a god who knows your name - damian wayne
request lantern anon bruce, jason and damian with misa amane! reader
content damian wayne x misa amane inspired!reader, gn!reader, murder, serial killing, stalking, attempted kidnapping, attempted murder, threats of violence, obsessive behaviour, possessiveness, unhealthy attachment, yandere themes, codependency, moral ambiguity, manipulation, discussion of past assassination training, childhood violence, references to damian's abusive upbringing, references to torture and near-death experiences, death threats, criminal activity, abuse of supernatural power, discussion of justice and vigilantism, emotional dependency, fear of losing a partner, blood, injuries, weapons, non-graphic violence
dc masterlist | damian masterlist
word count 7.9k
Damian Wayne first met you with a knife at your throat. Not his knife. That distinction would bother him later. At the time, there were more immediate problems.
The alley was narrow even by Gotham standards, compressed between a condemned theatre and an apartment building whose fire escape had rusted into an architectural suggestion. Rainwater ran black down brick walls. Somewhere beyond them, the city breathed through sirens and engines and the distant mechanical groan of the elevated train.
Damian landed without a sound. Twenty-three years old, ten of them spent unlearning everything he had been taught about what made a person strong, and still there were nights when Gotham seemed determined to test the durability of his progress.
The man holding you had one arm around your waist. The other held a kitchen knife beneath your jaw. It was almost insulting. Damian had interrupted arms deals with more sophisticated weaponry.
“Take another step,” the man warned, “and I swear to God—”
“You should not make promises to entities whose existence you cannot prove.”
There was a pause. Damian closed his eyes briefly behind the domino mask. He had been spending too much time with Drake.
“Robin,” you whispered.
He looked at you. And that—That was the first mistake.
Later, he would remember absurd details. The rain shining on your eyelashes. The expensive coat you wore over what appeared to be some designer outfit worth more than the entire building beside you. The way one of your shoes was missing.
Your expression. Not frightened. Not exactly. You looked at Damian as though you had been waiting for him.
The man tightened his grip.
“You people never listen.”
Damian moved. The knife clattered against pavement before the man understood that his wrist had been broken. An elbow to the sternum. A hooked ankle behind the knee. The stalker hit the ground hard enough to lose breath but not consciousness. Damian had grown. There had been a time when that distinction would have disappointed him.
He secured the man’s wrists.
Behind him, you said, very quietly, “Damian Wayne.”
Every muscle in his body locked. Damian turned. You stood beneath the rain with one bare foot on filthy concrete, mascara beginning to smudge beneath one eye, staring at him with an expression of wonder.
Not suspicion. Not triumph. Wonder.
“How,” Damian said.
Your eyes widened. Then you smiled. It was bright enough to be obnoxious. “Lucky guess?”
“No.”
“Facial structure?”
“No.”
“You have very distinctive eyebrows.”
“Tt.”
“Oh my God.” Your smile widened. “You actually do that.”
Damian rose slowly. Behind him, the unconscious stalker groaned. “You know my identity.”
“Apparently.”
“How?”
You tilted your head. There was something strange about your eyes. For one second, Damian thought he saw red.
Not bloodshot. Not reflected neon. Something else. A flicker of colour. Then you blinked, and it was gone.
“I’m psychic.”
Damian stared at you. You stared back. Rain fell between you. “No, you are not.”
“Well.” You shrugged. “Worth trying.”
The police arrived seven minutes later. Damian vanished before they could see him. You watched the rooftop where he disappeared until your neck began to ache.
Then a voice beside you said, “You are making that face again.”
You jumped. The officer attempting to wrap a blanket around your shoulders looked concerned. “You all right?”
“Yes!” you chirped.
Your shinigami stood directly behind him. The creature was hideous. You told him this often. In return, he told you that human standards of beauty were idiotic and then asked to borrow your phone so he could watch videos of people falling down stairs. His name was Sile. Sile had skin like pale bark stretched over too many bones, an angular mouth, and enormous featherless wings which folded around his body like the remains of a funeral shroud.
His round eyes drifted toward the roof. “You saw his lifespan.”
You ignored him. The officer asked, “You have somewhere safe you can stay tonight?”
“Yes. Very safe. Horrifically expensive security system.”
Your manager was going to kill you. Actually, considering what had happened, your manager was going to cry first, then kill you.
You looked down at the man who had been following you for three months. Sending letters. Photographs. Messages detailing exactly how he believed the two of you belonged together. The irony almost made you laugh.
You had never understood obsession before. Not properly. People called so many things obsession. Fans collecting every magazine cover you appeared on. Photographers monitoring your social media activity. Strangers memorising your coffee order from interviews. Those things were not obsession. Obsession was looking at someone and feeling your entire existence reorganise itself around the fact that they were alive.
Obsession was a name written above a beautiful face. Damian Wayne. And a river of numbers spelling out the exact moment that face would cease to exist.
You had looked into his eyes and known, with perfect terrible clarity, There you are.
Sile leaned down until his skull-like face was beside yours.
“Oh,” he said. You continued smiling at the police officer. “Oh, no.”
“Shut up.”
The officer blinked. “Sorry?”
“Not you!” You laughed.
The officer looked increasingly worried.
Sile made a noise suspiciously like a sigh. “You are going to become unbearable.”
You watched the empty roof.
“I think,” you whispered, “I’m in love.”
“You have known him for ten minutes.”
“Eight.”
“That is worse.”
You smiled dreamily.
Sile had known you long enough to understand that expression. He looked down at the unconscious stalker. Then at you. “You are not allowed to write the vigilante’s name.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Why would I write Damian’s name?”
