❝ by day, they're AMORETTE (she/they/he), a 20 year old cantonese college student...but by night, she's the sweetheart savior of the city: HEARTFLUTTERED; glass–hearted fanfiction writer & illustrator, and she's here to make your heart-flutter!!
᧔♡᧓ ribbon-magic navigation 𓂃 ࣪ ˖ rules. tags. ao3.
✿ 【 DC MASTERLIST 】 ⌗ welcome to gotham.
✿ 【 MARVEL MASTERLIST 】 ⌗ swingin' through brooklyn!
STATUS REPORT : ready to go ♪ (requests & suggestions open~!)
MOST RECENT TARGET :
ⓘ no using my work to train AI, copying, plagiarizing, or reposting my work.
TERFS, harry potter / good omens fans + blank blogs get blocked. no questions, no debate—these are my boundaries. please respect them.
i don’t soft/hard block to break mutual; i unfollow everyone at will.
this blog is dark fiction friendly.
your boy wonder girl blunder fic is SOOOOO CUTE i lobe it so much!!! I'm very fond of fics where the reader has a big appreciation for the batboys pre relationship, so if that's where you'll take it then i will literally be breakdancing cartwheeling out of joy!! Extra kudos <3 <3 <3 <3
hi! i’m so so glad you like the fic, but i’m gonna have to let you down early and say that i don’t plan on doing that (^∀^;)›"
i haven’t read comics of the other batboys so i’m not comfortable writing them, but i hope you’ll like what i have in store regardless ʕ ๑ o̴̶̷᷄ ᴥ o̴̶̷̥᷅ ʔ♡
i turned 20 this year and now that i’m not a teen anymore i just gotta say!!
the people who post ‘cringe’ or amateur poetry online to mock it with “i’m 14 and this is deep” are genuinely some of the most pathetic people on earth
chapter 2: a new leaf.
previous ┊next┊masterlist coming soon! ┊read on ao3!
pairing: art school!au damian wayne x female!reader.
tags: art school!au. both reader and damian are 18-19 year old college students. angst + hurt comfort. rivals to friends to lovers. reader has a jealous grudge against damian, but a blossoming crush on robin.
chapter warnings: amputation and canon typical violence a la damian's childhood.
summary: after getting a glimpse of damian's vulnerability during art critique, you begin to feel like you 'see' him for the first time. moreover, you desire to express your gratitude for robin saving your life, though a stranger's snide comment reveals that the masked vigilante's past is bloodier than expected... through patience and kindness, you begin to reconcile your views on both of them respectively.
ⓘ TERFS + HARRY POTTER FANS DNI. this applies to anyone who still actively engages with harry potter on any level—the game, shipping, you blog/consume/make fanwork, etc.
You don’t register how much time has passed since Damian’s peace offering, but based on the crescendo of chattering and steady stream of footsteps ringing out from behind you, class is about to start.
Having made a good amount of progress on your new piece in the past two hours, you hop off your seat to take a big stretch. The sound of your bones cracking makes you wince, though it loosens your muscles, leaving you with a familiar, pleasant ache.
You’re walking to the fusty sink in the corner when Professor Faraway strides through studio doors, shedding her layers with a fluid grace.
Hanging her chocolate coat on the hook by the door, she announces with a smile, “Good to see everyone’s pinned up their work already. Our model Anita should arrive in around thirty minutes, so let’s get started, yeah?”
All the sleep–deprived students scattered about the room begin ambling her way, like sheep following the shepherd.
Every live–drawing class starts with a class critique that lasts a good twenty minutes. The commentary is mainly driven by the class, because Professor Faraway always says that it becomes so much harder to ask people what they think of your work after graduating without some sort of conference gathering.
Critique from other like–minded artists is a gift, she’d say, so cherish it!
You think the class would cherish peer feedback a lot more if Damian weren’t in the room. He always speaks first, and always speaks his mind. And boy, does he speak his mind.
Before today, you’d never truly interacted with him outside of petty jabs and snide remarks. He’d been kind enough to lend you some very high quality paper. He even asked you how you were, even if he sounded like he had a gun to his head as he did.
So, maybe he’s just tonally daft. Maybe. But it’s hard to believe that when he takes one look at your work, and says, unfalteringly:
Your chosen composition is ineffective. There’s too much, all at once. If your goal was to highlight the discordance, though, you’ve done a very good job.
The memory heaves a sigh out of you. You know it wasn’t your best work, but it had only been the second week. First assignment of the year, and he was slathering salt all over the slug.
Shaking your hands dry and your thoughts away, you join the class. You’re weaving your way past the herd of students to the front as Professor Faraway announces, “Let’s start from this side of the room.”
Your gut churns with anxiety as everybody’s attention lands on the furthest piece on the west-side of the wall. Yours.
You’d been proud of the piece you did for this week, but insecurity works its way into your system. The theme had been the “self”; whatever that meant to anyone. You’d chosen a self-portrait for lack of any other idea, but you’re seriously regretting it now as the inspecting eyes of your classmates scour your work.
The itching, devastating voice in your head returns, taunting you in Damian’s voice, The composition is inefficient. You started getting sloppy at 3 AM trying to rush this assignment, and I can tell. The proportions are wrong. Your face, to be exact. Or, perhaps you just look like that.
You flex your fingers, indulging in the pain of straining sinews.
“What are we thinking?” your professor prompts the class, “What do we see?”
A shiver dances across your nape, lifting the hairs on your skin. The air is thick with anticipation as everybody waits for Damian’s voice to pierce the silence.
Five seconds pass. Then, ten.
Dozens of eyes, including yours, eventually begin shifting towards the only boy in the room standing like a museum guard.
His arms folded behind his back, his expression remains affectless as his discerning eyes dole out judgement upon your work. But for once, he seems perfectly content just to look.
“Um. I see her,” Brian speaks up, earning a few scattered giggles.
“Yes. Thank you, Brian,” Professor Faraway sighs exasperatedly, though the humor in her voice is unmistakable. “Elaborate. What else?”
“She’s working on a painting in her room,” Harriet offers, tracing a rectangle mid-air with her finger. “I think we’re standing in the corridor, peeking through into her bedroom through the open door.”
“We see a bit of her side profile?" She looks concentrated, but content, and, um, there’s a lot of posters of the things she likes on the walls…”
Eventually the professor turns to you with a gentle smile, giving you feedback on how the doorway guides our focus towards the centre, very effective choice for the composition!—but all that goes in one ear, out the other. You’re all too distracted staring past her, trying to study the intricacies of Damian’s expression.
Thick brows set in scrutiny, smooth brown skin on a sophisticated face. Shoulders back, perfect posture; his emotions are ever elusive to you, but you can’t shake the feeling that there’s something off about him today.
The class moves on to the next drawing, and the next. You contribute here and there, pointing out the little things you like about your classmate’s work.
Damian hasn’t spoken up once. Silent he stays, until finally Professor Faraway announces, “Alright. This piece is… Damian’s. Correct?”
He nods stiffly. Everyone turns to look, and holds their breath as they take in his masterwork. But you keep your eyes on him.
Your observance is rewarded, because the second everyone’s attention diverts to his piece, his features twitch out of stagnation. The stillness of stature makes movement all the more evident, and you catch the sudden movement of his hand flexing at his side.
Your eyes widen. Damian is nervous. You know he is, because you share the exact same nervous tick.
As soon as you register the twitch of his hand for what it is, everything else unravels before your eyes. The stiffness of his shoulders, the tensing of his jaw, the twitch of the edge of his mouth.
You thought he was a natural–borne critic. It barely took seconds upon looking at a classmate’s painting before Damian was pointing out flaws with a vindicating finger, with a voice so unwaveringly cold that it made you want to rip your piece off the wall and hurl it out the window immediately. Maybe even throw yourself out with it.
But as his pale eyes flick down and away from his piece, you wonder what it is he sees in his own art. Whether he finds his flaws just as easily, and holds himself to the same impossible standards he does with everyone else.
You glance towards his piece, composed entirely of varying shades of graphite; black and white.
Befitting his past as a med–student, Damian's art–style has the realism of a medical illustration. You’ve come to associate his work with uncanny accuracy, trompe-l'œil.
Swarthes of shadows slice across the composition, which is suprisingly simple:
A hauntingly familiar silhouette stares up towards the glaring light, which shines down on a portrait of the richest man in Gotham.
The background is probably meant to be some hallway in Wayne Manor. Velvet damask wallpaper, the arches and trefoils of wooden side–chairs, all suggesting a long history of wealth and opulence completely foreign to you.
But… perhaps not just for you, but for Damian himself as well.
Despite having chosen a similar composition to your own—with the back profile and everything—his depiction of home is opulent, orderly, and completely out of reach. Nothing in the drawing seems personal to him.
In spite of the theme, it is Bruce Wayne, severe in his stillness, who takes up the majority of the piece. Framed in curling giltwood, placed in perfect centre and gleaming under the lustre of resin varnish, he looks like the perfect museum display.
The harsh light flows around Damian’s silhouette, like the brightness can’t bear to touch him.
(Your brow creases. Why does the sight of his back limned in light look so familiar?)
Your classmates are all commenting on his flawless technical skills, but what enraptures you is the sheer vulnerability of it all.
For a boy who seems to make himself distant from everyone around him, an undeniable loneliness haunts the piece. And Damian’s unrolled it for everyone to see. It feels like a bid for connection on his part. Like a tentative hand, slowly reaching out to a crowd rushing past, hoping for someone to see, and understand.
Your eyes flit about, trying to commit every little detail to memory. Regardless of any prior grudges you have against Damian, a curiosity has sprouted in your chest, and you can’t bear to nip it in the bud.
“Any last comments?” you hear Professor Faraway ask.
You turn, only to meet eyes of dark, clear green.
A numbing shiver wracks your frame. You reflexively swallow as you meet Damian’s gaze, the hairs on your skin slowly rising. Though his flat mouth and lax brows suggest otherwise, his stare is anticipatory. He’s waiting for something. He’s waiting for you to speak.
You feel your lips peel apart as you open your mouth, then close it. The oppressive air dries your lungs like a mouthful of coffee.
You can’t think of anything to say.
“Well, alright,” the professor addresses the silence, clapping her hands together with finality. “Thank you, Damian! Onto today’s work…”
His eyelashes flicker, and the vulnerability in his eyes dims like snuffed candlelight as he averts his gaze.
You stare, and stew in inexplicable regret.
For the first time in history, you beat Damian at being first one out the door.
Normally, he’s done packing away his elaborate spread of art supplies long before the bell rings.
But ten minutes before dismissal, before class had even ended, Professor Faraway had tapped him on the shoulder. She said in a gentle voice, “Damian? Could I speak to you in private?”
Everybody else was too busy exchanging conspiratorial looks that could only be interpreted as ooh, this oughtta be good!
So, you’re out first. You shout a hurried “Thanks, Professor!” over your shoulder as you kick the door open and rush out like a howl of wind.
Excitement has you smiling unabashedly as you streak past a number of lumbering students, daring to leap down several steps at a time.
You’ve finally come to a epiphany. Since the beginning of class, a vague composition for a new piece had been forming in the back of your mind.
Initially, the details had shifted according to a maelstrom of unconstrained, underdeveloped possibilities. Though, it finally solidified into something plausible the moment Professor Faraway announced the concept for the weeklong project ahead of you:
The Martha Wayne Foundation is funding the university project for a student submitted design for a mural in celebration of the symbols of hope in Gotham. Whether or not your work gets accepted, this will be the basis of your project for the next two weeks…
It was then and there that you decided you wanted to make a piece for the yellow–caped vigilante you owe your life to. Robin’s the only reason you’re running down these stairs with a beating heart and a heavy breath. You want to express your gratitude in one way or another, even if he never knows your name.
You can see it clearly, now, as you race down the stairs. It’s definitely overly–ambitious, given the time constraints. But you can’t get the idea of painting Robin out of your mind. He’s your hero, and this is a piece about hope. Now’s not the time to get modest.
A sky of purple dusk; the gold of Robin’s billowing cape cutting across the composition. You haven’t decided on the pose yet. You can think of several. Him, sequestered to the side of the painting, standing regally with his sword drawn, or mid–flight with his grappling gun. Either way, he’s limned by the gleaming lights of Gotham City’s horizon.
With a heart–stopping skid of your feet, you round the corner with a yelp, barely avoiding eating shit on the floor. You throw open the front doors of the school building, and—
Frigid wind slices your cheeks. You gasp in shock, and the air robs the bravery out of your lungs. It disappears in a puff of mist as you stagger forward. You almost trip down the stoop, but at the very last minute, your flailing hand catches onto the handrail.
The sun sets very early these days. You know this. And yet, you exhale shudderingly as you stare into the utter darkness of the night.
