Who said the Waynes were cold ?
Pairing: damian wayne (Al Ghul) x girly!crush!reader
Synopsis: Damian Wayne, son of Batman, grandson of Ra's al Ghul, capable of neutralizing a threat in thirty seconds flat, is completely, irrevocably incapable of speaking to the girl he loves. The solution: an anonymous note slipped into a locker. Dick Grayson finds it hilarious. Damian doesn't.
Warnings: Lots of helpful comments from Dick !
divider from @pixopix
Damian didn't write letters.
It wasn't in his nature. He was Bruce Wayne's son and Ra's al Ghul's grandson; he'd been trained to neutralize threats, not to scribble his feelings on paper. Emotions were information. You analyzed them, you controlled them, you moved on.
That's what he told himself.
It had started in September. And it had never really stopped.
You'd walked into his literature class with that designer handbag clutched to your chest, your hair styled with a quiet precision that made it seem effortless, and you smelled floral with a hint of fruitiness. He'd noticed it unintentionally and hadn't forgiven himself for a week.
Then he'd started noticing the rest. Your always-perfect manicure. Your pocket mirror that you pulled out between classes. Your lip gloss reapplied before every break. The small bottle of perfume you discreetly applied to your wrist, like others checked their phones.
And then there was the group project. You set your purse aside and dismantled the central argument of the text you'd studied in two sentences, with the quiet ease of someone who has nothing to prove to anyone.
Damian looked away.
It didn't help.
He accepted the fact that he had a problem.
Then he opened his notebook, tore out a sheet of paper, and wrote:
"I'm not one for declarations..."
He stopped. Looked at the paper. Almost crumpled it.
He didn't.
Valentine's Day was in five days. If someone else slipped a note into your locker before him, he wouldn't forgive himself.
He picked up his pen again.
You were the kind of girl who never went out unprepared.
Not prepared in the sense of being dressed up. Prepared in the sense of being impeccable. There was a difference, and you knew it better than anyone. Your powder pink handbag with a small gold chain always contained the same things: your pocket mirror, your travel-size perfume, your lip gloss, your spare lipstick, and a nail file because a chipped nail was out of the question. Your makeup was done carefully every morning, not overdone, just perfect. Mascara, evened complexion, rosy lips. You didn't go out without smelling good. It was a rule.
People who didn't know you tended to stop at the surface. The pink, the meticulous preparation, the always-fresh manicure. They were wrong, but you didn't waste your time correcting them. You knew who you were.
And apparently, someone else was starting to figure it out too.
~~~
Valentine's Day was in five days, and you adored it, no irony, no hesitation. You loved red, pink, hearts everywhere, boxes of chocolates, romantic movies. You'd already planned your day: you wrapped in your blanket surrounded by scented candles, watching a marathon of romantic comedies that would make you realize just how single and sad you really are... All while eating an unreasonable amount of chocolate, of course.
That morning, you opened your locker, and a little note fell to the floor.
You picked it up, your brows slightly furrowed. Your name was written on it, in neat, very careful handwriting, almost too controlled. You looked around. Everyone was busy with their own things.
You slipped the note into your purse and headed towards the cafeteria.
Seated at your usual table, you took out the note.
"I'm not one for declarations. Words spoken are unnecessarily complicated. In writing, it's different. So here goes: you're remarkably beautiful and, contrary to what people might think, you're not as superficial as you're made out to be. You're intelligent, even if you seem to not care. Your smile is annoying...in a good way. I can't get rid of it. I hope you don't find that strange. I'd like you to reply, if you're willing." D.
You blushed. Discreetly, you usually kept an eye on things, but still. "Annoying in a good way." Who wrote that? And that handwriting, neat and elegant, you felt like you'd seen it somewhere before.
Liam appeared at your table and sat down opposite you, his tray placed with the energy of someone who'd already noticed something was up.
"What is it?"
You wordlessly handed her the note. She read it, raising an eyebrow.
"It's weird." She paused. "But cute, in its own way."
"That's exactly what I was thinking."
"Are you going to reply?"
"I don't even know how. I don't know his locker, nothing."
"Leave yours slightly open with a note sticking out." She shrugged. "Do it before the first class tomorrow."
You looked at her, stars in your eyes. "You're a genius."
You discreetly pulled out your pocket mirror to check that the blush hadn't ruined your foundation. It hadn't. You closed it, took out your notebook, and started writing your reply.
~~~
Across the cafeteria, Damian Wayne ate half his lunch without tasting anything.
He'd watched you read. He'd seen something cross your face, subtle, controlled, but there nonetheless.
And now you were writing your reply.
It wasn't supposed to happen so soon. He had no plan for the next step.
He picked up his tray and went back to Wayne Manor with something that looked dangerously like nervousness.
Dick Grayson was sprawled on the living room couch when Damian walked in the door, glancing up from his phone with the unusually sharp social radar of someone who'd grown up in a circus.
"You look weird."
"Eat."
"You're not bringing any food." Dick sat up. "What's going on?"
Damian put down his bag, hesitated for a split second, which, coming from him, amounted to a major display of hesitation, and got the point out in three sentences. The note. Your reaction. The fact that you were going to reply.
Dick stared at him silently for exactly two seconds.
Then he smiled the kind of smile Damian cordially loathed.
"You wrote him an anonymous note."
"Yes."
"You. Damian Wayne. A secret admirer's note." Dick paused. "The guy who refused to do an oral presentation in tenth grade because it was a waste of time."
"It was."
"To a girl who doesn't even know you exist."