“I am establishing boundaries early.”
“Oh.” You smiled. “Don’t worry. I’d kill myself first.”
Sile groaned. “Unbearable,” he repeated.
The next morning, the stalker suffered a fatal heart attack while being transported from Gotham General to Blackgate Penitentiary.
Damian read the report three times. Then a fourth.
There was nothing unusual in the medical records. The man had been thirty-seven. No documented cardiac conditions. No drugs in his system. No obvious poisoning. A heart attack. It happened. People died. Bodies failed. Gotham had made coincidence look guilty before.
Still, Damian stared at the photograph attached to the report. Then he thought of red eyes. And a voice saying his name beneath the rain.
“Who’s that?”
Damian closed the file. Grayson leaned over the kitchen counter, stealing fruit from a bowl Alfred had arranged that morning. “No one.”
“Ouch. Guy dies and immediately loses personhood.”
“You know what I meant.”
“I know you’re staring at a dead guy’s photograph at seven in the morning.” Damian glared. Grayson bit into an apple. “You met someone.”
Damian went still.
Dick’s grin was immediate. “I knew it.”
“You know nothing.”
“Bruce told me you came back from patrol weird.”
“Father considers any behaviour he cannot immediately interpret to be strange.”
“Bruce knows strange.” Damian stood. Dick followed him with his eyes. “You changed the subject.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Damian began walking from the kitchen.
Dick called after him. “Are they cute?”
Damian stopped. He turned. Grayson’s smile became unbearable. “I hope you choke.”
“Super cute, then.”
You were on a billboard in the centre of Gotham. Damian discovered this three days later. He had stopped at an intersection while driving to Wayne Enterprises when he looked up and found your face thirty feet tall. You wore diamonds. Very little else. Your head was tilted, mouth parted, expression distant and dreamy beneath the slogan for a French luxury fragrance Damian had never heard of.
He nearly missed the light changing.
A car horn sounded behind him.
“Tt.” He drove on.
At Wayne Enterprises, your face appeared again. This time on a magazine left on a table in the executive lounge. GOTHAM’S GOLDEN DARLING: BEAUTY, BRAINS, AND BAD DECISIONS. Damian picked it up.
“You should read page forty-seven.”
He nearly threw the magazine.
Tim Drake stood behind him holding coffee.
Damian narrowed his eyes. “You deliberately approached silently.”
“Yeah.”
“You are a child.”
“Page forty-seven.”
“I have no interest in page forty-seven.”
“You’ve been holding the magazine upside down for thirty seconds.”
Damian looked down. The magazine was, in fact, upside down. He placed it carefully on the table.
Drake sipped his coffee. Damian hated every person he had ever known.
“What,” he said with tremendous dignity, “is on page forty-seven?”
Tim grinned.
The interview was ridiculous. You were asked about your skin-care routine. You told the interviewer it was mostly genetics and an unreasonable amount of water. You were asked what you wanted to do if you had not become a model. You said marine biology. Then theoretical mathematics. Then wedding planning. The interviewer had apparently laughed. You had not.
Halfway through the profile, however, the tone changed. The journalist mentioned that during a charity appearance six months earlier, you had noticed inconsistencies in the financial reports of the organisation hosting the event. You had reviewed publicly available tax documents, identified a network of shell corporations, and quietly handed your findings to federal investigators. Six arrests followed.
Damian read that section twice. At the bottom of the page was a photograph of you sitting on the floor backstage at a fashion show, surrounded by garment bags, apparently attempting to repair a broken heel with industrial glue. You had glitter on your cheek.
Damian closed the magazine.
Drake said, “So?”
“So what?”
“You’re curious.”
“No.”
“You read the article.”
“I read many articles.”
“You hate magazines.”
“I dislike poor journalism.”
“You smiled.”
Damian stood. “I am going to kill you.”
Tim took another sip of coffee. “Page fifty-two has their phone number.”
Damian froze.
Drake burst out laughing.
You met Damian Wayne officially at a charity gala six days after he saved your life. Officially. You had, of course, already known he would be there. You knew because Wayne Foundation sponsorship information was public, because his appearance schedule followed a discernible pattern despite the family’s efforts to appear spontaneous, and because two weeks of archived photographs had established that Damian attended approximately sixty-eight per cent of animal welfare events and only twenty-three per cent of arts fundraising events. You had charts.
Sile had called you deranged. You had called it research.
“You look ridiculous,” Sile said.
You smiled at your reflection. “You don’t understand fashion.”
“I watched you spend four hours selecting earrings.”
“Damian paints.” Sile stared at you. You adjusted one earring. “Artists are detail-oriented.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“He’ll notice.”
“You are frightening.”
“Thank you.”
The gala was raising money for a network of veterinary clinics in lower-income Gotham neighbourhoods.
Damian stood near the edge of the ballroom, looking as though he would personally fight the next person who attempted small talk. You adored him immediately.
Again. It was becoming a problem.
He was dressed in black, naturally. The cut of his suit made several people look at him when they believed he would not notice. Damian noticed everything. That was one of the first things you learned.
The second was that he disliked being touched unexpectedly. The third was that his resting expression suggested he had recently received disappointing news about the entire human species.
You loved that too.
You crossed the room. A waiter passed between you. Damian looked up. Saw you. And stopped listening to the elderly donor speaking to him.
It was only for a second. But you saw it. A lovely little hitch in his attention. You smiled.
Damian excused himself from the conversation. “You.”
You placed a hand over your chest. “Me.”
“You knew I would be here.”
