synopsis: you are damian wayne's best friend, and your parents want you to get married. can you two best friends be more than just best friends?
tags: damian wayne x fem!reader ft. batfamily
A/N: i got very inspired by a kate and anthony dialogue from bridgerton. based on this request.
Damian Wayne does not do friendships.
The heir to the League and the Wayne family does not need a companion, platonic or otherwise. That is the consensus—the winning opinion that even his entire family agrees with.
At least, that was what Dick, Jason, Duke, and Tim thought for the longest time. At least, that was what Cassandra and Stephanie theorized, sharing those thoughts with Barbara whenever she was over at Wayne Manor. At least, that was what Bruce and Alfred were worried about.
You, who is quiet, kind, but not lacking in self-respect and ambition. You, who Gotham Academy sees as peculiar, uptight, but quietly smart. You, who are called a paradox by her parents for your fierceness wrapped in a softness they do not understand at all.
You, who Damian Wayne befriended.
And, Damian’s world transformed. It exploded with colour, soft-spoken conversations, late-night strolls, cherishing secrets, and shared happiness in goals, big or small.
The first indication that Damian valued you was when he willingly sought you out in class. He had never done that before, and the instructors, who are paid hefty salaries by the academy, noted it and brought it up with Bruce. Bruce, who arched an eyebrow at this development, brought it up over dinner.
It was casual. A simple question.
“You seem to have made a friend, Damian,” Bruce shared, gauging his son’s facial expressions at the same time.
Damian did not freeze. There was no show of any weakness, as he was trained to forego. But that slight tremor in his hand that was curled around the silver spoon he used did not go unnoticed. Not by Bruce. Not by Alfred. Not by anyone else.
Jason huffed like he didn’t care, but he did keep an eye on you, both on the Gotham Academy grounds and on nights when he patrolled. It was his way of saying that he saw what you meant to Damian. He cherished your safety from afar, because his little brother had someone—a friend, a companion, a support where he could simply be—and that was important. A truly unforgettable detail.
Dick grinned at Damian, softly teasing him about finally having a friend. He did give absolutely unwanted lessons on maintaining friendships 101, as if he had meaningful connections himself.
Tim made it a point not to react badly, but he did run an extensive background check on you. He knew your great grandma’s name, your second cousin’s credit score, and your parents’ estate attorney before Damian did, even before you did.
Bruce and Alftred tried to stay out of this so as not to cause Damian any discomfort. Bruce meddled enough, so he tried to stay still about this. And Alfred… he tried not to badger Damian about inviting you to the manor or taking homemade baked and cooked goods to school for you.
They all patiently waited. They noticed, took notes, and stood on the sidelines. And then one evening, you came over—the infamous friend, the mysterious companion, the person who signified something to Damian. You, with your backpack, uniform, and perfect hair, came over to study. It was a simple study session that ended up becoming a family dinner, with nosy—absolutely nosy siblings—and laughter.
Just like that, it became an unsaid truth that you are family, too.
Now, years later, you stand on the threshold of the manor, looking at the boy who became your best friend. You look at him with comfort, trust, and also pain.
Damian knows just by the look on your face that something is wrong. His first instinct is to question you and pry an answer from you as rapidly as he can, because he wants to fix whatever perturbs you.
But any patience that he exhibits is for you. He knows how easily you get overwhelmed, but never shows it. He also knows you trust him enough to show him how you are when you don’t pretend. It’s a privilege that he has, and the realization of it never fails to fill him with honour and a longing he refuses to give a truthful name to.
“How are you doing, Miss?” Alfred asks as you follow him into the dining room, with Damian right beside you.
You halfheartedly smile, making Alfred concerned as well. But you answer calmly, with the perfection you are taught and cling to as the perfect daughter of your parents. “I am fine, Alfred. Thank you. How are you?”
“I am delighted to have everyone under the same roof tonight,” Alfred says. “It is a rarity to have that these days.”
Damian says, “If you want Jason to grace his presence here often, you should tell him, Alfred. Why do I have to bear the brunt of your taunts?”
You laugh softly. “That was not a taunt.”
“It was,” Damian says, and you shake your head fondly. As always, when you both walk side by side, your arms are linked. The way Damian’s arm links with yours grounds him. It makes him remember he is Damian, just as much as he is an Al-Ghul and Wayne.
He feels a different type of duty when he stands next to you, an audacious and heartwarming one. It was debilitating to ponder it too much because this duty was so very unique in its creation. It was not cold, painful, or lonely. It didn’t have ties to or expectations from a legacy.
His duty to you simply came from that day he met you, trying to decipher what exactly you penned in your sleek blue notebook with such haste. Later on, he realized it was your planner, and you kept yourself busy to the brim all week. And something in him whispered—urged—to be there for you.
Caring for you is one of Damian’s purposes.
It makes him a better Robin selfishly. If he can selflessly devote his life to being a vigilante, because in that duty, Talia’s and Bruce’s love for him lives, then he can also selfishly devote himself to making Gotham safer for you. A safe Gotham keeps you safe. And Damian needs that with everything in him.
