Hellooo!! I saw your Damian wayne x Nicole/Jecka fic and I thought it was AMAZING:))
I was wondering if you'd be interested doing another fic, like the Nicole/Jecka one but with an Emily coded reader..and Damian just likee wants to 'save' her
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Damian Wayne had seen many things that disturbed him. Crime. Corruption. The casual cruelty of Gotham's underbelly.
But watching you sit alone in the cafeteria, earbuds in, staring at nothing while everyone else moved around you like you were furniture—that bothered him in a way he couldn't quite articulate.
You were new. Transferred in three weeks ago. And in those three weeks, you'd spoken maybe ten words total. You sat in the back of every class, turned in perfect assignments, and disappeared the moment the bell rang.
Most people didn't notice you. You seemed to prefer it that way.
Damian noticed everything.
"That's the new girl," Jon said, following his gaze. "She's in my English class. Super quiet. Kind of sad, honestly."
"I don't know, man. She just always looks... tired? Like she's been tired for a really long time." Jon shrugged. "I tried to talk to her once. She just stared at me until I left."
Damian studied you from across the cafeteria. You were eating slowly, mechanically, like you'd forgotten food was supposed to have taste. Your clothes were clean but worn. Your backpack had seen better days. There were dark circles under your eyes that makeup couldn't quite hide.
You looked like someone who'd given up on something fundamental.
It bothered him more than it should.
The first time Damian actually spoke to you was in AP Literature.
The teacher had assigned partners for a project on existentialism, and through some cosmic joke, you'd been paired together.
You looked at him when your names were called together. Just looked. No expression. No reaction.
"We should establish a meeting schedule," Damian said after class, approaching your desk.
"Okay." Your voice was flat. Monotone.
"The library. Tomorrow after school."
"Never." You started packing your bag. "I work every day. Three to eleven."
You looked at him then, really looked, and there was something defensive in your gaze. "Why does it matter?"
"Because we need to coordinate schedules for this project."
"I can do my half. You do yours. We'll combine it the day before it's due."
"It's reality." You shouldered your bag. "I don't have time for library study sessions. I barely have time for sleep. So either we do it separately or you do the whole thing yourself and put my name on it. I don't care which."
You left before he could respond.
Damian watched you go, something uncomfortable settling in his chest.
He did what he did best when something bothered him: research.
Your file was sparse. Transferred from three different schools in two years. Grades excellent but inconsistent—periods of perfect marks followed by sudden drops, then recovery. No disciplinary issues. No clubs. No friends listed as emergency contacts.
Just a name, an address in one of Gotham's worse neighborhoods, and a note that you were emancipated. Legally independent at sixteen.
Damian knew what that usually meant. Parents who were absent, abusive, or dead. A system that had failed. A kid forced to become an adult before they were ready.
He showed up at your workplace anyway.
It was a 24-hour diner in the Bowery. The kind of place that smelled like grease and desperation. You were behind the counter, refilling coffee for a trucker who was very clearly hitting on you.
"—pretty girl like you shouldn't be working nights alone—"
"I'm not alone. Cook's in the back." Your voice was still that same monotone. "You want the pie or not?"
Damian slid onto a stool at the counter. You noticed him immediately, and something flickered across your face. Annoyance, maybe.
"We're not open for study sessions," you said flatly.
"Because you're wearing a two-thousand-dollar watch and sitting in a diner where the most expensive thing on the menu is six dollars." You refilled a coffee cup without looking at it. "You're here to feel good about yourself by offering to help the poor working girl."
The accuracy stung. "That's not—"
"Yes it is." You finally met his eyes. "Look, I get it. You're rich, you're smart, you probably think you're going to save me from my tragic circumstances with the power of academic partnership and good intentions. But I don't need saving. I need you to leave me alone so I can work my shift without getting fired for talking to friends."
The trucker was watching with interest. Damian ignored him.
"I'm here," Damian said carefully, "because we have a project due in three weeks, and your suggestion to work separately is inefficient and will result in a subpar product."
"Then do it yourself and put my name on it. Like I said, I don't care."
"You don't care about your grade?"
"I care about making rent. Everything else is secondary."