"She knows I exist."
"Oh yeah?" Dick crossed his arms. "Has she ever spoken to you outside of group projects?"
Damian didn't answer.
Dick smiled even wider. "You're so in love."
Damian pulled away. "I'm going to my room."
"Wait. Does she know it's you?"
"No. And it's not the right time yet."
"So what's the plan?"
Damian stopped on the stairs. "I haven't finalized this part yet."
Dick crossed his arms. "Do you want my help or not?"
"No."
"Dami."
"No."
He disappeared upstairs. Dick sat back down on the sofa with the smile of someone who was going to help anyway.
~~~
The next morning, Damian walked past your locker under the pretext of going to the restroom.
A note was sticking out. On pale pink paper, neatly folded, the edges perfectly aligned.
Of course.
He picked it up, slipped it into his inside jacket pocket, and waited for his break to read it.
"Thank you, whoever you are. To answer your question: no, it's neither weird nor scary. It's a little formal, 'contrary to what one might think'? Really? But mostly, it's lovely. I don't understand why you don't speak to me directly. I assure you, I don't bite. Who are you?" ♡
He turned the note over. In the corner, a small gold star sticker. And the paper smelled of your cologne.
Damian stared at the note for a long moment.
Then, for the first time in weeks, something vaguely resembling a smile crossed his face.
He took out a piece of paper and began to write.
~~~
That evening at Wayne Manor, Dick was waiting for him in the hallway.
"So?"
"She replied."
"And?"
"She thought the first word was condescending."
Dick winced. "Ouch."
"I apologized in the second."
Dick looked at him. "You apologized. Spontaneously."
"It was a tactical error."
"Damian." Dick took a deep breath. "Girls don't call it a tactical error. They call it being adorable."
Damian didn't reply, which meant he was taking it in.
"Did she forgive you?"
"She said it was sweet." A pause. "The note smelled of her perfume."
Dick opened his mouth. Closed it again. "You're completely lost."
~~~
In the following days, a routine settled in. Every morning, Damian dropped off a note. Every noon, he collected your reply, always on neatly folded paper, sometimes with a small sticker in the corner. And always that scent.
He had started keeping them.
He wouldn't have admitted it to anyone.
In the evening, Dick received the report.
"Did she put you on the list of suspects?"
"Yes."
"With whom?"
"Dylan. Dorian. David." A pause. "And she mentioned me as a possibility."
Dick burst out laughing. "She thinks it's you without knowing it."
"It's just one possibility among others for her."
"Dami." Dick leaned forward. "When are you going to tell her?"
"After school. On Valentine's Day."
"Good. Simple. Effective." Dick nodded. Then, "Do you need..help with what you're going to say?"
"No."
"Because, honestly, face to face, you're going to be able to say more than three words?"
"Good night, Dick."
~~~
On Valentine's Day, at noon, not a single word fell from your locker.
You closed the door. Disappointment settled in, cold and clear.
Liam joined you in the hallway and read your expression before you even opened your mouth.
"No word?"
"No word."
"If he backs out now, he's not worth it."
You didn't reply. You didn't really believe him.
In gym class, sitting in the bleachers, you couldn't stop thinking. David. No, Dorian. No, maybe Dylan. You'd taken out your pocket mirror, an automatic gesture when you were nervous, and checked your lipstick without really seeing him.
"It must be Dylan," you muttered. "He's the only one left who's really there."
"Then go ask him."
The voice came from behind you. Clear. Direct. Slightly more strained than usual.
You turned around.
Damian Wayne was looking at you, his jaw slightly clenched, his green eyes absolutely fixed on you. He was sitting two rows behind you, his notebook closed on his lap, and he looked like someone who had just jumped off a bridge and was waiting for the impact.
"It was me," he said. "I'm the one who's been writing to you all week. I wanted to tell you after class. This isn't... this isn't how I planned to do it."
Your jaw dropped slightly. You closed your pocket mirror.
"You?"
"Yes."
"Damian Wayne."
"That's my name."
"You're the one who wrote that my smile was annoying."
"In a good way. It was specific."
"You've never spoken to me," you said. "Outside of group projects."
"I know." He crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. "You're making things difficult for me."
You blushed involuntarily. *You're making things difficult for me. Which never happens.*
"What about Valentine's Day?" you whispered. "You asked me what I was doing."
His gaze didn't waver an inch. "I was asking if you were free."
"And if I am?"
A pause. Then something relaxed, ever so slightly, in Damian Wayne's expression.
"So I'm inviting you to a contemporary art exhibition."
"And a visit to an amazing ice cream parlor?"
A second of silence. "That can be arranged."
You smile, that annoying smile in the best possible way, and reapply your lipstick, which you'd unconsciously been holding.
"Absolutely."
Damian looked away for half a second, which, coming from him, was exactly the equivalent of blushing.
In the stands, Liam watched the scene with the look of someone witnessing something historic.
~~~
That evening at Wayne Manor, Damian came home to find Dick in the entryway, arms crossed, looking like he already knew.
"So?"
"We're going to an art exhibition this weekend."
Dick raised both fists in the air.
"Richard..."
"Sorry." He became serious again. Almost. "Was she happy?"
Damian stopped at the foot of the stairs.
"She smiled."
Dick smiled too. "Yes. That's all it takes."
Part2:
~~~
If you enjoyed this and would like to read more, or if you simply appreciate my writing style, please feel free to share your suggestions (I love many universes: Marvel, DC, various anime...)! And never let anyone define you, because no one knows you better than yourself. ♡