Sometimes, he finds himself agreeing with Jason over Gotham. Bloodshed was wrong in the life and values that Damian adopted. But retributive justice and fighting crime with blood did not sound horrid. It sounds like a consequence that would shake Gotham into discipline, but Damian also recognizes that the consequence would be short-lived. It would not protect you permanently, and with you, Damian always tries to find permanency. Always.
He looks back at you, as you sit beside him, playing with the silver fork in your hand, moving the rice around but not eating. His eyes narrow in displeasure at your quiet distress. It is noticeable not only to him but also to the entire family seated. Barbara, who is also visiting to spend some time with Dick and Cassandra, is exchanging a concerned look with Dick, perhaps wanting to do some detective work to get to the bottom of your silence.
Damian almost rolled his eyes. This family and its friends never quite communicate properly. It’s always tactics like these, and Damian understands it, because he himself is not good with words. Language is something sacred and unrelentingly difficult for him. He wants to use the same tactics with you right now, but he also does not want to resort to that. He wants you to speak to him like you always do, and Damian would wait if that is what you need.
Jason cleared his throat to speak, but Bruce beat him to it. Damian’s father looks at you, as your eyes are fixed on the plate perched before you. “Is everything alright?”
You look up at Bruce, dazed. You blink, processing his words. Then, you nod, smiling. “Everything’s alright, Bruce. Why do you ask?”
“You have not mentioned the book that Jason pestered you to read. You have not talked to Tim about work that you usually have many complaints about, and you certainly have not said anything about tonight’s menu to Alfred,” Damian speaks before Bruce can.
You look at Damian now, and you wince.
“Is something bothering you?” Jason questions, leaning forward, ready to tackle whatever your answer may be.
You shake your head. Bruce clears his throat, trying to be calm and supportive. “You can talk to us—all of us or one of us. We are… here.”
You lean back in your chair, your face a combination of a grimace and a polite smile. That alone is an indication that something is perturbing you, and the thing is that no matter how dysfunctional your best friend’s family has been, it has been that safe space for you. So, you speak. “Father has been setting up dates for me.”
The room goes completely still. Even Alfred, for once, is dismayed.
You sigh. “He says it is of utmost importance that I find a proper match soon.”
Jason glares at you, not at you, but at your parents. “That’s not necessary.”
Dick nods. He looks kind as he asks, “Are you unhappy with that?”
Damian feels his head pound at that question, indicating his coming out of that stillness that incinerated him moments ago. He stares at you, not knowing what to say. It is a travesty because Damian always knows what to say. But tonight, listening to what your parents’ intentions are, he does not.
Bruce says, far gentler than he is with his sons, a tone he reserves for Cassandra and Stephanie and now you. “Is there a reason for this insistence?”
“I asked, and he says it is the way of society,” You answer, and Damian scoffs.
Bruce purses his lips. It is the way of Gotham’s high society. Matches of the highest calibre are forged between families to ensure wealth and reputation stay intact or even further them. Bruce, himself, would have been persuaded into these matchmaking attempts if he had taken his social circle more seriously or if his parents were alive.
“That is a preposterous way of explaining why he wants his daughter to get married,” Damian bursts.
Dick and Jason stare at Damian, a knowing look crossing their faces. Stephanie asks, “So did you say no?”
Damian grows more distressed when you shake your head. Cassandra’s facial expression falters. You laugh nervously and then explain. “He is not wrong. I am busy with work and friends. It is perhaps time to take the next step in… life.”
Your voice is so unnatural that Damian fumes. You do not sound happy. Even enthused in the slightest. You sound resigned. That is what your parents do to you. They presented a checklist for you when you were of age to understand expectations and responsibilities, and ever since, you have abided by them. You don’t know a world outside it, and Damian doesn't know how to show that there is one. It is a bit hypocritical, but Damian does not care. Perhaps he can and is tied down by legacies, but you cannot. You are supposed to be free and do whatever you want.
“But is that what you want?” Jason asks because he regards freedom as the most important aspect of life. Jason knows death, and he knows how it is to be caged. He does not wish that on anyone, let alone you.
You stay silent. In that silence is the answer. Everyone in the room sees your struggle, and you realize that. Your cheeks pinken because you do not want to embarrass yourself by looking weak, as if you cannot even bear what your parents want for you. You put on a brave smile and nod. “Yes. I think this is good for me.”
Dick and Jason exchange looks. Tim looks down at his plate and then at you. “I will conduct checks. Whoever it is, I expect their name.”
Stephanie looks at Damian, then at you. “Be careful.”
Cassandra gauges you, but then she softly says, her eyes averting towards Stephanie. “If you can let that person see you, you have made your choice.”
Damian glares at Cassandra. For whatever reason, he hates her statement—the underlying advice. But that glare is wiped off his face as you turn your head to look at him. You look at him like his words matter the most in a roomful of people that clearly adore you. You look at him like you need him, so Damian holds back every ounce of anger he feels, and says, his hand reaching out to hold yours. “I am here.”
And you entwine your fingers with his. You sigh and whisper. “Thank you.”
For the rest of the night, after dinner, he takes you to the library and reads to you, watching you relax, as an ache fills his chest.
