it's me. hi. @kogayyne - Tumblr Blog

ch.7 pt 2: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: read under the end for an author's note.

tw: heavy depictions of self harm, suicide, and depression.

now playing: hate yourself by tv girl.

when alfred had finally arrived back at the batcave with a full tray of hot teas and coffees in one hand, as promised, the atmosphere was almost exactly as he predicted.

tense.

heavy.

but alarmingly quiet at the same time.

like a single drop of a pin would be enough to shatter the glass-like silence blanketing the entire cave.

no one had said a word when the ding of the elevator had sounded, but the eyes all pointed at him were enough to tell a story. like they'd all been awaiting his arrival, a hungry pack of wolves desperate and in need of answers from the only man with answers to their questions about you.

just who you are. where you are. and why — despite never truly knowing you — do you matter so much to them?

answers enough to satiate that clawing grip of insanity, guilt, and collective desire to impulsively take you back from where you're hiding and find the answers through you instead.

alfred doesn't feel a sliver of goosebumps from the heavy stare of dick near the panel of computers, wrecked with swarming emotions, he tears his attention off the heavy clacking of barbara's keyboard searching for any clues about your whereabouts, he strides, slow, steady, and calm, towards tim who had been scrolling through his phone in a shared effort to stalk through your information, with duke watching over his screen from behind. he sighs when he finds stephanie, accompanied by cassandra patting her back and whispering assurances, leaning her body against a crate of artillery to find balance after another wave of nausea had overtaken her.

the butler walks forward, closer and closer to the section of computer screens, and he places the tray down with no haste. barbara pauses, hesitates — likely riddled with doubts if she even deserves to be given a chance to unwind when time was ticking in search of you — but still, she wheels herself closer, taking a cup of coffee for herself, thanking alfred with a hesitant quirk of her lips, then returns back to her place.

typing once more. quicker, like the guilt had settled into her thoughts right after.

beside him was bruce, who maintained his neutral, frowning expression. for a moment, memories of your own expressions emerged into his mind. of the day he first saw you, stone faced and neutral like your father. unresponsive, silent, and dangerously close to disappearing into the shadows, if not for your labored breathing; just like your father.

you two were always the like the sides of a coin.

he turns to see the culprit's eyes glued to the screen filled with tabs of barbara's online searches, unblinking, as if the goal of finding you would solve anything other than the questions about your location—

as if stalking you would be enough to compensate for the years he wasted turning his back on you, never knowing a single thing about who you are as a person. what your goals were. your aspirations. everything.

deep down, alfred knew how bruce had been the most troubled. had been riddled the most with guilt and regret. he knew bruce would stop at nothing until he'd done enough to earn an ounce of your forgiveness. he'd move the world, fight wars he knew would be impossible to win, twist every fabric of reality if he could, to undo the years of aching silence he'd unknowingly forced upon your life and be the father he was meant to be for you.

he knew, but doesn't speak up, only closing his wrinkled eyes and shaking his head after staring up at the man, your father's, face: glowering, solid, and lit up by the reflection of the screen. most likely thinking of all the ways to make it up to you, apologize, before he could even see you in person.

he was not surprised by anyone.

alfred doesn't even flinch from when behind him, damian's sword cluttered to the floor, its sharp clang! echoing across the room like church bells singing its last song.

the bats above have flapped their wings in sudden, waking alarm. the same way the pages of your heaviest, most tattered sketchbook flattered across the cave's floor, revealing, to the eyes of many who can see the papers closest to them—

photographs, diagrams, illustrations, layouts, even notes about their vigilante identity.

displayed to them like artworks you'd find in museums. intricate pieces of evidences, headlines, even fucking graphs that gathered data comparing the frequency and correlation of their public sightings and presence along the manor. drawings of their hero costumes, old and new, from when dick was a young robin, to even the updated suits right after tim took charge of the mantle.

dick, who had been silent throughout the ordeal after jason had ended the call, was too shaky and afraid of what knowledge the entries hold. yet he had gathered all the willpower and courage to grasp the collection of paper that had landed right near his foot. his fingers rub along the frayed edges, but even with its age can he read the blurred ink lines running meticulously across the pages.