“Yes.” He blinked. You smiled brightly. “I mean—no. Wow. What a crazy coincidence.”
“It is a publicly advertised Wayne Foundation event.”
“Right. So technically, anyone could know you would be here.”
“You donated two hundred thousand dollars yesterday.”
“That sounds like me.”
“To an organisation you had never previously supported.”
“I love animals.”
“You own no animals.”
“I have a sourdough starter.” Damian stared. “He’s very temperamental.”
“Bread is not a pet.”
“Tell that to Gerald.”
Damian’s mouth moved. Barely. It was not a smile. But it had considered becoming one.
Your heart nearly exploded.
“Would you like a drink?” you asked.
“No.”
“Dance?”
“No.”
“Marriage?”
His expression flattened. You laughed. Damian studied you. It was unnerving. Usually people saw exactly what you wanted them to see. The airy laugh. The pretty face. The expensive clothes. You liked beautiful things. You talked too quickly. You genuinely forgot where you left your phone at least six times a day. People took those truths and built an idiot out of them. It was useful. Damian Wayne looked at you like he was dismantling a bomb.
“I researched you,” he said.
Your smile broadened. “Aw.”
“That was not intended to charm you.”
“It did.”
“You discovered criminal financial activity through a charity’s public records.”
“Their accountant was terrible.”
“You speak four languages.”
“Five, sort of. My Italian pronunciation is tragic.”
“You completed university-level mathematics courses at sixteen.”
“I had insomnia.”
“You have cultivated an extensive public persona emphasising your supposed intellectual incompetence.”
Your smile slipped. Only slightly. Damian saw it.
You lowered your champagne. “You researched me a lot.”
“You knew my identity.”
That. Right. You glanced toward Sile. He was hanging upside down from a chandelier. Useless creature. You looked back at Damian. “Have you considered that you might just be really bad at having a secret identity?”
His face became thunderous. You laughed so loudly three people turned. Damian looked offended. Then, despite himself, amused.
You realised then that he was going to be difficult to love.
Not because he was cruel. Because he was careful. Careful with himself. Careful with others. Careful in the particular way of someone who had once confused violence with devotion and spent years separating the two. You saw it. And because you saw it, you knew immediately that you would have to be careful too. You wanted to cage every threat before it reached him. You wanted to stand between him and fate itself. You wanted to know every name that might someday cause him pain.
But you looked at Damian Wayne and understood, perhaps for the first time, that saving someone and possessing them were not the same thing. It was a disappointing revelation.
“So,” you said, “do you actually like animals, or is that part of the billionaire branding?”
The first time Damian voluntarily called you, it was to accuse you of murder. Romance had always looked different for you.
You answered on the second ring. “Hi, gorgeous.”
“Where are you?”
“Paris.”
A pause. “You are in Paris.”
“Fashion Week.”
“You attended a gala in Gotham last night.”
“Private jet.”
“You are destroying the environment.”
“Do you need something, or did you call to flirt?”
“I am not flirting.”
“Not with that attitude.”
Across the hotel room, Sile slowly covered his face. Damian continued as though you had not spoken. “Do you know a man named Thomas Bell?”
You went still. Sile lowered his hands.
Thomas Bell. Human trafficker. Money launderer. Owner of three nightclubs. Responsible, indirectly, for the disappearance of at least eleven people. Damian had been investigating him for weeks. Two nights ago, Bell had authorised a hit on Robin. Yesterday morning, Thomas Bell died of cardiac arrest.
“No,” you said lightly. Damian was silent. You examined your nails. One had chipped. Tragic. “Should I?”
“He attended a party you hosted eight months ago.”
“There were four hundred people there.”
“You were photographed speaking to him.”
“I speak to lots of people.”
“He died yesterday.”
“That’s awful.”
“You do not sound upset.”
“I didn’t know him.”
“You said that already.”
“Because it remains true?”
Damian breathed out. You could hear street noise on his end of the call. He was outside. You pictured him on a rooftop. Wind in his hair. Cape moving behind him. Your chest hurt.
“I know you are hiding something,” he said.
You smiled faintly. “I know.”
“I will discover what it is.”
“I know.”
“That does not concern you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Because you’re brilliant. Because there were few things more intoxicating than watching Damian Wayne’s mind work. Because some terrible part of you wanted him to find you out. You had spent years being underestimated. You had learned to hide every knife behind a smile. Damian saw the edges of you anyway.
“Maybe I like the attention.”
“This is serious.”
“So am I.” Another silence. Your smile faded. “Damian?”
“What?”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
You closed your eyes.
You had seen his lifespan the night you met. You knew, mathematically, that he would survive today. The eyes did not tell you how much pain existed between now and the end. Only the distance. You hated them for that.
“Good,” you whispered.
His voice changed. Not much. You had learned his smallest variations. “Why would I be?”
You opened your eyes. “Because Thomas Bell wanted you dead.”
Sile stood. You realised your mistake too late.
Damian’s voice became very quiet. “How did you know that?”
You hung up on him. Sile stared. You stared at the phone.
“Oh,” you said. “I may have messed up.”
“You?” Silas sideeyed.
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“The renowned genius?”
“Shut up.”
“Who can calculate international laundering networks from tax discrepancies?”
“I’m blocking you.”
“I do not own a telephone.”
“Then I’ll buy you one so I can block you.”
Sile looked toward the balcony. “You should leave.”
You looked at him. “What?”
“He will investigate.”
You smiled. “I know.”
“If he discovers the notebook—”
“He won’t.”
