plot ! while a quiet evening at dick's apartment, an unexpected defensive reflex reveals a painful truth about your past relationship. tw past abusive relationship
You sat on the plush leather couch, your hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea. Dick had stepped into the kitchen to grab a dish towel after spilling a few drops of water on the counter, classic Dick, always moving a little too fast, always full of boundless, energetic grace.
You two were still in those early, tender stages where every shared smile felt momentous, and every casual touch left a lingering warmth. It was exciting, but for you, it was also terrifying. Behind your quiet presence was a heavy history you hadn't shared with him yet, a past defined by a partner whose unpredictable temper taught you to walk on eggshells, constantly measuring your words, your posture, and your breaths to avoid a blowup.
Dick walked back into the living room, a soft, easy smile tugging at his lips. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and he wore a soft gray sweatshirt that made him look less like a seasoned vigilante and more like the incredibly warm, attentive guy he was at his core.
"Alright, crisis averted" he said lightheartedly, slinging the dish towel over his shoulder as he approached the couch. "Note to self: don't try to pour tea while answering a text from Tim"
He chuckled and reached out casually to gently nudge your shoulder, intending to sit down right beside you and pull you into a relaxed half hug.
It wasn't a sudden or aggressive movement, it was meant to be purely affectionate. But your mind, wired by months of conditioned fear, didn't register the warmth in his eyes.
It only registered a hand moving quickly toward you.
In an instant, your body reacted before your brain could catch up.
Your shoulders slammed up toward your ears. You sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, squeezing your eyes shut as you cowered backward into the cushions, pulling your arms up to shield your face and chest. The tea in your mug sloshed violently against the rim, splashing hot liquid onto your fingers, but you barely felt it. You were completely braced for an impact that wasn't coming.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Dick stopped mid stride.
His hand froze in the air, mere inches from where you had been sitting.
For a fraction of a second, confusion flickered across his features, but it was instantly replaced by something profound and sharp. His sharp detective instincts, the ones trained by years of reading body language in the dark, decoded the scene instantly. The intense physical recoil, the defensive posture, the sheer terror in your sudden tension.
He didn't see a silly mistake, he saw a survival instinct.
Dick’s heart sank, a heavy, cold weight settling in his chest. But he didn't panic, and he didn't make a loud, dramatic fuss that might frighten you further.
Instead, he immediately lowered his hand, dropping his hands entirely to his sides. He took two deliberate, slow steps backward, giving you immediate physical space.
"Hey..." Dick’s voice came soft, low, and entirely devoid of sharp edges. It was a calm, grounding pitch, rich with gentle warmth. "Hey, it's okay. You're completely safe. I'm right here, and I'm stepping back."
Hearing his voice, so steady, so entirely lacking in anger, gradually pulled you back into the present.
You slowly lowered your arms, your pulse racing in your throat. You looked up at him through defensive, wide eyes, half expecting to see annoyance or confusion on his face.
Instead, you found Dick standing a couple of feet away, his hands resting visibly in his pockets to show he wasn't reaching for anything. His blue eyes were filled with an unbearable tenderness and a quiet, sorrowful understanding.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice trembling as the realization of what you'd just done set in. Embarrassment flooded your chest. "I'm so sorry, Dick, I just-I thought—"
"Shh, no, don't apologize. Please," Dick cut in gently, his expression softening even further. He lowered himself down onto the coffee table opposite you, keeping a respectful distance so he wasn't standing over you, lowering his eye level to meet yours. "You have nothing to apologize for. Absolutely nothing."
He looked at the tea trembling in your hands and offered a tiny, reassuring smile. "May I take your cup for a second so you don't burn yourself?"
You nodded faintly. Dick reached out with slow, very telegraphed movements, taking the mug carefully from your hands and placing it on the table beside him.
Once your hands were free, Dick didn't rush to hold them. He rested his elbows on his knees, staying entirely within your line of sight. He gave you time to breathe, waiting until the visible shaking in your shoulders began to quiet down.
"You flinched," Dick said quietly, not as an accusation, but as a gentle acknowledgment of the truth hanging between you. He kept his tone completely neutral, free of judgment. "And you braced yourself."
You swallowed hard, looking down at your lap, unable to meet his eyes. "I... I didn't mean to. It's just...an old habi."
"A habit from someone who gave you a reason to expect that" Dick filled in softly. The realization hit him with a quiet, burning anger toward whoever had hurt you, but he buried that anger deep down, now was not the time for it. Right now, all that mattered was making sure you felt secure.
You bit your lip, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "My ex... things got really bad near the end. It was... unexpected sometimes. Loud and sudden..." You took a shaky breath. "I thought I was past it. I didn't mean to react like you were going to..."
"Hey, look at me," Dick begged gently.
You slowly lifted your gaze to meet his.
Dick’s eyes were bright, clear, and intensely honest. "I am so, so sorry you ever had to go through that" he said, his voice thick with genuine emotion. "No one should ever make you feel like you have to defend yourself in your own home. Or anywhere else"
He paused, making sure you absorbed every word before continuing.
"I need you to know something" Dick said, his voice dropping into a solemn, absolute promise. "I will never raise my hand to you. I will never raise my voice to hurt you. You are safe with me. Always. And..no matter how mad, stressed, or tired I ever get, you will never have to protect yourself from me"
The absolute conviction in his voice made something inside your chest unlock. The heavy, suffocating knot of tension you’d been carrying for months began to break apart.
"Can I hold your hand?" Dick asked softly, offering his open palm halfway across the gap between you, leaving the final distance entirely up to you.
You looked at his hand, calloused from training, warm, and entirely steady. Slowly, you reached out and slid your fingers into his.
Dick didn't grip tightly, he wrapped his long fingers around yours with unbelievable softness, bringing your hand up to his lips to press a light, lingering kiss to your knuckles. He held your hand against his cheek for a moment, letting you feel the warmth of his skin.
"We take things completely at your pace" Dick whispered, moving off the coffee table to kneel on the floor right beside the couch, sitting on his heels so he was still positioned lower than you. "If I move too fast, if I do something that makes you uncomfortable, you just tell me. You don't ever have to hide how you feel around me"
A tear finally slipped down your cheek, but this time it wasn't from fear, it was from the overwhelming relief of being truly seen, understood, and handled with care.
Dick noticed the tear immediately.
He gave you a bright, crooked little smile, that classic, irrepressible Dick Grayson warmth that could light up the darkest room.
"Besides," Dick added softly, a light spark of playful humor returning to his eyes to break the heavy atmosphere, "you're looking at a guy who spends half his life dodging bad guys. I'd say I'm pretty good at making sure no one gets hurt under my watch, especially not you."
You let out a soft, watery laugh, wiping your cheek with your free hand.
Dick’s smile widened, genuine and sweet. He gently shuffled closer, pressing his forehead against your knee for a brief second before looking back up at you. "How about we start over? Fresh cup of tea, a cozy blanket, and whatever terrible movie you want to watch. Deal?"
"Deal" you murmured, squeezing his hand.
As Dick stood up, moving with slow, clear intent every step of the way, he gave your hand one last tender squeeze before heading back toward the kitchen, humming a quiet tune just to keep a comforting noise in the room.
For the first time in a very long time, as you watched him move, the air in the room didn't feel heavy anymore, it felt safe with him.
request some headcanons for the batboys with a depressed reader? like severe to the point that the reader doesn't shower if they're not constantly taking their antidepressants, and you still can't see their bedroom floor even if they are taking their meds. and they've got insomnia, so they're usually tired even if they try to sleep.
characters bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne
content batboys x depressed! reader, gn! reader, severe depression, depressive episodes, self-neglect, difficulty showering/personal hygiene, messy living space/depression room, insomnia/sleep deprivation, exhaustion, antidepressants/medication reminders, therapy/medical support discussions, emotional distress, shame/self-deprecating thoughts, caretaking during mental illness, mentions of struggling to stay alive/survival language. no graphic s/h.
masterlist
bruce wayne
Bruce notices the self-neglect before almost anything else. Not because he judges it. Not because he thinks less of you. But because there’s a specific kind of quiet deterioration he recognises with awful intimacy.
The unopened curtains. The untouched laundry. The cups gathering beside the bed. The way your room starts becoming less like a place you live and more like a place you survive.
He has done versions of it himself. Bruce Wayne, public billionaire, is polished to a mirror shine. Bruce Wayne, alone in the Manor after patrol, has absolutely gone too long without eating, slept in the chair beside the Batcomputer, forgotten basic bodily needs until Alfred all but threatened him with a tray. So when he sees your bedroom floor swallowed by clothes, books, wrappers, whatever your depression has let fall and never given you the energy to pick up, he doesn’t look disgusted.
He looks… pained. Because he understands the shape of it, even if he does not understand how to talk about it.