(yet his panicked eyes also run over the splotches of dried blood carelessly painting the papers. it wasn't just a tiny amount too. it was everywhere. like paint thrown across a canvas, it's smeared over some texts, blotched the sides and the bottom and— why was there blood? why was there so much? whose blood was it? the questions flood endlessly in his brain, and he's afraid even the answers would devastate him to the point of no return if he ever discovered it was yours.)

despite his disbelief, he skims over some paragraphs, takes in every bitter word, every spiteful phrase that had filled every blood-stained page.

the first thought that came to dick's mind was... well, it was impressive. any child of bruce, adopted or not, was destined for great things. yet even outside of bruce, dick knew his baby bird was always capable. but he never knew the extent of how great those things were.

it was another failure on his part.

it was another failure as your eldest brother.

he never really knew you, had only seen a part of you in his memories, but never the true you—

before he even discovered countless of your sketchbooks, journals, even the medals alfred had forgotten to store away, all hidden within your room; to dick, you were just the kid with shining, bright eyes in the face of your mother's tragedies. hopeful, naive, one of the youths dick had promised to protect as long as he lived. but he never had put an effort to know about your hobbies, your interests, your goals or your true thoughts.

not until now...

where even then he's hesitant to know, in fear that your hope for him had rotten and all that remained was rightful hatred.

so much so that when he flipped the paper to its back, his worst nightmares had begun to fester into reality.

he feels as if his heart had begun traversing its way up his throat, ceased, and then refused to move.

"journal entry #15: dick grayson and nightwing." it starts, followed with printed pictures of him swinging around the city, captured by cameras on standby. colored illustrations of his suits had a timeline plastered to its bottom, ranging from him as robin, to his transitions as nightwing.

you long knew about his identity of nightwing; your entries dated from nearly six years ago, when you were about to hit your thirteenth birthday mark—

then he vaguely recalls back-reading through one of your messages, and remembers your invitation to have him come to your small celebration.

"my bday's coming soon!" his phone screen had never looked so blurry until the time he'd scroll through the far dates of your texts, noticing how by every new message, your enthusiasm slowly dwindled. yet your first ones were once so full of life — and he realized he should've never dismissed your message as just some trick towards him; maybe then things would've been different. maybe you would be here, with him, laughing and painting the manor with your shining presence — he never realized you'd even went through great effort to ask for his number through alfred.

"you don't have to buy me a gift or anything, your presence is enough of one already!" you invited him alone. it should've done a great deal of pride to him, and yet all he ever did was make mistake after mistake, restricting your phone number to limit the spam.

you also said you planned cupcakes instead of a cake, said it was too much for you to finish. it was unusual at first— but then, sitting in your creaking room with the humid air of your tiny room clogging his brain, it took a little thinking to realize you'd been celebrating all your birthdays alone.

when your mother had died, when jason had already been dead, everyone, even alfred, was too wrapped up mourning and grieving. dick had spiraled enough with every argument towards bruce, then tim came into the fray— without your mother, it had just been you and alfred. you were never close to tim.

you've been reaching milestones alone.

another failure as your older brother.

he wants to vomit, crumple on the floor and dry heave— he wants to die thinking some more.

you were so desperate to even have one guest to your birthday party. was it even a party in the first place?

you were so fucking desperate you'd even told dick you'll do whatever flavor of frosting he'd prefer. you never thought of yourself at that moment, you only thought about dick coming to your celebration, of anyone coming.

then all of a sudden, dick realized that during the date of your birthday, he had actually been in the manor.

and worse? he'd spent it with alfred by his side the entire time.

he spent your birthday with alfred.

fuck...!

he could've spent it with you!

it was only after the late hours of the night did the butler dismiss himself with a worried furrow of his brows, seeming more insistent in leaving early rather than staying with the athlete. dick before didn't understand why for the first time in a while, alfred had other matters to attend to when tim was at a sleepover and bruce was in the middle of press conference. dinner would come later that night, dick was about to ask alfred why if he hadn't left his side already.

at that, he shrugged his shoulders, returning to his room, opting to sleep the night instead and waking up at midnight where he'd follow up with bruce over patrols, see if they could talk things out.

he should've known.

alfred's hasty footsteps echoing across the hallways should've been a sign of suspicion, but dick had been far too consumed with other worries. about his team, about his argument with bruce, about bludhaven and everything else weighing his mind.

worries that he shouldn't have to prioritize when he'd done nothing that day except converse with alfred, ranting to the manor's butler about mundane things to distract himself with that clawing feeling that something felt wrong amidst the silence—

because then he wouldn't have to imagine his baby bird, standing there all alone in the kitchen, ingredients at stand by, looking around to find every hallway, with no one coming to their little celebration.