“Thank you, Dami,” You whisper as you slot your head into the crook of his neck, and you imagine him running his fingers through your hair, the movement cajoling you into sleep.
Your first date is with a banker. He is a few years older than you, but that is not troubling. He is a good man, or at least that is what your parents say. His parents are a part of Gotham’s most elite, just like yours. It’s a good match if decided on. That is the consensus.
You stare at your reflection. The black dress, the matching heels, and the small clutch you are carrying suit you. Your mother walks into your room, as always disregarding your privacy. You can hear her laughter and another person’s footsteps.
Your mother says, “She is excited.”
Are you excited? You think again, and you feel exhausted because you have no answer. You stiffen as you hear Damian’s voice instead of your father’s. You did not anticipate his presence, so you turn around to exit the vanity room, which connects to your bedroom and bathroom.
“Dami,” You breathe in relief, his name a lifeline you cling to.
The boy you met is now a tall young man with the same intense eyes and gentleness that fills your heart. He stares at you right now, with those same eyes and approaches you. He curls his fingers around your upper arm with the same gentleness.
“You look beautiful, my dear,” Your mother gushes. Her words make you wince, and Damian moves to shield you from her line of vision. He says, his voice clear. “She still has to finish getting ready.”
Your mother laughs. “Oh, yes. And prepare her, Damian. She does not know the ins and outs of courtships. Give her a few tips, son.”
And she departs, leaving behind an unsettling silence.
Damian pulls you closer. He frowns at the Bobby pins keeping your curly hair up. He knows how much you hate bobby pins, just how much they pain. You always complain about them before a gala, but you let your mother pin them tonight.
Damian says, “You abhor bobby pins.”
“Your head hurts when you put them on."
Damian tilts his head like he wants to yank each one off your head. He would love to make that decision for you on your behalf, but he does not allow himself to. That restraint is something you are used to, but it sometimes still surprises you, because you were always told Damian Wayne did not believe in restraint.
So he asks, “Do you want me to remove them?”
Your throat works. You do not know what to say. There is the answer, the true one: yes. But something stops you. Something always does, holding you and your voice in its tight grip.
So you sigh. You shake your head, and Damian, instead of removing those pins, gently pats your head and then rubs your nape. That action makes you come closer to him. It makes you hug him, and you sigh into his chest, covered by his button-down.
“I am nervous,” You admit to your best friend.
Damian says, rubbing your nape with one hand while the other wraps around your middle. “I know.”
“I don’t know anything about dating, courtships, love,” You say.
Damian stiffens. His hand that was on your nape comes around to cup your chin. He pulls you back with that action, his voice steady and yet again everything that matters. “You are allowed to pace yourself. Do not let anyone deny you that liberty.”
“Pace myself?” You repeat a part of his words. Pacing yourself in this seems like a loss, too. How do you pace yourself in a race that demands your heart?
His hand descends to your shoulders. Both of your shoulders were grabbed gently, while he says, “I beg of you.”
You stare at him, frowning slightly at the wrecked tone he uses. Damian Wayne does not beg. He does not use those words. He commands. He rules. He gets his way, and he wins. That is his legacy, his right even. But right now, he is proffered a young man requesting—begging—you to listen to him. “One must not indulge in any decision that is unwelcome. I am asking you to heed that.”
“I will,” You say, because you always listen to Damian.
Damian nods as if he is satisfied. He steps back, and you hate the loss of his touch on your skin. You hate that he is not crowding you, holding you, and towering over you. And that hatred of losing his touch, his nearness, floors you, redness pooling on your cheeks and neck. You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t be like this.
“Rooh Qalbi.” You hear Damian’s voice, looking up. You furrow your brows, not completely registering what he said. He sighs. “Your suitor is here.”
“Suitor?” You giggle, and Damian smiles just a bit.
“Yes,” He nods. His jaw tenses, looking out the bedroom door, downwards at the entryway of the large home you reside in. “In an inadequate choice of a vehicle, an ill-fitting suit, and an utterly detestable arrangement of flowers.”
“Hey,” You say, taking his arm as he leads you out of your room.
“I am being transparent, as is my intention, always with you.” Your cheeks warm again, listening to his words. Damian discreetly juts his chin towards the flower bouquet the banker holds as he talks to your mother. You cringe a little. You are not a fan of red roses, as romantic and symbolic as they are.
Damian shakes his head. “A man who does not adequately account for his potential bride’s predilection.”
You smile a little at the way Damian looks disappointed. You tilt your head and place a friendly kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Dami.”
You descend the spiral staircase, Damian right behind you, as he mutters under his breath about the safety in the heels you are wearing.
The banker looks at you and kisses your cheek, hugging you from the side. “Hi, it’s so nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” You say. When the banker gives the flowers to you, you expect to be touched, regardless of what floral arrangement you picked out. You look up at him, wanting to feel a spark of something. But you don’t. It’s too early. You tell yourself that.
Damian and the banker shake hands. Damian nods along to whatever he says, as your mother laughs. “These two have been best friends for years, son. Don’t be fooled by how calm Damian is right now. If you want to be in my daughter’s life, you have to win his heart too.”
The banker laughs. Then, he extends his hand to take yours.