She turned away, dismissing him, and Damian felt that uncomfortable feeling intensify.
He left. But he didn't stop thinking about the exhaustion in your voice, the defeated set of your shoulders, the way you'd looked at him like he was just another problem in a life full of problems.
The project came and went. You did your half—thorough, insightful, better than Damian had expected. He did his. You combined them in the library fifteen minutes before class, barely speaking.
But Damian started watching. Because that's what he did—he observed, catalogued, analyzed.
He noticed you fell asleep in class sometimes. That you wore the same three outfits in rotation. That you ate vending machine food for lunch because it was cheap. That you walked to school instead of taking the bus, probably to save the fare.
He noticed you reading during breaks—actual books, not phone scrolling. Always existentialism, philosophy, sometimes poetry. You'd underline passages, write notes in margins.
He noticed that you were smart. Really smart. The kind of smart that could have gotten you scholarships, opportunities, a way out.
But you were too busy surviving to thrive.
It bothered him. More than it should.
The turning point came six weeks into the semester.
You weren't in class. First period, second period, third. By fourth period, Damian was irrationally concerned.
You'd never missed before. Even when you were clearly exhausted, you showed up.
He found you after school in the library, asleep with your head on a table, backpack as a pillow.
"You missed class," he said.
You jerked awake, disoriented. "What?"
"You missed all your classes. It's 3 PM."
You looked at the clock, and something like panic crossed your face. "Shit. Shit, I—" You stood up too fast, swayed. "I have to go. I'm late for work—"
"You're clearly not fine. When's the last time you slept?"
"None of your business." You grabbed your bag. "I have to go."
"It's a twenty-minute walk to the Bowery. I can get you there in five."
"I said no." You headed for the exit, and Damian followed.
"This. Whatever this is." You spun to face him, and there was actual emotion in your face now—anger, exhaustion, frustration. "I don't need you following me around, asking questions, looking at me like I'm some project you need to fix. I'm fine. I'm handling it."
"You fell asleep in the library. You missed an entire day of school."
"It shouldn't have to happen."
"Well, it does!" Your voice rose slightly. "This is my life. I work, I go to school, I try to keep my head above water. And sometimes I'm tired. Sometimes I fall asleep in libraries. Sometimes I eat vending machine food for dinner. That's just how it is."
"Yes, it does." You cut him off. "Because I don't have parents paying for everything. I don't have a trust fund or a family name or any of the things you probably take for granted. I have me. That's it. So stop looking at me like I'm broken just because my life doesn't look like yours."
You left before he could respond.
Damian stood in the empty hallway, hands clenched, feeling like he'd failed some test he didn't know he was taking.
Jon called it what it was over lunch the next day.
"You have a savior complex."
"Dude, you've been obsessed with this girl for weeks. You know her work schedule, her route to school, what she eats for lunch—"
"You're fixating." Jon took a bite of his sandwich. "And I get it. She's clearly struggling. But you can't force someone to accept help."
"I'm not forcing anything. I'm offering assistance."
"Have you considered that maybe your 'assistance' feels condescending? That maybe she doesn't want some rich kid swooping in to save her?"
Damian scowled. "I'm not trying to—it's not about me feeling superior. She's intelligent. Capable. She could do more with her life if she had support—"
"But she didn't ask for your support. She specifically told you to leave her alone."
"Because maybe she's tired of people treating her like a charity case." Jon's voice was gentle but firm. "Look, I'm not saying don't care. I'm saying maybe respect her enough to let her make her own choices. Even if those choices are hard."
Damian wanted to argue. Wanted to explain that it wasn't about charity or superiority. It was about waste—the waste of potential, of intelligence, of a person who could be more if circumstances were different.
But Jon's words stuck with him.
So he tried to back off. Tried to give you space.
On day four, you didn't show up to school again.
Damian told himself it wasn't his concern. That you were right—your life, your choices, not his problem.
But when you missed day five, he broke.
He showed up at the diner at 11 PM, right as your shift was ending.
You were wiping down tables, moving slowly, and when you saw him, you actually groaned.
"Are you stalking me now?"
"You missed school. Two days."
"And I wanted to ensure you were alright."