Something about being in the cold makes you feel heavy and vulnerable again. It reminds you that you’re weak. That the cruel elements: the cold, the rain, the criminals, will overpower the frailty of your body. That your feet can’t and won’t carry you quickly enough to safety.
You swallow, and walk down the front stairs at a normal pace. Your momentum has all but disappeared, and now you’re just walking rather speedily through the campus yard to where the gates are.
As your heart begins raging against your ribcage, everything begins feeling exactly the way it did the other night.
You were doing okay during class. You thought you were alright. Why aren’t you alright?
You breathe and breathe, waiting for your body to understand that you’re not running for your life, that nobody’s holding you at gun point, that you’re not in that fucking alleyway and you’re alive and you’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine.
Barely managing to reach the front gates before your knees give in against your will, you’re forced to grab onto an iron rung, staring out numbly at the streets you must travel through to get home.
The long stretch of shade, the dark folliage lining the side of the road, the flickering lamps—all the little things that were once familiar to you feel unmistakably hostile, now.
Lifting a leaden foot, you waver back towards the supposeed safety of your campus.
So much for hope, your mind supplies bitterly.
You’re not sure how long you stand there like an idiot, but your feet go numb as you mentally calculate how long it’ll take for you to get home if you run all the way there.
In the midst of your fretting, audible footsteps resound against the pavement. You tense, then spin to search the darkness for any sign of danger.
Your shoulders relax, though your eyes promptly blow wide with wonder as you glimpse a gentle ripple of fabric, a length that hangs from shoulder to foot.
Scuffed green boot first, then the rest of him, you watch in wonder as the Boy Wonder crosses the border from shadow to light, and back into your life.
With one hand on his hip, and the other lax at his side, Robin strides forward casually, stopping a step or two before you.
The first time you’d seen him, he’d been a burst of efficient violence, green and shadow and yellow flashing explosively before your eyes. Considering your circumstances, you barely had the time to take in his appearance.
But now that he’s not darting around like a ninja, you try to make a mental note of every visual attributes you see. Green knee–braces, with a dark matte sheen to the metal. Red shoelaces, inclining to the shade of warm blood rather than cool purples. You’re definetly going to have to test mixing the exact shade of his saffron cape with your paints when you get home, too.
Then there’s the matter of the sword strapped to his belt.
You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen him use it. No amateur shaky footage involving him has featured that legendary, flashing sliver of metal for years.
People used to be up in arms about that sword. Or rather, the supposed enthusiasm with which the young, ‘violent’ vigilante wielded it.
You remember a particularly scathing news report that had played when you were ten, maybe eleven, eating dinner:
The sight of that dangerous companion of the Bat, with his sword drawn like he’s eager for blood has become a dangerous norm, the anchorwoman had said in regareds to photographs of Robin with his katana drawn mid–swing, mouth open in a silent battle–cry. One we shouldn’t accept.
You can’t deny that he did seem significantly more abrasive when he was younger. But it’s been years since, and it doesn’t sit right with you that some people still use his papparazzi photographs from nearly a decade ago as evidence for some supposed secret evil lurking within him, still.
Robin’s undeniably saved Gotham time and time again. He’s a saviour of the city, a hero of urban myth, and…
And he’s standing so close, you think idly, wondering how you’d capture the intricate patterns of his katana handle on paper. Much closer than he should to some random freshman art student he saved, and happened to run into again.
He’s close enough that your hand would brush the side of his if you were to reach out for it.
(You won’t, because you value your fucking life, but you could.)
The sound of Robin clearing his throat erupts amidst the silence. Your cheeks go very hot as you realise you’ve been caught in the act.
Hoping to beat him to any accusations of you eyeing him up or checking him out, you stammer abruptly, “I wanted to thank you. For yesterday, I mean. You, uh. Really saved my life out there.”
You cringe as soon as the words escape your lips. Check out Captain Obvious over here, you think, wanting to dig your nails into your skull and claw your brains out.
“Yes,” he says stiffly. “That’s. What I do.”
“Um,” you breathe flusteredly. Every other word snags at the back of your throat, like tattered fabric half–impaled on brambles. “So what are you doing here?”
“I was in the area,” Robin dismisses tersely. “Patrolling. Are you waiting for someone?”
His subject change is too abrupt to be convincing, but you reply anyways. “I was gonna go to the art supplies store. Gotta stock up on the stuff I lost yesterday, so.”
He raises a brow. “The one on the 14th?”
Your eyes widen. “Yeah. Foley’s Arts, Scraps and Crafts, why?”
Without another word, Robin turns around and strides away. You hover, completely uncertain of what to do. Maybe he’s ended the interaction by asserting his superior intelligence, and he’s leaving to save some poor fucker now, and this is goodbye.
He’s already a ways away when you hear the heave of a loud sigh. “Well?” he calls over his caped shoulder. “Are you waiting for another thief to come along and rob you blind?”
You blink with your mouth open. The wind speaks on your behalf as it rushes past you. “You’re walking me there?” you settle on asking.
Robin doesn’t bother responding, oozing impatience as he puts a hand on his hip. For a hero and a saviour of the people, Robin sure has an attitude, you think.
“But don’t you have better things to do?” you ask, taking brisk steps to catch up with him before he can change his mind. “People to save?”
If he’s heard your question, he doesn’t acknowledge it by looking your way. With his head facing forward, his attention is completely devoted to the dark streets before him, like a proper man on a mission.
“If there’s an urgent matter to attend to,” he answers vaguely, “I’ll leave.”
“Ah,” you say.
And that’s that. The two of you walk down the pavement, with the only sound being that of the rustling branches and whistling winds.
Your heart is beating just as quickly as it did when you were clinging to the school gates, on the brink of a panic attack. Frankly, you’d prefer that to the inherent insanity of your current circumstances—walking in awkward silence next to a crime–fighting vigilante because he insisted on accompanying you to the crafts store.
The moment the thought occurs to you, you speak thoughtlessly to fill the silence. “Hey, how do you know which way we’re going?”
With an exasperated click of his tongue, he says, “I know every street in my city by heart. Name a place.”
“Uh, Harborview?”
With the confidence of a weatherman, Robin recites on the spot, “We’re currently located in Coventry; north–east of Gotham University.
“If one were to start from Wayne Experimental Sciences Building, with Wayne Tower to the East, the most beneficial route would be to walk down Broome Street until—”
A sound of amusement bubbles out of you before you can hold it back. “I get it, you’ve got the omnipresence of a homing pigeon,” you say teasingly.
His eyebrows furrow. “Homing pigeons were bred and trained to carry messages during war time. They flew through torrents of gunfire across enemy lines. Put some respect on their name.
“And it’s not omnipresence,” he corrects, “it’s awareness. Acuteness. A willingness to pay attention and commit information to memory.”
What do you know, Robin knows bird facts, you bemuse.
“So you’re saying you’ve committed every possible route from every possible place in Gotham to memory?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, I get it now. You’re a human GPS,” you conclude, nodding sagely.
Though you can’t see past the marble–white lenses of his green domino mask, it’s obvious he’s exasperated as he shoots you a look.
“A human GPS," Robin repeats slowly.
“Yeah, they should hire you as the guy who voices the Google Maps navigation. ‘At the bottom of the hill, make a right’,” you say, trying to mimic his unique Gotham accent. “‘Continue straight ahead, fool. I work for Batman.’”
You receive no response other than a snort through the nose. The slightest hint of amusement in his tone is enough to lighten the weight in your chest.
The conversation dwindles back into silence.
It’s then that a thought occurs to you:
You should probably ask Robin for permission before committing to making him the main subject of your competition submission.
Nobody would be pleased to have a wall-sized, very public mural of themself hung up without their permission, after all.
You bite your lip, conflicted. Your heart is oscillating between ‘do it now, you’ll never see him again’ and ‘don’t you dare make this weird’. It’s much harder, now that he’s next to you, to not feel flustered at the prospect of asking to draw fanart of your saviour.
It’s a blessing and a curse that the store comes into view before you can decide.
You pick up the pace, hoping to come to a conclusion later.
The force of the wind flings the front door open, and you hurriedly fight against the air pressure to shove it close again. Everything goes misty and vague as your glasses frames fog up, moisture condensing on the lenses upon the sudden shift of temperature.
A good number of customers, having been alerted by the sad pealing of the door–chime, lift their heads to bear witness to your arrival.
A welter of anxiety rises in your chest. You’re not exactly sure how you thought publically parading around with Batman’s sidekick would go. What if the counter-guy hates Batman or something?
The door peals again from behind you, notifying you of Robin’s presence.
Nervously readjusting your glasses, your eyes slide towards the man behind the counter. His weathered features are non–plussed, giving no indication of acknowledgement or care for the boy dressed in bright yellow and green.
Though your vision is limited, the blurry figures hover in a blatant attempt to assess which Robin has just entered the store. They seem to simultaneously come to a consensus, as everybody immediately scatters in all directions.
Like rats in a metro, you grimace at the less than subtle way they’d made their distaste for the vigilante hero clear.
It takes everything in you to avoid checking up on how he’s feeling. You’re guessing not great, considering how you can feel myriad eyes trained intently in your direction, threatening to pierce your body like bullet wounds.
Not wanting to join them in making a spectacle out of his presence, you mumble, "C'mon, it's this way,” and move forward.
A beat passes. He follows.
You round the corner to kneel before the array of sketchbooks laid out near the bottom shelf.
Scanning through the labels, you click your tongue in annoyance as your eyes land on the conspicuously rectangular shaped void slotted between two stacks, where you know the cheapest option used to be.
“Damn,” you mutter.
Your professor mandates 18 by 24 inches as the minimum size for assignments, and the other options are significantly more expensive.
“Sorry. Looks like we came here for nothing,” you heave a sigh, and get up.
He doesn’t follow you immediately.
“Is this one not sufficient?” Robin points. “50 pages, higher GSM than the newsprint pad you lost yesterday. That makes this one an improvement.”
You turn to look back at him, astonished. “Wait, how’d you know?”
A shrug. “I remember everything,” he replies vaguely. “Saw it on the cover. Well?”
Your eyes narrow. Not that photographic memory is completely out of the question for a superhero’s sidekick, but it’s rare for people to know what GSM means—let alone what a higher number indicates.
(The only logical explanation you can think of is that Robin does watercolour painting in his free time. Maybe you’ll ask him about it later.)
“Well,” you begin, “It’s pricier…”
“By two dollars.”
You frown, mulling it over. For a moment, you're going to argue, but... "You know what? Sure. I'll get this one. Wait for me outside?”
You don’t wait for a reply as you reach the counter area. The room buzzes in silence.
So far, everybody seems keen on minding their own business lest the violent Robin lay eyes on them. Though nobody seems to have made a scene yet.
You slide the sketchbook over the counter. “Just this, please.”
The elderly man doesn’t respond. You can’t get a bead on his expression as he stares with lightless eyes past you, in Robin’s direction.
His eyes narrow. You swallow.
“Sir?” you ask nervously, hoping to redirect his attention.
Again, his composure unnerves you. He relinquishes his glare, though he keeps his head down.
“Years ago,” the man at the counter speaks abruptly, “Robin was a fine fellow. Kept the bat in line.”
Hesitantly, you lift your face just enough to study the man’s expression, grim and rueful and bitter.
“Then, eight, maybe nine years ago,” he continues evenly, “I’d been out late at night. Buncha criminals cornered me. They had butcher’s knives. Took my wallet.
“That boy behind you,” he jerks his chin in Robin’s direction, his voice growing louder in volume, “took one of their cleavers, and amputated the robber in front of me. Whole arm; clean off. Blood was everywhere. And that boy was smiling.”
He meets your gaze, then. You shiver, staring into lightless eyes.
“I ain't saying them criminals were in the right. And I’m sure as hell glad to be alive.
“But I know what I saw,” he shakes his head. “I know what I saw. A fuckin’ criminal, thirstin’ for blood, taking down other criminals. Only thing is, he wears that fucking cape.”
“I’d like to pay, please, sir,” you interrupt, feeling your heart beat in your throat.
Wordlessly, he scans your sketchbook.
“That’ll be $13.58,” he says solemnly.
You practically throw money his way, desperate to get out of here.
“Need a receipt?”
“No, thank you,” you squeak. Swiftly stalking up to Robin, you whisper nervously, “We gotta get out of here, man.”
Before you’ve finished your sentence, Robin’s already striding out the door, the bell ringing forebodingly.
The ensuing silence buzzes. You avoid the old man’s unwavering gaze as you follow suit.
Outside, Robin’s pacing back and forth restlessly.
“Which way,” he spits as you come into view.
You realise belatedly that he’s asking you where you live. You point in the general direction.
With a dramatic whirl of his cape, he begins walking off.
