expects that you’ll be ushering everyone to take a photo. Not that he minds; he loves seeing you smile and pose every time.
You and Tim were heading back to his room in the manor since the both of you decided to stay there for a bit. Floorboards creaked with every step, but it was all background noise as Tim listened to you gush about the family photo you may or may not have forced everyone to take.
"Awh, Tim, look! Everyone’s so cute here!” You squeal in excitement, staring at the photo on your phone before showing Tim. He lets out a satisfied hum of acknowledgment, turning to see the pictures for himself.
“Yeah, real nice.” The corners of his lips curl up slightly, happy to see everyone getting along nicely. “You're a bit blurry there though—actually, you are in all of the photos," he points out with a raised brow as he scrolls through your gallery, finding it a little weird that every single photo has you blurred.
“Huh?” You take a closer look for yourself, eyes squinting skeptically as you study each photo—Tim’s right. "Ah...It's probably my finger or something," you brush off casually; photos weren't that big of a deal.
It makes Tim uneasy, but seeing you laugh it off—he couldn't find it in himself to worry or push the topic any further. He doesn't say anything to you at least, trying his hardest to let it go.
But later that night when you fall asleep, Tim takes a look at the photos again—as if staring hard enough would let him know what was wrong.
—
The next time it happens, it's in a photobooth you’ve dragged Tim into on your weekend date. Camera flashing, making him pose ridiculously with you—nothing out of the ordinary. For memories, you always say. Tim just rolls his eyes, knowing how important it is to you, but he’ll remember anyway… Right?
You wait eagerly for the pictures to be printed, excitement bubbling in your chest as the machine whirs to life. It takes longer than it should, but that's fine.
Then the strip finally slides out.
You waste no time grabbing it, the strip hasn't even fully fallen into the tray but you were too thrilled to even care. Grinning widely, you study the photos with Tim leaning over your shoulder to have a look himself.
Everything looked normal at first. The photos show the two of you making silly poses and faces, with Tim trying to look annoyed but was clearly humoring you.
Then you both notice it.
In the second frame, your face is faintly smeared. Then in the third, you're just a fragment too far to the side. In the last frame, the ink is smudged—exactly where your face should be.
“That's…weird.” You laughed awkwardly, looking over to Tim who had an apprehensive look on his face, which he quickly masks with a strained smile. “Yeah, it's nothing though. It's an old photobooth, things like this probably happen all the time.”
Tim attempts to reassure you, but you catch the way he restlessly grabs the photo strip like it was a piece of evidence for a case he wasn't prepared to solve.
—
The cameras rarely glitch in the manor, it runs flawlessly with little to no fail. Tonight, Bruce was routinely reviewing camera footage, until he noticed something.
It's not something most people would catch, but Bruce isn't most people. He rewinds the footage, then again, rewatching the same scene over and over.
“Tim. Come to the cave.” He calls, his voice steady but his eyes refuse to leave the screen. Unsurprisingly, Tim was still awake and working on another case so he arrived at the cave fairly quickly.
“What is it, Bruce?” Tim asks, rubbing the grogginess from his eyes. He couldn't help but wonder why he called him over so suddenly. Bruce doesn't look at him, attention fixed onto the bright screen in front of them.
“Take a look.” Bruce hummed lowly, letting Tim get closer. Tim doesn't question any further, leaning forward to get a better view of the screen.
The camera footage showed you walking in a hallway, towards your shared room with Tim. Except the camera warps and distorts around your figure, making you barely visible. Strangely enough, it's only on you. It's never happened to anyone or anything else before.
Tim doesn't speak up instantly. Just stares at the screen, because he does remember you walking down that hallway, but it feels like the footage was trying to tell him otherwise.
His mind immediately jumps to the photobooth incident. It's the same kind of blur and distortion, the same refusal to fully capture you. He could feel something twist in his stomach, but he forces it down when he reaches into his pocket and brings out the photo strip to show it to Bruce.
“This isn't a coincidence anymore.” He says quietly, watching as Bruce took the photo strip to inspect it himself. His eyes move between the camera footage and photo strip, his expression unreadable.
“The distortion is identical.” Bruce confirms, which only makes Tim's stomach twist tighter, because it confirms the exact thing he's been trying to deny. “This isn't a camera malfunction.” Bruce says simply, finally moving his gaze to look at Tim.
“Everything points back to her.”
—
Tim walks back to your shared room with sluggish movements, his mind refusing to settle after what he's just learned—refusing to accept it.
What the hell was happening to you?