"I'm working. That's where I am when I'm not at school. Working." You sprayed down another table. "Mystery solved. You can leave now."
"My landlord raised the rent. I picked up extra shifts to cover it. Which means less sleep, which means I'm too tired for school." You looked at him directly. "There. That's my tragic backstory. Happy now?"
"How much did he raise it?"
You laughed, bitter and sharp. "Oh, here we go. The rich boy's going to offer to pay my rent. How noble."
"I don't want your help!" Your voice cracked slightly. "I don't want your money or your pity or your concern. I want you to leave me alone."
The question seemed to surprise you. "What?"
"Why do you want me to leave you alone? What is it about accepting help that's so threatening to you?"
You stared at him for a long moment. Then you set down your spray bottle.
"Because help always comes with strings," you said quietly. "Because people don't do things for free. Because every time someone's offered to 'help' me, it's ended with me owing them something I couldn't afford to give. So forgive me if I don't trust the rich kid who suddenly cares about my wellbeing."
"I don't want anything from you."
"Everyone wants something."
"Then what is this?" You gestured between you. "Why do you care? You don't know me. We're not friends. We did one project together. So why are you showing up at my work, asking about my life, looking at me like I'm some wounded animal you need to rescue?"
Damian didn't have a good answer. Because the truth—that watching you struggle bothered him in a way he couldn't articulate, that you reminded him of himself in some fundamental way, that he recognized the exhaustion in your eyes from his own mirror—was too complicated to explain.
"You're wasting your potential," he said instead.
Your laugh was hollow. "My potential. Right."
"You're intelligent. You could—"
"I could what? Go to college? Get scholarships? Have a bright future?" You shook your head. "That's a luxury, Damian. That's for people who have the time and energy to dream. I'm just trying to survive until next month's rent."
"It doesn't have to be that way—"
"Yes, it does!" You were angry now, actually angry. "This is my reality! I don't get to dream about college or careers or any of that shit because I'm too busy making sure I have a place to sleep and food to eat. So stop looking at me like I'm broken. Stop trying to fix me. I'm not a project. I'm just a person trying to get through the day."
You grabbed your bag and headed for the exit. Damian followed.
"Home. To sleep. For four hours before my morning shift."
"It's nearly midnight. Let me drive you—"
"I've been doing this for two years. I think I can handle a walk."
"Please." The word came out more desperate than he intended. "Just—let me drive you home. That's all. No lectures. No offers of help. Just a ride."
You stopped at the door, shoulders tense. For a moment, Damian thought you'd refuse again.
Then you sighed. "Fine. But no talking."
The drive was silent. You directed him to an apartment building in one of Gotham's worst neighborhoods. The kind of place where patrol cars didn't venture without backup.
"This is where you live?" Damian couldn't help asking.
"This building is structurally unsound. The crime rate in this area—"
"Is why the rent's cheap enough for me to afford." You unbuckled your seatbelt. "Thanks for the ride."
But you were already out of the car, disappearing into the building without looking back.
Damian sat there for a long time, engine idling, staring at the crumbling facade.
He just didn't know what.
The intervention came from an unexpected source: his family.
Tim had been the one to notice Damian's distraction. Dick had been the one to ask about it. And Jason—Jason had been the one to call him out.
"You've got it bad," Jason said during training.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The girl. The one you keep talking about like she's some kind of project."
"I don't talk about her—"
"You brought her up three times this week. 'Did you know some students work forty hours while attending school?' 'The income disparity in Gotham is unconscionable.' 'We should do more about youth homelessness.'" Jason blocked Damian's punch. "You're not subtle."
"But she's struggling. And you've decided that's your problem to fix."
"Someone should help her—"
"Agreed. But has it occurred to you that maybe you're not the right person for the job?" Jason swept Damian's legs. "You're what, sixteen? Rich, privileged, never had to worry about money a day in your life? How exactly are you qualified to help someone in her situation?"
Damian got to his feet, scowling. "So I should just ignore it? Watch her destroy herself trying to survive?"
"I'm saying maybe your help isn't actually helpful. Maybe what she needs is resources, not a savior." Jason's expression softened slightly. "Look, I get it. You see someone suffering and you want to fix it. That's not a bad instinct. But you can't force salvation on someone who doesn't want it."