how many times has that happened?

how many times have you been left to your own device, hopelessly waiting for a miracle?

how many birthdays of yours had he rejected without knowing, in favor of prioritizing something else, someone else?

how many birthdays, milestones, celebrations did you have while the entire family spent nights separate from each other— or spending with each other, whilst without you, instead?

dick completely understands if you've fucking despised every bit of him after always ditching your invitations—

because now, you've written your personal notes about him beside all the drawings. even a single skim of the paragraphs of text was enough for dick to know this was written not out of awe. the more he reads under his breath, the faster the pace in his heavy heart quickens.

"dick is- is nightwing." he stutters, ignoring the squeak of barbara's wheelchair nearing him, too engrossed to even notice her grabbing some of the pages from his hands.

he continues to read, as if under an unwilling trance, mind fogged with every word that shifts into vivid imaginations of your self writing these entries in your too-small bedroom.

"it's- it's obvious from the way they share the same acrobatic moves that... that he does in secret in rooms where he thinks i'm not looking.

his eyes flip to another carelessly erased line, making out every letter through blurry eyes — a reflection to what you truly think, but still ashamed to admit — lips quivering as he whispers, "he- he does it in front of everyone but, but me. like he's ashamed of even acting like himself, like i'm undeserving of even seeing a part of him natural to others—

"no, little bird. you were never..." he disrupts through his narration, tries not to tear the paper out, which kept revealing every bit of resentment you felt for the athlete from the start. he could feel every venomous word injecting into his veins, he couldn't do anything to stop reading at the same time.

dick wanted to know every emotion you felt, and yet, biting his lips—

"it's me who doesn't deserve you. you shouldn't... shouldn't talk about yourself like this. nobody deserves you..."

it was all he could comment. he wish you could hear these sentiments in person, he wishes you were here just so he could disprove every line, every insult you'd written off as cruel jokes meant to hurt yourself.

cruel jokes that always came with dripping ichor.

no matter how aged and dry the blood may be, he couldn't wash away the scent of it clinging on shriveled paper; another wave of guilt clings to his heavy heart.

yet the truth continues.

"he does these— these flips i see him perform on TV as nightwing, and i remember all the times he'd mindlessly do handstands or jump from the second floor to the next, smiling to anyone who'd see. they don't know how lucky they are, dick was never this way to me...sometimes he'd also do it when i'd sneak into the cave and find him talking with the others...

"every time he does, he's got the same..." charming, was what was supposed to be written next, but you've scribbled over the word, violently, as dick's trembling fingers runs over the back of the paper, feeling the torn page, the heavy handed words engraved in every line; imagining just how much animosity had filled your entire being to the point you'd replace charming with—

"he's got the same... dishonest— the same disgustingly huge smile he always gave me whenever he made excuses that he's busy, that he's got work, hero work — he never says, i pretend to never suspect — to do.

"i- i understand that," he stutters, biting his lips at the sarcasm which bleeds into every word. "you can't stop someone like dick. when he's got his mind set on a goal, not even bruce or damian can talk him out of it. in that order of things, my opinion would never matter, hah. i just was never considered into a goal. so i understand. it's not like i can be mad for any longer when he still smiles at me while making all these excuses and- and sometimes even promises of next time's. at least he doesn't see me as a villain, he doesn't mistreat me or anything. so i can't blame him, he's... still nice.

"but then again, it's also so obvious, of course, that the only difference between me and the people he saves on TV is... is that the smile he shows them... is genuine.

"and the one he shows me is still just the product of an afterthought—"

dick couldn't finish reading the entire entry before slamming the papers down on the panels beside him, quivering hands wracking across his hair and slamming into his face.

his eyes, they fill with salty water faster than he could swallow down the heavy lump residing in his throat.

for a moment, the manor's air stills once more.

his thoughts betray him and fill him with pictures of your younger self, your scarred fingers writing alone in your room— the blood dripping down and on to the paper from the deep cuts etched into your skin, from your swollen fingertips sore from all the words you've etched with faded ballpens. how, despite the pain wracking throughout your very body, you'd continue to write down the feelings too heavy to express, once hopeful eyes slowly dimming until it bursts to flames.

until all you felt was resentment dick deserved to feel from you.

the more he imagines your own pen stabbing every word into paper, the more it starts to feel like every word was a thousand knives stabbing into his very skin. if not for the panels keeping his stability, leaning to his side, he'd collapse.