The door creaks open slightly as Tim enters, and he sees you sitting there on the bed scrolling away like nothing was wrong. He watches you for a second, not letting himself linger, afraid you’d sense his creeping dread.
You look the same, you act the same. So what exactly was happening?
“Oh, hey! You're back.” You greet, glancing up at him as he steps inside. “You took a while.” Tim blinks, right. Of course you noticed, you always did. How could he forget?
“Yeah..just got caught up doing something.” He lets himself look at you for too long, like he was double checking everything about you. You don't seem to notice, or point it out at least.
…And that may be the worse part. Tim knows you deserve to know, but he can't even accept the truth himself. So how can you?
—
Tim swears that might've been the worst night’s sleep he's ever gotten, and he rarely even gets any to begin with. (Well, to be fair he's been sleeping more at least since you have been scolding him.) His body felt like dead weight as he dragged himself to the kitchen, hands itching to get some coffee for the morning.
Tim stops in his tracks when he hears you and Dick talking. He knew he shouldn't really eavesdrop but..does it count that much if he was only there for half of the conversation?
“Didn't that happen last week?” Dick asks, and you shake your head. “No..that was yesterday.” You clarified, wondering how someone as attentive as Dick forgot already. Maybe it was because it wasn't totally important, he probably had a lot of things on his mind.
“Right, sorry—my brain's probably just fried.” Dick brushes off, putting on a smile while continuing the conversation, still oblivious of Tim’s presence. It goes on for roughly three minutes before Dick cuts you off again. “You just said that.”
“I didn't.”
“...Oh.”
You haven't done anything remotely wrong to deserve something like this. Tim could only hope that something was up with Dick’s memory and not you, because absolutely nothing should be wrong with you.
There can't be.
—
Tim disregards the idea of coffee and eating breakfast overall, his mind running on pure adrenaline and paranoia because he had to figure out what was happening. He could surely find out right? I mean, he was a great detective. How great could he be if he doesn't figure out what was wrong with the love of his life?
Fortunately, you loved photobooths and taking photos with that little digital camera of yours that you adored, so Tim had a lot of evidence to work on. He was rummaging through the drawers, picking up every photo he could find and looked closer at all of the details.
The more Tim looks, the worse it gets. It's been happening longer than he thought. Multiple older photographs of you have something obstructing your figure, particularly your face. It didn't matter if it was the light, some kind of blur, or a shadow—it was always your face that was blocked.
And now it's only getting worse, because it’s not just you anymore.
—
Tim doesn't waste any more time.
He doesn't dare to. He has no idea how quickly this whole thing could progress. He doesn't want to suddenly wake up one day and—no…he shuts the thought down before it could even form. He should focus on getting help to figure this out.
He arrives at the cave quicker than he expected, breathing unevenly and mind racing. Bruce was there, of course he was. He was typing away, hunched over the computer. “Bruce.”
Bruce only glanced over at Tim briefly before his gaze returned to the screen. “You found something.” He states simply as Tim approached and dropped the stack of photographs on his desk.
“It's been happening for longer than I thought.” Tim says immediately, grabbing an older photo and showing it to Bruce. It was from roughly six months ago, in it you and Tim were in an embrace, but your face was partially blurred. “And it's only getting worse.”
Bruce takes the photo without a word, closely studying it. He looked through the pile of photos as well, everything was the same. His gaze lingers, staring at where your face should have been. “It's consistent.”
“Yeah, I know.” Tim’s grip on the edge of the desk tightens, his voice sharper than intended. “No.”
“The environment and conditions are always different, but none of it changes the result. It’s been consistently targeting her. Whatever it is.” Bruce doesn't look away from Tim as he speaks, placing back the photograph on the pile.
Tim’s throat tightens, his body tensing up as his mind refuses to accept what he just heard. His voice came out quieter than usual, it felt like there wasn't any oxygen left in his lungs.
“What does that mean? What do we do if it gets worse?”
What if we can't save her?
The words go unspoken, but it runs restlessly through Tim’s mind like an unwanted intruder. Bruce doesn't answer immediately, letting Tim’s words sink in. “If it continues..” Bruce started.
“There may be nothing left of her to recognize at some point.”
—
Tim doesn't go back right away. In fact, he's been standing in front of the door for longer than he should. Because he knows what’s waiting for him when he opens it.
You.
And he has no idea how he’ll face it. Tim’s not sure if you even have a clue of what's happening to you, he hasn't found the strength to tell you about it. He's debated it in his head many times before and he still can't tell which is worse.
You knowing or…
You having no idea about it at all.
He wipes his hands on his sweatpants, taking a deep breath to compose himself, to somehow act normal. Like his whole world wasn't falling apart right in front of him, in real time.