"Talk to her like a person, not a project. Actually listen to what she needs instead of deciding for her. And maybe—just maybe—accept that some problems can't be fixed by sheer force of will."
Damian tried. He really did.
He stopped showing up at your work. Stopped asking about your life. Tried to treat you like just another classmate.
It lasted until he found you in the school bathroom, sitting on the floor, crying.
You looked up when he entered, and for a moment, pure panic crossed your face.
"This is the girls' bathroom—"
"I know. I heard—are you alright?"
But you didn't look fine. You looked destroyed. Mascara running, hands shaking, breathing uneven.
Damian closed the door behind him. "What happened?"
"I got evicted, okay?!" The words burst out of you. "My landlord sold the building. I have thirty days to find a new place. And I can't—I can't afford anywhere else. The only reason I could afford that shithole was because it was rent-controlled and falling apart. Everything else in this city is—" Your voice cracked. "I'm going to be homeless. And I can't—I don't know what to do."
Damian's mind was already racing, calculating, planning. "I can help—"
"There are programs. Resources. My father's foundation—"
"No." You wiped at your face angrily. "I don't want your charity. I don't want to be another tax write-off for the Wayne Foundation."
"It's not charity, it's—"
"It's me being weak. It's me giving up. It's me accepting that I can't do this on my own." You stood up, unsteady. "I've made it two years. I can figure this out."
"You shouldn't have to figure it out alone—"
"But I do!" You were shouting now. "Because that's my life! I'm alone! I've always been alone! And I've learned to handle it, so stop trying to save me like I'm some damsel in distress who needs rescuing!"
"I don't think you're weak—"
"Yes, you do. You look at me and you see someone broken. Someone who needs fixing. Someone whose life is so tragic that you just have to swoop in and make it better." You laughed, harsh and bitter. "But you know what? I don't need you. I don't need anyone. I'll figure this out like I figure out everything else. By myself."
You tried to push past him. Damian caught your wrist.
"There's nothing to listen to!" You yanked your arm away. "You want to help? Then leave me alone. Stop looking at me like I'm pathetic. Stop trying to fix my life. Stop making me feel like a failure for not having what you have!"
The last part came out raw, honest, and Damian finally understood.
This wasn't about pride. It was about shame. About being confronted daily with everything you didn't have, everything you couldn't do, by someone who had everything.
"I don't think you're a failure," he said quietly.
"Then why won't you just let me handle this?"
"Because I—" He stopped, struggling to articulate something he barely understood himself. "Because watching you struggle when I have the resources to help feels wrong. Like I'm complicit in your suffering through inaction."
You stared at him. "That's the most fucked up thing anyone's ever said to me."
"My poverty isn't about you. My struggle isn't about making you feel guilty. I'm not suffering AT you, Damian. I'm just living my life. And the fact that you think my existence is somehow your responsibility is—" You shook your head. "It's patronizing. And insulting. And exactly why I keep telling you to leave me alone."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"I know you didn't. That's what makes it worse." You moved to the door. "Stay away from me. Please. I can't—I can't deal with this on top of everything else."
Damian stood alone in the girls' bathroom, feeling like he'd failed at something fundamental.
Jon found him on the roof during lunch.
"Heard you had a fight with your project."
Damian didn't answer. Because he didn't know. You weren't a friend—you'd made that clear. You weren't someone he was helping—you'd refused that categorically. You were just... there. In his head. Making him think about privilege and suffering and the distance between wanting to help and actually being helpful.
"I don't know how to help her," he admitted.
"Maybe that's the problem. Maybe you're not supposed to help her. Maybe you're just supposed to... be there. If she wants you to be."
Damian wanted to argue. Wanted to explain that you needed help whether you wanted it or not, that pride was going to land you on the streets, that someone had to do something.
But Jon's words from before echoed: Maybe respect her enough to let her make her own choices.
Even if those choices led to suffering.
Even if he could prevent it.
Even if watching you struggle was killing him in ways he didn't understand.
He didn't see you for three days.
When you finally showed up to school, you looked worse. Exhausted, hollow-eyed, moving like every step took effort.