He blinks at you, and you breathe. You can get through this.
Your date was horrible—too many numbers, money, and social events conversations. You did not gel with the banker at all. You were not what he wanted, and he was not what you wanted.
So your parents set up another date. This time, the prospect is a vice president of a conglomerate. You do not have any hopes that this date will fare better than what happened with the banker. It will be boring, tedious, and lacklustre. You know it, but you agree.
You pick out the heels that go well with the floral, flowy, red dress you chose tonight. They are block heels, and you sigh as you sit on your bed, taking them into your hands. You do not realize that you are not in the room alone until Damian pries your hand away from the heel.
“Hey,” You say, looking up at him.
“No bobby pins tonight?” He asks, his lips formed into a wry smile.
You shake your head. “I wanted to keep my hair down.”
His eyes flicker towards your hair, intensely gazing at the way your curls sit loose against your shoulders. “You look beautiful.”
“Yeah?” You bend your head, blushing.
Damian nods. “Resplendent. Divine. Beguiling. Would you like me to beseech you with more verbiage, or do you believe me?”
“Dami,” You mutter, shaking your head. Then, you gasp as he bends on one knee. Damian’s gestures often shock you, because they are far different from the reputation he holds, the way he behaves with people, family or strangers, and the weight his name holds.
As his fingers curl around your ankle, making you stifle another gasp, you watch. He makes you wear both block heels, saying. “Do not stroll at a painfully fast pace; you will fall.”
“And you won’t be there to help me up,” You laugh, thinking about the first time you wore a pair of block heels. It was at an event organized by Gotham Academy. And you almost took a tumble, if not for the way Damian caught your arm and stayed by your side firmly, present the entire time.
Damian tilts his head. He assesses you with his gaze. You almost frown at the way he looks at you. You take pride in the way “I will always be there.”
You still. You do not expect those words, and now that you have them, you don’t want to let them go. They settle in you like a well-hidden pearl in the shell of a mollusk.
He tugs at a hair strand fondly, a reverent action reserved just for you. “It is a vow I abide by. It will always be that way.”
“Because you—“ Damian’s eyes roam over you. “You are important. Every vow to you made is of unwavering dedication and paramount respect.”
You are pulled out of the unexpected despair and confusion you feel when you feel Damian’s fingers trace your cheek and the line of your jaw. The action causes his other hand to tighten around your ankle. Your breath hitches, but you hide it well enough.
“Forgive me for repeating this, but you are not obligated to partake in anything that holds no appeal to you.” He says, his eyes flickering to the family portrait that was framed and placed on your nightstand.
“Your decisions should always be a matter of your discretion. No one else’s,” Damian continues.
“What if I don’t know what I want?”
Damian smiles slightly. His fingers cup your chin, while his other hand gently places your heel-clad foot on the ground. “You will. I will be there to witness it.”
His unwavering belief in you makes you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hug him. His arms go around you, pulling you closer, and you smile against his shoulder. For a second, you wonder what it would be like to march up to your parents and tell them that you don’t want this. You imagine Damian looking at you as you decide to put your wishes first instead of the expectations.
But you are reminded of the words uttered to you for years. Gotham society. Education. Marriage. Children. The importance of maintaining status. The importance of abiding by duties, especially a duty that is tied to the family name.
You break the hug, feeling like an imposter. You feel unworthy of Damian’s trust. You don’t look at him as you wear a beautiful sling-back purse that Damian actually bought for you a while back. When you hear your mother’s voice saying your date is here, you move.
But you feel Damian’s hand curl around your wrist, halting you.
You look back at him. Damian moves forward.
He questions, his voice slightly gruff, much like his father’s is. “You will permit me the honour of knowing when you are apprised that your heart has been taken to someone’s advances?”
You stare at Damian. He wants to know when someone has your heart. He calls gaining that knowledge an honour.
Your throat works, but you manage to nod. You whisper, “Yes, I will.”
You turn around and, yet again, descend the spiral staircase. This time, your date does not bring red roses. He brings tulips that you like. You do not know, but somehow Damian made the man aware, by word of mouth, that you are more taken with tulips than with roses.
But what you know is the thundering in your ears and the way your heart beats. You know the gnawing realization growing in your chest, making you even more dispirited.
The realization that your heart may be someone else’s already.
You just cannot bear to think of who.
The vice president of a respected, established conglomerate also turns out to be an ill-fitting match. This time, it is not your fault. It is because of your parents that you muffled any expression of dissatisfaction after your date with him. Your parents invited the man to dinner, and they found him gauche and irritating. His table manners made your father sigh. That sigh said everything.
This time, you got ready at Wayne Manor. Your first date is to a Wayne Gala. A peculiar choice, but with how busy you and the angel investor from the West Coast are, it made sense to use the gala as a location for the date.
Stephanie and Cassandra hover over you, helping you get ready, as Barbara stares knowingly at you from her wheelchair, ready and excited. You look at her through the mirror.
“What?” You ask, a little miffed tonight. Your mother decided on a gown for you tonight that you did not approve of. It is beautiful. The olive green is not your favourite shade of green, but it is acceptable. The real issue is the material. Scratchy, irritating, and unpleasant.