“You do not know that.” You did not answer. Sile crouched in front of you. For all his ugliness, he could occasionally look terribly ancient. “You care for him.”
You traced the edge of your phone. “Yes.”
“Then remember that humans fear death.”
“Everyone fears death.”
“No.” His huge eyes narrowed. “You fear losing him.” Your fingers stopped. Sile continued. “He fears becoming someone he used to be.”
You looked up. The words struck with surprising force. “You understand nothing about Damian.”
“I understand death. Better than you.” Sile’s wings shifted. “A weapon can look like salvation in the hands of someone you love.”
Damian came to your penthouse three nights later. Through the window. You were eating cereal. It was two in the morning. You looked up as Robin stepped silently into your living room.
“Damian!”
He removed his hood. “You should not be happy that I have broken into your home.”
“I gave security orders not to shoot you.”
His head snapped toward you. “You what?”
“Would you like cereal?”
“No.”
“I have leftover pasta.”
“I am not hungry.”
“You’re grumpy when you’re hungry.”
His expression was unbelievable. You adored him. Sile sat on top of the refrigerator, invisible to Damian.
“Do not be stupid,” he warned. You ignored him.
Damian approached the kitchen island. You wore silk pyjamas patterned with tiny cartoon strawberries. He looked at them. Then at you. You lifted one foot onto the stool. “Cute, right?”
“You know who I am. You know about Bell. You knew about the attempt on my life. And now Bell is dead.”
“Yes.”
Damian’s jaw tightened.
Sile whispered your name.
Damian looked at you. There it was. The frightening intelligence he usually kept hidden behind arrogance and temper.
People misunderstood Damian, too. They saw violence first. The sword. The sharp tongue. The lineage. They forgot that he was the son of two of the most frightening strategic minds alive. They forgot he had been trained not only to fight, but to observe.
“You knew Bell was planning to kill me,” he said. “You had no documented interaction with him after the party eight months ago. Yet he died less than twenty-four hours after the contract was issued.”
“Coincidence.”
“You were attacked by a stalker.”
You went very still. “Damian.”
“He died in custody.”
“I know.”
“Heart attack.”
Your hand tightened around the spoon. “Stop.”
“A photographer who leaked images of you changing backstage died last year. Cardiac arrest.”
“Damian.”
“A producer accused of assaulting models—”
“He did assault them.”
“—collapsed during dinner.”
“Good.”
The word cracked between you. Damian stopped. Your smile was gone.
“So that’s what this is?” you asked. “You’re upset that bad people are dead?”
“I am concerned that you may be responsible.”
“And if I am?”
Sile descended from the refrigerator. “Careful.”
Damian’s expression did not change. “Then I would need to understand how.”
You laughed. There was no humour in it. “That’s very Batman of you.”
“I am not my father.”
“No. You’re not.” Something flashed across his face. You regretted it immediately. “Damian—”
“No. Explain.”
“I can’t.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“Both.”
He stepped closer. “You believe you are protecting me.” Your heart stumbled. Damian saw that too. Damn him. “You have formed an attachment to me.”
“Attachment?”
“Yes.”
“That is such an ugly word.”
“It is an accurate one.”
“I’m in love with you.”
Damian closed his eyes. Sile muttered something in the shinigami language that was probably obscene.
You set down your spoon. “You know.”
“I suspected.”
“I told you I wanted to marry you.”
“I assumed you were joking.”
“Why?”
“Because sane people do not propose six minutes into their first formal conversation.”
“I didn’t say I was sane.”
“No,” Damian said. “You certainly did not.” You smiled weakly. He looked at you. “Did you kill Thomas Bell?”
Sile moved between you. Pointless. Damian could not see him.
The notebook was hidden somewhere Damian would never think to look. Not here. Not beneath your bed. Not in a safe. You were not an amateur.
“No,” you said. It was technically true. The Death Note killed Bell. You had only written the name.
Damian’s eyes narrowed. He knew. Not the method. But he knew you had found a crack in the question and slipped through it. “Do not kill for me.”
You laughed softly. “Little late.”
His expression changed.
Your stomach dropped. You had done it again.
Damian whispered your name.
You stood. “Leave.”
“No.”
“I said leave.”
“And I said no.”
Your breath caught. The city glittered beyond the windows. Sile stood beside you. Damian removed his mask. The gesture shocked you more than anything else could have.
“You think I do not understand,” he said. His green eyes were viciously bright. “You think I cannot comprehend the impulse.”
“That’s not—”
“I was raised by assassins. I was taught that killing was justice. That removing a life could be an expression of love, loyalty, honour.”
“I know.”
“No. You know facts.” The words cut. “You read about my life. Researched me. Built models and probabilities and whatever other absurd systems you use to understand the world.”
You said nothing.
Damian’s voice softened. “You do not understand what it cost me to learn differently.”
Your eyes burned. “Damian.”
“I will not allow you to make me the reason you become a monster.”
A tear fell before you could stop it. His face changed instantly.
You wiped it away angrily. “You think I’m a monster?”
“No.”
“That’s what you said.”
“It is not.”
“You basically—”
“I said I refuse to let you become one.”
“And what’s the difference?”
Damian stared at you. “The difference,” he said, “is that I believe you have a choice.”
You stopped breathing. Sile looked away. The bastard. You hated when the dead thing became emotional.
“I don’t want anyone to hurt you,” you whispered. "You almost died.”
“I have almost died many times.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
“I can stop it.”
“No. You cannot.”