His frame is rigid as he moves on ahead, clearly eager to drop you off and disappear into the night as soon as he can.
Trying not to disturb the silence, you follow from behind.
You realise retroactively how drastically he had slowed himself down earlier; when you were walking side by side.
Because right now, his pace is much faster than you can follow. You’re almost breathless trying to catch up with the stride of his outrageously long legs.
Frustratedly, you call out, “Hey man, can you wait up?”
He comes to a sudden halt. You stop in place as well.
You hadn’t intended to leave such a wide berth between the two of you. But he’s a lamppost ahead, and the distance feels all the more daunting. A boundary you shouldn’t breach.
“You have a question.” Robin’s voice shakes under the heavy weight of an emotion he’s barely managing to restrain. “Ask it.
“…Was it true?”
No response; he stands there, severe in his stillness.
“What he said. The counter guy,” you press. “Was it true?”
“Yes,” he says through his teeth, and it sounds like a confession.
“Have you done anything like that since…?”
“No.” he snaps. “Not in years. Never again.
“I am nothing like the other Robins. I exceed them in power, prowess. I exceed them in every possible way. But I will not pretend as if my hands are clean. That my past was pure and bloodless, like theirs. I was not, I am not…”
His voice catches. The fervorous momentum of his rant comes to an abrupt end.
Then, his hand flexes at his side. Fingers out, before retracting into a clenched fist once more.
Your eyes widen in hazy recognition. It’s a small involuntary twitch. But for a brief eternity, Robin seems impossibly, overwhelmingly familiar to you.
His anger wanes, loosing the tenseness of his shoulders. And when his voice rings out again, it’s laden with an exhasution you don’t think you will ever truly understand.
“I am not innocent,” he concludes, sounding small.
The weight of his words seep into the marrow of your bones. Robin is blunt. Forthright. He wouldn’t lie to you.
You eye the sword at his side, once more. Batman doesn’t kill. But has he?
You swallow. Breathe, you think. Refocus.
You look away from the sword. You take in the composition before you, the bigger picture.
The boy who saved your life stands with his back facing you. From underneath the lamppost, harsh light flows around Robin’s figure the way a running stream warps around a pebble.
As if the light can’t bear to touch him.
…You’re not sure what he means about his past not being ‘pure and bloodless’. You don’t want to know.
But you do know that he saved your life. You know he hasn’t used the sword by his side in years.
And you know that Damian's drawing looked exactly like this: a lonely boy standing with his back to you.
Not a hero, a boy. He is Robin. A boy with blood on his hands and a past you cannot begin to imagine. A boy your age.
He is Robin. Shrouded in shadow, shunned by light. And right now, he looks completely, utterly alone.
“Okay,” you say quietly.
He whips around to face you. The scintillating whites where his eyes should be blaze like wildfire.
“That’s it?” he yells in what can only be incredulous rage.
“Yeah–huh.”
He stares, clearly shocked into silence.
“I mean, it’s Gotham,” you say fumblingly. “Everyone’s a little fucked up. So.”
The silence is fucking terrible. Not a sound is shared between you until Robin says, sounding very tired:
“That’s—you—that’s stupid,” he settles on saying.
“Oh, yeah,” you nod.
“That’s really fucking stupid,” he emphasises, rubbing fists into the sockets of his eyes. “Completely brainless. Absolutely insane. That’s hardly a viable conclusion to draw.”
“Hey, it’s Gotham,” you laugh. “Everyone’s a little crazy. Think I saw the Riddler try to throw a banana peel in front of Batmobile once.”
Whatever remaining rigidity to Robin’s form seems to unravel like ribbons. His shoulders lax. His fist uncurls. And maybe it’s your imagination, but he looks almost relieved.
You take the opportunity to catch up. Noting the very subtle way his body braces for something as you walk up to him, you walk right past him and pretend nothing’s wrong.
He follows suit, footsteps light against the pavement. He doesn’t attempt to match your pace; staggering behind a little. You have an inkling that he doesn’t want you to see his face, lest the unmasked half give away any vulnerable expressions.
“I amputated a man. I don’t understand how you can accept that,” he says tightly.
Sobering up, you say, “Well, I’m not gonna lie: the fact that you’ve sliced arms and legs off of people Fruit Ninja style is kinda terrifying.”
He doesn’t join you in laughing at your joke. So you swallow your anxiety and continue:
“But you saved me the other night. You did more than that. You gave me a Kleenex, you comforted me, you tried to salvage my sketchbook…which, thank you, by the way,” you add, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “It was a lost cause, but you tried.
“And I think that’s what you’ve been doing. Trying. And it’s like you said: ‘never again’, right?”
“You really believe that,” he says slowly.
You’re not sure what he means by ‘that’. That people can change? That he wasn’t lying when he said ‘never again’…?
Regardless, you hear the implicit question behind it.
You trust me?
“Yeah. I do.”
“You’d be the first,” he scoffs bitterly.
You match his pace, looking a question at him.
“…I see it in their eyes when they look at me,” he says bitterly, the unforgiving cold condensing his words into steam. “I know they’re waiting for me to snap. Can’t say I blame them, though.
“It doesn’t matter if I’m trying. What’s done is done. To them, I’ll always be that bloody-handed boy, from years ago. I’ve made peace with that.”
You’re not sure you believe him, when he spits that last sentence.
You bite your lip, staring down at your shoes.
“Well,” you say eventually, “I think you’re pretty cool.”
Robin laughs. And not a polite one, either. It’s loud, frantic, hysterical—it almost sounds like a squawk. It’s completely unrestrained as it bursts out of him abruptly, and it contrasts his usual demeanor so starkly that it enraptures you. You can’t look away.
(It's in that moment that you wish you could capture a feeling—a sound—onto paper. If you could, you would bottle his laugh up, and somehow turn it into pigment. You'd make paint out of it, use it in all your pieces. You'd color everything in it.)
“Cool,” he repeats in disbelief, though the humour in his tone has yet to fade.
“Cool,” you grin, egging him on.
You continue making conversation with him. Lighthearted small–talk. Turns out he’s never heard of Fruit Ninja, which is unacceptable. So you talk his ears off about it, all the way to your front door.
Which you arrive at, much sooner than you expect.
“Surely you can make it inside without any problems,” he drones, voice dripping with sarcasm.
You scoff, punching his shoulder lightly in jest. It shouldn’t surprise you that the muscle there is tough like a brick, but you jump and hiss in pain anyways.
He chuckles quietly (like a prick), and heat rushes to your face for more reasons than one. His mouth opens, then closes. Then, almost hesitatingly, he says:
“Well…goodbye.”
You blink at his unceremonious, almost anticlimactic farewell.
You’re watching as he slowly moves backwards and away from your porch, when you realise that he’s leaving.
A surge of panic dislodges the words in your throat as you sputter aloud:
“Wait!”
To your surprsise, he actually stops in his steps. He turns around with a cocked eyebrow, waiting.
You try to collect your nerves and breathe in deeply. You’d been pretty bold and confident about your idea, but now that you have to ask him for permission face–to–face, it’s… different, to say the least.
“There’s this project,” you start. Somehow, you’re already breathless. “For university. It’s a competition for mural ideas, Funded by The Martha Wayne Foundation. Have you heard of that one?”
A pause. Then, he nods stiffly.
“Yeah. Um. I was wondering whether you’d be cool with me drawing you. As part of my entry.”
The silence that meets you is enough to rear you back into motor-mouth as you ramble:
“Obviously, I wanted to ask your permission? Before I went ahead and just, submitted what’s essentially a piece of fanart in of a real life vigilante to a public project that pretty much everyone in the city’s going to see. I mean, I know you get your photo taken against your will when you’re kicking ass and shit, but—”
“You’re certain?” he blurts out. His mouth is agape with disbelief, and though it’s hard to make out with his dark skin tone, you’re fairly certain there’s a flush of red blooming on his cheeks.
Could just be the cold, but it looks cute on him either way.
At a loss of words, you nod, feeling a lot shyer than you thought you would.
“There are others,” he says flatly.
You frown. “What?”
“Batman,” he says, flexing the hand at his side. “He’s…a safer option in the realm of vigilantes.”
You put your hands on your hips, feeling a little demeaned. “I don’t make art to play it safe, buddy.”
“That’s not what I…” he sighs, giving up mid-sentence when you shoot him a look.
You’re more than a little surprised when he continues, “If that is what you wish, then… I will not stop you. Even if I find it highly inadvisable.”
Your eyes fly wide open. “Really?” you ask again, just to be sure.
Though he makes an exasperated noise through his nose, he nods. It’s a yes.
“Cool,” you laugh breathlessly. Then, because apparently you’ve gone from breathless to mindless in his presence, you ask presumptuously:
“Um. I’ll… see you around?”
Your head floods hot. Idiot. He’s a vigilante. He doesn’t have time to be hanging out with civilians, let alone walking them home.
Then, to your utter disbelief, he nods again.
“Oh,” you breathe. “Okay. Um. Good night.”
You slam the door hastily, much louder than you should, and suppress the scream threatening to bubble out your throat.
You’re shaking, and you’re not sure if it’s excitement or anxiety or joy. Either way, you kick your shoes off hastily.
Stumbling over yourself, you run for your bedroom at a breakneck pace, barely managing to round the corner before you bludgeon your skull in.
Your door flies open. You toss your belongings onto the floor with no regard.
You fling your sketchbook open, and begin to draw.
a/n: for anyone who's curious, i took inspiration from Secret Origins #4 (2014) for the old man’s story about damian amputating the criminal. i don't think i've ever read a damian x reader fic that like. addresses how violent he was for a while even after he became robin and joined the good guys? like!! that kid decapitated a criminal right after his first appearance!! why does nobody talk about that!! we should talk about that!!!
chapter 2: a new leaf.
previous ┊next┊masterlist coming soon! ┊read on ao3!
pairing: art school!au damian wayne x female!reader.
tags: art school!au. both reader and damian are 18-19 year old college students. angst + hurt comfort. rivals to friends to lovers. reader has a jealous grudge against damian, but a blossoming crush on robin.
chapter warnings: amputation and canon typical violence a la damian's childhood.
summary: after getting a glimpse of damian's vulnerability during art critique, you begin to feel like you 'see' him for the first time. moreover, you desire to express your gratitude for robin saving your life, though a stranger's snide comment reveals that the masked vigilante's past is bloodier than expected... through patience and kindness, you begin to reconcile your views on both of them respectively.
ⓘ TERFS + HARRY POTTER FANS DNI. this applies to anyone who still actively engages with harry potter on any level—the game, shipping, you blog/consume/make fanwork, etc.
You don’t register how much time has passed since Damian’s peace offering, but based on the crescendo of chattering and steady stream of footsteps ringing out from behind you, class is about to start.
Having made a good amount of progress on your new piece in the past two hours, you hop off your seat to take a big stretch. The sound of your bones cracking makes you wince, though it loosens your muscles, leaving you with a familiar, pleasant ache.
You’re walking to the fusty sink in the corner when Professor Faraway strides through studio doors, shedding her layers with a fluid grace.
Hanging her chocolate coat on the hook by the door, she announces with a smile, “Good to see everyone’s pinned up their work already. Our model Anita should arrive in around thirty minutes, so let’s get started, yeah?”
All the sleep–deprived students scattered about the room begin ambling her way, like sheep following the shepherd.
Every live–drawing class starts with a class critique that lasts a good twenty minutes. The commentary is mainly driven by the class, because Professor Faraway always says that it becomes so much harder to ask people what they think of your work after graduating without some sort of conference gathering.
Critique from other like–minded artists is a gift, she’d say, so cherish it!
You think the class would cherish peer feedback a lot more if Damian weren’t in the room. He always speaks first, and always speaks his mind. And boy, does he speak his mind.
Before today, you’d never truly interacted with him outside of petty jabs and snide remarks. He’d been kind enough to lend you some very high quality paper. He even asked you how you were, even if he sounded like he had a gun to his head as he did.
So, maybe he’s just tonally daft. Maybe. But it’s hard to believe that when he takes one look at your work, and says, unfalteringly:
Your chosen composition is ineffective. There’s too much, all at once. If your goal was to highlight the discordance, though, you’ve done a very good job.
The memory heaves a sigh out of you. You know it wasn’t your best work, but it had only been the second week. First assignment of the year, and he was slathering salt all over the slug.
Shaking your hands dry and your thoughts away, you join the class. You’re weaving your way past the herd of students to the front as Professor Faraway announces, “Let’s start from this side of the room.”
Your gut churns with anxiety as everybody’s attention lands on the furthest piece on the west-side of the wall. Yours.
You’d been proud of the piece you did for this week, but insecurity works its way into your system. The theme had been the “self”; whatever that meant to anyone. You’d chosen a self-portrait for lack of any other idea, but you’re seriously regretting it now as the inspecting eyes of your classmates scour your work.