"no..."

god no.

have you always thought of him this way? was he always like this to you?

he didn't mean to treat you like you were nothing.

he didn't mean for you to portray his tired smiles and his dismissive hands as a sign of disinterest, of falsified emotions, of dick acting like you never mattered when he was just— he was just so oversaturated with the guilt of jason's death, his fights with bruce, his teammates, the teen titans, the loss, the grief. he didn't mean anything—

but that wasn't a fucking excuse.

not when he'd left you waiting for thirteen years, not when he'd treat you like a second option, waved you, told you, "not today!" with a smile betraying his every intention.

he'd never given you a chance, that was an undeniable fact. even when you were always home, even when he found the time to be home for all the others.

he doesn't understand himself, he wanted to so badly—

call you, his baby bird.

he wants to fix things, correct his mistakes, even if it were too late, even if the image of him, once bright and shining, was now tarnished into a stranger you'd despise. dick just wanted to — no matter how much he rubs his eyes with his arms to rid the spilling tears, bites his lips, crumples the fragile paper with shivering fingers to numb his emotions down before the guilt devours him whole — he wants to apologize a thousand times. he wants to take back every wrong action of his and consume you in all his emotions, the good, the bad, the ugly— just so your opinion of him would change.

just so you wouldn't see him as the brother who was never there.

who was always running off to bludhaven to avoid you.

dick wanted to grovel, he wanted to crumple into a ball and remove the aching lump that had resided in his throat ever since he found your room. the tears he thought would never fall from his eyes were already bursting before he could even cease it. and ashamed as he may be from being seen in all his rawest form by the others; the pain, the guilt, the memory of your wide-eyed smile, the sensation of your tiny fingers holding tight against his palm overpowers any embarrassment he thought he'd felt.

god, he misses you.

he wants to see you — the paper has long since been shriveled by his powerful grip, his head buried in his arms, all the tears he'd been holding back came rushing out of him 'til it turned to dry heaves, and alfred's gloved palms patting his back doesn't compensate for anything other than unneeded sympathy. the silence that the others had allotted for your grieving older brother wouldn't change the fact that you're still the missing piece inside the manor. and for the first time in a while, he felt the same shadow that had cloaked his entire being from the moment he'd found out jason died after he'd returned from that space mission, that he was too late to even save the boy; too late to save you from yourself — dick had never despised himself as much as he did now.

he knew he could never be forgiven, he knew that for as long as he lived, he would never live up to the image of him you once held in high regard anymore.

yet as he laments all the moment he could've been your older brother, could've been your family, your hero— he still pictures the quirk in your tired steps, the way your eyes lightened, the way your wide smile revealed your chipped teeth from the very moment he first left you at your room; and it only makes the tears run down faster.

he imagines that little child all alone in the kitchen on the day of their birthday, blowing on the little candle of their cupcake in the dark of the night, making a wish for a better one next year.

have you even received a gift from any of them before?

— god, his eyes clamp down harder, drowning the world in all the darkness — a sight you've probably been accustomed to living here, dick hates thinking about it — he doesn't even want to imagine anymore, biting down at his tense arms, trying to stifle his sobs.

yet no matter how much he tries, he couldn't get rid of the hole that had ripped right into his chest, the ache thumps louder in his heart every time your little smiling face appears in all his thoughts, it was a pain that clawed into emptiness, settled deeply in every scar wracking across his body.

a reminder that even with all his sacrifices, all the battles he fought— he still couldn't save you.

he still couldn't save his baby bird.

if you had wished for a new family in that lonely birthday of yours, he understands you.

if you had wished for one you can actually call your own, for a father who was never absent, for a family who never turned their backs on you, for an older brother to never once break any empty promises; he truly understands.

because dick could be the leader, the dependable older brother, the hope of bludhaven. he could spend his entire life saving others. he can grow, fix his relationship with bruce, with jason, raise damian, become the idol everyone knew and loved and never once doubted.

he can be the change his city needs to be a better place—

but no matter what, at the end of the day—

he'll always hate himself.

the voices within the cave remained silent.

at the same time, no words were needed to be said.

it was difficult to ignore dick's weeping all throughout, his lonesome bawling was the only sound that filled the empty space. the only sound that penetrated the suffocation everyone but alfred felt.