“I can.” Damian stepped closer. You shook your head. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Because the notebook was power. Because it was corruption. Because if Damian touched it, he would see Sile. Because then he would know. Because then you would be vulnerable to him in a way you had never been vulnerable to anyone. Because he might look at you with horror. Because he might leave. The thought was unbearable.
Your voice broke. “What happens when you find out?”
Damian’s expression changed. “Find out what?”
“How bad I really am?” Silence. You laughed unsteadily. “There’s the genius model. There’s the stupid model. There’s the sweet one, the messy one, the annoying one. Everybody likes different versions.”
“You are speaking nonsense.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I kill people, Damian.” The sentence landed softly. A feather in a graveyard. Damian did not move. Neither did Sile. You continued because you had already ruined everything, and there was freedom in falling after the ledge disappeared. “I’ve killed a lot of people.”
Damian’s face emptied. “How?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
His nostrils flared. “You do not know?”
“I stopped counting.”
Damian turned away. That hurt more than anger would have. You clutched the kitchen island. “They were bad people.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Did they receive trials?”
“Some of them.”
“Did you investigate each accusation?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“I know.”
“Then stop treating me like I am!”
Damian spun back. “I am not!” His voice cracked through the apartment. “You are one of the most intelligent people I have ever met, which makes this worse.”
You stared at him. Damian’s chest rose and fell.
“You knew,” he said. “You understood exactly how easily a person could be falsely accused. How evidence could be manipulated. How systems could be corrupted. You understood every flaw, and still you appointed yourself judge.”
Your mouth trembled. “I was good at it.”
His anger disappeared. “Oh,” he said. You hated that. Hated the softness. Hated being understood. “You were praised for being useful,” Damian continued.
“Stop.”
“You discovered you were good at something terrible, and it made you feel necessary.”
“Stop.”
“So you kept doing it.”
“Stop!”
You threw the cereal bowl. It shattered against the wall. Sile’s wings opened. Damian did not flinch.
You covered your face. “You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Know me.”
His voice was quiet. “You know me.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because I love you.”
Silence. Then Damian said, “You are an idiot.”
You lowered your hands. “What?”
He looked furious. “You are an absolute idiot.”
“That’s really rude.”
“You believe your love entitles you to know every component of me, yet my caring for you does not grant me the right to understand you?”
Your brain stopped. “Your what?”
Damian froze. You stared. Sile’s eyes widened.
“Your what?”
“Tt.”
“Damian.”
“No.”
“You care about me?”
“This conversation is over.”
He reached for his mask. You lunged across the island. He caught you automatically when your sock slipped against the marble. Suddenly, you were against his chest. His hands were at your waist. Your face was inches from his.
Sile turned around. “I refuse to watch this.”
“Damian,” you whispered.
“You are infuriating.”
“You like me.”
“You are reckless.”
“You like me.”
“You have demonstrated a concerning willingness to commit homicide. Your psychological stability is questionable.”
“You like me.” His jaw tightened. Your smile trembled into existence. “You like me.”
Damian stared into your eyes. “I am beginning to reconsider it.”
You kissed him. It was, in hindsight, perhaps not the most mature response.
Damian made a sound of surprise. Then his hand came up behind your neck. And he kissed you back.
That was the problem. Damian Wayne did nothing halfway. Not fighting. Not arguing. Not learning to become better than the world that had made him. And apparently not kissing.
Your fingers twisted in the front of his uniform. He pulled you closer. For one incandescent second, nothing existed except him.
Then Damian broke away.
You followed his mouth. He pressed two fingers to your lips. “No.”
You blinked. “What?”
“We are not distracting ourselves from the conversation.”
“You kissed me.”
“You kissed me.”
“You kissed back.”
“That was an error.”
“You used tongue.” Damian’s face turned red. You gasped. “Oh my God.”
“Silence.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am going to leave.”
“Marry me.”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Third date?”
“We have not had a first date.”
“Sure, we have.”
“When?”
“The gala.”
“That was not a date.”
“Paris phone call?”
“Not a date.”
“This?”
“You confessed to multiple murders.”
“So memorable.”
Damian looked toward the ceiling as though asking every deity for strength. You smiled. Then his expression sobered. “This changes nothing.” Your smile faded. “I need to know how you are doing this.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I will investigate.”
“I know.”
“And if you kill someone because of me again—”
“What?”
He looked at you. “Do not.”
You pulled away. “I can’t promise that.”
“You can.”
“What if they’re going to kill you?”
“I deal with people attempting to kill me weekly.”
“Exactly.”
“That is not reassuring, is it?”
“No!” His mouth twitched. You pointed accusingly at him. “This isn’t funny.”
“No. It is not.”
“You could die.”
“So could you.” Your hand fell. Damian’s expression became terribly gentle. “I know you have seen something.” You froze. “Your eyes changed the night we met.” Damn him. “You knew my name immediately.” You said nothing. “You are too intelligent to believe yourself invincible, yet you behave as though you possess knowledge other people do not.”
You swallowed. “Damian.”
“You know something about death.”
Sile whispered, “He is very clever.”
You almost told him to shut up.
Damian noticed your eyes shift.
His head turned. He saw nothing.
Then looked back at you. “There is something here.”
Your blood ran cold.
Damian’s gaze sharpened. “You just looked at it.”
You stepped away. “Leave.”
“What is in this room?”
“Damian.”
“Is it a person?”
Sile began laughing.
You glared at him. Damian followed your line of sight perfectly. Straight to the invisible creature.
Sile stopped laughing.
“Oh,” he said. Damian reached into his belt. “Oh, I like him.”
“Sile, shut up.”
Damian went still.