The itching, devastating voice in your head returns, taunting you in Damian’s voice, The composition is inefficient. You started getting sloppy at 3 AM trying to rush this assignment, and I can tell. The proportions are wrong. Your face, to be exact. Or, perhaps you just look like that.
You flex your fingers, indulging in the pain of straining sinews.
“What are we thinking?” your professor prompts the class, “What do we see?”
A shiver dances across your nape, lifting the hairs on your skin. The air is thick with anticipation as everybody waits for Damian’s voice to pierce the silence.
Five seconds pass. Then, ten.
Dozens of eyes, including yours, eventually begin shifting towards the only boy in the room standing like a museum guard.
His arms folded behind his back, his expression remains affectless as his discerning eyes dole out judgement upon your work. But for once, he seems perfectly content just to look.
“Um. I see her,” Brian speaks up, earning a few scattered giggles.
“Yes. Thank you, Brian,” Professor Faraway sighs exasperatedly, though the humor in her voice is unmistakable. “Elaborate. What else?”
“She’s working on a painting in her room,” Harriet offers, tracing a rectangle mid-air with her finger. “I think we’re standing in the corridor, peeking through into her bedroom through the open door.”
“We see a bit of her side profile?" She looks concentrated, but content, and, um, there’s a lot of posters of the things she likes on the walls…”
Eventually the professor turns to you with a gentle smile, giving you feedback on how the doorway guides our focus towards the centre, very effective choice for the composition!—but all that goes in one ear, out the other. You’re all too distracted staring past her, trying to study the intricacies of Damian’s expression.
Thick brows set in scrutiny, smooth brown skin on a sophisticated face. Shoulders back, perfect posture; his emotions are ever elusive to you, but you can’t shake the feeling that there’s something off about him today.
The class moves on to the next drawing, and the next. You contribute here and there, pointing out the little things you like about your classmate’s work.
Damian hasn’t spoken up once. Silent he stays, until finally Professor Faraway announces, “Alright. This piece is… Damian’s. Correct?”
He nods stiffly. Everyone turns to look, and holds their breath as they take in his masterwork. But you keep your eyes on him.
Your observance is rewarded, because the second everyone’s attention diverts to his piece, his features twitch out of stagnation. The stillness of stature makes movement all the more evident, and you catch the sudden movement of his hand flexing at his side.
Your eyes widen. Damian is nervous. You know he is, because you share the exact same nervous tick.
As soon as you register the twitch of his hand for what it is, everything else unravels before your eyes. The stiffness of his shoulders, the tensing of his jaw, the twitch of the edge of his mouth.
You thought he was a natural–borne critic. It barely took seconds upon looking at a classmate’s painting before Damian was pointing out flaws with a vindicating finger, with a voice so unwaveringly cold that it made you want to rip your piece off the wall and hurl it out the window immediately. Maybe even throw yourself out with it.
But as his pale eyes flick down and away from his piece, you wonder what it is he sees in his own art. Whether he finds his flaws just as easily, and holds himself to the same impossible standards he does with everyone else.
You glance towards his piece, composed entirely of varying shades of graphite; black and white.
Befitting his past as a med–student, Damian's art–style has the realism of a medical illustration. You’ve come to associate his work with uncanny accuracy, trompe-l'œil.
Swarthes of shadows slice across the composition, which is suprisingly simple:
A hauntingly familiar silhouette stares up towards the glaring light, which shines down on a portrait of the richest man in Gotham.
The background is probably meant to be some hallway in Wayne Manor. Velvet damask wallpaper, the arches and trefoils of wooden side–chairs, all suggesting a long history of wealth and opulence completely foreign to you.
But… perhaps not just for you, but for Damian himself as well.
Despite having chosen a similar composition to your own—with the back profile and everything—his depiction of home is opulent, orderly, and completely out of reach. Nothing in the drawing seems personal to him.
In spite of the theme, it is Bruce Wayne, severe in his stillness, who takes up the majority of the piece. Framed in curling giltwood, placed in perfect centre and gleaming under the lustre of resin varnish, he looks like the perfect museum display.
The harsh light flows around Damian’s silhouette, like the brightness can’t bear to touch him.
(Your brow creases. Why does the sight of his back limned in light look so familiar?)
Your classmates are all commenting on his flawless technical skills, but what enraptures you is the sheer vulnerability of it all.
For a boy who seems to make himself distant from everyone around him, an undeniable loneliness haunts the piece. And Damian’s unrolled it for everyone to see. It feels like a bid for connection on his part. Like a tentative hand, slowly reaching out to a crowd rushing past, hoping for someone to see, and understand.
Your eyes flit about, trying to commit every little detail to memory. Regardless of any prior grudges you have against Damian, a curiosity has sprouted in your chest, and you can’t bear to nip it in the bud.
“Any last comments?” you hear Professor Faraway ask.
You turn, only to meet eyes of dark, clear green.
A numbing shiver wracks your frame. You reflexively swallow as you meet Damian’s gaze, the hairs on your skin slowly rising. Though his flat mouth and lax brows suggest otherwise, his stare is anticipatory. He’s waiting for something. He’s waiting for you to speak.
You feel your lips peel apart as you open your mouth, then close it. The oppressive air dries your lungs like a mouthful of coffee.
You can’t think of anything to say.
“Well, alright,” the professor addresses the silence, clapping her hands together with finality. “Thank you, Damian! Onto today’s work…”
His eyelashes flicker, and the vulnerability in his eyes dims like snuffed candlelight as he averts his gaze.
You stare, and stew in inexplicable regret.
For the first time in history, you beat Damian at being first one out the door.
Normally, he’s done packing away his elaborate spread of art supplies long before the bell rings.
But ten minutes before dismissal, before class had even ended, Professor Faraway had tapped him on the shoulder. She said in a gentle voice, “Damian? Could I speak to you in private?”
Everybody else was too busy exchanging conspiratorial looks that could only be interpreted as ooh, this oughtta be good!
So, you’re out first. You shout a hurried “Thanks, Professor!” over your shoulder as you kick the door open and rush out like a howl of wind.
Excitement has you smiling unabashedly as you streak past a number of lumbering students, daring to leap down several steps at a time.
You’ve finally come to a epiphany. Since the beginning of class, a vague composition for a new piece had been forming in the back of your mind.
Initially, the details had shifted according to a maelstrom of unconstrained, underdeveloped possibilities. Though, it finally solidified into something plausible the moment Professor Faraway announced the concept for the weeklong project ahead of you:
The Martha Wayne Foundation is funding the university project for a student submitted design for a mural in celebration of the symbols of hope in Gotham. Whether or not your work gets accepted, this will be the basis of your project for the next two weeks…
It was then and there that you decided you wanted to make a piece for the yellow–caped vigilante you owe your life to. Robin’s the only reason you’re running down these stairs with a beating heart and a heavy breath. You want to express your gratitude in one way or another, even if he never knows your name.
You can see it clearly, now, as you race down the stairs. It’s definitely overly–ambitious, given the time constraints. But you can’t get the idea of painting Robin out of your mind. He’s your hero, and this is a piece about hope. Now’s not the time to get modest.
A sky of purple dusk; the gold of Robin’s billowing cape cutting across the composition. You haven’t decided on the pose yet. You can think of several. Him, sequestered to the side of the painting, standing regally with his sword drawn, or mid–flight with his grappling gun. Either way, he’s limned by the gleaming lights of Gotham City’s horizon.
With a heart–stopping skid of your feet, you round the corner with a yelp, barely avoiding eating shit on the floor. You throw open the front doors of the school building, and—
Frigid wind slices your cheeks. You gasp in shock, and the air robs the bravery out of your lungs. It disappears in a puff of mist as you stagger forward. You almost trip down the stoop, but at the very last minute, your flailing hand catches onto the handrail.
The sun sets very early these days. You know this. And yet, you exhale shudderingly as you stare into the utter darkness of the night.
Something about being in the cold makes you feel heavy and vulnerable again. It reminds you that you’re weak. That the cruel elements: the cold, the rain, the criminals, will overpower the frailty of your body. That your feet can’t and won’t carry you quickly enough to safety.
You swallow, and walk down the front stairs at a normal pace. Your momentum has all but disappeared, and now you’re just walking rather speedily through the campus yard to where the gates are.
As your heart begins raging against your ribcage, everything begins feeling exactly the way it did the other night.
You were doing okay during class. You thought you were alright. Why aren’t you alright?
You breathe and breathe, waiting for your body to understand that you’re not running for your life, that nobody’s holding you at gun point, that you’re not in that fucking alleyway and you’re alive and you’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine.
Barely managing to reach the front gates before your knees give in against your will, you’re forced to grab onto an iron rung, staring out numbly at the streets you must travel through to get home.
The long stretch of shade, the dark folliage lining the side of the road, the flickering lamps—all the little things that were once familiar to you feel unmistakably hostile, now.
Lifting a leaden foot, you waver back towards the supposeed safety of your campus.
So much for hope, your mind supplies bitterly.
You’re not sure how long you stand there like an idiot, but your feet go numb as you mentally calculate how long it’ll take for you to get home if you run all the way there.
In the midst of your fretting, audible footsteps resound against the pavement. You tense, then spin to search the darkness for any sign of danger.
Your shoulders relax, though your eyes promptly blow wide with wonder as you glimpse a gentle ripple of fabric, a length that hangs from shoulder to foot.
Scuffed green boot first, then the rest of him, you watch in wonder as the Boy Wonder crosses the border from shadow to light, and back into your life.
With one hand on his hip, and the other lax at his side, Robin strides forward casually, stopping a step or two before you.
The first time you’d seen him, he’d been a burst of efficient violence, green and shadow and yellow flashing explosively before your eyes. Considering your circumstances, you barely had the time to take in his appearance.
But now that he’s not darting around like a ninja, you try to make a mental note of every visual attributes you see. Green knee–braces, with a dark matte sheen to the metal. Red shoelaces, inclining to the shade of warm blood rather than cool purples. You’re definetly going to have to test mixing the exact shade of his saffron cape with your paints when you get home, too.
Then there’s the matter of the sword strapped to his belt.
You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen him use it. No amateur shaky footage involving him has featured that legendary, flashing sliver of metal for years.
People used to be up in arms about that sword. Or rather, the supposed enthusiasm with which the young, ‘violent’ vigilante wielded it.
You remember a particularly scathing news report that had played when you were ten, maybe eleven, eating dinner:
The sight of that dangerous companion of the Bat, with his sword drawn like he’s eager for blood has become a dangerous norm, the anchorwoman had said in regareds to photographs of Robin with his katana drawn mid–swing, mouth open in a silent battle–cry. One we shouldn’t accept.
You can’t deny that he did seem significantly more abrasive when he was younger. But it’s been years since, and it doesn’t sit right with you that some people still use his papparazzi photographs from nearly a decade ago as evidence for some supposed secret evil lurking within him, still.
Robin’s undeniably saved Gotham time and time again. He’s a saviour of the city, a hero of urban myth, and…
And he’s standing so close, you think idly, wondering how you’d capture the intricate patterns of his katana handle on paper. Much closer than he should to some random freshman art student he saved, and happened to run into again.
He’s close enough that your hand would brush the side of his if you were to reach out for it.
(You won’t, because you value your fucking life, but you could.)
The sound of Robin clearing his throat erupts amidst the silence. Your cheeks go very hot as you realise you’ve been caught in the act.
Hoping to beat him to any accusations of you eyeing him up or checking him out, you stammer abruptly, “I wanted to thank you. For yesterday, I mean. You, uh. Really saved my life out there.”
You cringe as soon as the words escape your lips. Check out Captain Obvious over here, you think, wanting to dig your nails into your skull and claw your brains out.
“Yes,” he says stiffly. “That’s. What I do.”
“Um,” you breathe flusteredly. Every other word snags at the back of your throat, like tattered fabric half–impaled on brambles. “So what are you doing here?”
“I was in the area,” Robin dismisses tersely. “Patrolling. Are you waiting for someone?”
His subject change is too abrupt to be convincing, but you reply anyways. “I was gonna go to the art supplies store. Gotta stock up on the stuff I lost yesterday, so.”
He raises a brow. “The one on the 14th?”
Your eyes widen. “Yeah. Foley’s Arts, Scraps and Crafts, why?”
Without another word, Robin turns around and strides away. You hover, completely uncertain of what to do. Maybe he’s ended the interaction by asserting his superior intelligence, and he’s leaving to save some poor fucker now, and this is goodbye.
He’s already a ways away when you hear the heave of a loud sigh. “Well?” he calls over his caped shoulder. “Are you waiting for another thief to come along and rob you blind?”