even the bats had stopped their panicked wings from flapping due to the earlier commotion. the stalagmites that once dribbled water had deafened into nothingness. if it was because everyone had succumbed to their own thoughts, or if it was because it seemed the manor had stilled the noise for you— nobody knew the answers.

there was truly nothing filling the air except for dick, and even then his sobs were stifled by his arms.

the clawing silence remained, the volume of dick's sobs had grown softer. he had been mumbling "sorry's" and incoherent apologies all throughout. sometimes there were promises, other times he'd choke on his own tears and beat at his chest, begging for something they couldn't hear.

nobody could easily approach him, let alone ask if he was alright.

the answers were already obvious.

alfred had ceased from any physical comfort he'd offer to the shivering hero, withdrawing his palms and returning to bruce's side. bruce, whose face, once neutral, now softened when he shared a glance with the butler.

like him, he knew his words wouldn't do any help. it might even make things worse—

it might make dick storm off the manor and find you alone.

as much as they felt pity, both alfred and bruce knew dick was too far gone to be even offered anything to make him feel better. any affirmations, small or big, words or not, couldn't soothe the all consuming guilt he'd felt.

all they could do was leave him to his own bubble, ignore the guilt eating at their conscience too. not even a remark was heard from a wide-eyed damian, who had watched his eldest brother the entire time, who felt like part of this was his fault too.

and yet he didn't mean to drop your sketchbook for the entire family to see.

he didn't mean to be a part of the spiral of events leading to dick's breakdown.

it was his sworn duty, an unspoken promise, to keep things of yours all for himself. the entirety of his early training inside the batcave was just a distraction for him to extricate any thoughts he had of you. he'd hidden your sketchbooks in corners of the cave, in cabinets where he's guaranteed nobody, not even tim, would open, let alone access.

then he tried to train with his sword as intended while waiting for the rest to arrive at bruce's announcement.

yet even if his slashes against the training dummies were harsher, even if he had to remind himself that you shouldn't be infecting his thoughts as much as you did for others— like dick, he couldn't erase any memories he had of you. he couldn't erase the gruesome illustrations you drew, your aggressive reaction from the last time you've talked to him, even that one memory you had together that had been pestering him long before you even left the manor...

in the end, he found himself in the middle of the open space, fingers running across the spine of your thickest sketchbook; one figured he hadn't opened before. with papers stuck in between pages, and pages ready to fall off if he even dared open the book.

the one he held was different from the others. it had no front cover title like it typically does. not even a name etched on any side. your other sketchbooks always had old and peeling stickers embedded into its covers. some were nonsensical, others were what he speculated to be your favorite characters from shows he also watched — he never realized just how similar you two were. if it were him in the past, he'd reject the notion, spit on the shoes of anyone who'd dare point it out — you'd use a white acrylic markers on some textured pages, draw stars, zigzags, swirls; anything that gave it personality.

anything that screams the fact it's yours.

but this one was fancier, a more expensive sketchbook. left blank and barren, like you didn't want any trace of it linked back to you.

everything about it was bizarre.

damian knew that although your voice was the one everyone heard the least, the things you owed had marks, titles, names that were unique only to you.

if anyone else had taken your possessions, even if you were a stranger to most, they'd know it'd be yours.

damian knew how desperate you were to be known.

to be seen.

that's why everything of yours had to be yours. it needed to have pieces of you stuck on every corner, it needed to scream you.

the fact that he knew all this, the fact that he knew information, unknown to others, about you at all, despite his inherent refusal to acknowledge your existence within the manor—

he wouldn't explain.

but he knew either way, and that was all that needed to be said.

... hence why it was strange how this sketchbook of yours has no identity traced back to you.

but to damian, it also meant something special. something sacred if you were keen in hiding something. damian believed it's special if only he had the access to whatever knowledge you'd hidden in your sketchbooks—

except when he'd open through the middle pages, he was greeted not by the more intimate journal entries you typically opt to write in blank pages, not by the graphic drawings he'd expected to see— but by an array of faded blueprints of the cave he stands in now, sketchbook spreads of their costumes: front, middle, and back; all drawn so accurately, it sends shivers across damian's spines to imagine just how intimately close you were to the suits to even know the patterns up close.

even speculations about the items they carry inside their utility belts, backed by newspaper clippings that show candid photographs of the vigilantes takings candies, ropes, and of the like out of their belts.