You closed your eyes. Fantastic. Wonderful. You had ruined everything.
“Who,” Damian said slowly, “is Sile?”
It took Damian three weeks to find the Death Note.
You were impressed. Annoyed, terrified. But impressed.
You had divided pages from the main notebook and stored them separately. One page was sewn into the lining of a couture handbag currently locked in a vault in Switzerland. Another was laminated beneath the floor of your childhood bedroom. A third existed in a bank deposit box beneath a false identity.
The notebook itself? Hidden inside a hollow compartment in the backing board of a framed print in your apartment.
Damian found it because the picture was crooked. By three millimetres. You came home to find him standing in your bedroom with the black notebook in his gloved hands.
Sile stood beside him.
“Oh,” you said.
Damian looked up. Sile waved.
You dropped your bag.
Damian glanced at the shinigami. Then at you. “You were not exaggerating.”
Sile looked offended. “About what?”
“You’re ugly.”
Sile screamed.
You burst out laughing.
Sile pointed a claw at Damian. “I changed my mind. Kill him.”
Damian’s expression did not change. “Can he harm me?”
You stopped laughing. Sile did too.
Damian noticed. “Interesting.”
“Don’t.”
“Can he?”
“Sile would never.”
“I absolutely would.”
You turned. “Sile.”
“What?”
“Not helping.”
Damian looked between you. “You said he would die to protect you.”
You froze.
That had been months ago. An offhand statement.
He remembered. Damian always remembered.
Sile folded his wings. “There are rules.”
Damian’s fingers tightened around the notebook.
You stepped forward. “Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Damian.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand what you’re holding.”
“I have read it.”
Your face drained. “What?”
“All of it.”
“There are names—”
“Thousands.”
You looked away.
Damian’s voice hardened. “Thousands.”
“Not all mine.”
“But many.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You laughed bitterly. “You already know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Because I could.”
His expression tightened.
“Because I thought I was making things better.” You looked at him. “Because I thought bad people deserved to die and good people deserved to be safe.”
“You do not believe that now?”
You considered lying. Then decided he deserved better. “I don’t know.”
Damian glanced at the notebook. Then at Sile. “Can it be destroyed?”
“Yes,” Sile said.
“No,” you said simultaneously.
Damian raised an eyebrow.
You moved closer. “You can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s mine.”
“That is not sufficient.”
“It is to me.”
“You expect me to leave an object capable of mass murder in your possession?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to decide for me.”
“No,” he said. “I do not.”
Something about the easy agreement disarmed you.
Damian continued. “But I do decide whether I remain in your life.”
Your breath caught. “That’s manipulative.”
“It would be if I demanded you destroy it in exchange for my presence.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I am telling you the truth. I do not know whether I can love someone actively using this.”
Silence.
There it was.
Not care. Not attachment.
Love.
Your eyes burned. “You love me?”
Damian looked furious at himself.
You took another step. “Damian.”
“We are discussing the notebook.”
“You love me?”
“You are impossible.”
“Oh my God.” You covered your mouth.
Sile groaned. “Humans.”
Damian placed the notebook on the dresser.
You stared at him. “Say it again.”
“No.”
“You said it.”
“Within a hypothetical structure.”
“You love me hypothetically?”
“Stop smiling.”
“Make me.”
His glare could have killed weaker people. Unfortunately for Damian, you were thriving.
Then he said, very quietly, “I do.”
Your smile vanished.
Damian stood in your bedroom. The notebook between you. A god of death beside him. And looked more frightened than he ever had in combat.
“I do love you.” Your heart broke open. “It has been,” he continued stiffly, “an extremely unpleasant realisation.”
You made a wounded noise.
“You have no sensible survival instincts.”
“Rude.”
“You attempted to pet a hyena.”
“She looked friendly.”
“She was actively eating someone’s shoe.”
“He wasn’t using it anymore.”
“You leave clothing everywhere.”
“I’m creative.”
“You purchased an alpaca because you were sad.”
“Delilah helped.”
“You named your sourdough starter Gerald.”
“You remembered!”
“Of course I remembered.”
The room went quiet.
Damian looked at you. “I remember everything about you.”
Your throat tightened.
He continued more softly. “You are the brightest person I know.”
You blinked rapidly. “Bright?”
“Not intelligent.”
“Wow.”
“Do not interrupt.”
You mimed zipping your lips.
Damian exhaled. “You are intelligent, obviously. Disturbingly so.”
You smiled behind your hand.
“But I meant…” He struggled.
Damian hated verbal vulnerability.
You had learned not to rescue him from it. To let him search. To let him choose his own words.
“You enter a room,” he said, “and people look.”
“I’m a model.”
“That is not why.” You went quiet. “You are loud. Irritating. Excessive.”
“Are you sure this is a love confession?”
“And warm.”
Your smile faded.
Damian looked almost angry at the softness in his own voice. “You are warm in ways I did not know a person could be.”
Your eyes filled.
“You make strangers feel as though they have been invited somewhere.”
A tear fell.
Damian stepped closer. “You make me feel…”
His hand rose. Thumb brushing the tear from your cheek.
“…as though there might be parts of the world I have not yet learned to enjoy.”
You broke.
Completely.
You threw yourself at him.
Damian caught you. He always did.
You buried your face against his shoulder. “I love you.”
“I know.”
“I love you so much.”
“Yes.”
“I would kill everyone on Earth for you.”
He pushed you back by the shoulders. “No.”
You sniffed. “Bad timing?”
“Terrible.”
“Sorry.”
His eyes closed.
You smiled through tears. “Damian?”