Bruce is not naturally good at comfort. His first instinct is always logistics. Identify the problem. Build a system. Reduce harm. Prevent escalation. So the first time he realises how bad it’s gotten, he goes very still and asks, carefully, “How long has it been like this?”
And if you snap, or shut down, or say, “I don’t know,” he doesn’t push. He just nods once, like he’s filing that information somewhere deep and private.
Bruce struggles with the fact that he relates to your self-neglect but not always to the emotional language around it. He knows what it is to treat his body like a tool that can be used until it breaks. He knows what it is to ignore hunger, exhaustion, pain, hygiene, sleep. But he has spent years calling that discipline. Seeing it in you forces him to confront that maybe, sometimes, what he calls discipline is just another form of damage wearing a very expensive suit. That realisation does not sit comfortably with him. Bruce Wayne and self-awareness have a situationship at best.
Still, he tries.
If you haven’t showered, he doesn’t say, “You need to shower.” He knows commands can curdle into shame. Instead, he says, “Would it help if I sat outside the door?” Or, “You don’t have to do everything. Just rinse off. Five minutes.” Or, very softly, “You’ll feel less trapped in your skin afterwards.”
That last one is how you know he gets it.
Bruce is painfully aware that hygiene can become impossible when depression gets severe. Not “hard.” Not “annoying.” Impossible. Like your body has become a locked room and the key is buried somewhere under the bed. So he never treats a shower like a small thing.
If you manage one after days of not being able to, he doesn’t overpraise you like you’re a child. He simply notices.
“You look more comfortable,” he says. Which, from Bruce, means: I know that cost you something. I’m proud of you. I won’t embarrass you by making a spectacle of it.
Medication is where Bruce becomes very Bruce. He is deeply serious about your antidepressants. Not controlling, not patronising, but quietly immovable. If your medication is what keeps you showering, eating, sleeping, and functioning even slightly, then in Bruce’s mind, it is not optional in the same way oxygen is not optional.
He helps create backups. Refill reminders. Pharmacy coordination. A pill organiser if you’ll use one. Water on your nightstand. A tiny dish beside it so you can tell whether you've taken them already.
He does not call it “fixing you.” He calls it “removing friction.” Because Bruce understands that when you’re severely depressed, every extra step becomes a locked gate. Find the bottle. Open it. Get water. Remember the time. Call the pharmacy. Pick up the refill. Eat enough beforehand.
Too many gates. So he quietly starts unlocking them.
If you miss doses, he does not get angry. He gets worried in a way that makes his jaw tighten. “I’m not disappointed,” he tells you, because he knows that’s where your mind goes first. “I need you to hear that.” And then, after a pause: “We adjust the system. That’s all.”
The bedroom is harder for him. Not because of the mess itself. Bruce has seen crime scenes, collapsed buildings, Arkham cells, Jason’s safehouses, Tim’s caffeine graveyards. Your room does not scare him.
What scares him is what the mess means. It means you’ve been alone with it. It means things have been heavy for longer than you admitted. It means every object on the floor is a small surrender your brain forced out of you.
Bruce does not clean your room without asking. Control matters to him, and he knows it matters to you too. He stands at the doorway and says, “Do you want help, or do you want me to pretend I didn’t see it?” If you choose the second option, he respects it. Mostly.
He will still have Alfred send up food. He will still make sure there are clean towels nearby. He will still quietly remove anything genuinely unsafe if he can do it without making you feel exposed. But he won’t barge in and turn your suffering into a project.
If you do let him help, Bruce is methodical. He does not say, “Let’s clean your room.” He says, “Trash first.” Then, “Laundry.” Then, “Clear a path from the bed to the door.”
He breaks it down like a mission because that is the language he knows best, and somehow it helps. Not because your depression is a villain he can punch, tragic for him honestly, but because he can make the battlefield smaller.
The first goal is never “clean.” The first goal is “safe.” You need to be able to walk without tripping. You need water. You need medication within reach. You need clean clothes somewhere accessible. You need a bed that feels like a bed and not an evidence locker for your worst month.
Bruce does not expect your room to stay clean afterwards. That might be the most important part. He knows relapse. He knows cycles. He knows what it means to drag yourself upright and then fall apart again three days later. So when the floor disappears again, he does not sigh. He does not say, “But we just cleaned this.”
He says, “Bad week?”
That’s it. Two words. No accusation. No disappointment. Just recognition.
Your insomnia is the part of your depression that Bruce relates to most directly and least healthily. He knows the strange cruelty of being exhausted and still unable to sleep. The body begging. The mind pacing. The dark becoming too loud. But Bruce is also terrible at modelling healthy sleep. He’ll tell you that you need rest while standing in the kitchen at 4:12 a.m. in yesterday’s shirt with a split lip and a coffee he should not be drinking.
You stare at him. He stares back. “This is different,” he says. It is not different. It is, in fact, the same clown car wearing a cape.
Eventually, Alfred calls him out. Then Dick. Then you. And Bruce has to sit with the uncomfortable truth that he cannot ask you to value your body while treating his own like rented equipment. So he tries to do better with you. Not perfectly. Never perfectly. This is Bruce. Growth comes to him like a cat approaching a bath.
But he starts sitting with you at night without opening case files. He makes tea instead of coffee. He reads in the armchair near your bed because silence feels safer when shared. Sometimes he talks. Low voice, careful words. Stories about his parents, about Gotham before it became a wound, about Dick’s first week at the Manor, about Jason stealing tyres, about Tim showing up with too many questions, about Damian pretending not to like being tucked in.
He doesn’t always know what helps. But he learns that he does not have to say the perfect thing. He just has to stay.
If you apologise for being “too much,” Bruce almost visibly flinches. Because he has thought that about himself. Because he has believed his grief, his rage, his damage made him poisonous to the people he loved. So when you say it, he answers with unusual sharpness.
“No.” Just one word at first. Then, quieter, rougher: “You are not too much. You are in pain.”
He may struggle to relate to depression exactly as you experience it, but he understands pain becoming routine. He understands neglect becoming normal. He understands surviving so long in emergency mode that care feels unnatural.
Loving you forces him to become gentler. Not just with you, though that comes first. With himself too, slowly, stubbornly, like dawn dragging itself over Gotham.
Bruce’s love is not loud. It is a prescription refilled before you panic. A hallway light left on because he knows the dark gets bad. A clean towel folded without comment. A hand resting near yours, not grabbing, just offering. A voice outside the bathroom door saying, “Take your time.”
A cleared path through the mess. A cup of water beside your meds. A billionaire detective sitting awake beside you at 3 a.m., not solving, not commanding, not disappearing into the Cave.
Just staying. Because Bruce Wayne may not always know how to say, I understand. But he knows how to say, You will not go through this alone. And for him, that is practically a vow carved into stone.
dick grayson
Dick’s first instinct is to try to be your sunshine. Not in a fake, toxic positivity way. Not exactly. It’s more that Dick has spent most of his life surviving by becoming the bright thing in the room before anyone notices how dark things are getting. So when he sees you slipping, he smiles a little softer. Talks a little warmer. Shows up with food, jokes, stupid stories, voice notes, memes, anything that might get even half a laugh out of you.
At first, he thinks maybe if he can just make the room feel lighter, you’ll be able to breathe again. And sometimes it helps. Sometimes his warmth gets through the fog. Sometimes he makes you laugh when you haven’t laughed in days. Sometimes he sits on the edge of your bed and tells you some ridiculous story about Wally or Jason or Damian, and for a minute, the world feels less like wet cement.
But sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes you just stare past him, exhausted and hollow-eyed, unable to shower, unable to clean, unable to sleep even though your whole body aches for rest. And Dick has to learn, painfully, that being loved by him does not automatically make depression loosen its grip.
That is hard for him. Because Dick is used to being useful. He is used to catching people before they hit the ground. He is used to being the hand extended over the ledge. But this isn’t a ledge he can swing down from. This is your own brain turning the lights off from inside the house.
At the start, he probably pushes too hard. Not cruelly. Never cruelly. But he worries, and worry makes him move.
“Have you talked to your therapist?”
“Are you still taking your meds?”
“Maybe we should call someone.”
“Maybe you need a different dosage.”
“Maybe—”
And if you finally snap and tell him to stop, he does. Immediately. He might look hurt for half a second, not because he’s angry at you, but because he realises he made you feel cornered when he was trying to make you feel safe.
Then he takes a breath and says, “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” And he means it.
He still cares about therapy. He still believes medication can matter. He still wants you to have support bigger than just him, because Dick knows love is not a substitute for treatment. But he respects your boundary.
After that, he becomes much more careful with his words. He stops asking questions that sound like checklists unless you invite them. He learns to ask, “Do you want help, distraction, or just company?” He learns that sometimes “Did you take your meds?” can feel like an accusation, even when it is said with love.