“Nothing,” Barbara says, shaking her head, as Cassandra does the finishing touches to your makeup.
You could not object to your mother when she called, and now you are paying the price for your silence. You look beautiful, though, you try to tell yourself, as if the extreme discomfort is worth the beauty.
Cassandra clasps a diamond necklace around your neck, something Stephanie selected for you. That is what you think until Stephanie bends down and says, looking at you through the mirror. “Damian knows you.”
“What?” You ask, frowning.
Stephanie laughs, while Cassandra whispers, “Damian sent this jewellery piece for you two hours ago. He said you would like it.”
“He also told us only to let you wear it if you approve,” Barbara says. She moves forward, situating herself next to you, and leans back. Assessing you, she asks, “Even though Stephanie asked already, do you approve?”
It is on your tongue to viciously say: Does it matter?
But you tilt your head, not wanting to make the girls targets of your ire, directed at your mother, looking at yourself. Your hair is styled in a not-actually-messy braid. And the diamond necklace sits around your neck with an elegance that makes your breath hitch.
You do approve, and something in you twists at the thought of being asked that. That never happens, not often. Yes, within the walls of Wayne Manor. Yes, with Damian. Yes, with his family, who always welcomed you.
You furrow your brows, trying to remember the last time your mother or father asked you if you approved of something. If you wanted something. If you were okay with something.
You stand up. “Yes, I look gorgeous.”
“That is true,” Stephanie says. Cassandra pats your head like you are a child. You and Damian are the babies of the family, much to the displeasure of both of you. Barbara squeezes your hand, and you smile at her. She tips her head in a knowing gesture that frazzles you, but you don’t show it.
They soon depart the room while you take one last look at yourself. You can do this. You will be okay. You think reassuringly and turn around.
Of course, Damian is standing in the entryway of the room you are in. Of course, he knocks on the ajar door, knowing you are inside. Of course, you ask him to come in.
And of course, he looks at your gown and immediately says, “You are uncomfortable.”
“Are you not?” He asks, looking angry, not at you, but at himself. He looks at you like he wonders if he can no longer read you.
And you don’t want him ever to think he doesn't know you. So you nod. “Yes, I am uncomfortable.”
His jaw clenches, but he does not say anything.
You tilt your head. “Are you not going to ask me to wear something else, Dami?”
Damian moves forward and stands right in front of you. He wraps an arm around your middle and tugs you closer. “Every decision has to be yours.”
You stiffen, filled with gratitude and anger due to those words.
You hate that he reminds you that you have choices—that you can make them. You detest that he gives you the space to do so instead of simply commanding you to.
You want him to tell you what to do and how to be. But Damian never does that. He is, well, your Dami. He was the boy who listened to you and is now the man who wants you to know that your decisions should be your own.
You look away from him, and he asks, "Would you like to change?”
You already know that if you want to change into a separate gown, there will be countless comfortable options awaiting you.
But your ears reverberate with your mother’s shrill commands over the phone call that took place about the gown. You shake your head, and you feel your best friend’s fingers flex on your back.
Damian steps back. “Alright..”
“Thank you,” you say. You are thanking him for everything, but you point to the necklace as an excuse.
Damian tilts his head. “You look beautiful.”
You blush and bend your head.
“You look handsome, too, Dami,” You say, and he smiles, offering you his arm for you to link with.
The serenity of this moment is something you cling to, and you hope it will get you through the night.
Damian hates your date. The angel investor is a little shit. He is utterly unworthy of you. Yet, he holds your hand and leads you to the esteemed guests of this evening.
Damian’s hand tightens around the glass tumbler he holds. His eyes have been tracking you the entire night. He sees the exhaustion that clings to you in the way you walk, in the way your hand shakes around the champagne flute you hold, and in the way your laugh sounds hollow.
That gown is causing you so much trouble with its material and seams chafing against your skin. If you were not on a date, Damian would have convinced you to ditch this social event and take you back to the manor where Alfred would be. With folded pajamas and warm tea.
But since you are on a date, Damian is relegated to being a witness to your agony, unable to do anything until you say that you would like his impudent intervention.
Damian does not want to be one of those people in your life who talks over you, disregards your voice, and muffles your wants. He promised himself to not only keep you safe and secure from harm’s way but also to keep you happy.
Happiness is not always smiles and laughter. It is also the security of making a choice. Happiness also resides in the freedom that comes from deciding on purely your own accord.
And he won’t take that away from you.
“You know, you’re staring,” Jason says.
Damian glares at Jason, “Why are you present here, Todd?”
He shrugs. “Bruce told me to show up.”
“My father’s inability to make a sound decision does keep astounding me despite its commonness,” Damian grumbles, and Dick claps a hand on his shoulder.
The action is sympathetic, which grinds Damian’s gears. He does not need sympathy!
Damian averts his gaze from Jason to look back at you. You seem to be in a deep conversation with a Gothamite who is also in angel investing.
Damian suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. That action is reserved for crass individuals. But he is so close to doing it, because he cannot believe your parents would choose this man out of all of the choices that could be made.