“What?”
“I’m trying.”
He opened his eyes. “I know.”
“I don’t know how to be normal about you.”
“I have noticed.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
You glanced at the Death Note. “I don’t know if I can destroy it.”
Damian’s face became unreadable.
“But,” you continued, “I can stop.”
Sile’s head tilted.
Damian did not speak.
You wiped your face. “I can try to stop using it.”
“Try?”
“I’m being honest.”
He stared. You stared back.
“Say something.”
“I am considering.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It should.”
“Are you going to arrest me?”
“I do not think there is a criminal statute addressing supernatural notebooks operated through written names and facial recognition.”
You brightened. “Legal loophole.”
“That was not enthusiasm.”
“Sorry.”
Damian picked up the notebook. Your body tensed.
He held it out.
You stared. “You’re giving it back?”
“I am.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightened. “Because you are correct. This is your choice.”
Slowly, you took it.
The moment the notebook left his hand, Sile vanished from his sight.
Damian looked toward the place the creature had been. Then at you.
“I hate that.”
“What?”
“Not seeing him.”
“He’s making faces at you.”
“I assumed.”
“He says your hair looks stupid.”
Damian narrowed his eyes at empty space.
Sile began laughing.
You hugged the notebook to your chest. “Do you trust me?”
“No.”
You gasped.
Damian continued before you could become properly offended. “But I believe you can become someone I trust with this.”
Your chest hurt.
He touched your face. “Do not make me regret believing in you.”
You leaned into his hand. “I’ll try.”
“I hate that answer.”
“I know.”
“It is honest.”
“I know.”
You smiled.
He kissed your forehead. “And you are not to kill anyone who irritates me.”
“That’s so broad.”
“No killing.”
“What about Joker?”
“Especially not—”
“Damian.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“He hit you with a crowbar last month.”
“And I dealt with it.”
“You had ten stitches.”
“No.”
“Fine.”
“Promise.”
You looked toward Sile. Sile shrugged.
You looked back at Damian. “I promise not to kill anyone solely because they irritate you.”
Damian stared. “That wording is suspicious.”
“You’re suspicious.”
“I know you.”
You smiled. “Yeah.”
His fingers threaded through yours.
“Yes,” Damian said. “I do.”
Falling in love did not make Damian less suspicious. It made him worse.
You had assumed dating a vigilante would involve dramatic rooftop kisses and mysterious disappearances. It did. But it also involved Damian inspecting your breakfast.
“Is that all you are eating?”
You looked down at the strawberry on your plate. “There are six almonds.”
“That is not breakfast.”
“I have a fitting.”
“You have organs.”
“Unfortunately.”
Damian placed a bowl of oats in front of you.
You stared. He stared back.
“You’re very controlling.”
“Eat.”
You smiled dreamily. “You’re so attractive.”
“Eat.”
Sile, sitting on top of the kitchen cabinets, gagged.
Your relationship grew in strange increments.
Damian began attending fashion shows. He pretended to hate them. You caught him criticising garment construction twice.
He brought you to the zoo after hours.
You spent forty minutes watching bats. He spent forty minutes watching you.
You did not tell him you noticed.
You met the family.
Dick hugged you immediately.
Jason eyed you across the dinner table and said, “You’ve got crazy eyes.”
You gasped. “Thank you.”
Jason stared. Then looked at Damian. “Oh, you’re screwed.”
Tim liked you until you solved one of his cold cases before dessert. After that, he alternated between intellectual respect and personal betrayal.
“You saw that in ten minutes?”
“The harbour records were wrong.”
“I checked the harbour records.”
“Poorly.”
Damian smiled into his tea.
Tim pointed. “Stop looking proud.”
“I did nothing.”
“You brought them here.”
“You are simply upset because my partner is smarter than you.”
“Partner?” you repeated dreamily.
Damian immediately looked uncomfortable.
Jason kicked you beneath the table. “Don’t scare him off.”
“I have never been scared in my life,” Damian said.
A crash sounded from the cave below.
Everyone around the table stood instantly.
Bruce sighed. “Stay here.”
They vanished.
You sat alone. Sile appeared beside Alfred.
“He can see me,” Sile said.
You almost choked.
Alfred looked directly at the shinigami. “I presume you take tea without milk.”
Sile stared. You stared.
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Am I mistaken?”
That was the day you became convinced Alfred Pennyworth might be God. You never received confirmation.
You did stop killing. Mostly.
It was difficult. Not because you craved death. Because power was a habit. Knowing that cruelty could be erased with a pen stroke made restraint feel like complicity.
Damian understood this more than he wanted to. That was the strangest mercy between you. He never treated you as innocent. Never romanticised what you had done. Never called the victims meaningless simply because some had been terrible people.
But he understood.
There were nights when you woke beside him and found him staring at the ceiling. On those nights, you knew he was thinking about the version of himself who had once believed killing was simple too.
Neither of you apologised for existing.
You simply held his hand. He held yours back.
One night, after six months without using the notebook, someone discovered Damian’s identity.
You knew before he did.
The man was called Victor Raines.
Private military contractor. Mercenary. Fourteen confirmed kills. Many more suspected.
He had obtained evidence connecting Damian Wayne and Robin.
His plan was uncomplicated.
Kidnap you. Draw Damian into a controlled location. Kill him.
It was, frankly, insulting.
You sat in your dressing room while hair stylists and makeup artists moved around you.
Sile stood behind your chair.
“He dies in twelve years,” you whispered.
“What?”
“Raines.”