The door opened softly, and the sight of you on the bed greets Tim. Arms wrapped around a pillow, knees tucked to your chest as you scrolled on your phone. His heart aches at the sight of you, at the sight of normalcy.
You look up from your phone after hearing the door creak open, the corners of your lips curling up when you realize it was Tim. “You're back.” Tim doesn't reply instantly, but he was quick to approach your side and give you a peck on the cheek.
“Yeah,” He hummed, pulling back to look at you, his eyes studying your face with a calculating yet gentle look. “I’m here.” His gaze on you lingers longer than he knows it should.
Because he knows there might come a time when he won't be able to see you anymore.
—
Tim climbs onto the bed next to you, letting out a sigh when his sore back sinks into the cloud-like mattress. He stares at the ceiling for a few moments before turning over to face you.
“Hey. Remember the restaurant we went to last month?” Tim asks a bit out of nowhere. It sounded like a normal question though, it was a normal question. But the way Tim is looking at you isn't. He's looking at you like a puzzle he needs to solve, too precise and deliberate.
You glance up from your screen, a bit confused by the suddenness. “Yeah, the fancy one? With the good pasta?” Tim definitely nodded way too quickly than he intended.
But he was glad. He was glad that you remembered even such a small thing. His gaze doesn't leave you, even for a second.
“And the movie we watched after?” He adds, his tone casual but his shoulders tense. “Yeah. We watched the one with the–you know..” You pause, like the thought slipped off your mind at the exact moment.
“The romcom, right?” Tim nods upon hearing your answer, but his mind stays at the conversation. He was stuck on how you paused and hesitated for a second, like something got in the way of your thoughts.
His hand squeezed yours tighter than usual that night, because now he knows that something is starting to slip from you too.
—
You wake up slowly, letting out a grumble when the sunlight beams right at your face. It was too early for this. You toss around the bed, trying to get back to sleep. Until you feel something, or someone staring right at you.
You shift slightly, turning over to take a look. You swear you almost got a heart attack because Tim was there, staring at you for who knows how long. His gaze wasn't intense, just…different.
“Good morning to you too.” You mumble, sitting up while you groggily rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He instantly looks away.
“I’m not.” You sit up a little straighter, frowning at his answer. “You've been acting weirder.” You point out, and Tim was quick to deflect it. “I’m just tired.” You study him for a second longer, because the answer was relatively normal. But it doesn't sit right with you, it sounds off and you don't know why.
You open your mouth to respond, a smart remark at the tip of your tongue. Then you pause, for a second it was like your words slipped out. You shake it off quickly, deciding that it was nothing.
“I’m going to wash my face.” You mumble before slipping out of bed, ignoring the feeling that something was wrong as you step into the bathroom.
You reach for the faucet, letting the water run and gather in your hands as you wet your face in hopes to fully wake you up from sleep. For a moment, something feels off. You look up in the mirror to check, and for a fraction of a second your reflection moves—but you don't. It's subtle, barely noticeable. But it was almost like it was trying to catch up with you, failing to match your movements.
You blink, even splashing water on your face just to make sure you weren't half asleep and dreaming. Everything was perfectly normal again. You stare at your reflection for a while longer, but nothing happens.
It was probably nothing.
—
The rest of the day goes by normally, well…as normally as things could get in the manor at least. You decide not to tell Tim what happened in the bathroom earlier, he's been looking extra stressed and weary lately for some reason. Like something was burdening his mind.
Everyone was gathered at the dining area, familiar voices drifting around and overlapping in the way it does when everyone comes together like this. You slip into your usual spot beside Tim, watching everything go down.
Dick was talking about something. Jason was leaning back into his seat, half-listening. Bruce simply lurks, but you can't shake the feeling that he was subtly watching you, making goosebumps form on your arms. He has that effect on people, unfortunately.
You reach out to grab the pitcher of water, leaning forward. Then Jason shifts at the same time, both of your arms bumping slightly. Luckily, not too hard. “Careful.” He mutters, adjusting his position as he lets you have it first.
But it was almost like he didn't even realize that you were there.
You hesitate for a moment, but you brush it off again as you pour yourself a glass of water. It was probably nothing, an honest mistake. It's not like you exactly make yourself known at the table after all.
“Dick, could you pass the salt?” You ask, glancing towards him. But he didn't respond and kept talking. Tim’s gaze shifts to Dick immediately. “...Dick.” He calls, his voice unintentionally sharp as he tries to hide his underlying confusion and worry.