Angel investing as a career is risky. He is from the West Coast, not used to Gotham. Damian could think of so many other reasons why such an alliance between you and him is a bad idea. For you—for your safety, well-being, and happiness.
He is not right for you. But Damian is not the one who has the final say on this. It has to be you.
Soon, you are exhausted from the talking, smiling, and indulging that the Gothamite elite demand of you. You excuse yourself swiftly and head towards the grand balcony that is connected to the gala’s main hall.
Damian instantly follows, and his face softens as he watches you perched against the railing, looking at the view of Gotham.
Then, he frowns. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he removes his blazer and places it on your shoulders. There are times when he cannot be bothered to wait for your choices, and this is one of them. He is not going to let you get a cold. It’s just not happening.
“Dami,” You gasp. You tug the blazer closer to your chest, putting your arms through the sleeves.
Then, you frown. “Aren’t you cold?”
“No, I am not,” Damian answers, and he means it.
You nod. Damian asks, “Are you alright?”
“I am,” You say. Damian does not believe you, but he does not call you out on it. You shift closer to him and rest your head against his bicep.
You both look at the view of Gotham.
“It’s beautiful,” You murmur, and Damian looks at you.
You don’t notice that he is not talking about Gotham’s view, and he does not tell you.
“How is he?” Damian questions.
You shrug, and that is how Damian tells you that you are utterly exhausted. You don’t shrug, not often.
“I do not think he is the one.”
Good. But Damian does not say that aloud.
“I want to put an end to this,” You say. You sound a bit frustrated. “I just want them off my back.”
Damian shares, “Perhaps, acquiescing to their demands is not as suitable as you deem it is. Perhaps, a course of defiance is.”
You tilt your head to look at him. “Defiance?”
“Defiance,” You repeat, looking at him.
“Defiance.” Damian repeats.
You let out a sigh and rest your head back on him. You close your eyes, and Damian just cannot help himself. He bends and grazes his lips on the top of your head, on your hairline, and then on your forehead.
It’s too much. Damian can tell from the way you tilt your head and stare up at him. You tell him, "I wanted to wear your shade of green. It’s my favourite, not this olive green.”
Damian stares at you. He is too proper to have his jaw hang in surprise, but he is close to it. That is not a statement he expected, and now that he has heard it, he cannot stop himself from imagining it. You in green. In his green, as you said. The green that makes up one of the colours of his suit.
Damian lets out a haggard sigh and leans forward, almost resting his head against yours.
Your noses almost brush, and you let out a small laugh, teasing. “I have the Wayne heir tongue-tied.”
“That is the effect you have on me, Rooh Qalbi,” Damian utters the words as if they were sacred truth.
His words do affect you, too, because you blink rapidly. You go on your toes, slightly unbalanced due to your heels, and rest your head against his. Noses brush. Eyelashes meet a little.
It is remarkable how, in a fraction of a minute, everything changes. One second, you were resting your head against his arm as you always did. Like a best friend. Like the girl who consumes his thoughts, meaning behind actions, and priorities every minute, but then now, you are pressed against him, your hands cupping his face, while his arms go around you.
Damian wants to have you in his arms like this for as long as he lives. He will continue living with care and caution if it means having you in his arms. You are pressed up against him, cocooned in his embrace, and he feels like he has had a taste of heaven. Does it exist? He wonders. It does. He believes now.
You make him a believer. You make him an even more worthy man. You make him question the line between right and wrong. You make him wonder what the difference is between a wound and a healer, because to him right now, he holds both in his arms.
“Noor Eini,” he whispers.
The line between being friends, as close as you both are, and something else blurs. The line erases. It is eradicated before the way Damian—your Dami—holds you and the way you—his qalbi—melts into his hold.
Damian leans forward, too, minimizing the remaining little space between both of you. It is an action that spurs from want and desperation he refuses to name, still, that he refuses to admit to.
And then a loud crash jolts you both apart.
A sound from afar. An aggrieved cry of irritation from nearby staff. The sound is plates clattering to the ground. You both realize that.
Damian reaches for you, tearing his gaze off the area where the sound loudly reverberated. You take a step back. Pain shoots up Damian’s spine. No. He panics internally. He feels you slip away. He watches you slip away.
You shake your head. “I am sorry.”
It has been four days since you agreed to marry the man you spent time with at the Wayne gala. Your parents were shocked. After all, you had only been on one date with him. You barely knew him.
But you said yes, and he also agreed to the alliance. It would be beneficial. Two families, one from the East Coast and one from the West Coast, are now one family thanks to this marriage. It is huge news for the country's elite.
Your parents are delighted. Your future in-laws expect an heir within the first two years of marriage. Your soon-to-be fiancé expects you to be a proper conduit in making useful Gothamite connections that would propel his influence on the East Coast, too.
Except for the way you carry yourself.
You are sullen, uninterested, and resigned to a fate you prepared for since your childhood.
You stare at Damian’s blazer, which you had dry-cleaned and folded. It is on your bed. Every day, you wear it for a few minutes. Every night, you get it washed, dry cleaned, and folded again.
It has been four days since you talked to him—since that gala evening. You wonder how he is, never having spent that many days apart from him, not even during your college years.