So instead, he might say, “I’m getting water. Want yours with your usual stuff?”
Gentle. Casual. An open door instead of a spotlight.
Dick does not pity you. That matters so much. He does not look at your room, with the floor swallowed by laundry and wrappers and old cups, like you are tragic or broken or disgusting. He looks at it like, Okay. This is where the fight has been happening.
And then he looks at you like you are still you. Not a project. Not a burden. Not a sad little bird with a cracked wing.
You.
If you haven’t showered, he notices, but he does not wrinkle his nose or make a face or say anything that will haunt you later. Dick Grayson knows how words can stick under the skin. So he chooses them carefully.
“Want me to grab you some clean clothes?”
“Do you want the bathroom warmer before you go in?”
“Hair wash day or just rinse day?”
“No pressure. We can also just change the sheets and call that a win.”
He makes everything feel like an option, not a failure. He tries to get you outside more, but not in an annoying “fresh air cures mental illness” way. More like: “Come sit on the fire escape with me for five minutes.” Or: “Walk with me to the corner store. You don’t have to talk.” Or: “Balcony picnic. Technically outside.”
Sometimes he brings your blanket with him and wraps it around your shoulders before opening the window.
“Outdoor enrichment,” he says solemnly, like you are a very sad zoo animal.
If you laugh, he looks so relieved that he has to glance away. But if you say no, he does not drag you. He may push gently once. Then he stops. Because he learns that helping you cannot mean turning every day into a battle where he is on one side and your exhaustion is on the other. Sometimes helping means accepting that today, the bed wins.
So he climbs into the room carefully, stepping over clothes and books and whatever else the depression has scattered around like emotional confetti from hell, and he sits with you. Not above you. With you. On the floor, back against the bed, knees pulled up, talking softly about nothing important.
He tells you about patrol. About Haley. About some kid in Blüdhaven who tried to convince Nightwing that Batman is obviously a vampire. About how Damian once insulted a barista so specifically that Dick still thinks about it when ordering coffee.
He lets the conversation be light if light is what you need. But if you want to talk about the ugly stuff, he lets that happen too.
Dick offers himself as your personal notebook. He literally says it one night, sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor while you stare at the ceiling, sleepless and raw.
“Use me as a notebook,” he says. “Say whatever. Messy, mean, sad, irrational, all of it. I won’t grade it.” And because he sees you tense, he adds, softer, “I won’t judge you.”
He means that, too. You can tell him you feel disgusting. You can tell him you hate your room. You can tell him you skipped your meds and you’re scared he’ll be disappointed. You can tell him showering feels like trying to climb a mountain with wet cement in your lungs. You can tell him you are tired of being tired.
He listens. Not with that shiny hero face he wears for civilians. Not with the automatic “we can fix this” voice. He listens like someone kneeling beside a locked door, willing to wait as long as it takes.
If you want advice, he gives it gently. If you do not want advice, he bites it back. Which is honestly heroic because Dick Grayson has eldest daughter energy in eldest son packaging and advice lives in his bloodstream.
But he tries.
“Do you want solutions,” he asks, “or do you want me to say that sucks?”
And if you say you just want to vent, he nods.
“Then yeah,” he says. “That sucks. It really, really sucks.”
No fixing. No silver lining. No “but at least.”
Just him, staying with you inside the bad feeling instead of trying to decorate it.
When your insomnia gets bad, Dick worries himself nearly sick. He knows what tired looks like on a vigilante. He knows the glassy eyes, the delayed reactions, the way the whole body starts moving like it is underwater.
But seeing it on you is different. Seeing you exhausted even after trying to sleep makes him go quiet.
He does not understand exactly how you feel. He will admit that.
“I don’t know what it’s like in your head,” he says one night, voice low in the dark. “I won’t pretend I do.” Then he shifts closer, careful not to crowd you. “But I know you shouldn’t have to be alone in there.”
So he stays awake with you sometimes. Not every time, because eventually Alfred, Bruce, and basic common sense bully him into remembering that he also needs sleep. But when he can, he keeps you company through the awful hours. He puts on quiet movies. Reads out loud. Lets you rant. Lets you go silent. Sends you stupid videos from two feet away because sometimes speaking is too much but memes are still legally allowed.
When your room gets bad, Dick offers help without making it a whole dramatic rescue mission.
“Five-minute reset?” he asks.
That is his favourite phrase. Five minutes of trash. Five minutes of laundry. Five minutes of clearing the bed. Five minutes of opening a window and letting the room remember air exists.
Then he stops when the timer stops. No “since we’ve started, we might as well keep going.” No guilt. He promised five minutes. Dick keeps promises. If all you can do is sit there while he cleans, he lets that count as participation.
“You’re supervising,” he says. “Very important role. You can be my manager.”
He gives you tasks that are almost insultingly small, but somehow not insulting when he says them.
“Can you hold this bag open?”
“Can you toss me the cups?”
“Can you point to what’s trash and what’s not?”
“Can you pick the music?”
He knows momentum can be impossible, so he does not demand momentum. He just offers rhythm.
Dick is also very affectionate, but he checks in more when you are depressed. Normally, he is touchy by nature. Hugs, shoulder bumps, forehead kisses, casual contact like punctuation.
But when you are this low, he asks.
“Hug or no hug?”
“Can I sit beside you?”
“Do you want contact, or would that make it worse?”
He does not make your need for space about him. And if you do want touch, he is so gentle it almost hurts. He holds you like you are not fragile, exactly, but precious. Like something still alive under snow.
His sunshine changes over time. At first, he tries to shine hard enough to chase the depression out. Later, he learns to become softer. Less noon sun, more night-light. He stops trying to make every moment better. Starts trying to make every moment less lonely.
That is where Dick is strongest. He cannot always understand the depth of what you are feeling. He cannot always joke you into a smile. He cannot therapy-speak your way into functioning.
But he can sit on your messy floor with you. He can listen without flinching. He can remind you that needing help does not make you pathetic. He can say, “I’m here,” and then actually be there.
And when you apologise for being difficult to love, Dick looks genuinely confused. Like the idea does not compute.
“You’re not difficult to love,” he says. “You’re having a difficult time being alive.” Then, because he is Dick, because his heart is a bright reckless thing that keeps throwing itself against the dark, he nudges your knee gently with his. “Big difference, babe.”
His love does not cure you. But it keeps a chair beside you in the dark. It brings water. It opens a window. It listens. It learns when to speak and when to shut up. It stays warm, even when it cannot be bright.
jason todd
Jason understands more than he says. Not perfectly. Not in a neat, one-to-one way. He doesn’t pretend your depression is exactly like his trauma, or his rage, or the dark stretches where being alive felt less like a gift and more like something he had to drag behind him by the ankle.
But he knows what it feels like when your own mind stops being a safe place. He knows what it is to look at basic human maintenance — showering, eating, sleeping, laundry, brushing your teeth — and feel like someone handed you a list of impossible tasks written in another language.
So when he sees your room, he doesn’t flinch. The floor buried under clothes. Cups on the nightstand. Trash you meant to throw away three days ago. Clean laundry mixed with dirty laundry until both have become Schrödinger’s Hoodie. Jason just stands there for a second, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, jaw working like he’s chewing on every wrong thing he could say.
Then he mutters, “Alright.” Not disgusted. Not disappointed. Just: Okay. This is what we’re dealing with.
Jason is not great with soft words at first. He wants to be. God, he wants to be. But the sentences get stuck somewhere behind his ribs. So he speaks with his body instead. He sits on the floor beside your bed instead of looming over you. He keeps his movements slow when you’re overwhelmed. He doesn’t stare at the mess too long. He places food within reach and pretends not to notice if your hands shake when you take it. He nudges a bottle of water closer with two fingers and says, “Hydrate, gremlin,” because saying I’m scared for you feels like standing naked in traffic.
His care is mostly acts of service. Quiet, stubborn, relentless acts of service. He takes out the trash without making a speech. He washes the cups collecting beside your bed. He changes your sheets while you sit wrapped in a blanket, exhausted and embarrassed. He puts clean clothes in one pile and dirty clothes in another because decision-making has become a boss fight and he’s not about to let laundry win. He fixes the broken drawer you’ve been ignoring for months. He plugs in your phone. He brings soup, bread, fruit, protein bars, anything easy enough that eating doesn’t require you to become a fully functioning citizen first.
If you apologise, he gets gruff, “Don’t.”
That’s all at first. Then, softer, without looking directly at you: “You don’t gotta apologise for being sick.”
He hates pity. Hates receiving it. Hates giving it. So he never looks at you like you’re pathetic. He looks at you like you’re wounded. There’s a difference. Wounded means you’re still fighting, even if the fight looks like lying in bed for fourteen hours and taking one bite of toast. Wounded means you need care, not judgment. Wounded means Jason knows where to stand: between you and anything trying to finish the job.