Dick blinks, stopping his rambling as he turns towards Tim. Not you. “Huh? Oh–right, sorry.” He takes the salt and almost hands it over to Tim, correcting himself quickly. “Thanks..” You mutter, looking over at Tim briefly, who was already watching you and not the conversation.
He bites the inside of his cheek before looking away, like he caught himself staring for too long again. Dinner goes by normally again after that, like nothing happened. Something feels off..
And you were starting to feel that it wasn't just Tim anymore.
—
The manor has always been creepily quiet at night, not a haunted place though. According to Bruce at least. (You do not believe him.) Doors close one by one, noise fading as everyone turns in for the night.
You stay behind for a while longer than usual, mindlessly scrolling through your phone and as you turn a corner to head to your shared room with Tim—you spot Steph stepping out of her room, already halfway through closing her door while she yawns.
“Hey.” You call casually, not too loud to wake anyone else up but enough for Steph to hear you. “Goodnight.” No response, not even a reaction. You stop in your tracks, maybe your voice wasn't as loud as you thought.
“Steph?” You try to call out again, maybe she didn't hear you. She keeps walking, not even sparing you a glance. She passes by you, and now your smile is gone. You turn slightly as if to make sure that just happened, watching her disappear into a hallway.
…You know she should have heard you.
—
“Tim.” You call, not even waiting for the door to close. And Tim doesn't waste any time in acknowledging you when he notices the tone in your voice, it was different. A lot sharper and more alert. “What? What's wrong?”
“Steph didn't hear me.” Tim didn't respond immediately, but he wasn't surprised. “I called out to her—multiple times. She didn't even look at me- it was almost like I wasn't there!” You continue, and Tim could feel his composure cracking bit by bit. He hated hearing those words coming out of your mouth, because it was only confirming what he was fearing.
“And you noticed what happened during dinner, right? I-It’s not just Steph, it's happening with Dick and Jason too.” Tim feels the dread in his chest grow, he lets himself take a deep breath before responding, trying to calm himself down. He didn't want to worry you any more.
“I know, I noticed.” He hesitates, wondering if asking you was the right next step but he felt like he didn't have much of a choice. Time was slipping away from his hands, you were slipping away. “Have..Have you been feeling strange lately? Even just a little, doesn't matter.”
“I mean..not really.” Tim does not look convinced, and he could sense your hesitation and uncertainty radiating off of you. And as if it was second nature, he reaches out to hold your hand—urging you to continue and to expand on it.
“I guess there were a few times where people completely ignored me, so what happened with the others earlier wasn't the first time..” Tim’s jaw tightens, because it's been happening longer than he knew. And you never told him. “Or like..full on bumped into me. I just thought they were being rude at first, but it kept happening more and more.”
You admit everything with a wavering chuckle, then silence falls between you two when Tim doesn't answer right after. He was looking at you with this…look you couldn't understand. And when he finally did speak up, his voice was strained—like it was hurting him to get the words out of his throat.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because it didn't seem like a big deal at the time.” You say almost defensively, and you could feel Tim’s grip tighten around your hand. “It is a big deal.” He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, he had to tell you.
He visibly hesitates, because once he tells you there's no denying it anymore. But you deserve to know. “It's not just people being rude…” He lifts his head to look at you, bracing himself for whatever your reaction could be.
“Not bad timing or any of that. It's not random anymore, it has been consistent.” He looks away for a moment, like he couldn't get it out of him. “It's you.”
You blink once, a frown tugging at your lips when the words don't register instantly. It sounded ridiculous to you. “What do you mean?” Tim swallows the lump in his throat.
“People haven't been seeing and hearing you well. Cameras aren't capturing you properly. It's not a coincidence anymore. Whenever it happens, it's the same.” Tim pauses, wondering if he was making any sense. He runs his hand over his face, letting out a sigh. “I…I-I’m sorry, I don't know what's exactly going on yet, but I’ll figure it out—I always do.”
He doesn't even let you reply anymore, his shaky hands moving to cradle your face gently, like he was trying to commit it to memory. He smiles, or tries to at least. It was a pitiful attempt to reassure you and himself.
“I won't let it get worse.”
And slowly, he could see your mouth move, how your brows knit together. But he couldn't hear what you were saying. When he realized what was happening, it felt like he was betraying his own promise.
Damn it, it was affecting him now too.
—
The next morning feels…mostly normal. A part of you wanted to believe that what happened last night was just you overthinking and stressing about the little things.
But Tim doesn't leave your side, at all.
“Come on.” He calls, even though you were only a step behind him as he led the way towards the kitchen. You frown slightly, crossing your arms disapprovingly when you notice his actions.