You blink with your mouth open. The wind speaks on your behalf as it rushes past you. “You’re walking me there?” you settle on asking.
Robin doesn’t bother responding, oozing impatience as he puts a hand on his hip. For a hero and a saviour of the people, Robin sure has an attitude, you think.
“But don’t you have better things to do?” you ask, taking brisk steps to catch up with him before he can change his mind. “People to save?”
If he’s heard your question, he doesn’t acknowledge it by looking your way. With his head facing forward, his attention is completely devoted to the dark streets before him, like a proper man on a mission.
“If there’s an urgent matter to attend to,” he answers vaguely, “I’ll leave.”
“Ah,” you say.
And that’s that. The two of you walk down the pavement, with the only sound being that of the rustling branches and whistling winds.
Your heart is beating just as quickly as it did when you were clinging to the school gates, on the brink of a panic attack. Frankly, you’d prefer that to the inherent insanity of your current circumstances—walking in awkward silence next to a crime–fighting vigilante because he insisted on accompanying you to the crafts store.
The moment the thought occurs to you, you speak thoughtlessly to fill the silence. “Hey, how do you know which way we’re going?”
With an exasperated click of his tongue, he says, “I know every street in my city by heart. Name a place.”
“Uh, Harborview?”
With the confidence of a weatherman, Robin recites on the spot, “We’re currently located in Coventry; north–east of Gotham University.
“If one were to start from Wayne Experimental Sciences Building, with Wayne Tower to the East, the most beneficial route would be to walk down Broome Street until—”
A sound of amusement bubbles out of you before you can hold it back. “I get it, you’ve got the omnipresence of a homing pigeon,” you say teasingly.
His eyebrows furrow. “Homing pigeons were bred and trained to carry messages during war time. They flew through torrents of gunfire across enemy lines. Put some respect on their name.
“And it’s not omnipresence,” he corrects, “it’s awareness. Acuteness. A willingness to pay attention and commit information to memory.”
What do you know, Robin knows bird facts, you bemuse.
“So you’re saying you’ve committed every possible route from every possible place in Gotham to memory?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, I get it now. You’re a human GPS,” you conclude, nodding sagely.
Though you can’t see past the marble–white lenses of his green domino mask, it’s obvious he’s exasperated as he shoots you a look.
“A human GPS," Robin repeats slowly.
“Yeah, they should hire you as the guy who voices the Google Maps navigation. ‘At the bottom of the hill, make a right’,” you say, trying to mimic his unique Gotham accent. “‘Continue straight ahead, fool. I work for Batman.’”
You receive no response other than a snort through the nose. The slightest hint of amusement in his tone is enough to lighten the weight in your chest.
The conversation dwindles back into silence.
It’s then that a thought occurs to you:
You should probably ask Robin for permission before committing to making him the main subject of your competition submission.
Nobody would be pleased to have a wall-sized, very public mural of themself hung up without their permission, after all.
You bite your lip, conflicted. Your heart is oscillating between ‘do it now, you’ll never see him again’ and ‘don’t you dare make this weird’. It’s much harder, now that he’s next to you, to not feel flustered at the prospect of asking to draw fanart of your saviour.
It’s a blessing and a curse that the store comes into view before you can decide.
You pick up the pace, hoping to come to a conclusion later.
The force of the wind flings the front door open, and you hurriedly fight against the air pressure to shove it close again. Everything goes misty and vague as your glasses frames fog up, moisture condensing on the lenses upon the sudden shift of temperature.
A good number of customers, having been alerted by the sad pealing of the door–chime, lift their heads to bear witness to your arrival.
A welter of anxiety rises in your chest. You’re not exactly sure how you thought publically parading around with Batman’s sidekick would go. What if the counter-guy hates Batman or something?
The door peals again from behind you, notifying you of Robin’s presence.
Nervously readjusting your glasses, your eyes slide towards the man behind the counter. His weathered features are non–plussed, giving no indication of acknowledgement or care for the boy dressed in bright yellow and green.
Though your vision is limited, the blurry figures hover in a blatant attempt to assess which Robin has just entered the store. They seem to simultaneously come to a consensus, as everybody immediately scatters in all directions.
Like rats in a metro, you grimace at the less than subtle way they’d made their distaste for the vigilante hero clear.
It takes everything in you to avoid checking up on how he’s feeling. You’re guessing not great, considering how you can feel myriad eyes trained intently in your direction, threatening to pierce your body like bullet wounds.
Not wanting to join them in making a spectacle out of his presence, you mumble, "C'mon, it's this way,” and move forward.
A beat passes. He follows.
You round the corner to kneel before the array of sketchbooks laid out near the bottom shelf.
Scanning through the labels, you click your tongue in annoyance as your eyes land on the conspicuously rectangular shaped void slotted between two stacks, where you know the cheapest option used to be.
“Damn,” you mutter.
Your professor mandates 18 by 24 inches as the minimum size for assignments, and the other options are significantly more expensive.
“Sorry. Looks like we came here for nothing,” you heave a sigh, and get up.
He doesn’t follow you immediately.
“Is this one not sufficient?” Robin points. “50 pages, higher GSM than the newsprint pad you lost yesterday. That makes this one an improvement.”
You turn to look back at him, astonished. “Wait, how’d you know?”
A shrug. “I remember everything,” he replies vaguely. “Saw it on the cover. Well?”
Your eyes narrow. Not that photographic memory is completely out of the question for a superhero’s sidekick, but it’s rare for people to know what GSM means—let alone what a higher number indicates.
(The only logical explanation you can think of is that Robin does watercolour painting in his free time. Maybe you’ll ask him about it later.)
“Well,” you begin, “It’s pricier…”
“By two dollars.”
You frown, mulling it over. For a moment, you're going to argue, but... "You know what? Sure. I'll get this one. Wait for me outside?”
You don’t wait for a reply as you reach the counter area. The room buzzes in silence.
So far, everybody seems keen on minding their own business lest the violent Robin lay eyes on them. Though nobody seems to have made a scene yet.
You slide the sketchbook over the counter. “Just this, please.”
The elderly man doesn’t respond. You can’t get a bead on his expression as he stares with lightless eyes past you, in Robin’s direction.
His eyes narrow. You swallow.
“Sir?” you ask nervously, hoping to redirect his attention.
Again, his composure unnerves you. He relinquishes his glare, though he keeps his head down.
“Years ago,” the man at the counter speaks abruptly, “Robin was a fine fellow. Kept the bat in line.”
Hesitantly, you lift your face just enough to study the man’s expression, grim and rueful and bitter.
“Then, eight, maybe nine years ago,” he continues evenly, “I’d been out late at night. Buncha criminals cornered me. They had butcher’s knives. Took my wallet.
“That boy behind you,” he jerks his chin in Robin’s direction, his voice growing louder in volume, “took one of their cleavers, and amputated the robber in front of me. Whole arm; clean off. Blood was everywhere. And that boy was smiling.”
He meets your gaze, then. You shiver, staring into lightless eyes.
“I ain't saying them criminals were in the right. And I’m sure as hell glad to be alive.
“But I know what I saw,” he shakes his head. “I know what I saw. A fuckin’ criminal, thirstin’ for blood, taking down other criminals. Only thing is, he wears that fucking cape.”
“I’d like to pay, please, sir,” you interrupt, feeling your heart beat in your throat.
Wordlessly, he scans your sketchbook.
“That’ll be $13.58,” he says solemnly.
You practically throw money his way, desperate to get out of here.
“Need a receipt?”
“No, thank you,” you squeak. Swiftly stalking up to Robin, you whisper nervously, “We gotta get out of here, man.”
Before you’ve finished your sentence, Robin’s already striding out the door, the bell ringing forebodingly.
The ensuing silence buzzes. You avoid the old man’s unwavering gaze as you follow suit.
Outside, Robin’s pacing back and forth restlessly.
“Which way,” he spits as you come into view.
You realise belatedly that he’s asking you where you live. You point in the general direction.
With a dramatic whirl of his cape, he begins walking off.
His frame is rigid as he moves on ahead, clearly eager to drop you off and disappear into the night as soon as he can.
Trying not to disturb the silence, you follow from behind.
You realise retroactively how drastically he had slowed himself down earlier; when you were walking side by side.
Because right now, his pace is much faster than you can follow. You’re almost breathless trying to catch up with the stride of his outrageously long legs.
Frustratedly, you call out, “Hey man, can you wait up?”
He comes to a sudden halt. You stop in place as well.
You hadn’t intended to leave such a wide berth between the two of you. But he’s a lamppost ahead, and the distance feels all the more daunting. A boundary you shouldn’t breach.
“You have a question.” Robin’s voice shakes under the heavy weight of an emotion he’s barely managing to restrain. “Ask it.
“…Was it true?”
No response; he stands there, severe in his stillness.
“What he said. The counter guy,” you press. “Was it true?”
“Yes,” he says through his teeth, and it sounds like a confession.
“Have you done anything like that since…?”
“No.” he snaps. “Not in years. Never again.
“I am nothing like the other Robins. I exceed them in power, prowess. I exceed them in every possible way. But I will not pretend as if my hands are clean. That my past was pure and bloodless, like theirs. I was not, I am not…”
His voice catches. The fervorous momentum of his rant comes to an abrupt end.
Then, his hand flexes at his side. Fingers out, before retracting into a clenched fist once more.
Your eyes widen in hazy recognition. It’s a small involuntary twitch. But for a brief eternity, Robin seems impossibly, overwhelmingly familiar to you.
His anger wanes, loosing the tenseness of his shoulders. And when his voice rings out again, it’s laden with an exhasution you don’t think you will ever truly understand.
“I am not innocent,” he concludes, sounding small.
The weight of his words seep into the marrow of your bones. Robin is blunt. Forthright. He wouldn’t lie to you.
You eye the sword at his side, once more. Batman doesn’t kill. But has he?
You swallow. Breathe, you think. Refocus.
You look away from the sword. You take in the composition before you, the bigger picture.
The boy who saved your life stands with his back facing you. From underneath the lamppost, harsh light flows around Robin’s figure the way a running stream warps around a pebble.
As if the light can’t bear to touch him.
…You’re not sure what he means about his past not being ‘pure and bloodless’. You don’t want to know.
But you do know that he saved your life. You know he hasn’t used the sword by his side in years.
And you know that Damian's drawing looked exactly like this: a lonely boy standing with his back to you.
Not a hero, a boy. He is Robin. A boy with blood on his hands and a past you cannot begin to imagine. A boy your age.
He is Robin. Shrouded in shadow, shunned by light. And right now, he looks completely, utterly alone.
“Okay,” you say quietly.
He whips around to face you. The scintillating whites where his eyes should be blaze like wildfire.
“That’s it?” he yells in what can only be incredulous rage.
“Yeah–huh.”
He stares, clearly shocked into silence.
“I mean, it’s Gotham,” you say fumblingly. “Everyone’s a little fucked up. So.”
The silence is fucking terrible. Not a sound is shared between you until Robin says, sounding very tired:
“That’s—you—that’s stupid,” he settles on saying.
“Oh, yeah,” you nod.
“That’s really fucking stupid,” he emphasises, rubbing fists into the sockets of his eyes. “Completely brainless. Absolutely insane. That’s hardly a viable conclusion to draw.”
“Hey, it’s Gotham,” you laugh. “Everyone’s a little crazy. Think I saw the Riddler try to throw a banana peel in front of Batmobile once.”
Whatever remaining rigidity to Robin’s form seems to unravel like ribbons. His shoulders lax. His fist uncurls. And maybe it’s your imagination, but he looks almost relieved.
You take the opportunity to catch up. Noting the very subtle way his body braces for something as you walk up to him, you walk right past him and pretend nothing’s wrong.
He follows suit, footsteps light against the pavement. He doesn’t attempt to match your pace; staggering behind a little. You have an inkling that he doesn’t want you to see his face, lest the unmasked half give away any vulnerable expressions.
“I amputated a man. I don’t understand how you can accept that,” he says tightly.
Sobering up, you say, “Well, I’m not gonna lie: the fact that you’ve sliced arms and legs off of people Fruit Ninja style is kinda terrifying.”
He doesn’t join you in laughing at your joke. So you swallow your anxiety and continue:
“But you saved me the other night. You did more than that. You gave me a Kleenex, you comforted me, you tried to salvage my sketchbook…which, thank you, by the way,” you add, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “It was a lost cause, but you tried.
“And I think that’s what you’ve been doing. Trying. And it’s like you said: ‘never again’, right?”
“You really believe that,” he says slowly.
You’re not sure what he means by ‘that’. That people can change? That he wasn’t lying when he said ‘never again’…?
Regardless, you hear the implicit question behind it.
You trust me?
“Yeah. I do.”
“You’d be the first,” he scoffs bitterly.
You match his pace, looking a question at him.