Damian stayed away. Respected your boundaries. Didn't approach.
But he watched. Because he couldn't help that.
And what he saw terrified him.
He could see it in the way you stopped taking notes. Stopped doing homework. Sat in class but didn't really attend. You were going through motions, marking time, waiting for some inevitable collapse.
On day five, you didn't show up at all.
Day seven, Damian broke every promise he'd made to himself and showed up at the diner.
"She quit," the cook said. "Three days ago. Didn't even give notice. Just stopped showing up."
Damian's chest tightened. "Did she say where she was going?"
"Kid, I don't know. She kept to herself. Worked her shifts and left. That's all I know."
Damian tried your apartment. The building manager said you'd moved out.
He tried calling. Your phone was disconnected.
Panic was setting in now. Because you'd disappeared, and he had no idea if you were safe, housed, alive—
He found you on day nine.
Not through detective work or research. By accident.
He was on patrol in Crime Alley when he saw you. Sitting in a 24-hour laundromat, backpack at your feet, reading a book.
Damian watched through the window as you turned pages, completely absorbed, like you weren't sitting in a laundromat in one of Gotham's most dangerous neighborhoods in the middle of the night.
He went in as Damian, not Robin.
You looked up when the bell chimed. Something like resignation crossed your face.
"Of course you found me."
"What are you doing here?"
"Reading. It's warm. It's open all night. It's free." You turned another page. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
You didn't answer, which was answer enough.
Damian felt something crack in his chest. "You're homeless."
"I'm between residences."
"You're sleeping in a laundromat—"
"It's temporary. I'm figuring it out."
"How? How are you figuring it out?"
You finally looked at him, and the exhaustion in your eyes was devastating. "I don't know. Okay? I don't know. But I will. I always do."
"You can't—this isn't sustainable—"
"Do you think I don't know that?!" Your voice rose. "Do you think I'm choosing this? That I want to sleep in public places and hope I don't get robbed or assaulted? I know this is bad. I know I'm in a bad situation. But I don't have options. So I'm making it work. Like I always do."
"No." You stood up. "No. We're not doing this again."
"With waitlists months long."
"My father's foundation—"
"Would require paperwork and background checks and all kinds of things I can't provide because I'm legally emancipated but functionally independent, which means I fall through every crack in every system."
The words hung in the air between you.
You stared at him. "What?"
"Wayne Manor. We have—" God, how did he even quantify it? "—space. Rooms. You could stay. Temporarily. Until you find something permanent."
"You're offering to let a stranger move into your house—"
"Yes, I am!" You grabbed your backpack. "We're not friends. We barely know each other. And you want me to move into your family's mansion? Do you hear how insane that sounds?"
"More insane than sleeping in a laundromat?"
"Yes! Because at least here I don't owe anyone anything. At least here I'm not—" You stopped.
"Not a charity case. Not some project you're fixing to feel better about yourself. Not proof that you're a good person because you saved the poor girl." You headed for the door. "I'd rather sleep here than be your good deed."
"That's not what this is—"
"Then what is it?" You spun to face him. "Why do you care so much? Why can't you just let me handle this?"
And Damian, frustrated and scared and tired of watching you suffer, finally told the truth.
"Because you remind me of myself."
"Before I came to live with my father. When I was with my mother. I was trained to be independent. Self-sufficient. To not need anyone." He forced himself to meet your eyes. "And I was miserable. Alone. Convinced that needing help was weakness. That accepting support was failure."
"My father saved me. And I fought it every step of the way. Because I didn't want to be rescued. Didn't want to need anyone. Didn't want to admit that maybe I couldn't do everything alone." He took a breath. "And I see you making the same mistakes. Choosing pride over safety. Independence over security. And I can't—I can't just watch that happen."
You were very still. "I'm not you."
"I know. But that doesn't mean you have to destroy yourself to prove you're strong enough to survive alone."
For a long moment, you just looked at him. Then you sat back down, heavily, like your strings had been cut.
"I'm so tired," you whispered. "I'm so tired of fighting. Of trying so hard just to stay in the same place. Of never being able to rest."
Damian sat beside you, careful to maintain distance. "Then stop fighting. Just for a moment. Let someone else carry the weight."