You shouldn’t have crossed the line like that. You glare at the ceiling after tilting your head back. How could you do this? How could you—
But you wanted to. That is the truth that resides low in your belly. You wanted to kiss Damian that night. You wanted to sink into his embrace and never let go. You wanted to be held by him for as long as you lived.
But then your parents’ voices rang in your ears, on a loop, in a mashup overlapping both. It was hideous. It was scary. It frightened you, because you imagined Damian standing beside you, as not just your best friend but something more.
You would be a burden. Your parents would eat him alive with their expectations. Your family name will be another weight he will carry. Your everything will be an ankle weight that plunges him to oceanic depths that are unbearable.
Damian does not deserve that. He deserves someone who can make choices without their parents’ voices ringing in their ears. He deserves in-laws who support him, not pressure him. He deserves kids—a family—born of choice and love, not pressure and expectation.
“Are you marrying him?” You jolt out of your thoughts at the sound of Damian’s voice.
Your head snaps in the direction of your bedroom door. Your mother appears behind Damian. “Damian is here, sweetheart.”
You try to smile. “I see that.”
“I was just telling our dearest son-in-law that he has to impress Damian now since you have complied,” She says and laughs.
You flinch, and Damian stays silent, standing sturdy like a wall.
Your mother, who does not notice the tension, says, “I will send refreshments.”
Her idea of a refreshment now is a weight loss snack and drink until you have the fairytale wedding, in a gown that fits you like a glove—utterly unbreathable.
“You are marrying him.” This time, the words do not end in a question mark. They are a statement.
You flinch. You shake your head.
Damian’s question makes you teary-eyed.
Damian flinches, but that does not stop him from approaching you. You grab the blazer from your bed and shove it into Damian’s hands. You regret the action immediately because the garment has become a source of comfort for you over the past few days. Now, you are losing it.
If Damian notices that his blazer smells like you do today or how it looks slightly wrinkled, he does not mention it. Instead, he reaches out to tangle his fingers in your hair. “Do you desire this?”
His fingers descend to curl around your nape, making you look at him properly. You gasp as you see his eyes filled with tears. You loathe yourself. You are hurting the one person who truly matters.
Damian kisses your forehead. “Be happy, Rooh Qalbi.”
You close your eyes, and your hands curl in his shirt.
He kisses your forehead again.
Every decision has to be yours.
These words play in your mind as you sit at the long dining table. Your fiancé sits beside you. His parents are seated opposite you, and they look pleased. They are in deep conversation with your parents, who are just as pleased.
Your entire home is filled with congratulatory bouquets, gifts, and cards. Gotham’s high society is aware of this partnership. What is left is a front-page announcement in the newspaper, which will run next week. That will make things official. And that will commence a powerhouse of a familial alliance.
You stare at the ring that is in the jewelry box, placed between you and your fiancé. It is a pink diamond. Totally swoonworthy and beautiful. Your mother gushed over it, while your to-be mother-in-law said you are lucky that you have a partner who is not stingy. Your father and to-be father-in-law discussed how large yet classy-looking rings heighten a man's status in society.
It is a beautiful ring. You agree.
It is just not a ring you envision for yourself.
The man sitting beside you is not even the man you envision for yourself.
You are in a yellow sundress. Your hair is tied up in a soft white bow, and your fiancé laughed, saying how your hair needs Keratin treatment to look presentable in magazine photos whenever the wedding happens. It was a misguided attempt at humour.
You close your eyes for a brief second. What you envision is clear. A diamond ring. It is large, of course, but the design is classy and a bit more sleek in appearance. You imagine your best friend beside you, murmuring Rooh Qalbi in your ear. That wry smile that makes him even more handsome graces his face. You imagine the Waynes surrounding you. Their vigilante charm peeks through the classic Wayne charm, making the dinner even more enjoyable.
Every decision has to be yours.
This is your decision. But you are unhappy. You look at your parents, who do not even realize you are unhappy. You look at your fiancé, who will make you wear that pink diamond ring soon. You see the same life that played out with your parents and with you in this man.
You both will get married. You both will have a child. That child will be just like you. Unable to say no. Unable to make a decision that does not hurt. Unable to look at their parents and not wonder why they don’t give a damn.
You flinch. You do not even dare to be improper in your thoughts, and here you are, berating your parents like this…
But it feels refreshing. It feels honest. It feels good.
You lick your lips, an iota of freedom touching your soul and making you feel unbelievably delighted.
Every decision has to be yours.
You are her decision. You are her choice.
You will explain to him. If he still wants you, you will sink into his embrace and never let him go. The simplicity of this want takes you aback.
Damian is your choice. Not just because he is the boy you met years ago, not just because he is your best friend, but because you love him.
You stand up, hands and arms shaking.
Every decision has to be yours.
You are making your decision now.
“Sweetheart,” Your mother frowns. Her eyes show disapproval in the way you abruptly stood up. It is improper. She wants to say that, but you cannot care right now. “Do you need something?”
“I cannot proceed with this engagement,” You say.
You look at the man who was minutes away from becoming a fiancé. “I apologize.”