“Morning you two.” Dick greets with his usual smile, glancing up briefly to look at you and Tim before his gaze returns to his mug of coffee. Good, Tim was glad. Dick could see you.
When the both of you were seated and had a hot cup of coffee in your hands, conversation sparks up. Nothing unusual. You try to follow along, chuckling with each joke Dick made and how Jason’s face reacted.
“Wait, what were you saying—”
“She's asking you what you were saying.” You look at Tim promptly when he cuts you off, making you raise a brow. Dick pauses, he must've noticed. Especially when the tension in the room noticeably rises. “Right..uh—”
“Answer her.” He adds, making you grip his hand tighter because what the hell was he doing? “Relax, we heard her the first time.” Jason scoffed lightly, giving Dick the time to repeat what he was saying earlier.
The conversation slows down after that, giving you the opportunity to question Tim about his actions. “Tim, what are you doing?” He finally looks at you, and you could see it in his eyes. Tight and controlled, almost frantic beneath all of it.
“Nothing.” He huffs out, and he could immediately tell that you didn't approve of his answer. He pauses for a beat. “Just..Just making sure.”
Still, the words sat wrong with you.
You knew he was just scared, scared of what could possibly happen to you, scared of the unknown. And he was just trying his best to protect you from it, trying to stop it before it can even get to you.
And somehow—that feels worse.
—
“I’m heading out.” You tell eventually, already pushing your chair back as you stand up. Tim followed and stood up instantly. “I’m coming with you.”
You don't argue this time, simply slipping out into the quiet hallway while Tim follows you like an obsessive shadow. You were only a few steps ahead of him when you stopped, turning back to glance at him.
“Tim…I don't appreciate what you're doing for me. I-I know you mean well, but I don't want any of this.” His brows furrow, like he couldn't begin to understand your reasoning.
“I can't just ignore this.” His voice lowers, almost sounding vulnerable. “Especially not when it's happening to you.” You could feel the frustration bubbling in your chest, frustration at Tim's actions, frustration at how you couldn't do anything about it.
“And I’m trying to tell you that this isn't going to help—” He freezes, because it was like someone muted your voice again. “You're hovering and it's making everything feel worse—”
His heart was racing now as his eyes focused on the movement of your lips, trying his best to read it. “Tim..” Your voice wavers when you realize what was happening. “I’m here..”
His gaze flickers back to you, and the expression on your face makes his guts twist like a pretzel. You looked so afraid, it was a sight he could barely stomach. He only grabs onto your arm, his grip tightening and his eyes locked on you.
Because he was afraid he might not see you anymore if he lets go.
“Say it again.” He murmurs, his voice tight. “Please. I’ll listen to you repeat yourself countless times if that's what it takes for me to hear you.”
—
For the next few days, Tim hasn't left your side. Like, at all. He was like a ridiculously large clingy toddler that followed you around, like privacy and personal space didn't matter anymore. Bathroom, kitchen, garden, everywhere. He would always loom over you like a shadow, monitoring your every move.
You know he was doing this out of care, but…it was so goddamn suffocating. At first, you try your hardest to ignore it, telling yourself that it’ll pass. But it doesn't, if anything—it gets worse.
He hovers, watches your every move intensely. And when you pause for even a second, it's like his nervous system alerts his whole body.
“What were you saying?”
“Are you okay?”
It was like that. Over and over that it was almost sickening to hear. Again, you know he's doing it out of care and concern. But that doesn't make it any easier to breathe. And to make it all more difficult, you've been seeing what it's doing to him as well.
How his eyes never fully relax, how they seem more sunken now. And the way he looks at you now isn't..quite romantic anymore. The love is still there—you could feel it. But it's clouded with something heavier. Dread. Like he’s afraid he’ll blink and you won't be there anymore.
—
Tim hesitates to come over to the cave when Bruce calls him. He was told to come alone, but he couldn't leave you here. He looks over at your sleeping form, alone and vulnerable. His chest tightens at all of the possible things that could happen to you while he was gone.
His eyes scan your face, like he was double checking if you were still there. His hands reach out to brush a stray hair away from your face, you looked so peaceful like this, he wanted to keep it like that..for as long as he could.
“I’ll be right back.” He mumbles, more to himself than you honestly. He lingers longer than he should have, every instinct he has is screaming for him not to leave. He looks back at you before forcing himself to leave.
The walk to the cave felt…wrong.
Every step was taking him further away from you, and it was taking everything in him not to turn and go back to where you were.
Just to check, to make sure you were fine, to make sure you were still there.