"And when I get used to it? When I start depending on help that can be taken away?"
"Then we'll deal with that when it happens. But right now, you need a safe place to sleep. Everything else can wait."
You were crying now, silently, tears tracking down your face.
"I don't want to be saved," you said.
"I know. But maybe you can accept help without it being salvation. Maybe you can let someone care without it being rescue."
You wiped at your face. "Your family is going to think you're insane."
"I won't be your project—"
"You'll be a person who needs a place to stay. That's all."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then, finally: "Temporary. Just until I figure something else out."
"Temporary," Damian agreed, even though he had no intention of letting you leave until you were actually stable.
"And no savior complex bullshit. I'm not some wounded bird you're nursing back to health."
"I mean it, Damian. I'm not—I don't need fixing."
"I know. You just need a safe place to sleep."
You nodded slowly. "Okay. Okay. But I'm keeping the laundromat as a backup plan."
Despite everything, Damian smiled. "Deal."
Telling his family was exactly as chaotic as he'd anticipated.
"You did WHAT?" Dick's voice had reached a pitch usually reserved for catastrophic situations.
"I offered her a place to stay. Temporarily."
"You invited a classmate to live here without asking anyone?" Tim looked up from his computer. "That's bold even for you."
"So we're running a shelter now?" Jason asked, though he didn't sound actually opposed. "How many bedrooms are we converting?"
"None. She just needs one room. Temporarily."
"You keep saying temporarily," Bruce observed. "What's the actual timeline?"
"Until she finds stable housing."
"Which could be months. Or longer." Bruce steepled his fingers. "Damian, I appreciate your compassion, but we need to discuss practicalities. Background checks, house rules, security concerns—"
"She's not a security risk—"
"She's a person in need!" Damian's voice rose. "And we have resources. Rooms that aren't being used. The capacity to help. So why wouldn't we?"
"You really care about her," Dick said softly.
"I care about doing what's right."
"That's not what I asked."
Damian didn't answer. Because the truth—that you'd gotten under his skin in a way he couldn't explain, that watching you struggle felt personal, that he'd somehow come to care about your wellbeing beyond basic human decency—was too complicated to admit.
"She can stay," Bruce said finally. "But with conditions. She follows house rules. No bringing trouble here. And Damian—" He met his son's eyes. "This can't be about saving her. It has to be about offering support. Understand the difference."
"I hope so. Because the line between helping someone and trying to control their life is thinner than you think."
You moved in three days later with everything you owned in a single backpack.
Alfred gave you a room in the family wing. Bruce had the "talk" about rules and expectations. Dick tried to be welcoming in a way that made you visibly uncomfortable.
And Damian... Damian tried to give you space while simultaneously wanting to ensure you had everything you needed.
It was harder than he'd anticipated.
"You don't have to hover," you said one evening, finding him outside your door.
"I wasn't hovering. I was passing by."
"This is a dead-end hallway. There's nowhere to pass to." But you weren't angry. Just tired. "I'm fine. You can stop checking on me every twenty minutes."
"I check every forty-five minutes."
Despite yourself, you almost smiled. "Still excessive."
"Perhaps." He paused. "Do you have everything you need?"
"I have a room with a door that locks, a bed that's not a laundromat bench, and more space than I've had in years. I'm good."
"I'll ask. Promise." You leaned against the doorframe. "Thank you. For this. I know I fought it, but... thank you."
"You don't have to thank me—"
"Yes, I do. Because this is—" You gestured vaguely. "—more than I expected. More than I thought I'd accept. And I'm grateful. Even if it's terrifying."
"Because it's temporary. Because I'll have to leave eventually. And going back to—" You stopped. "Never mind. Not your problem."
"It could be. If you let it be."
You looked at him for a long moment. "You really can't help yourself, can you? The whole savior thing."
"I prefer to think of it as concern."
"It's going to get you in trouble one day."
You almost smiled again. "Goodnight, Damian."
He walked away, but he couldn't help looking back. Couldn't help noticing that you stood in the doorway watching him go, something unreadable in your expression.
Deep, complicated, don't-know-how-to-fix-this trouble.
He didn't actually want to fix it.
He just wanted you to be okay.