You run in your painful sandals, a yellow sundress that flails around when you move fast, and your diamond earrings that juggle around, bright and shiny. You are drenched from the rain that ensues the moment you exit your large residence. You are exhausted. Your parents are screaming.
Everything is a mess, but you are, for once, just happy.
When you reach Wayne Manor, you expect to be shunned. You expect Alfred to berate you from the entrance for breaking Damian’s heart. You expect his brothers to loathe you. You expect Bruce to be disgusted by the sight of you.
But you forget they are your family, too. You forget they consider you their family.
Alfred smiles at you warmly. “Miss, can I offer you a towel?”
“Yes, but not now.” You say. “I need to see Damian.”
Alfred looks like he wants to argue, but Jason and Tim stop him.
Bruce nods, staring at you. “He is on the balcony of one of the guest rooms.”
Again balconies? You shake your head fondly and run. When you find the room he is inside, you heave a sigh of relief.
For a second, you dread talking to him. How could you possibly fix this? But you have to do this, because you love him. So you move forward as stealthily as possible.
Damian is, as Bruce said, on the balcony, looking out at the view the manor offers. He holds an umbrella over his head, and he looks like he is seeking serenity from Gotham, which is a peculiar choice but one you understand perfectly.
You take a deep breath. “Dami.”
Damian turns around. He looks shocked. Then, his eyes roam all over you. He glares at you, and you take a small step back, wondering if he hates you. He would not be in the wrong if he did.
But then you realize that he is glaring at you for the way you are drenched. He stalks forward, covering you with the umbrella. He takes off the blazer that he definitely wore to Wayne Enterprises and puts it around your shoulders.
You want to cry from happiness. You missed being drowned in the fabric of his blazers.
“What are you doing?” Damian questions harshly. “How dare you put yourself in harm’s way like this? You will catch a cold!”
“I defied my parents today.” You share, and Damian instantly quiets.
He processes your words and opens his mouth, but you interrupt him. “But I still don’t know how to say no. Not to them, not to many others. I just know how to say yes. Except with you, of course, but that is different.”
“I was always trained that I have to study, get married to a man, and have kids,” You explain. “Study what upholds the family name. Get married to a man who furthers the family name's legacy. Have children like a proper woman would. You know all this, but I have to tell you, so you understand.”
Damian nods. “Rooh Qalbi, of course, I do under—“
“I don’t want you to be engulfed by my parents’ wants.”
“I assure you, I am not engulfed by anything other than the desire to see you happy.”
Your face scrunches in equal parts, in pain and happiness.
“I am happy with you, Dami. So happy.” You explain. “I just got scared, and I apologize for that.”
Damian shakes his head, but you continue, grabbing his hands. “I don’t know if chocolate is actually my favourite ice cream flavour. Mother always got that one for me.”
“I will bring you every ice cream flavour that exists. You will learn what you prefer, Noor Eini,” Damian promises.
You laugh softly. “I also do not know if I actually hate movies, or if it is because Father never let me watch any. He was always more keen on documentaries.”
“We will have a movie marathon, Beloved.”
Beloved. That is new, but you loved hearing it. You want more of it.
“I do not really like pink diamonds,” You blurt, and Damian smiles at you in the soft way he only reserves for you.
“Then, I shall only buy jewellery with diamonds.”
You laugh softly again, downcasting your eyes and tilting your head downwards.
Damian boldly tips your chin upwards as his fingers go under it. “Every demand you have will be fulfilled. Every desire you hold is of utmost importance. Everything you regard as a priority is a promise that I will satisfy.”
“Damian, I don’t know myself properly.” Your chin wobbles as you share. “All I know right now is that I am yours.”
Damian’s breath hitches, and you find it easier to speak. “I have to—I want to rewrite—everything I know about myself. Well, mostly, everything. I want to disregard that checklist I have known since I was a child. And I know all of this is tiresome. I know it sounds like you are holding a fraud, and that is tedious and loathso—“
Damian kisses you, effectively shutting you up.
Your hands curl into the fabric of his button-down, as his hands slot against your hips. The kiss is magnificent. It is everything, and everything you were unable to say pours into the kiss. You realize belatedly that Damian is also doing the same. The man who uses language with softness instead of a weapon for you decides to forego language for touch, and it is the single most divine action you have been at the receiving end of.
Damian moves back a little. You smile against his lips, letting out a sigh. Damian smiles back. His hand comes up to tuck a hair strand behind your ear. He whispers, “You are mine. I am yours. That is of paramount consideration.”
“You’re mine?” You question, a little dazed.
“Yes, Hayati.” He nods. “I will humble myself before you, as I am yours. If you must, you can break me if that is what you desire. Although I must admit, your engagement did almost threaten my composure. It called my sensibilities and sanity into question.”
“I want you to be happy. I want you with me,” You say. “I am sorry, Dami.”
Damian shakes his head. “I will humble myself before you. Not you. Never offer contrition to me or anyone, Hayati.”
You smile, kissing him again.
“Whatever choice you make, I shall remain by your side. Perpetually,” Damian murmurs.
“I love you. You have my heart, Dami.”
“I love you, too, Rooh Qalbi. You have everything that makes me.”
And those words hold a promise within them that Damian will forever honour.