you weren't hiding something from them.

if you did, you'd have taken this sketchbook to your grave, you wouldn't have left it alongside your other belongings, things you thought would carry dust, be discarded by alfred. but you've known more about them far longer than they did you, you've compiled entries about what you've learned, little notes; passive aggressive remarks. you knew about their hero identities—

damian wasn't horrified about you knowing about them, even if your compiled proofs were shoved right in his face, even if he felt the hairs on his body prick up— he'd drawn a sword right to your neck at the first meeting; you were bound to be curious either way. about your half-brother. about the life he had prior to gotham. alfred had given you a quick rundown about the young boy before you'd greet him by the door.

the sweat running down his forehead, his legs feeling like jelly, his pupils dilating wasn't attributed to your discovery of their secret identities.

damian wasn't that afraid of that fact, even if there was a lingering ounce of astonishment.

no.

he was shaken by the thought that you knew so early.

that you were aware of the different life they led outside of yours. that you were almost purposely kept out of the picture and that you knew—

you knew so well that your largest sketchbook yet, and it was by far one of the oldest too, spanning from inexperienced sketches of batman's costume from the very start, to the whiter, more untouched pages by the very back.

— his fingers had not shaken just carrying the sheer, behemoth-like weight of the book, but the weight of your knowledge, the regret that had suddenly invaded all his thoughts; it had him slip both his book and his sword right out of his hold like butter, just right before he could remember to tighten his grip.

the crash was deafening like the wringing in his ears. he'd stick to his spot for a second, frozen in place whilst the others had begun to notice the contents of the paper.

then the rest became a blur to damian, the young boy looking down at his hands, his scarred fingers, his calloused palms. he's sworn to use them for good as robin, as a protector of this city alongside batman.

it wasn't easy.

the change was not sudden for damian. you can't just undo the years of battle and gruesome training he'd went into being an assassin. but there was still an undeniable change. becoming robin by force, being treated like an outsider at first, dealing with judgemental stares, working with his father's disappointment, meeting steph and finally being treated like a kid by her, getting closer to dick— having to prove his way into being a worthy holder of the mantle he had now.

damian asks himself:

was he worthy of redemption after all these years? was he worthy of atonement for all the blood he shed? when even in the path to proving himself— he'd never been good to you?

would forgiveness come naturally after he'd told you you were better off gone in the first place?

he'd taken a step back, sensations unwelcome but not unknown had invaded his every being: the warmth he felt when he first saw you, followed by the burning rage, the unworthiness, the envy.

your once unafraid eyes staring right at him, your welcoming nature, holding that damned tray of sweets staring back at him in mockery, all the traits he saw in himself in you if he wasn't raised to be like who he was—

you knew about their nightly endeavors, you knew of how often you've been left behind and excluded from everything, and yet you remained kind.

kind, but also afraid to take another step in his direction.

you've learned to shake under his gaze, learned to turn the opposite way when you've crossed paths, not only in the manor but in school, in public where anyone could see that these two half-siblings never acted like they were.

you changed your seating arrangement so you'd sit off at the far corner of the already long and winding dining table; only for the distance between you and your family to turn wider; eating with utensils barely clanking the ceramics, turning away from everybody, excusing yourself too early.

sometimes, you wouldn't even come down at all.

you shrink in your position every time he'd enter the library, leave without a word, watch him and dick become closer brothers than you ever had the chance of even spending a second with the eldest.

you both were the outsiders, and yet only one remained the victor.

you'd done everything to avoid more pain into your already miserable life. you'd done nothing wrong and damian had purposely inflicted more and more until your cup of patience was drained and you'd almost exploded at him. if he wanted to prove himself to be the rightful vigilante of the city, then why'd he act like villain to you...?

what was it about you that had him feeling so deliberately jealous?