When you haven’t showered in days, Jason notices. Of course he notices. He was trained by Batman and raised by Gotham; the man clocks details like it’s a competitive sport. But he doesn’t wrinkle his nose. Doesn’t comment on smell. Doesn’t make your shame bigger. He just knocks his knuckles lightly against the doorframe and says, “Want a reset?”
That becomes his phrase for hygiene when hygiene feels too heavy. A reset can mean a shower. A reset can mean sitting in the bathroom with the hot water running until the steam makes breathing feel less awful. A reset can mean wet wipes, deodorant, clean socks, and one of his shirts. A reset can mean washing your face and calling it a day.
Jason is very big on “good enough.” Not because he thinks you don’t deserve better. Because he knows “perfect” can become another weapon your brain uses against you.
“You don’t gotta do the whole thing,” he says, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed. “Just do one thing.”
You tell him one thing won’t matter. His mouth tightens.
“Yeah,” he says. “It does.”
And there’s something in his voice that makes you believe he’s not just talking about the shower.
Medication is tricky for him. Jason believes in anything that helps keep you alive and functioning. He’s not anti-meds, not even a little. If antidepressants help you shower, help you eat, help you get through the day without drowning in your own head, then he treats them like they matter.
But he also knows what it’s like to have people treat you like a problem to be managed. So he tries not to hover. He tries not to ask in that voice people use when they’re already disappointed.
Instead, he just builds reminders into the room. Water bottle on the nightstand. Your meds placed somewhere visible, but not aggressively so. A snack beside them if you need food first. A text at the same time most days: “You take care of business yet?” If you say no, he doesn’t lecture. “Alright,” he says. “Do it now. I’ll wait.”
And he does. He stays on the phone, breathing quietly on the other end, letting you grumble and shuffle and open the bottle.
When you say, “Done,” he just says, “Good.” But his voice goes warm around the edges.
Jason is careful about pushing you toward help because he knows pushing can feel like being cornered. Still, he does want you to want help. He wants it badly. He wants you to have a therapist who gets it. A doctor who listens. Medication that actually works. Systems that don’t fall apart the second you have a bad week. He wants you to have more than him, because some terrified part of him does not trust himself to be enough.
But he doesn’t know how to say that cleanly. So sometimes it comes out rough.
“You can’t keep white-knuckling this.”
Or, “This ain’t sustainable.”
Or, “I’m not saying you’re broken. I’m saying you deserve backup.”
If you shut down, he stops. He swallows the rest of the sentence. Looks away. Nods once. “Okay,” he says, quieter. “Not now.”
And because it’s Jason, because he respects boundaries more than people expect him to, he drops it. He may bring it up again later, but never like an ambush. More like leaving a door unlocked.
“Been thinking,” he says one night while folding your laundry badly but with intense concentration. “If you ever wanna look for someone to talk to. Professional someone. I can sit with you while you make the call.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Gives you the dignity of not being watched. “Or I can shut up,” he adds. A beat. “I’m real good at shutting up.”
He is not, historically, real good at shutting up. But for you, he tries.
Your insomnia is something Jason understands in his bones, even if the cause is different. He knows the cruelty of night. The way everything gets louder after midnight. The way your thoughts turn feral. The way exhaustion can sit heavy in your body while sleep still refuses to come near you.
So when you text him at 3:06 a.m., ashamed and barely coherent, he answers fast. “Yeah. I’m up.”
He usually is.
Sometimes he comes over without making it a big production. Window opens. Boots hit the floor. Leather jacket, wind-chilled hands, helmet tucked under one arm.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. You give him a look. He nods. “Stupid question.”
He doesn’t force conversation. Jason is good at silence, when he lets himself be. He sits with you in the dark, shoulder close enough to touch but not touching unless you lean first. Sometimes he reads aloud. Old novels. Poetry. Whatever book he was carrying around like a secret soft spot. His voice is low and rough, not polished, not theatrical, but steady. A rope across black water.
If you do fall asleep, he stays. He won’t admit he was worried you’d wake up alone. His body language gives him away constantly. The way he angles himself between you and the door. The way his hand hovers near your shoulder before he touches you, waiting for permission. The way his expression goes murderous when you call yourself lazy. The way he freezes when you say, “I’m sorry I’m like this.”
That one gets him. He looks at you for a long second, eyes sharp and hurt. Then he sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch. His voice comes out low. “You don’t gotta earn being cared about.”
He says it like the words physically hurt to form. Like maybe someone should have told him that once.
Jason does not always know what to do when you cry. His first instinct is violence, which is deeply unhelpful unless your depression can be lured into an alley and punched. Since it cannot, he improvises. He brings tissues. Sits beside you. Lets you lean into him if you want. If you don’t, he stays close anyway, a warm wall of presence. His hand might settle on the back of your neck, heavy and grounding. Or he might press his shoulder against yours. Not a dramatic embrace.
Just contact. Just: I’m here. I’m real. Stay with me.
If you vent, he listens. He doesn’t always have perfect responses. Sometimes his jaw clenches. Sometimes he looks like he wants to argue with every cruel thing your brain says about you. But he learns not to turn your venting into a debate.
If you say, “I know it’s stupid,” he says, “It’s not stupid.” If you say, “I don’t need advice,” he nods. “Wasn’t gonna give any.”
He absolutely was. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lets you talk. Lets the ugly feelings spill out without trying to sanitise them. Jason can handle ugly. He has never needed you to be soft and shiny to love you.
On bad days, when you cannot get out of bed, Jason changes tactics. He brings the world to you in pieces small enough to survive. Opens the curtains halfway, not all the way. Puts a cool cloth on your forehead if you feel overheated from lying under blankets too long. Makes your room smell like soup instead of stale air. Puts on a show you’ve seen a hundred times because new plots require too much brain. Places a trash bag by the bed and says, “No pressure. Just if something’s within reach.”
If you throw away one wrapper, he notices.
He doesn’t cheer. He just says, “Nice.”
Like it matters. Like he knows it did.
Jason’s love is not delicate, but it is deeply attentive. He remembers which foods you can tolerate when everything tastes like cardboard. He knows which hoodie makes you feel least perceived. He knows whether touch helps or makes your skin crawl. He knows not to turn on the big light when your head is already screaming. He knows that if your room gets too clean too fast, you might feel exposed, so he asks before moving personal things. He knows that sometimes you don’t want someone to fix the mess. You just want someone to sit in it with you and not leave.
And Jason can do that. Better than most. Because Jason has sat in wreckage before. He has been wreckage before. He does not need pretty surroundings to prove something is worth saving. He just stays, solid and warm and stubborn as a locked door.
One night, when you are too tired to sleep and too sad to speak, Jason sits beside you on the floor. The room is still messy. Your hair is still unwashed. Your meds are still something you have to fight yourself to take. Nothing is magically better.
Jason reaches over, slow enough for you to pull away if you want, and gently hooks his pinky around yours. Barely a touch. Barely anything. But his body says what his mouth cannot. I see you. I’m not scared of this. I’m not leaving because your pain is inconvenient.
Out loud, all he says is, “We’ll do tomorrow when it gets here.” Then he squeezes your pinky once. “Tonight, you just gotta stay.”
And because it is Jason, because he does not promise things lightly, it lands heavier than hope. Not a cure. Not a rescue. Just a hand in the dark. Just someone who understands enough to stay, and loves you enough to keep trying.
tim drake
Tim’s first response is research. So much research. Tabs on tabs on tabs. Medical journals. Patient forums. Therapy resources. Medication side effects. Sleep hygiene. Depression room cleaning methods. Executive dysfunction. Body doubling. Antidepressant withdrawal. How to support a partner with severe depression without becoming overbearing. His laptop looks like WebMD got into a knife fight with a psychology database.
Tim doesn’t do it because he thinks you’re a problem to solve. He does it because he loves you, and Tim Drake’s first language has always been information. He doesn’t know how to make the weight in your chest lighter. He doesn’t know how to make sleep come when your body is exhausted and your mind is chewing through barbed wire. He doesn’t know how to make showering feel possible when depression has turned your limbs into wet cement.
But he can learn. So he learns obsessively. At first, though, he overcorrects. Not in a cold way. In a scared way. He starts offering solutions too quickly.
“Maybe we could try a checklist.”
“There’s this app for medication reminders.”
“I read that morning light can help regulate sleep cycles.”
“Some people find it easier to clean in categories instead of sections.”
“Have you thought about talking to your doctor about—”
And then he sees your face. The way your shoulders tighten. The way your eyes go flat. The way you look less helped and more handled. It hits him like a physical blow.
“Oh,” he says softly. Then, immediately, “I’m sorry.”