When he finally reached the cave, Bruce was already there. His back facing Tim as he stood in front of the console. “You took a while.” Tim’s eyes flicker to the monitors and bright lights momentarily, jaw tight.
“I didn't want to leave her all alone.” Bruce doesn't say anything or react immediately, he takes the time to study Tim. He could see the exhaustion written on his face, the tension in his shoulders like he's bracing for something that's inevitably coming.
“That's exactly why I asked you to come down here alone.” Tim had a feeling he knew why Bruce called him down here already…Knowing it didn't make it any better.
“How long do you think you can keep this up?” Bruce’s question cuts through the air, and Tim doesn't answer. Because he knows. He knows and it's killing him.
The silence stretches. Bruce doesn't force an answer out of Tim yet. “You're running on practically nothing.” He continues, voice steady. “You're wearing yourself out by hovering over her constantly and it isn't helping.”
“It might.” Tim says through clenched teeth, barely convincing himself. And Bruce’s expression doesn't budge when he looks back at Tim, but there was familiarity flickering in his eyes. “It won't.”
“How can you be so sure? You don't know that.” Tim’s fists clench at his side, looking at Bruce like he just said something completely absurd. “I do.” A pause. Tim is clearly at a loss for words, understandably so.
“Because I’ve done exactly what you're doing right now.” The words hang in the air and you could hear Tim’s breathing falter slightly. He looks at Bruce like he wanted to argue, like there should be something wrong. But there wasn't.
For the first time, Tim doesn't know what to do. He doesn't have a plan, nothing. And it shows, in the way he’s sputtering his words out and struggling to respond. And that's what scares him most.
He felt like everything was slipping from his hands, like he was reaching out to something that isn't there as a desperate attempt to hold on. “...I don't know what to do.” And that was what broke him after all this time.
Before he can even think of stopping himself, Tim takes a step forward before his whole body collapses into Bruce’s with shaky sobs. It wasn't graceful, it was clearly desperate. With the way Tim’s grip tightens, needing to hold onto something solid or he’ll lose himself.
Bruce stills for a second—silent, before his hand comes up, firm and somewhat grounding on Tim’s back. And for a moment, Bruce just holds on. Because he knows himself how it feels like to have nothing else left to hold onto.
And as Tim steadies himself, his thoughts hit him all over again. You're still up there, alone. Because he left you.
He needed to see you.
—
Tim doesn't remember when he got back from the cave, he just remembers the feeling—the weight of Bruce’s words on his chest. By the time he sees you again, he doesn't think about any of it.
He just stays, because staying and holding on felt like the only way to keep you here. And for a while, it almost works.
…Almost.
Tim observed you from behind as you walked down the hallway. The glitches have been constant, persistent, and unsettling, but manageable. Until now, at least.
You stumble, the impact as you fell on the carpeted floors was anything but graceful. Tim saw it, the way your foot flickered and passed straight through the floor. Instantly, he was at your side—checking and asking if you were alright.
You don't answer, gaze dropping down to your legs. Still there, fully intact. But it was almost like you were waiting for it to happen again. “Must've been bad footing or…” He doesn't sound convinced by his own words, he tests it out—hand pressing on the floor to check.
Solid. Real.
“It went through.” You whisper, only confirming what he feared he saw earlier. He opens his mouth to respond, to argue that you were wrong. But denying it felt pointless now, especially when the truth was waving right in front of you.
Instead, he shifted closer—cupping your jaw to ground you. “It's alright, you're here.” He says, voice steady, almost like he was trying to convince himself. “You're still here.”
Your eyes look up to meet his, and for a second. You don't look convinced either.
This time, your arm fractures into jagged, pixelated blocks, like an image that was failing to load. And you wince, feeling a sharp pressure on the entirety of your arm or where it was supposed to be at least.
“Tim—” Before you could even finish speaking, it was your leg now—fragmenting like pixels that can't keep up with each other. You gasp in pain, your grip on him tightening, leaving crescent shaped marks on his hands. “It—It hurts!”
Your words come out uneven, like your voice couldn't find a steady signal. Tim pulls you upright in a panic, like he was trying to force you back into place through sheer will. “I’ve got you–stay with me, please.”
“It feels–like it's—!” Tim has no idea what to do, your figure and voice was practically buffering in and out of existence. He felt helpless as he held you, trying to anchor you into place as his mind raced.
“—ripping me apart!” You finally manage to finish, voice trembling as you look over at Tim. That's when he realizes it wasn't glitching anymore, you were actively breaking.