... before his questions could be answered, he had already been counted into the family.

they were kinder to him now, less cautious—

he'd learn to speak less formally, gained friends at school, joined a football team, earned crushes, got teased; he had been counted in invitations before it was even considered.

he learned that it was alright to not act older than his age. he'd been treated like the boy he is, a young child still cluelessly navigating a world full of mysteries.

life was faring well, as well as it could get in gotham, and yet...

he was constantly reminded of how you were the only one in the family who was the first to treat him with compassion.

you were the one who'd open the door on him first before everybody else, despite alfred's cautious warnings, despite knowing the boy younger than you would be acknowledged far easier than you who had lived in the manor for the entirety of your life.

you were everything damian was not. you were everything damian wished to be.

he'd read your entries, learned about your bitterness, and you never took it out on him despite all your venomous words cutting through paper. you held yourself back from lashing out. you never reciprocated the same damning words he'd spew right at you. never fought back except for the very end; where you'd learn to avoid him if it meant a day of peace.

when he'd learn to miss you after.

where shortly after, the manor had become quieter.

he looks at his palms again.

these were meant to protect, meant to shield his older sibling from harm, to serve common people like you who had no power against the crimes of this city. you were the only non-vigilante in the family, the only person vulnerable enough to walk on the city's streets with the risk of danger with every footstep, and he was your baby brother— but he should've been far beyond that.

he should've been your protector too.

... and yet all these hands had ever done for him was hurt you.

no one else was there to protect you from his harm.

damian doesn't understand why. he remains lost in thought, lost for words.

lost in the regrets that'd pile up in his chest until all he could feel was the same sting, like an open wound poured with alcohol, when you'd glare back at him after another round of verbal assault, when you'd run away from the boy, when he stalked you all the way to your room and found you piercing through fragile, already scarred skin with yet another razor— that he swore he'd thrown out before, that meant you'd went and bought another, unable to live a day without constant physical torment—

your head was tilted down, eyes drawn wide open, blankly gazing at the crimson droplets beading and dripping from your thighs. this had turned into a habit. just another coping mechanism.

this became routine.

numbing down every bitter emotion beating out of your chest by hurting yourself with something worse.

and damian could only watch you fall deeper into a hole he helped dig.

what kind of hero was he if he couldn't even save his older sibling?

he recalls you, peeking through your doors, how you hit back loud sobs, head buried on your quivering, bleeding thighs, still afraid of being heard, blood seeping out of lips from all the times your teeth would pierce through wounds meant to heal, your nail beds had been bitten raw, fingertips stained with red, too, as you run your hands, ripping, tearing at matted hair; even if you were located in the far, abandoned corners of the manor, you'd learn to regulate your sobs in fear of it echoing through the halls.

to him, you were like a wounded animal, a terrified dog who'd learn that noise meant another inflicted bruise, another horrific slash across your body. being heard never meant being seen, being judged for acting the way you do. you'd shrink in the far corners, until you could be mistaken for a faint silhouette, and it was far better than knowing you were only acknowledged, but you were never offered a helping hand.

whilst damian had all the help he could get into becoming better, you'd disappear into the sidelines, only to become worse.

even if damian himself had tried every means of delaying your hurt without you ever knowing, you'd always find another way. you'd always be one step ahead of him, and you'd be back to picking scabs, back to scratching your neck, biting your knuckles, running off to find alfred, to every corner of the room only to find nothing—

because the butler had been busier in the batcave, day by day, caring for damian, losing his attention to you as a consequence.

back then, he found that a bragging right. another reason to shove in your face, another 'why' on why he's better than you. why your presence is a stain against the growing family. because the butler you love, who you thought would always be by your side had began catering and offering his own familial love towards the youngest— the youngest who'd done everything to remind you you were nothing and nobody.

he thought, at the sight of you falling on your knees after hours of searching for alfred through winding hallways, empty rooms, dizzying stairways until you'd land inside the library, begging, whispering under your breath, to any god, to any deity willing to hear you, while tears had begun cascading down your swollen eyes and hollow cheeks— he thought he'd laugh, thought he'd feel relief, like a heavy weight would be lifted from his chest just being witness to you falling into despair at the lack of alfred's presence.

he thought the pathetic sight would only make the pride heighten in his heart.

instead, all that came to him was his limp arms laying still on his sides, not a sound unable to escape his tightening throat. wide, terrified eyes had settled on your heaving body.

crumpling down on the carpeted floors, you were unable to breathe.

unable to release anymore of your pathetic sobs, you'd resort to clawing on furniture, the sharp edges of the coffee table violently hit your sides, you wince, you release a sharp cry, but still, you continue stumbling far deeper into the nook of the library, afraid of being heard.

the sight before him was a wretched show.

'but i've seen people suffer far worse.' his thoughts try to convince him, but his fingers tightly clenching the hems of his shirt tells another story.