Tim is distraught if he upsets you. He tries not to show it too dramatically because the last thing he wants is to make you comfort him when you’re already drowning, but you can see it. The panic under his skin. The way his fingers twitch like he wants to pull every word back and delete the whole interaction from existence.
“I wasn’t trying to—” he starts, then stops himself. Because he realises explaining his intent does not erase the impact. He takes a breath and says, “I’m sorry. I jumped into fixing mode. That wasn’t fair.”
And then, because he means it, he changes. Not instantly. Tim’s brain is basically a caffeinated detective corkboard with legs. But he puts in the work.He starts asking first.
“Do you want comfort or solutions?”
“Do you want me to help, or do you want me to just sit here?”
“Do you want advice, distraction, silence, or a witness?”
That last one becomes important.
A witness. Someone who doesn’t look away. Someone who sees the depression room, the unwashed hair, the exhaustion carved under your eyes, the meds you’re trying to keep taking, the insomnia that makes every morning feel like crawling out of a grave with homework due. And still sees you.
Tim is careful with your room. He understands clutter on a spiritual level, honestly. His own bedroom has absolutely looked like a conspiracy theorist’s evidence locker crossed with a coffee shop crime scene. But your mess feels different to him. Not because it’s worse. Because it’s sadder.
His mess is usually momentum. Yours is gravity. So he doesn’t joke too carelessly about it.
He doesn’t say, “Wow, you live like this?” He doesn’t make faces. He stands in the doorway, takes everything in, and asks, “What’s the least invasive way I can help?”
If you don’t know, he nods like that is a valid answer. “Okay. Then I’ll start with trash within arm’s reach. You can veto anything.”
Tim loves a system, but he learns your system has to be compassionate, not perfect.
He used to make lists like: Clean room. Shower. Eat. Sleep. Take meds. Now he makes lists like: Put cups by door. Sit up for two minutes. Take meds with water. Change shirt if shower is too much. Clear one pillow. Survive Tuesday.
The bar gets lower, but not in a hopeless way. In a humane way.
Tim starts realising that he has spent most of his life treating his own body like an inconvenient side quest. He tells you to sleep while he has been awake for thirty-six hours. He reminds you to eat while his own lunch is three coffees and half a granola bar he found in a drawer. He worries about your meds while forgetting his own basic needs because a case got interesting. And one day, you look at him — exhausted, fond, and maybe a little annoyed — and say, “Tim.”
He freezes. Because he knows that tone. You glance at the untouched food beside his laptop. He looks at it too. Betrayed by a sandwich.
“This is different,” he tries.
It is not different. It is clown behaviour in a different font. That realisation shakes him more than he expects. Because Tim wants to help you take care of yourself, but he slowly understands he cannot ask you to believe you’re worth care while proving, daily, that he does not believe the same thing about himself.
So he starts trying. For you, at first. Then with you. He makes it mutual. Not in a way that puts responsibility on you. Not “I’ll only take care of myself if you do too.” Never that. Tim would rather throw himself into Gotham Harbour than weaponise your recovery.
It’s softer.
“I’ll eat if you eat?”
“I’ll go to bed if you try to rest?”
“Medication and water break. For both of us.”
“Ten-minute reset? Your room or my desk. Dealer’s choice.”
It becomes less like he is managing you and more like the two of you are learning how to be alive in parallel. Tiny habits. Tiny victories. Tiny bridges over very deep water.
Tim is painfully gentle about your antidepressants. He knows they matter. He knows they may be part of why you can shower at all, why you can get through a day, why the floor sometimes becomes visible again. But he also knows medication can come with shame, frustration, side effects, missed doses, refill issues, and that awful feeling of being dependent on something just to function.
He never treats meds like proof you’re broken. He treats them like a tool.
“You deserve tools,” he says one night, voice quiet. “You don’t have to claw through everything barehanded.”
He sets up reminders only if you want them. If you say no, he respects it, even if his anxiety climbs the walls like a raccoon in a server room. If you say yes, he makes the system stupidly efficient. Refill calendar. Backup pharmacy info. Pill organiser. Water bottles where you usually collapse. A little note on your nightstand that just says: you already decided to keep going today. take the help.
He does not sign it. As if you would not recognise his handwriting. Menace.
Your insomnia worries him the most because it is the part he relates to too much. Tim knows being tired but unable to sleep. He knows lying in the dark while your brain becomes a hostile PowerPoint presentation. He knows the weird floaty feeling after too many nights awake, when reality starts getting soft around the edges and every emotion feels either too far away or much too close.
But with you, suddenly, he sees it clearly. It isn’t quirky. It isn’t productive. It isn’t “just how things are.” It’s suffering.
And then he has to look at himself.
He starts trying to build better nights for both of you. Not perfect nights. Better ones. Phones face down after a certain hour, unless one of you needs distraction more than discipline. Low lights. No case files in bed. Tea instead of coffee, though he mourns this like a Victorian widow. Audiobooks when silence gets too loud. Soft background noise when thoughts start sharpening their little knives.
He doesn’t say, “You need to sleep.” He says, “Want to make the room easier to rest in?”
Because sometimes sleep is too much pressure. Rest is gentler. Rest can mean lying down with your eyes closed. Rest can mean letting him read beside you. Rest can mean not fighting your body for twenty minutes.
If you still can’t sleep, Tim doesn’t make you feel like you failed. He just shifts closer and says, “Okay. Then we’ll make being awake less lonely.”
Tim becomes very good at body doubling. He will sit on your floor with his laptop while you sort one pile of clothes. He will brush his teeth beside you so brushing yours feels less weirdly impossible. He will take his own shower while you take yours, turning it into parallel maintenance instead of a spotlight on you. He will set a timer for five minutes and clean his desk while you clear your nightstand.
“Team objective,” he says.
“This is laundry,” you mumble.
“Laundry is a formidable enemy.”
“You need better enemies.”
“I live in Gotham. I have variety.”
He loves when you banter, even weakly. You can see it in the way his face lights up for half a second before he schools it back into something less obvious.
Tim is careful not to celebrate too loudly. If you shower after days of not being able to, he doesn’t make a huge deal and accidentally drown you in attention. He just leaves clean clothes nearby and says, “I’m glad you feel a little more comfortable.” If you take your meds, he doesn’t clap like you’re a child. He says, “Good. I’m proud of you,” so softly it almost disappears. If you clear a patch of floor, he notices. “Hey,” he says, pointing with his mug. “Floor sighting.”
“Endangered species.”
“We should call National Geographic.”
It’s stupid. It helps.
When he messes up, because he does, he owns it. Sometimes he still slips into solution mode when he’s scared. Sometimes he gives you three options when your brain can barely handle one. Sometimes he asks too many questions.
And if you go quiet, Tim catches himself faster now.
“Sorry,” he says. “Too much?”
If you nod, he closes his laptop. Fully closes it. That’s basically Tim Drake kneeling in surrender.
“Okay,” he says. “No fixing. I’m here.”
And then he proves it. He sits beside you in the mess. No tabs. No notes. No plan. Just Tim, learning that love is not always research. Sometimes love is shutting up.
He offers himself as a quiet place to be honest, but in a different way than Dick. Dick is a notebook. Tim is a shared document with comments turned off. You can say the ugliest things your depression whispers. You can say you feel gross. You can say the room makes you hate yourself. You can say you’re scared your meds will stop working. You can say you’re tired of trying to sleep and tired of waking up and tired of people telling you to “just” do things.
Tim listens. His face hurts sometimes, because he wants to argue with every cruel thought. But he learns that not every thought needs to be debated in the moment. Sometimes it needs to be heard, named, and allowed to pass through without becoming another fight.
“That sounds exhausting,” he says. Or, “I’m sorry it’s that loud today.” Or, “I believe you.”
That one lands. Because Tim does believe you. Even when he doesn’t completely understand. Especially then.
Tim’s love becomes less frantic over time. Still intense. Obviously. This is Tim Drake. He has never had a casual emotion in his life. But less frantic. He stops trying to build a perfect rescue plan. Starts building a life with you where needing help is normal. Where the room can get bad and still be recoverable. Where missed sleep is serious but not shameful. Where meds are part of care, not proof of failure. Where showers can be mountains and still be climbed one tile at a time. Where both of you are allowed to be works in progress.
One night, after a hard day, Tim finds you sitting on the bed, staring at the floor you still can’t see. He stands in the doorway with two glasses of water and his own hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes like bruised moons.
For once, he doesn’t offer a plan. He just sits beside you and hands you a glass. You both take your first sips at the same time. Then he leans his shoulder against yours.
“I’m trying to get better at this,” he says.
You ask, “At helping me?”
Tim is quiet for a moment. “At being kind to us,” he says.