Sile’s gaze moved to the television. A photograph of the contractor filled the screen beneath a news report about security consulting. “You could wait.”
“He is going to hurt Damian tonight.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he sent me a location.”
Your phone sat on the table. One message.
COME ALONE OR ROBIN DIES.
Sile stared. “He does not have Robin.”
“Not yet.”
“You should call Damian.”
“He’ll stop me.”
“Yes.”
You reached for your handbag.
Sile’s voice sharpened. “No.”
You stopped.
The room around you remained busy.
No one noticed the death god standing behind you. No one saw the war inside your chest.
“Move.”
“You promised.”
“I promised to try.”
“You have tried.”
“Sile.”
“He loves you.”
“That’s why I have to.”
“No. That is why you do not.”
Your eyes burned red.
Sile crouched beside you. “He asked you not to make his life the justification for death.”
“He could die.”
“You have seen his lifespan.”
“Lifespans can change.”
The shinigami went silent.
You knew the rules.
Death Notes altered causality. Shinigami interference altered causality.
Love altered nothing. And yet it made everything unbearable.
“I can’t lose him.”
Sile’s expression softened. “I know.”
Your hand shook. “Give me the notebook.”
“No.”
“Sile.”
“You are not its owner.”
“You gave it to me.”
“And now I regret it.”
You looked at him.
Sile had loved you before Damian.
Not romantically. Not in any human way.
But he had followed you for years. He had watched you sleep. Watched you laugh. Watched you become something brilliant and dangerous.
A shinigami who would die for you. Perhaps that was why he understood Damian better than you expected.
“You’d kill Damian if it saved me,” you whispered. Sile said nothing. “You would.”
“Yes.”
“Then how are you different?”
“I am not.”
The answer silenced you.
Sile’s great wings shifted. “That is why I am telling you not to become like me.”
Your eyes filled.
He smiled. It was hideous. You loved him.
“I hate when you’re wise.”
“So do I.”
You picked up your phone. Called Damian.
He answered immediately. “What happened?”
No greeting. Of course.
You laughed shakily. “Hi, handsome.”
“Tell me.”
“There’s a man.”
“Did someone touch you?”
The speed of it almost made you laugh again. “No.”
“Threaten you?”
“Sort of.”
“Name.”
You smiled through tears. “See, that’s exactly why I’m calling you.”
Damian arrived at the location twenty-two minutes later. Not alone.
You had not gone either. Growth was disgusting. You hated it. You remained in the Cave while the family took Raines down.
You paced.
Sile watched. “You will wear a hole into the floor.”
“I’m stressed.”
“Eat an apple.”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“Damian is fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I can see his lifespan.”
Your head snapped up. Sile smiled.
“You ass.”
“I learned from you.”
Two hours later, Damian returned. He still wore the Robin uniform. There was blood on his mouth.
Your heart stopped.
Then you ran.
Damian caught you hard enough to lift your feet from the floor.
You clung to him. “You’re okay.”
“Yes.”
“You’re okay.”
“I told you I would be.”
“You didn’t actually.”
“I thought it.”
“That doesn’t count.”
His hand pressed against the back of your head.
You breathed him in.
Leather. Rain. Blood. Home.
Damian pulled back. His green eyes searched yours. “You did not use it.”
“No.”
Pride moved across his face.
Quiet. Careful. More valuable than worship.
“No,” you repeated. “I called you.”
“You did.”
“I trusted you.”
He kissed you.
Slowly. Nothing desperate in it.
No fear. No death. Just Damian.
When he pulled away, you rested your forehead against his. “Are you proud of me?”
“Yes.”
You smiled. “Say it properly.”
His expression flattened. “Do not ruin this.”
“Damian.”
He sighed. Then touched your cheek.
“I am proud of you.”
Your smile became enormous. “I’m going to cry.”
“You cry frequently.”
“You’re so mean.”
“You adore me.”
“I do.”
His face softened. “I know.”
You hesitated. “Damian?”
“Yes?”
“I still have a page hidden somewhere you’ll never find.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why would you tell me that?”
“Honesty.”
“You are impossible.”
“I’m growing.”
“You are doing so in the most irritating manner imaginable.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck. “But I am growing.”
Damian looked at you.
The model. The murderer. The genius. The idiot. The person who had once looked at death and mistaken power for justice. The person who loved him far too much and, somehow, was learning that love sometimes meant putting down the weapon.
“Yes,” he said softly.
“You are.”
You kissed his cheek. “Still want to marry you.”
“No.”
“Next year?”
“No.”
“Five years?”
“Stop.”
“You know I’m going to ask every month.”
“I am aware.”
“Every week?”
“I will leave.”
“You’d miss me.”
“I would enjoy the silence.”
“Liar.”
Damian’s mouth curved.
A real smile.
Small. Rare. Yours.
You looked at it and felt the familiar terrible devotion rise in your chest. The desire to tear the world apart and rebuild it safely around him.
That part of you had not disappeared. Perhaps it never would.
Damian knew that. He loved you with his eyes open.
That was the terrible thing. That was the beautiful thing.
He had not saved you by making you harmless. You had not loved him by making him untouchable.
Instead, day by day, you learned the harder miracle: To choose. To be chosen. To have the power to destroy and reach for his hand instead.
Sile hovered behind Damian and pretended to gag.
You smiled.
Damian narrowed his eyes. “What is he doing?”
“Nothing.”
“He is mocking me.”
“He would never.”
“I know you are lying.”
“Pretty privilege.”
“That is not how lying works.”
“It’s worked so far.”
“Not on me.”
No. Never on him.
You loved him for that too.