“…I see it in their eyes when they look at me,” he says bitterly, the unforgiving cold condensing his words into steam. “I know they’re waiting for me to snap. Can’t say I blame them, though.
“It doesn’t matter if I’m trying. What’s done is done. To them, I’ll always be that bloody-handed boy, from years ago. I’ve made peace with that.”
You’re not sure you believe him, when he spits that last sentence.
You bite your lip, staring down at your shoes.
“Well,” you say eventually, “I think you’re pretty cool.”
Robin laughs. And not a polite one, either. It’s loud, frantic, hysterical—it almost sounds like a squawk. It’s completely unrestrained as it bursts out of him abruptly, and it contrasts his usual demeanor so starkly that it enraptures you. You can’t look away.
(It's in that moment that you wish you could capture a feeling—a sound—onto paper. If you could, you would bottle his laugh up, and somehow turn it into pigment. You'd make paint out of it, use it in all your pieces. You'd color everything in it.)
“Cool,” he repeats in disbelief, though the humour in his tone has yet to fade.
“Cool,” you grin, egging him on.
You continue making conversation with him. Lighthearted small–talk. Turns out he’s never heard of Fruit Ninja, which is unacceptable. So you talk his ears off about it, all the way to your front door.
Which you arrive at, much sooner than you expect.
“Surely you can make it inside without any problems,” he drones, voice dripping with sarcasm.
You scoff, punching his shoulder lightly in jest. It shouldn’t surprise you that the muscle there is tough like a brick, but you jump and hiss in pain anyways.
He chuckles quietly (like a prick), and heat rushes to your face for more reasons than one. His mouth opens, then closes. Then, almost hesitatingly, he says:
“Well…goodbye.”
You blink at his unceremonious, almost anticlimactic farewell.
You’re watching as he slowly moves backwards and away from your porch, when you realise that he’s leaving.
A surge of panic dislodges the words in your throat as you sputter aloud:
“Wait!”
To your surprsise, he actually stops in his steps. He turns around with a cocked eyebrow, waiting.
You try to collect your nerves and breathe in deeply. You’d been pretty bold and confident about your idea, but now that you have to ask him for permission face–to–face, it’s… different, to say the least.
“There’s this project,” you start. Somehow, you’re already breathless. “For university. It’s a competition for mural ideas, Funded by The Martha Wayne Foundation. Have you heard of that one?”
A pause. Then, he nods stiffly.
“Yeah. Um. I was wondering whether you’d be cool with me drawing you. As part of my entry.”
The silence that meets you is enough to rear you back into motor-mouth as you ramble:
“Obviously, I wanted to ask your permission? Before I went ahead and just, submitted what’s essentially a piece of fanart in of a real life vigilante to a public project that pretty much everyone in the city’s going to see. I mean, I know you get your photo taken against your will when you’re kicking ass and shit, but—”
“You’re certain?” he blurts out. His mouth is agape with disbelief, and though it’s hard to make out with his dark skin tone, you’re fairly certain there’s a flush of red blooming on his cheeks.
Could just be the cold, but it looks cute on him either way.
At a loss of words, you nod, feeling a lot shyer than you thought you would.
“There are others,” he says flatly.
You frown. “What?”
“Batman,” he says, flexing the hand at his side. “He’s…a safer option in the realm of vigilantes.”
You put your hands on your hips, feeling a little demeaned. “I don’t make art to play it safe, buddy.”
“That’s not what I…” he sighs, giving up mid-sentence when you shoot him a look.
You’re more than a little surprised when he continues, “If that is what you wish, then… I will not stop you. Even if I find it highly inadvisable.”
Your eyes fly wide open. “Really?” you ask again, just to be sure.
Though he makes an exasperated noise through his nose, he nods. It’s a yes.
“Cool,” you laugh breathlessly. Then, because apparently you’ve gone from breathless to mindless in his presence, you ask presumptuously:
“Um. I’ll… see you around?”
Your head floods hot. Idiot. He’s a vigilante. He doesn’t have time to be hanging out with civilians, let alone walking them home.
Then, to your utter disbelief, he nods again.
“Oh,” you breathe. “Okay. Um. Good night.”
You slam the door hastily, much louder than you should, and suppress the scream threatening to bubble out your throat.
You’re shaking, and you’re not sure if it’s excitement or anxiety or joy. Either way, you kick your shoes off hastily.
Stumbling over yourself, you run for your bedroom at a breakneck pace, barely managing to round the corner before you bludgeon your skull in.
Your door flies open. You toss your belongings onto the floor with no regard.
You fling your sketchbook open, and begin to draw.
a/n: for anyone who's curious, i took inspiration from Secret Origins #4 (2014) for the old man’s story about damian amputating the criminal. i don't think i've ever read a damian x reader fic that like. addresses how violent he was for a while even after he became robin and joined the good guys? like!! that kid decapitated a criminal right after his first appearance!! why does nobody talk about that!! we should talk about that!!!
chapter 2: a new leaf.
previous ┊next┊masterlist coming soon! ┊read on ao3!
pairing: art school!au damian wayne x female!reader.
tags: art school!au. both reader and damian are 18-19 year old college students. angst + hurt comfort. rivals to friends to lovers. reader has a jealous grudge against damian, but a blossoming crush on robin.
chapter warnings: amputation and canon typical violence a la damian's childhood.
summary: after getting a glimpse of damian's vulnerability during art critique, you begin to feel like you 'see' him for the first time. moreover, you desire to express your gratitude for robin saving your life, though a stranger's snide comment reveals that the masked vigilante's past is bloodier than expected... through patience and kindness, you begin to reconcile your views on both of them respectively.
ⓘ TERFS + HARRY POTTER FANS DNI. this applies to anyone who still actively engages with harry potter on any level—the game, shipping, you blog/consume/make fanwork, etc.
You don’t register how much time has passed since Damian’s peace offering, but based on the crescendo of chattering and steady stream of footsteps ringing out from behind you, class is about to start.
Having made a good amount of progress on your new piece in the past two hours, you hop off your seat to take a big stretch. The sound of your bones cracking makes you wince, though it loosens your muscles, leaving you with a familiar, pleasant ache.
You’re walking to the fusty sink in the corner when Professor Faraway strides through studio doors, shedding her layers with a fluid grace.
Hanging her chocolate coat on the hook by the door, she announces with a smile, “Good to see everyone’s pinned up their work already. Our model Anita should arrive in around thirty minutes, so let’s get started, yeah?”
All the sleep–deprived students scattered about the room begin ambling her way, like sheep following the shepherd.
Every live–drawing class starts with a class critique that lasts a good twenty minutes. The commentary is mainly driven by the class, because Professor Faraway always says that it becomes so much harder to ask people what they think of your work after graduating without some sort of conference gathering.
Critique from other like–minded artists is a gift, she’d say, so cherish it!
You think the class would cherish peer feedback a lot more if Damian weren’t in the room. He always speaks first, and always speaks his mind. And boy, does he speak his mind.
Before today, you’d never truly interacted with him outside of petty jabs and snide remarks. He’d been kind enough to lend you some very high quality paper. He even asked you how you were, even if he sounded like he had a gun to his head as he did.
So, maybe he’s just tonally daft. Maybe. But it’s hard to believe that when he takes one look at your work, and says, unfalteringly:
Your chosen composition is ineffective. There’s too much, all at once. If your goal was to highlight the discordance, though, you’ve done a very good job.
The memory heaves a sigh out of you. You know it wasn’t your best work, but it had only been the second week. First assignment of the year, and he was slathering salt all over the slug.
Shaking your hands dry and your thoughts away, you join the class. You’re weaving your way past the herd of students to the front as Professor Faraway announces, “Let’s start from this side of the room.”
Your gut churns with anxiety as everybody’s attention lands on the furthest piece on the west-side of the wall. Yours.
You’d been proud of the piece you did for this week, but insecurity works its way into your system. The theme had been the “self”; whatever that meant to anyone. You’d chosen a self-portrait for lack of any other idea, but you’re seriously regretting it now as the inspecting eyes of your classmates scour your work.
The itching, devastating voice in your head returns, taunting you in Damian’s voice, The composition is inefficient. You started getting sloppy at 3 AM trying to rush this assignment, and I can tell. The proportions are wrong. Your face, to be exact. Or, perhaps you just look like that.
You flex your fingers, indulging in the pain of straining sinews.
“What are we thinking?” your professor prompts the class, “What do we see?”
A shiver dances across your nape, lifting the hairs on your skin. The air is thick with anticipation as everybody waits for Damian’s voice to pierce the silence.
Five seconds pass. Then, ten.
Dozens of eyes, including yours, eventually begin shifting towards the only boy in the room standing like a museum guard.
His arms folded behind his back, his expression remains affectless as his discerning eyes dole out judgement upon your work. But for once, he seems perfectly content just to look.
“Um. I see her,” Brian speaks up, earning a few scattered giggles.
“Yes. Thank you, Brian,” Professor Faraway sighs exasperatedly, though the humor in her voice is unmistakable. “Elaborate. What else?”
“She’s working on a painting in her room,” Harriet offers, tracing a rectangle mid-air with her finger. “I think we’re standing in the corridor, peeking through into her bedroom through the open door.”
“We see a bit of her side profile?" She looks concentrated, but content, and, um, there’s a lot of posters of the things she likes on the walls…”
Eventually the professor turns to you with a gentle smile, giving you feedback on how the doorway guides our focus towards the centre, very effective choice for the composition!—but all that goes in one ear, out the other. You’re all too distracted staring past her, trying to study the intricacies of Damian’s expression.
Thick brows set in scrutiny, smooth brown skin on a sophisticated face. Shoulders back, perfect posture; his emotions are ever elusive to you, but you can’t shake the feeling that there’s something off about him today.
The class moves on to the next drawing, and the next. You contribute here and there, pointing out the little things you like about your classmate’s work.
Damian hasn’t spoken up once. Silent he stays, until finally Professor Faraway announces, “Alright. This piece is… Damian’s. Correct?”
He nods stiffly. Everyone turns to look, and holds their breath as they take in his masterwork. But you keep your eyes on him.
Your observance is rewarded, because the second everyone’s attention diverts to his piece, his features twitch out of stagnation. The stillness of stature makes movement all the more evident, and you catch the sudden movement of his hand flexing at his side.
Your eyes widen. Damian is nervous. You know he is, because you share the exact same nervous tick.
As soon as you register the twitch of his hand for what it is, everything else unravels before your eyes. The stiffness of his shoulders, the tensing of his jaw, the twitch of the edge of his mouth.
You thought he was a natural–borne critic. It barely took seconds upon looking at a classmate’s painting before Damian was pointing out flaws with a vindicating finger, with a voice so unwaveringly cold that it made you want to rip your piece off the wall and hurl it out the window immediately. Maybe even throw yourself out with it.
But as his pale eyes flick down and away from his piece, you wonder what it is he sees in his own art. Whether he finds his flaws just as easily, and holds himself to the same impossible standards he does with everyone else.
You glance towards his piece, composed entirely of varying shades of graphite; black and white.
Befitting his past as a med–student, Damian's art–style has the realism of a medical illustration. You’ve come to associate his work with uncanny accuracy, trompe-l'œil.
Swarthes of shadows slice across the composition, which is suprisingly simple:
A hauntingly familiar silhouette stares up towards the glaring light, which shines down on a portrait of the richest man in Gotham.
The background is probably meant to be some hallway in Wayne Manor. Velvet damask wallpaper, the arches and trefoils of wooden side–chairs, all suggesting a long history of wealth and opulence completely foreign to you.
But… perhaps not just for you, but for Damian himself as well.
Despite having chosen a similar composition to your own—with the back profile and everything—his depiction of home is opulent, orderly, and completely out of reach. Nothing in the drawing seems personal to him.
In spite of the theme, it is Bruce Wayne, severe in his stillness, who takes up the majority of the piece. Framed in curling giltwood, placed in perfect centre and gleaming under the lustre of resin varnish, he looks like the perfect museum display.
The harsh light flows around Damian’s silhouette, like the brightness can’t bear to touch him.
(Your brow creases. Why does the sight of his back limned in light look so familiar?)
Your classmates are all commenting on his flawless technical skills, but what enraptures you is the sheer vulnerability of it all.
For a boy who seems to make himself distant from everyone around him, an undeniable loneliness haunts the piece. And Damian’s unrolled it for everyone to see. It feels like a bid for connection on his part. Like a tentative hand, slowly reaching out to a crowd rushing past, hoping for someone to see, and understand.
Your eyes flit about, trying to commit every little detail to memory. Regardless of any prior grudges you have against Damian, a curiosity has sprouted in your chest, and you can’t bear to nip it in the bud.
“Any last comments?” you hear Professor Faraway ask.