And there it is. The heart of him. Not perfect. Not magically wise. Not always smooth. But trying. Researching, yes. Adjusting. Apologising. Learning when to solve and when to stay. Loving you hard enough that he starts wondering whether maybe care was never supposed to be something either of you had to earn.
Tim does not cure your depression. But he learns your rhythms. He lowers the lights. He closes the laptop. He takes the meds reminder off “task” mode and turns it into “care” mode. He sits with you through the long, sleepless blue hours. He lets tomorrow be tomorrow.
And when things are bad, when the room is a wreck and your body feels impossible and your mind is being cruel, Tim reaches for your hand like it is the most logical thing in the world.
“We don’t have to fix everything tonight,” he says. Then, softer, like he’s saying it to both of you, “We just have to make it to morning.”
damian wayne
Damian is not good with words. He is not Dick, who can soften a room with his voice. He is not Tim, who can research his way into emotional fluency. He is not Jason, who can make silence feel like armour. Damian’s comfort is… precise. Awkward. Devoted in a way that almost feels formal until you realise he is pouring his whole heart into it with both hands.
He does not always know what to say when your depression gets bad. When you cannot shower. When your room is so messy you cannot see the floor. When you are exhausted from insomnia, even though you tried to sleep, even though you wanted to sleep, even though your body feels like it has been wrung out and left somewhere cold.
At first, he may stand in the doorway, very still, taking in the clothes, the cups, the blankets twisted on the bed, the dimness of the room. His face does that sharp little Damian thing where he looks annoyed. But he is not annoyed at you. He is angry that something is hurting you and he cannot stab it. Depression, tragically, refuses to have a physical form.
Damian does not pity you. Ever. Pity feels too much like looking down on someone, and Damian would rather cut off his own hand than make you feel small. He sees you struggling, yes. He sees the self-neglect. He sees the way your meds make the difference between barely functioning and collapsing completely. He sees how even when you are taking them, everything can still be too much. But he never sees you as weak.
If you call yourself lazy, his eyes narrow immediately. “That is inaccurate.” His voice is sharp enough to slice paper. “You are unwell. There is a difference.”
It is not exactly cuddly comfort, but it lands. Because Damian says it like a fact, not reassurance. Like he would argue it in court. Like he would bring evidence.
He will never give you any real doubt that he loves you. He may not always say it smoothly. He may not always say it when you expect him to. But he shows it so consistently that the words become almost unnecessary. A clean towel folded outside the bathroom. A fresh glass of water on your nightstand. Your medication placed where you can reach it, never shoved in your face. Curtains opened halfway because full sunlight is too aggressive but darkness has started lying to you. A blanket tucked around your shoulders with almost military precision. A quiet, “I am here,” when he sits beside you.
Damian’s affection is in the details. He learns which lights make your head hurt. He learns which foods you can tolerate when eating feels impossible. He learns whether you prefer silence, distraction, or contact. He learns where not to touch you when your skin feels wrong. He learns the difference between “I want to be alone” and “I am scared to ask someone to stay.”
And once Damian learns something important about someone he loves, he does not forget.
When your room gets bad, Damian does not insult it. He also does not pretend not to see it, because Damian Wayne has never pretended anything in his life unless espionage was involved. He simply says, “We will make a path.”
Not, “We will clean the room.” Not, “This is unacceptable.”
A path. From the bed to the door. From the bed to your meds. From the bed to water. From the bed to the bathroom. Safety first. Dignity always.
He does not touch your personal things without permission. Damian understands invasion. He understands people deciding what is “best” for your body, your space, your mind. So he asks, stiffly but sincerely, “May I move this?”
If you say no, he nods and leaves it. No argument. No lecture. Just respect, sharp-edged and real.
When hygiene feels impossible, Damian gets very quiet. He does not say, “You need to shower.” He knows, eventually, that this only makes your shame bare its teeth. Instead, he creates conditions. Fresh clothes placed near the sink. Towel warmed in the dryer. Your favourite soap opened and ready. Water temperature checked. A chair in the bathroom in case standing is too much.
If all you can manage is washing your face, he treats that as valid. If all you can manage is changing clothes, he treats that as valid. If all you can manage is letting him brush your hair, he does it gently, slowly, with a concentration usually reserved for sword maintenance and sketching. He does not say much while he does it. His hands say enough. Careful. Patient. Reverent, almost.
Damian is not naturally comfortable with emotional chaos. He was raised to control feelings, bury them, sharpen them into weapons. But with you, he starts to understand that emotions do not disappear just because you command them to. They rot if trapped too long. They need somewhere to go. So he tries to help you channel them. Not fix them. Channel them.
If you like art, he brings you sketchbooks. Good ones. Expensive paper. Proper pencils. Paints if you want them. Charcoal. Ink. Whatever he thinks will make your hands remember they can create something besides damage. He does not demand beauty.
“It does not need to be good,” he tells you, which is hilarious coming from Damian “perfection is the bare minimum” Wayne. You raise an eyebrow. He flushes slightly and looks away. “Art is permitted to be ugly.” Then, after a beat: “Sometimes it is more honest that way.”
If you cannot draw, he draws for you. When things get bad, Damian sketches you constantly. Not in a creepy way. In a devotional way. You asleep under three blankets. Your hand resting beside an untouched cup of tea. Your profile lit by the dim blue of early morning. You curled up with a book you have been too tired to read.
He draws you softer than you feel. Not idealised. Not fake. Just seen.
When he shows you, it almost hurts. Because in his drawings, you do not look disgusting. You do not look lazy. You do not look like a burden. You look tired, yes. Sad, sometimes. But also human. Loved. Worth the time it took to study every line.
Damian does not know how to say, I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. So he hands you the sketch instead.
“You may keep it,” he says, like he is granting a royal document. His ears go pink. “If you want.”
If you like writing, Damian encourages that too. Not in a “journal your way out of depression” way. More like: “Your thoughts are consuming you. Put them somewhere they cannot bite as deeply.” He buys you notebooks. Plain ones if fancy ones feel like pressure. Little ones if full pages are too intimidating. He will sit beside you and write in his own notebook while you write in yours. If you cannot write full sentences, he tells you to write fragments. Single words. Lists. Bad metaphors. Angry letters you never send. Anything.
“The page does not judge,” he says. Then, with a tiny scowl: “And if it did, I would destroy it.”
When you cannot write, he writes you notes. Small ones. Folded carefully. Left on your pillow, your desk, beside your meds, tucked into the book you have been meaning to read. They are not always traditionally cute because this is Damian, and his version of cute sometimes sounds like a motivational speech from a tiny general.
You have endured today. That is sufficient.
Drink water. I am not asking.
Your room is not evidence against you.
I found this flower. It reminded me of your stubbornness.
You are not a burden. Do not argue with me on this.
I love you. Obviously.
That last one makes your chest ache. Because he writes it like it is the most irrefutable thing in the world.
If you like reading, Damian becomes almost unbearably sweet. He will read aloud to you when your insomnia is bad. He sits near your bed or on the floor beside you, spine straight, book in hand, voice low and careful.
At first, he reads like he is presenting evidence in a trial. Very formal. Very serious. Dramatic pauses in odd places. If you tease him, he scowls. “Would you prefer Drake’s sleep-deprived mumbling?”
No, actually. So he continues. And over time, his voice softens. He starts learning which books calm you. Which ones are too heavy. Which ones make you smile. Which ones you loved before depression made it hard to love things.
If your eyes are too tired to focus, he reads until your breathing slows. If you do not sleep, he keeps reading anyway.
“You are resting,” he says when you apologise for staying awake. “Rest is not failure.”
Again, he says it like a fact. Like he had to learn it too.
If you have another passion, Damian treats it with fierce seriousness. Music, crafts, games, plants, photography, cooking, collecting tiny stupid trinkets, whatever little spark depression has not completely smothered. He protects that spark like it is sacred. He will not let you mock it.
If you say, “It’s dumb,” he immediately replies, “It brings you comfort. Therefore, it has value.”
He will sit with you while you do it badly. He will make space for you to have no energy and still be a person with interests. He understands, slowly, that passion does not always look like excitement. Sometimes it looks like staring at art supplies for twenty minutes and touching one pencil. Sometimes it looks like opening a book and reading one paragraph. Sometimes it looks like saving an idea for later because today your brain is soup. Damian counts all of it.
He is intense about your medication, but not in a smothering way. He knows the antidepressants help. He knows they do not cure everything. He knows you can be taking them and still be drowning. So he does not act like the pill is magic. He treats it like part of your armour.
“Armour requires maintenance,” he says one day, placing water beside you.
You stare at him. “Did you just compare my meds to armour?”
“Yes.”
“That’s actually kind of cool.”
He looks smug for the rest of the hour.