“Tim..” Your voice is clearer now, softer, even as the outline of your body flickers. “It hurts, and it isn't stopping.” Tim shook his head immediately before you could even finish speaking.
“No–no, I can fix that, just—give me a second, I just need to..” His hands and eyes scramble all over your body as he tries to figure out what was wrong, his words—an attempt to reassure you, now only trip over each other.
“Tim.” You say his name again, noticeably gentler this time. It takes him a moment to stop and look at you, and when he does..You're already watching him, calmer this time. Not panicking despite the constant unforgiving pain you're currently experiencing.
“Don't. Don't even—” His voice drops lowly, like a warning. Because he knew what you were going to say. “Don't do that.”
You swallow, weakly resting your hand over his. It flickers again, but you keep it there anyways. “Tim.” Your voice wavers for a moment, sucking in a deep breath. “I think—”
You pause, words stuck in your throat, because saying it makes it real. “I think you need to let me go.”
Tim goes completely still. “No.” His words were immediate, like you had no place to argue about it anymore. “I’m not, no–” He looks down at you, his grip getting impossibly tighter.
“Look–I…I can fix this, okay? I just haven't figured it out yet.” Tim doesn't let go, he refuses to. He mutters the words “Stay with me.” and “No.” repeatedly, like repetition alone could make this stop.
Your form flickers under his hands, another wave of sharp pain jolting through you. Tim winces at the sight of you in pain, his breath catching. “Stop..”
“Stop that—wait, just..just stay here.” He pushes himself up from the floor, arm wrapped tightly around you before you can slip even farther. Like he can hold you together with his bare hands.
But when he leans down and finally gets a good look at your face, he freezes.
Your expression lags, recoiling with each wave of pain that passes through your body. Your lips part, and all of your words come out late. Delayed and out of sync.
“Hey..Hey, look at me.” Your eyes land on him a second too late. “Just focus on me.”
“I am.” You manage to get out, voice choppy. He's silent, gulping nervously. Because he's holding you. He feels you, your body is still warm and everything. Yet you're still slipping away.
He stills, because nothing he’s been doing is helping. It doesn't change anything. You flicker again. The outline of your figure thinning, less…there.
He slowly starts to realize that you just keep breaking. You don't come back into place anymore. This isn't something he can fix.
“Please..” His grip loosens, only slightly. “I need you here.” The moment the words left his mouth, your expression falters. Not from the glitch, not from the pain either—but from him.
“Tim..” Your voice comes out soft, weak and careful. More pain passes through you, making you instinctively grab at his shirt, wrinkling it in pain. “It's okay.”
He shakes his head immediately, almost looking offended at your words. “No–no, it's not. Don't say that–”
“Tim.” This time, you stop him before he could finish speaking. Your hands move to his, hoping to anchor him this time. “You've done everything you can.”
“Not enough.” He replies instantly, looking down in shame. You give him a small, sad smile. You didn't enjoy seeing him like this, but you were too far gone to tell him off about it. “It was. It always was.”
Another glitch. You suck in a breath, ignoring the pain as you steady yourself. “This isn't something you can fight.” He pulls you closer again, grip tightening like he was trying to prove you wrong.
You feel it. Of course you do.
“Hey.” Your voice softens, like you were trying to lessen the blow of your next words. “You're hurting me.”
That makes him freeze.
His grip loosens, a lot more careful than desperate. Your hand slips from his involuntarily, and you don't reach out to him anymore after that. “I don't want it to keep hurting.” You admit quietly.
“And I certainly don't want you to keep hurting either.” Tim is looking at you now like he's trying to burn every detail of you into his burnt out brain, before it's gone.
“I can handle it.” You shake your head again, almost like you were displeaded. “You don't–you shouldn't have to.”
Everything slows down. It was too quiet. Like something was waiting.
“Tim. I love you.” You whisper, and his mouth opens to answer but you cut him off. “Let me go.” For the first time since all of this began, doesn't move, doesn't try to argue or talk back.
He just…watches as the glitch slowly takes you.
“I love you too.”
—
The first thing Tim feels is pressure, not…forcefully holding onto something, just his own weight. His body feels heavy, like he's been to hell and he just got dragged back.
The second thing is sound.
Steady and constant beeping kept creeping through his ears. Annoying, but manageable. Then, his eyes flicker open. And he was greeted by the bright white ceiling, and an even brighter light. Sterile, definitely a hospital.
“Tim?” The voice cuts through the still air, familiar. He manages to turn his head despite the ache in his neck, and he sees Dick sitting at the side of his bed.
Tim just stares at him for a second, eyes looking around the room. As if he's checking for lags and glitches.