You turn, only to meet eyes of dark, clear green.
A numbing shiver wracks your frame. You reflexively swallow as you meet Damian’s gaze, the hairs on your skin slowly rising. Though his flat mouth and lax brows suggest otherwise, his stare is anticipatory. He’s waiting for something. He’s waiting for you to speak.
You feel your lips peel apart as you open your mouth, then close it. The oppressive air dries your lungs like a mouthful of coffee.
You can’t think of anything to say.
“Well, alright,” the professor addresses the silence, clapping her hands together with finality. “Thank you, Damian! Onto today’s work…”
His eyelashes flicker, and the vulnerability in his eyes dims like snuffed candlelight as he averts his gaze.
You stare, and stew in inexplicable regret.
For the first time in history, you beat Damian at being first one out the door.
Normally, he’s done packing away his elaborate spread of art supplies long before the bell rings.
But ten minutes before dismissal, before class had even ended, Professor Faraway had tapped him on the shoulder. She said in a gentle voice, “Damian? Could I speak to you in private?”
Everybody else was too busy exchanging conspiratorial looks that could only be interpreted as ooh, this oughtta be good!
So, you’re out first. You shout a hurried “Thanks, Professor!” over your shoulder as you kick the door open and rush out like a howl of wind.
Excitement has you smiling unabashedly as you streak past a number of lumbering students, daring to leap down several steps at a time.
You’ve finally come to a epiphany. Since the beginning of class, a vague composition for a new piece had been forming in the back of your mind.
Initially, the details had shifted according to a maelstrom of unconstrained, underdeveloped possibilities. Though, it finally solidified into something plausible the moment Professor Faraway announced the concept for the weeklong project ahead of you:
The Martha Wayne Foundation is funding the university project for a student submitted design for a mural in celebration of the symbols of hope in Gotham. Whether or not your work gets accepted, this will be the basis of your project for the next two weeks…
It was then and there that you decided you wanted to make a piece for the yellow–caped vigilante you owe your life to. Robin’s the only reason you’re running down these stairs with a beating heart and a heavy breath. You want to express your gratitude in one way or another, even if he never knows your name.
You can see it clearly, now, as you race down the stairs. It’s definitely overly–ambitious, given the time constraints. But you can’t get the idea of painting Robin out of your mind. He’s your hero, and this is a piece about hope. Now’s not the time to get modest.
A sky of purple dusk; the gold of Robin’s billowing cape cutting across the composition. You haven’t decided on the pose yet. You can think of several. Him, sequestered to the side of the painting, standing regally with his sword drawn, or mid–flight with his grappling gun. Either way, he’s limned by the gleaming lights of Gotham City’s horizon.
With a heart–stopping skid of your feet, you round the corner with a yelp, barely avoiding eating shit on the floor. You throw open the front doors of the school building, and—
Frigid wind slices your cheeks. You gasp in shock, and the air robs the bravery out of your lungs. It disappears in a puff of mist as you stagger forward. You almost trip down the stoop, but at the very last minute, your flailing hand catches onto the handrail.
The sun sets very early these days. You know this. And yet, you exhale shudderingly as you stare into the utter darkness of the night.
Something about being in the cold makes you feel heavy and vulnerable again. It reminds you that you’re weak. That the cruel elements: the cold, the rain, the criminals, will overpower the frailty of your body. That your feet can’t and won’t carry you quickly enough to safety.
You swallow, and walk down the front stairs at a normal pace. Your momentum has all but disappeared, and now you’re just walking rather speedily through the campus yard to where the gates are.
As your heart begins raging against your ribcage, everything begins feeling exactly the way it did the other night.
You were doing okay during class. You thought you were alright. Why aren’t you alright?
You breathe and breathe, waiting for your body to understand that you’re not running for your life, that nobody’s holding you at gun point, that you’re not in that fucking alleyway and you’re alive and you’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine.
Barely managing to reach the front gates before your knees give in against your will, you’re forced to grab onto an iron rung, staring out numbly at the streets you must travel through to get home.
The long stretch of shade, the dark folliage lining the side of the road, the flickering lamps—all the little things that were once familiar to you feel unmistakably hostile, now.
Lifting a leaden foot, you waver back towards the supposeed safety of your campus.
So much for hope, your mind supplies bitterly.
You’re not sure how long you stand there like an idiot, but your feet go numb as you mentally calculate how long it’ll take for you to get home if you run all the way there.
In the midst of your fretting, audible footsteps resound against the pavement. You tense, then spin to search the darkness for any sign of danger.
Your shoulders relax, though your eyes promptly blow wide with wonder as you glimpse a gentle ripple of fabric, a length that hangs from shoulder to foot.
Scuffed green boot first, then the rest of him, you watch in wonder as the Boy Wonder crosses the border from shadow to light, and back into your life.
With one hand on his hip, and the other lax at his side, Robin strides forward casually, stopping a step or two before you.
The first time you’d seen him, he’d been a burst of efficient violence, green and shadow and yellow flashing explosively before your eyes. Considering your circumstances, you barely had the time to take in his appearance.
But now that he’s not darting around like a ninja, you try to make a mental note of every visual attributes you see. Green knee–braces, with a dark matte sheen to the metal. Red shoelaces, inclining to the shade of warm blood rather than cool purples. You’re definetly going to have to test mixing the exact shade of his saffron cape with your paints when you get home, too.
Then there’s the matter of the sword strapped to his belt.
You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen him use it. No amateur shaky footage involving him has featured that legendary, flashing sliver of metal for years.
People used to be up in arms about that sword. Or rather, the supposed enthusiasm with which the young, ‘violent’ vigilante wielded it.
You remember a particularly scathing news report that had played when you were ten, maybe eleven, eating dinner:
The sight of that dangerous companion of the Bat, with his sword drawn like he’s eager for blood has become a dangerous norm, the anchorwoman had said in regareds to photographs of Robin with his katana drawn mid–swing, mouth open in a silent battle–cry. One we shouldn’t accept.
You can’t deny that he did seem significantly more abrasive when he was younger. But it’s been years since, and it doesn’t sit right with you that some people still use his papparazzi photographs from nearly a decade ago as evidence for some supposed secret evil lurking within him, still.
Robin’s undeniably saved Gotham time and time again. He’s a saviour of the city, a hero of urban myth, and…
And he’s standing so close, you think idly, wondering how you’d capture the intricate patterns of his katana handle on paper. Much closer than he should to some random freshman art student he saved, and happened to run into again.
He’s close enough that your hand would brush the side of his if you were to reach out for it.
(You won’t, because you value your fucking life, but you could.)
The sound of Robin clearing his throat erupts amidst the silence. Your cheeks go very hot as you realise you’ve been caught in the act.
Hoping to beat him to any accusations of you eyeing him up or checking him out, you stammer abruptly, “I wanted to thank you. For yesterday, I mean. You, uh. Really saved my life out there.”
You cringe as soon as the words escape your lips. Check out Captain Obvious over here, you think, wanting to dig your nails into your skull and claw your brains out.
“Yes,” he says stiffly. “That’s. What I do.”
“Um,” you breathe flusteredly. Every other word snags at the back of your throat, like tattered fabric half–impaled on brambles. “So what are you doing here?”
“I was in the area,” Robin dismisses tersely. “Patrolling. Are you waiting for someone?”
His subject change is too abrupt to be convincing, but you reply anyways. “I was gonna go to the art supplies store. Gotta stock up on the stuff I lost yesterday, so.”
He raises a brow. “The one on the 14th?”
Your eyes widen. “Yeah. Foley’s Arts, Scraps and Crafts, why?”
Without another word, Robin turns around and strides away. You hover, completely uncertain of what to do. Maybe he’s ended the interaction by asserting his superior intelligence, and he’s leaving to save some poor fucker now, and this is goodbye.
He’s already a ways away when you hear the heave of a loud sigh. “Well?” he calls over his caped shoulder. “Are you waiting for another thief to come along and rob you blind?”
You blink with your mouth open. The wind speaks on your behalf as it rushes past you. “You’re walking me there?” you settle on asking.
Robin doesn’t bother responding, oozing impatience as he puts a hand on his hip. For a hero and a saviour of the people, Robin sure has an attitude, you think.
“But don’t you have better things to do?” you ask, taking brisk steps to catch up with him before he can change his mind. “People to save?”
If he’s heard your question, he doesn’t acknowledge it by looking your way. With his head facing forward, his attention is completely devoted to the dark streets before him, like a proper man on a mission.
“If there’s an urgent matter to attend to,” he answers vaguely, “I’ll leave.”
“Ah,” you say.
And that’s that. The two of you walk down the pavement, with the only sound being that of the rustling branches and whistling winds.
Your heart is beating just as quickly as it did when you were clinging to the school gates, on the brink of a panic attack. Frankly, you’d prefer that to the inherent insanity of your current circumstances—walking in awkward silence next to a crime–fighting vigilante because he insisted on accompanying you to the crafts store.
The moment the thought occurs to you, you speak thoughtlessly to fill the silence. “Hey, how do you know which way we’re going?”
With an exasperated click of his tongue, he says, “I know every street in my city by heart. Name a place.”
“Uh, Harborview?”
With the confidence of a weatherman, Robin recites on the spot, “We’re currently located in Coventry; north–east of Gotham University.
“If one were to start from Wayne Experimental Sciences Building, with Wayne Tower to the East, the most beneficial route would be to walk down Broome Street until—”
A sound of amusement bubbles out of you before you can hold it back. “I get it, you’ve got the omnipresence of a homing pigeon,” you say teasingly.
His eyebrows furrow. “Homing pigeons were bred and trained to carry messages during war time. They flew through torrents of gunfire across enemy lines. Put some respect on their name.
“And it’s not omnipresence,” he corrects, “it’s awareness. Acuteness. A willingness to pay attention and commit information to memory.”
What do you know, Robin knows bird facts, you bemuse.
“So you’re saying you’ve committed every possible route from every possible place in Gotham to memory?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, I get it now. You’re a human GPS,” you conclude, nodding sagely.
Though you can’t see past the marble–white lenses of his green domino mask, it’s obvious he’s exasperated as he shoots you a look.
“A human GPS," Robin repeats slowly.
“Yeah, they should hire you as the guy who voices the Google Maps navigation. ‘At the bottom of the hill, make a right’,” you say, trying to mimic his unique Gotham accent. “‘Continue straight ahead, fool. I work for Batman.’”
You receive no response other than a snort through the nose. The slightest hint of amusement in his tone is enough to lighten the weight in your chest.
The conversation dwindles back into silence.
It’s then that a thought occurs to you:
You should probably ask Robin for permission before committing to making him the main subject of your competition submission.
Nobody would be pleased to have a wall-sized, very public mural of themself hung up without their permission, after all.
You bite your lip, conflicted. Your heart is oscillating between ‘do it now, you’ll never see him again’ and ‘don’t you dare make this weird’. It’s much harder, now that he’s next to you, to not feel flustered at the prospect of asking to draw fanart of your saviour.
It’s a blessing and a curse that the store comes into view before you can decide.
You pick up the pace, hoping to come to a conclusion later.
The force of the wind flings the front door open, and you hurriedly fight against the air pressure to shove it close again. Everything goes misty and vague as your glasses frames fog up, moisture condensing on the lenses upon the sudden shift of temperature.
A good number of customers, having been alerted by the sad pealing of the door–chime, lift their heads to bear witness to your arrival.
A welter of anxiety rises in your chest. You’re not exactly sure how you thought publically parading around with Batman’s sidekick would go. What if the counter-guy hates Batman or something?
The door peals again from behind you, notifying you of Robin’s presence.
Nervously readjusting your glasses, your eyes slide towards the man behind the counter. His weathered features are non–plussed, giving no indication of acknowledgement or care for the boy dressed in bright yellow and green.
Though your vision is limited, the blurry figures hover in a blatant attempt to assess which Robin has just entered the store. They seem to simultaneously come to a consensus, as everybody immediately scatters in all directions.
Like rats in a metro, you grimace at the less than subtle way they’d made their distaste for the vigilante hero clear.
It takes everything in you to avoid checking up on how he’s feeling. You’re guessing not great, considering how you can feel myriad eyes trained intently in your direction, threatening to pierce your body like bullet wounds.
Not wanting to join them in making a spectacle out of his presence, you mumble, "C'mon, it's this way,” and move forward.
A beat passes. He follows.
You round the corner to kneel before the array of sketchbooks laid out near the bottom shelf.
Scanning through the labels, you click your tongue in annoyance as your eyes land on the conspicuously rectangular shaped void slotted between two stacks, where you know the cheapest option used to be.
“Damn,” you mutter.
Your professor mandates 18 by 24 inches as the minimum size for assignments, and the other options are significantly more expensive.