If you miss a dose, Damian does not shame you. He may tense, because worry comes out of him as control before he catches it. But he catches it. He breathes once, visibly. Then says, “Take it now, if it is safe to do so. If not, we will follow the instructions. There is no need for panic.”
We. Always we.
That is one of the ways he loves you. Your problems do not become his to command, but he refuses to let you face them as if you are alone.
With insomnia, Damian becomes very protective. He knows sleeplessness makes everything worse. He has seen what exhaustion does to fighters, to animals, to himself. When you cannot sleep, he does not tell you to “just try.” He knows better than to say something that useless. He may be emotionally constipated, but he is not stupid.
Instead, he asks, “Would you like silence, reading, or distraction?”
If you choose silence, he stays. If you choose reading, he reads. If you choose distraction, he brings Titus, Alfred the Cat, or a sketchbook, because animals and art are Damian’s emotional support starter pack.
Titus will absolutely climb onto the bed like a weighted blanket with legs. Damian pretends this is tactical. “His body heat may assist your nervous system.” Titus licks your hand. “Also, he likes you.” Damian looks away. “As do I.”
He says it stiffly, but his hand finds yours under the blanket.
He goes to the internet for research, to Tim and Leslie, and Damian eventually gets you a therapy animal. He acts extremely formal about it, obviously, like he is presenting a royal gift instead of trying not to look nervous. He does more research first. Breeds, temperaments, training requirements, emotional support versus psychiatric service animals, allergies, housing needs, sleep routines, how animals can help with depression and grounding. Damian Wayne does not simply “wing it.” He prepares like the animal is joining the Justice League.
He does not force it on you, though. He sits beside you one evening, a little stiff, and says, “I believe an animal companion may be beneficial. Only if you want one.”
If you look overwhelmed, he immediately adds, “I would assist with care. You would not be responsible alone.”
And he means it. Damian knows depression can make even feeding yourself feel impossible, so he would never hand you another living thing and expect you to magically become functional. He builds a care plan before the animal ever comes home. He helps with food, vet appointments, litter, walks, grooming, training — all of it. He makes charts. Tim is weirdly impressed. Jason says, “Kid made a custody agreement for a cat.” Damian tells him to be silent.
If it’s a dog, he trains them with frightening precision but melts every time they curl up beside you. If it’s a cat, he insists they are “an emotionally intelligent creature with excellent judgment” while the cat sits directly on his sketchbook and ruins his work. If it’s a rabbit, bird, or other small animal, Damian becomes a tiny professor about their care needs and quietly watches your face soften when you hold them.
He teaches the animal gentle grounding cues: sitting with you during panic spirals, nudging your hand when you dissociate, lying near you during insomnia nights, waking you gently when you’ve slept through alarms.
When you have bad hygiene days, he doesn’t use the animal to guilt you. No “they need you, so get up.” He knows that would make everything worse. Instead, he uses the animal as company.
“They wish to sit with you,” he says, placing them beside you carefully. “I believe they find your presence calming.”
Which is Damian-code for: I find your presence calming too.
On nights when you cannot sleep, the animal curls against you while Damian sits nearby reading aloud. His voice, the soft breathing of the animal, the warmth beside you — it makes the room feel less like a trap and more like a den. He pretends not to notice when you start talking to the animal before you can talk to him. Actually, he prefers it at first. Less pressure on you. Less chance of him saying something emotionally constipated and weird. A win for everyone.
And if the animal helps you get outside, even briefly, Damian treats it like a sacred victory.
“They require fresh air,” he says. They do not. Damian is lying again. Badly again. But he walks beside you anyway, matching your pace, letting the animal be the reason you both step into the world for five minutes.
His favourite part, though, is when the animal chooses you. Curls into your lap. Sleeps against your side. Follows you from room to room. Looks at you like you are safe.
Damian watches quietly, his expression soft in a way he would deny under oath. Later, he leaves a note beside your meds. They trust you. So do I. Then, underneath, in smaller handwriting: You are easier to love than you think.
When you are at your lowest, Damian becomes less sharp. Not less himself. Just softer in the places he usually keeps armored. He stops correcting every irrational thing you say. Sometimes. He still has limits. If you insult yourself too harshly, he cannot help it.
“No,” he says. Not loud. Just final. “You may feel that. It does not make it true.”
Then he sits beside you, shoulder against yours, and lets the quiet settle.
Damian learns that love does not always require perfect speech. Sometimes it is a pencil moving across paper while you lie in bed. Sometimes it is a note that says, I am proud of you for remaining. Sometimes it is reading your favourite book aloud until his voice goes hoarse. Sometimes it is silently picking up three pieces of trash and not mentioning the rest. Sometimes it is bringing you your meds and water and sitting with you until you take them. Sometimes it is not asking you to be better that day. Just asking you to be there.
He struggles when he cannot fix it. Damian is used to training harder, fighting better, mastering the weakness, defeating the opponent. Depression does not play by rules he respects. It does not duel honourably. It creeps. It lingers. It returns after victories. He hates that. But he learns not to treat you like a mission. You are not his mission. You are his person. So he stops trying to defeat your depression in one dramatic act of devotion and starts showing up in small ways, over and over.
A note. A drawing. A book. A glass of water. A walk in the garden when outside feels possible. A seat beside you when it does not.
If he does get you outside, it is usually through something gentle. “The dog requires a walk.” Titus absolutely does not require a walk at that exact moment. Damian is lying. Badly. But you go anyway, wrapped in a hoodie, moving slowly through the grounds or down a quiet street, and Damian keeps pace beside you. He does not rush. He does not make it a lesson.
He just points out birds. Their species. Their calls. Whether they are nesting. Whether they are, in his opinion, behaving foolishly. It is weirdly calming.
If you cannot go far, he accepts one minute outside as success.
“Adequate,” he says. Then, because he has learned, he adds, “I am glad you came with me.”
Damian’s compliments are rare enough to be emotionally devastating. When you feel ashamed, Damian becomes fiercely clear. “Your suffering does not make you repulsive.” He says it one night after you apologise for not showering, for the room, for being tired, for being “too much.” His voice shakes slightly. Not much. But enough.
“I do not love a cleaner version of you. I do not love a hypothetical version of you. I love you.” He looks almost angry after saying it, like vulnerability has personally insulted his bloodline. But he does not take it back. He reaches for your hand. His grip is warm and certain. “That remains true even when you cannot believe it.”
And that is Damian at his best. Not smooth. Not easy. Not effortlessly comforting. But unwavering. He may not always have the words. But he will draw you until you can see yourself. He will write notes until your room has little paper lanterns of proof. He will read aloud until the night becomes less cruel. He will help you pour the unbearable feelings into art, into words, into pages, into anything that lets them leave your body without destroying you on the way out. He will love you with discipline, loyalty, awkward tenderness, and a devotion so steady it becomes part of the furniture of your life.
When the floor is hidden again, he will make a path. When your hair is unwashed, he will bring a brush. When you cannot sleep, he will open a book. When your brain says you are unloved, he will leave another note.
🗯️･ ˖ · whisker twisters about .. your student's brother , DICK GRAYSON , teasing the shit out of you
┆꒰ olderbrother!𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 who always has a conversation with you , damian's teacher , when he drops his brother off to school , the smuggest grin on his face when he flirts with you shamelessly.
┆꒰ olderbrother!𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 who makes damian go to school when he has a cough just so he can see you in that white blouse and colourful skirt, hair tied back messily as you smiled at all of the kids who entered your classroom.
┆꒰ olderbrother!𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 who has damian wait in the batmobile while he 'talks' to you inside. but one thing leads to another and you end up leaned against your desk with his lips on yours.
┆꒰ olderbrother!𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 who does not let go off that afternoon. no matter how hard you try to keep it professional , you find his hands sneaking around your waist or brushing past yours whenever the two of you are close enough.
┆꒰ olderbrother!𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 who loses every nerve of control in his body when he finally gets to watch that skirt roll up , bunching at your hips when he fucks you against the wall in your apartment.
┆꒰ olderbrother!𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 who stops calling you 'teach' and starts calling you by your first name whenever he sees you. damian hates that he's at the centre of it all but he brushes it off as long as it means he gets better grades than the rest of the class.
┆꒰ olderbrother!𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 who knows you get work done at the library every saturday , so his heart drops when the tip comes in that Blockbuster is terrorising your one safe space.
┆꒰ olderbrother!𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 who saves as many people as possible but isn't fast enough to stop a shelf of books falling over and landing on your leg. the guilt eats away at him.
┆꒰ olderbrother!𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 who visits you at the hospital as soon as he can , bringing damian along. he buys you flowers and a book you've been wanting for a while. he sleeps in your hospital room that night to make sure you're okay.
┆꒰ olderbrother!𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 who teases your attempts to walk with crutches but eventually helps you get the hang of it , making you blush when his fingers brush against your lower back , big hands wrapping around your waist to steady you.