“Where..” His voice comes out hoarse. “Hospital. You've been out for a while. You got a concussion, it's…a long story.” Dick explains, rubbing the back of his head.
Tim pushes himself up, eyes darting around the room. “Woah—easy, don't move too fast.” Dick notices the movement of his eyes, wondering who or what he was trying to find exactly.
“Where is she?” Tim asks, the question landing heavily. But Dick only blinks with a dumbfounded expression. Did he mean Steph? Or maybe even Cass?
.ᐟ JASON TODD is used to everything being temporary—especially people, until he slowly realizes you’ve quietly woven your way into his life.
.ᐟ CONTENT: OOC (?), fluff, soft angst, unspoken feelings, jason is bad at feelings, kind of dating idk ask them, not proofread
.ᐟ a/n: can u tell i actually have no idea what im writing abt idk how to tag my fics either—also where can i read comics online TwT comics r 2 expensive all i have rn is under the redhood,, dividers: @cursed-carmine
—
it started off slow and unexpected.
it wasn't anything loud or flashy that might as well have punched Jason directly in the face, he just…happened to notice your hair tie sitting on top of a random dresser. you must've forgotten, silly you. he told himself he’d return it the next time you swung by. but he doesn't. according to him he just ‘forgets’.
the next time it happened it was a toothbrush, sitting right on the sink almost like it was meant to be there. jason scoffs as he grabs it, originally planning to chuck it into the trash bin before begrudgingly putting it into the cup next to his own toothbrush.
it keeps happening after that. not all at once, but enough for him to notice.
one of your incredibly busy novelty mugs that you absolutely adore for some reason has made its way to jason’s cupboard. after that it was one of your shirts. then it was a book you had forgotten and left faced down on his nightstand. (in his defense, he says you're both sharing the book so it technically doesn't count or whatever.)
those were things he could ignore, things he could brush off as accidental, coincidence, and not a big deal.
but it slowly stops feeling like that the first time he unintentionally gets a whiff of your scent in his sheets. when he starts hearing your laugh bounce around the walls that made him feel like he was becoming a madman.
but the thing is?
you never meant to stay, all of the things you left behind were out of forgetful habits. not a sign or anything like that. you were the closest thing to home he could ever had. but none of you mentioned or acted on it.
so he stands there in his apartment, full of evidence of something unnamed, full of you, full of life. it wasn't a goodbye, it wasn't anything to begin with.
it was just…almost. every little thing a constant reminder of what could have been.
includes: ooc (?), just fluff! a/n: just an attempt to write for DC to get me out of writers block hopefully!! im still newgen sorry this is probs super inaccurate sorry gng </3 dividers: @cursed-carmine
one thing about jason todd was that he blushed embarrassingly easily.
it's a fact he refuses to admit, but it was undeniable because you've witnessed how his cheeks warmed with color first hand countless times before. there are many intimate moments you stored away like confidential information in your mind, memories of him blushing like a schoolboy that he would instantly deny if mentioned.
but the both of you know the truth.
the first time was when you proposed the idea of shaving his beard yourself, well, it was honestly more like you pushing him into the bathroom while complaining how itchy his beard was.
he watched you with an intent gaze, not daring to move a muscle as you did your work so carefully. you even had your tongue stuck out in focus, cute. he didn't even realize he was staring and started to blush until you stop and realize he's been staring.
“you're red.” you point out, thinking you had nicked him at first or something. nope, just blushing. he was starting to curse his paleness. it made the spread of warm colors on his face much more prominent.
the second time was when you two were out shopping. holding hands while he carried all of your bags like the gentleman he is, and he does it again. he never realizes he's staring, he simply can't help it. you're like an irresistible flame and he's just a moth drawn to your light.
he could feel the warmth creep and climb up his neck before he could stop it, and before he could cool himself down and make it go away—you turn to look at him. your timing really was great, huh? great for you, but not so great for him.
“you're blushing again.”
“no i’m not, it's just hot.”
his embarrassment and shyness towards his unstoppable blushing aside, you never failed to show how much you adored seeing it every time and being the reason for it.
he doesn't understand it really, but he doesn't see it. he doesn't see the way his freckles get more prominent whenever his cheeks warm and how it spreads to the tips of his ears. and you wonder if he’ll ever realize that it wasn't something to be ashamed of, but you know you’d be there every time to show how much you cherished every hint of color he expressed.
should i write for dps ive been so obsessed w them but im deathly afraid of mischaracterizing them and ppl strangling me (steven meeks my goat nerd w glasses i feel so seen) ok sorry u talk foo much