'i've beheaded assassins before, i've seen guts mangling out of hanging bodies, stacks of corpses piled on top of another. the stench of rotten decay is as familiar as the polluted air in gotham—'

... and yet you crumbling into a ball in the corner dealt a far worse nausea residing in his thoughts, a lump forming on his chest the same way it always does when he notices another round of makeshift gauzes had been carelessly slapped on your heavily clothed body.

damian was terrified at the way you carelessly threw yourself into more danger.

damian was terrified of what your carelessness might entail.

... your little brother imagines your dangling body suspended in the air, neck embraced by a rope. and nobody would've known you were gone, nobody would've been there by the time the last exhale has escaped your purplish lips.

you'd be dead, and you'd be mourned for far too late.

and suddenly his vision spins, a wave of bile clung stubbornly up his throat.

damian doesn't want to imagine anymore, then he feels a draw, a magnetic pull, like he'd want to come out of his hiding spot, reveal himself to you— not to insult you, shame you for being weak. but your younger brother watching you hide behind bookshelves, gazing blankly, paired with the horrifying imagery of your deceased body—

one he couldn't just erase from his thoughts...

he doesn't like admitting it: but all he wanted to do was to comfort you the same way alfred had always stuck by his side, the same way stephanie had brought him to that bounce house and treated him like a young boy— damian wanted to, he needed to sit by your side. he doesn't want to see you cower in fear anymore, for your pupils to shrink, for your first instinct to turn the other way and away from him.

all he wanted was to lean his head against your shoulders, pretend like he had never once drawn a sword on you, like he had never committed any of his past mistakes— all he wanted to be your younger brother.

maybe it was a way to comfort himself too.

maybe he just doesn't want to be ridden with nightmares of your limp, decaying body for every second he'd shut his eyes.

but he wasn't brave enough, not yet. he regrets not being enough. he regrets simply resorting to watching you over in the shadows instead. watching you curl over, nails blunt from being bitten raw digging deep in your knees. he watches you try your best to steady your lungs, to contain the nasty bile tethering over the edge of your lips. the longer you sat there, accompanied only by the dust motes floating under the dim, warm lights in the library, the more the shame, the regret, the undulating hatred in himself curled bigger and bigger until it became mocking voices, violent imagery of what could, what would happen to you if he doesn't come save you right now.

... yet despite it all, he never once came out of the obscurity of the shadows. he never had with you. he never did until it was too late.

he remained stationary, engulfed in nothing but guilty conscience.

and really, it was ironic: two siblings suspended in the dark night, and yet only one had truly seen the light.

and damian notices, he always notices, no matter how much he pretends to never care,

that the longer you cried all by yourself...

the more it seemed to never end.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: oh my god, i poured all my heart and soul into this, cried a bit bec i was afraid of losing progress again, and then cheered some more when i finished. so i'm begging for comments, interactions, any of ur fave lines please. there's a lot of parallels between dick and the mc. and then between damian and mc too. and u guys don't know it, but your comments and submissions were so much help in making me finish this early 😭🙏 also, thank u guys for ur patience! i appreciate all the kind comments, all the encouraging words in my inbox. honestly, i never expected a&a to be as much of a passion project as it is now. it used to be an outlet for my emotions, and it still is, but i never realized how many people actually loved the reader as much as much. that's it, love y'all !!!

taglist: @ghostdoodlen , @midniteshore , @rockin-robyn , @strawberryglass , @h0neybun-was-here , @confused-they , @dvlboy , @mothintheskies , @marssthings , @favoritefucs , @lilyalone , @luffyadolover , @lazyemmy , @questionthegrapevine , @oh-nowo-i-got-uwu , @winter-world , @budijojo , @altruisticbeauty , @dopepursebasketballplaid , @the-holy-pigeon , @em-draws14 , @thypplover , @cens0r3d-blog , @yl90 , @l-luxem , @couldeatthatgirlforlunch , @mishkradetsa , @kiiyooo , @flyingpansaurus , @kapingbitter , @rogueofbullshit , @earlqurl , @dotomuses , @sheep-from-rad , @tsuniio , @thesm1l3yface , @nosochek-3o , @radiantharry , @kdjhubby , @archive91m , @notwhoy0uthink , @thecloudsaremyhome , @akanecrustyashes, @annicishana , @telamon3 , @kokofromwattpad , @0wawaweewa0 , @noone1233nobody , @goldencelstialskies , @peachrings64 , @pandakchuu

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

it's me. hi.