┆꒰ olderbrother!𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 who asks you to be his girlfriend the exact day damian transfers to a school closer to gotham. and you gladly accept , balancing on your crutches when you go on your tip-toes to kiss him.
⋮ ׁ ៹ fuck mawma hates this sm but i hope you guys kinda like it ?? more clark kent tomorrow to make up for my inactivity .. 🥹
Scummy Dick Grayson will go down on you but its SO performative, even the way he eats pussy has a pretty boy vibe to it, he'll give you a wink and flash you a charming smile while he's between you're legs and groan "mmm, you taste so good pretty girl" (which he only calls you cause he can't remember your name). Then he'll go back to rolling his tongue on your clit and softly stroking your thigh and keeping you open with one hand then with the other hand curling his LONG perfect fingers until you gush around them.
Scummy Dicks cock is so pretty, lengthy, not girthy but its so smooth and has a few veins running down it and a pretty pink tip
Scummy Dick, takes pride when you pull his hair from how good he's eating you out, so he'll persistently bring your hands to his hair, so you can tug on his perfect strands so he can wordlessly show proof of his talent to the girls he'll chat up MINUTES later.
Scummy Dick checks out his own ass in the mirror while he fucks you in doggy, he says the mirror is so you can see how pretty you are when he fucks you but really, hes checking himself out, which he'd never tell you. Instead he'd shove your face down into the pillows if you were staring at him in the mirror and scold you "uh uh pretty girl, i said eyes on yourself, not me" and give your ass a playful passive aggressive smack and thrust a little harder and deeper to get you back to only thinking about his cock.
Scummy Dick 😮💨. Hes so infuriating and annoying and nice and looks like a dream. Hes SO punchable.
Scummy Dick is so meticulous about being perfect, he eats clean, shaves EVERYWHERE and goes to the gym for hours a day and goes for a run with his dog every morning. He likes being irresistible to the ladies and it is a repressed insecurity that one day people are gonna decide he's not hot or fuckable anymore.
Scummy Dick has washboards abs and a pretty face, everything about him is pretty even his feet he likes being worshipped everywhere, even if he acts like he's confident and above it
Scummy Dick also LOVES bondage, giving and recieving but he's more into praising rather then degrading you however hes a massive brat if you're topping and he wants you to tame him
Scummy Dick likes getting his ass eaten, he's fully shaven and showered and prepped and he always makes sure he smells and tastes good if hes getting eaten and his favourite possition is laying on his back because he liked being pampered and he prefers you being in control, or he likes being on all fours cause he can put his head on the pillow and just relax or look over his shoulders and see your eyes, and you can jerk him off easier that way. He likes face sitting its just not his favourite he has to be in the mood. He knows he has an amazing ass he expects it to be treated as such
Scummy Dicks roster is diabolocal, he's loved by everyone. Hes got professers, TA's on there, cheerleaders, nerds, artsy girls, even the librarian hooked up with him at some point
Scummy Dick is genuinely empathetic and caring and cares what you have to say when you haven't fucked then after you fuck its not that he isnt caring its just your concerns arent really his top priority, or really a priority at all. He'll listen if you have to rant on text but he'll text back kinda dry days after you send it, but then act like he completely cares about whatever you messaged when you see him next
Scummy Dick wont really go out of his way to see you but if he does see you, he'll treat you like your SPECIAL and then completely ignore you, and do it repeatedly
Scummy Dick is SO hard to get a read of honestly, you never know how he feels about you or if hes an asshole or actually caring and it will take up your mind rent free all the time. And he honestly hadnt even really put much thought about you besides the fact that your nice, and you have good tits and your voice gets all high and squeaky when you cum, which he finds hot or annoying depending on his mood
Scummy Dick expects you to suck him, cause he's used to being worship and loved and he knows you want his attention and validation, he wont push your head, but he will expect you to blow him every time your together even if he doesnt go down on you (in his mind every other girl does, why wouldnt you)
Scummy Dick can go for a long time and hold off cumming for ages, he's never really pent up cause he gets pussy all the time so its not really like he needs to cum right away anyway. Plus he likes to hold himself to a high standard so he can continue to think he's above everyone
Scummy Dick is INSISTENT on protection and will not fuck you without a condom even if you say your on birth control he has made it abundantly clear he does not want a kid at this stage and he will not speak to you again if you push for something even indicating that
Scummy Dick genuinely does treat his friends that are girls well and loves doing girly shit with them and he's a sweetheart to them, but refuses to fuck them, and if he fucks you, you will NOT be one of his friends, sure he'll talk to you in hallways and smile, nothing beyond that and if you try to become more friendly he ignores it politely
Scummy Dick prefers skinny girls, he'll go for any body type. But he prefers skinny girls because their easier to switch positions with quickly, and because he's flexible he loves trying as many positions he can and he tends to get bored of the same one. But if your thick and flexible, he likes it all the same and thinks it sexy as well.
If your looking for to fuck a hot guy hes your guy. Chances are you'll hate him eventually after, for a reason you can't even name because he's so nice? And hes never properly done you dirty but theres some resentment there, which almost every fuckbuddy he's had feels the same. So join the club. ❤️
dick grayson canonically works the weirdest fucking jobs.
he’s like a teenager who’s pretty desperate to start working and will take *anything* that’s available, just cus. except he’s 28 (?) and definitely doesn’t need to work
as robin he ran a SUMMER CAMP just cus it’s cute. dick just likes to get involved with random ass friend groups of coworkers. he’s like “i guess i’m gonna die someday, i guess i should just give it a shot!”
he’s a list of canonical, and headcannon jobs dick grayson has worked 🩵
Camp Instructer
vigilante (duh)
lifeguard
radio jocky
museum curator
travel guide
gymnastics instructor
gardener
mail man (but like… a hot one)
hair dresser
life coach
fitness instructor
professor
acrobat
managing an antique shop
painting miniature glass birds
working in a retirement home
cop
stripper cop
GLOBE OF DEATH rider (look it up)
retail
i headcannon that most of these jobs he didn’t even get HIRED he just showed up and started helping out and it just turned into a thing. like he just did a couple volunteer things at a local retirement home in blüdhaven, and people just assumed he worked there and gave him a schedule etc, and he just is happy to help.
or if he’s undercover for an extended period of time, and he just decides it would be cool and help his cover if he started doing ‘insert job’. and he just kept doing it past the missions requirements.
just cus he’s part of the team now! and he already told maggie he’d cover her shift at Dons Deli Emporium- even though they never officially hired him. 🤷
overprotective, but in a chill way – he’s not bruce-level paranoid, but he definitely has that older brother instinct. if you so much as trip, he’s catching you before you even hit the ground.
tracking software… but just for you – “What? Nooo, I totally wasn’t monitoring your location. I just happened to be in the area. Crazy coincidence, right?”
interrogates anyone you date – he will put on his suit and drop from a rooftop just to intimidate them. “So, what are your intentions with my sister?” (He thinks it’s funny. You do not.)
will throw hands for you – someone insults you? he’s already flipping off a rooftop to deliver the Grayson Special (acrobatics + ass-kicking).
peak older brother annoyance
ruffles your hair just to be a menace – and if you swat his hand away, he just does it again.
calls you embarrassing nicknames in public – “C’mon, baby bird, let’s go!” and you have to resist the urge to disappear into the floor.
steals your food constantly – but somehow, his food is off-limits.
never lets you win in video games – “You have to earn it.” you go on to beat his ass for the rest of the rounds.
dramatic as hell – if you push him off the couch, he’ll pretend you fatally wounded him. “Tell Bruce… I fought bravely…”
family chaos
he will throw you off a building – …as training, of course. “Trust me, I’ll catch you!” (you’re screaming. he’s laughing.)
teases you about your fighting stance – “You call that a punch? Sis, even Alfred hits harder. And I mean the cat.”
sneaks you out of the manor for late-night adventures – he’ll take you for rooftop runs across gotham, just to remind you how alive the city is at night.
competes with you in acrobatics – “I bet you can’t land that double somersault—oh, damn, okay, maybe you can.”
takes the blame for your mess-ups – if bruce gets mad at you for something, dick is instantly like, “Actually, that was my fault.” he’s the ultimate older brother shield.
soft moments (because he loves you)
texts you at random times just to check in – “U alive?” “Need anything?” “Pls don’t die, Bruce would kill me.”
knows when you’re upset, even if you hide it well – and he won’t push, but he’ll sit beside you in silence until you’re ready to talk.
late-night talks on the rooftop – when things feel too overwhelming, he’ll just sit with you on the edge of the manor roof, talking about anything and everything.
gives the best hugs – because no matter what, he’s your big brother, and he’s always got your back.
once again, purely self-indulgent and had to write this out