“Sorry. Looks like we came here for nothing,” you heave a sigh, and get up.
He doesn’t follow you immediately.
“Is this one not sufficient?” Robin points. “50 pages, higher GSM than the newsprint pad you lost yesterday. That makes this one an improvement.”
You turn to look back at him, astonished. “Wait, how’d you know?”
A shrug. “I remember everything,” he replies vaguely. “Saw it on the cover. Well?”
Your eyes narrow. Not that photographic memory is completely out of the question for a superhero’s sidekick, but it’s rare for people to know what GSM means—let alone what a higher number indicates.
(The only logical explanation you can think of is that Robin does watercolour painting in his free time. Maybe you’ll ask him about it later.)
“Well,” you begin, “It’s pricier…”
“By two dollars.”
You frown, mulling it over. For a moment, you're going to argue, but... "You know what? Sure. I'll get this one. Wait for me outside?”
You don’t wait for a reply as you reach the counter area. The room buzzes in silence.
So far, everybody seems keen on minding their own business lest the violent Robin lay eyes on them. Though nobody seems to have made a scene yet.
You slide the sketchbook over the counter. “Just this, please.”
The elderly man doesn’t respond. You can’t get a bead on his expression as he stares with lightless eyes past you, in Robin’s direction.
His eyes narrow. You swallow.
“Sir?” you ask nervously, hoping to redirect his attention.
Again, his composure unnerves you. He relinquishes his glare, though he keeps his head down.
“Years ago,” the man at the counter speaks abruptly, “Robin was a fine fellow. Kept the bat in line.”
Hesitantly, you lift your face just enough to study the man’s expression, grim and rueful and bitter.
“Then, eight, maybe nine years ago,” he continues evenly, “I’d been out late at night. Buncha criminals cornered me. They had butcher’s knives. Took my wallet.
“That boy behind you,” he jerks his chin in Robin’s direction, his voice growing louder in volume, “took one of their cleavers, and amputated the robber in front of me. Whole arm; clean off. Blood was everywhere. And that boy was smiling.”
He meets your gaze, then. You shiver, staring into lightless eyes.
“I ain't saying them criminals were in the right. And I’m sure as hell glad to be alive.
“But I know what I saw,” he shakes his head. “I know what I saw. A fuckin’ criminal, thirstin’ for blood, taking down other criminals. Only thing is, he wears that fucking cape.”
“I’d like to pay, please, sir,” you interrupt, feeling your heart beat in your throat.
Wordlessly, he scans your sketchbook.
“That’ll be $13.58,” he says solemnly.
You practically throw money his way, desperate to get out of here.
“Need a receipt?”
“No, thank you,” you squeak. Swiftly stalking up to Robin, you whisper nervously, “We gotta get out of here, man.”
Before you’ve finished your sentence, Robin’s already striding out the door, the bell ringing forebodingly.
The ensuing silence buzzes. You avoid the old man’s unwavering gaze as you follow suit.
Outside, Robin’s pacing back and forth restlessly.
“Which way,” he spits as you come into view.
You realise belatedly that he’s asking you where you live. You point in the general direction.
With a dramatic whirl of his cape, he begins walking off.
His frame is rigid as he moves on ahead, clearly eager to drop you off and disappear into the night as soon as he can.
Trying not to disturb the silence, you follow from behind.
You realise retroactively how drastically he had slowed himself down earlier; when you were walking side by side.
Because right now, his pace is much faster than you can follow. You’re almost breathless trying to catch up with the stride of his outrageously long legs.
Frustratedly, you call out, “Hey man, can you wait up?”
He comes to a sudden halt. You stop in place as well.
You hadn’t intended to leave such a wide berth between the two of you. But he’s a lamppost ahead, and the distance feels all the more daunting. A boundary you shouldn’t breach.
“You have a question.” Robin’s voice shakes under the heavy weight of an emotion he’s barely managing to restrain. “Ask it.
“…Was it true?”
No response; he stands there, severe in his stillness.
“What he said. The counter guy,” you press. “Was it true?”
“Yes,” he says through his teeth, and it sounds like a confession.
“Have you done anything like that since…?”
“No.” he snaps. “Not in years. Never again.
“I am nothing like the other Robins. I exceed them in power, prowess. I exceed them in every possible way. But I will not pretend as if my hands are clean. That my past was pure and bloodless, like theirs. I was not, I am not…”
His voice catches. The fervorous momentum of his rant comes to an abrupt end.
Then, his hand flexes at his side. Fingers out, before retracting into a clenched fist once more.
Your eyes widen in hazy recognition. It’s a small involuntary twitch. But for a brief eternity, Robin seems impossibly, overwhelmingly familiar to you.
His anger wanes, loosing the tenseness of his shoulders. And when his voice rings out again, it’s laden with an exhasution you don’t think you will ever truly understand.
“I am not innocent,” he concludes, sounding small.
The weight of his words seep into the marrow of your bones. Robin is blunt. Forthright. He wouldn’t lie to you.
You eye the sword at his side, once more. Batman doesn’t kill. But has he?
You swallow. Breathe, you think. Refocus.
You look away from the sword. You take in the composition before you, the bigger picture.
The boy who saved your life stands with his back facing you. From underneath the lamppost, harsh light flows around Robin’s figure the way a running stream warps around a pebble.
As if the light can’t bear to touch him.
…You’re not sure what he means about his past not being ‘pure and bloodless’. You don’t want to know.
But you do know that he saved your life. You know he hasn’t used the sword by his side in years.
And you know that Damian's drawing looked exactly like this: a lonely boy standing with his back to you.
Not a hero, a boy. He is Robin. A boy with blood on his hands and a past you cannot begin to imagine. A boy your age.
He is Robin. Shrouded in shadow, shunned by light. And right now, he looks completely, utterly alone.
“Okay,” you say quietly.
He whips around to face you. The scintillating whites where his eyes should be blaze like wildfire.
“That’s it?” he yells in what can only be incredulous rage.
“Yeah–huh.”
He stares, clearly shocked into silence.
“I mean, it’s Gotham,” you say fumblingly. “Everyone’s a little fucked up. So.”
The silence is fucking terrible. Not a sound is shared between you until Robin says, sounding very tired:
“That’s—you—that’s stupid,” he settles on saying.
“Oh, yeah,” you nod.
“That’s really fucking stupid,” he emphasises, rubbing fists into the sockets of his eyes. “Completely brainless. Absolutely insane. That’s hardly a viable conclusion to draw.”
“Hey, it’s Gotham,” you laugh. “Everyone’s a little crazy. Think I saw the Riddler try to throw a banana peel in front of Batmobile once.”
Whatever remaining rigidity to Robin’s form seems to unravel like ribbons. His shoulders lax. His fist uncurls. And maybe it’s your imagination, but he looks almost relieved.
You take the opportunity to catch up. Noting the very subtle way his body braces for something as you walk up to him, you walk right past him and pretend nothing’s wrong.
He follows suit, footsteps light against the pavement. He doesn’t attempt to match your pace; staggering behind a little. You have an inkling that he doesn’t want you to see his face, lest the unmasked half give away any vulnerable expressions.
“I amputated a man. I don’t understand how you can accept that,” he says tightly.
Sobering up, you say, “Well, I’m not gonna lie: the fact that you’ve sliced arms and legs off of people Fruit Ninja style is kinda terrifying.”
He doesn’t join you in laughing at your joke. So you swallow your anxiety and continue:
“But you saved me the other night. You did more than that. You gave me a Kleenex, you comforted me, you tried to salvage my sketchbook…which, thank you, by the way,” you add, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “It was a lost cause, but you tried.
“And I think that’s what you’ve been doing. Trying. And it’s like you said: ‘never again’, right?”
“You really believe that,” he says slowly.
You’re not sure what he means by ‘that’. That people can change? That he wasn’t lying when he said ‘never again’…?
Regardless, you hear the implicit question behind it.
You trust me?
“Yeah. I do.”
“You’d be the first,” he scoffs bitterly.
You match his pace, looking a question at him.
“…I see it in their eyes when they look at me,” he says bitterly, the unforgiving cold condensing his words into steam. “I know they’re waiting for me to snap. Can’t say I blame them, though.
“It doesn’t matter if I’m trying. What’s done is done. To them, I’ll always be that bloody-handed boy, from years ago. I’ve made peace with that.”
You’re not sure you believe him, when he spits that last sentence.
You bite your lip, staring down at your shoes.
“Well,” you say eventually, “I think you’re pretty cool.”
Robin laughs. And not a polite one, either. It’s loud, frantic, hysterical—it almost sounds like a squawk. It’s completely unrestrained as it bursts out of him abruptly, and it contrasts his usual demeanor so starkly that it enraptures you. You can’t look away.
(It's in that moment that you wish you could capture a feeling—a sound—onto paper. If you could, you would bottle his laugh up, and somehow turn it into pigment. You'd make paint out of it, use it in all your pieces. You'd color everything in it.)
“Cool,” he repeats in disbelief, though the humour in his tone has yet to fade.
“Cool,” you grin, egging him on.
You continue making conversation with him. Lighthearted small–talk. Turns out he’s never heard of Fruit Ninja, which is unacceptable. So you talk his ears off about it, all the way to your front door.
Which you arrive at, much sooner than you expect.
“Surely you can make it inside without any problems,” he drones, voice dripping with sarcasm.
You scoff, punching his shoulder lightly in jest. It shouldn’t surprise you that the muscle there is tough like a brick, but you jump and hiss in pain anyways.
He chuckles quietly (like a prick), and heat rushes to your face for more reasons than one. His mouth opens, then closes. Then, almost hesitatingly, he says:
“Well…goodbye.”
You blink at his unceremonious, almost anticlimactic farewell.
You’re watching as he slowly moves backwards and away from your porch, when you realise that he’s leaving.
A surge of panic dislodges the words in your throat as you sputter aloud:
“Wait!”
To your surprsise, he actually stops in his steps. He turns around with a cocked eyebrow, waiting.
You try to collect your nerves and breathe in deeply. You’d been pretty bold and confident about your idea, but now that you have to ask him for permission face–to–face, it’s… different, to say the least.
“There’s this project,” you start. Somehow, you’re already breathless. “For university. It’s a competition for mural ideas, Funded by The Martha Wayne Foundation. Have you heard of that one?”
A pause. Then, he nods stiffly.
“Yeah. Um. I was wondering whether you’d be cool with me drawing you. As part of my entry.”
The silence that meets you is enough to rear you back into motor-mouth as you ramble:
“Obviously, I wanted to ask your permission? Before I went ahead and just, submitted what’s essentially a piece of fanart in of a real life vigilante to a public project that pretty much everyone in the city’s going to see. I mean, I know you get your photo taken against your will when you’re kicking ass and shit, but—”
“You’re certain?” he blurts out. His mouth is agape with disbelief, and though it’s hard to make out with his dark skin tone, you’re fairly certain there’s a flush of red blooming on his cheeks.
Could just be the cold, but it looks cute on him either way.
At a loss of words, you nod, feeling a lot shyer than you thought you would.
“There are others,” he says flatly.
You frown. “What?”
“Batman,” he says, flexing the hand at his side. “He’s…a safer option in the realm of vigilantes.”
You put your hands on your hips, feeling a little demeaned. “I don’t make art to play it safe, buddy.”
“That’s not what I…” he sighs, giving up mid-sentence when you shoot him a look.
You’re more than a little surprised when he continues, “If that is what you wish, then… I will not stop you. Even if I find it highly inadvisable.”
Your eyes fly wide open. “Really?” you ask again, just to be sure.
Though he makes an exasperated noise through his nose, he nods. It’s a yes.
“Cool,” you laugh breathlessly. Then, because apparently you’ve gone from breathless to mindless in his presence, you ask presumptuously:
“Um. I’ll… see you around?”
Your head floods hot. Idiot. He’s a vigilante. He doesn’t have time to be hanging out with civilians, let alone walking them home.
Then, to your utter disbelief, he nods again.
“Oh,” you breathe. “Okay. Um. Good night.”
You slam the door hastily, much louder than you should, and suppress the scream threatening to bubble out your throat.
You’re shaking, and you’re not sure if it’s excitement or anxiety or joy. Either way, you kick your shoes off hastily.
Stumbling over yourself, you run for your bedroom at a breakneck pace, barely managing to round the corner before you bludgeon your skull in.
Your door flies open. You toss your belongings onto the floor with no regard.
You fling your sketchbook open, and begin to draw.
a/n: for anyone who's curious, i took inspiration from Secret Origins #4 (2014) for the old man’s story about damian amputating the criminal. i don't think i've ever read a damian x reader fic that like. addresses how violent he was for a while even after he became robin and joined the good guys? like!! that kid decapitated a criminal right after his first appearance!! why does nobody talk about that!! we should talk about that!!!
