Just Us Two: Damian loves intruding on your and Jason's alone time.
Third time's The Charm: The two times Jason almost told you he liked you, and the one time he finally did.
Baby Came Home: After you lose your powers while trying to take down a partnership between Lex Luthor and Penguin, Jason and you confront your deepest fear — being each other's second choice. When the rest of the batboys lock you in the Batcave, though, the confession becomes inevitable.
How Can We Go Back to Being Friends: You hook up with your best friend, and now you don’t know how to act around each other.
Damian, You Are So Psyched: Damian came home from school yesterday acting off, so now it's your goal to cheer up the distant little boy.
Don’t Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket: Jason has been telling himself he's visiting the little coffee shop at the end of the block for its cheap coffee, but it's his only way to see the cute barista every day and quote "Pride and Prejudice" at her until she falls for him.
Don't Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket (sequel)
Not what you think: Jason went snooping and thinks you're cheating on him. Good luck explaining yourself!
A shear disaster: Your boyfriend is acting suspicious and won't take off his helmet.
Guilty pleasures: You cheat on your boyfriend, Jason, with the Red Hood.
Unexpected Guests: Damian finds out you're dating Jason.
Rough Night: Your secret relationship with Jason is accidentally revealed the morning after a rough night.
The Babysitter: After being hired to babysit Damian Wayne, you end up putting a masked intruder in a chokehold, only to realize you’ve just tackled his older brother, Jason Todd.
Making an Ass of U & Me: Jason didn’t mean to keep your existence secret from his family. At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything; his double life wasn’t just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just forgotten to mention it.
Careless Accidents: You get hurt, and Jason’s pissed.
So This is Love: You show each other what love is supposed to be like (4 in 1)
The Gift of Truth: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him
Pride & Prejudice: When you first meet Jason Todd, he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him.
Good With Kids: You never really had an opinion on your colleague Red Hood, that is until you walk into him interacting with some kids.
The Investigator: The Batfamily discovers Jason's been hiding a long-distance relationship with someone who might be even more terrifying than Batman himself.
Are You Dating My Teacher: Bruce decides to cash in a favor that Jason owed him, and now the Red Hood- the most ruthless vigilante of Gotham- is chaperoning his youngest brother’s field trip to the zoo.
Who Do You Love: You're hopelessly in love with your classmate, Jason Todd. And you just so happen to be quite good friends with Red Hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for Jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.
When She Sees Me: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play Cupid.
Blah Blah Blah: Jason is angry after watching Wuthering Heights. You are horny watching him get angry.
Cover Blown: You and Jason cannot stand one another. Unfortunately. you both go undercover as a married couple, and that should'nt change things between you two... right?
La Vie en Rose: The four times Jason wildly preferred you over everyone else.
Kiss or Miss: A quiet Saturday at the shooting range becomes anything but when Jason decides hands on help is the best kind.
Can I: It’s your last year of university and Jason Todd has been in your classes, plotting on you. You’d promised yourself you’d make the most of this year, go to more parties, finally lose your virginity, and step out of your comfort zone, while Jason steps into yours.
Glad It Was You
Prove It To You
Hit Me
The Magic Words: You’ve been urging to tell your boyfriend that you love him and you finally do.
Ice Skating With Jason: Ice skating, jealousy, and accidental confessions... what could go wrong?
Scuff Marks: Your car breaks down, and you meet your best friend's brother, Jason.
Brother's Best Friend: Sleepover at Wayne Manor with a side quest of making out with your secret boyfriend.
Wait…We're Not Dating: For the entire year you and Jason have known each other, he assumed you two were dating and had no idea you weren't.
It's Just a Crush: You have a crush on Red Hood, and your best friend stephanie brown thinks it’s so funny. Funny enough, she introduces you to her brother, Jason Todd.
Delayed Confession: Jason is trying to confess his feelings, but you already thought you were dating.
Domestic Disputes: Jason cannot handle having such an independent girlfriend.
Random blurbs
Old habits
Revealing Secrets
I'm still right though
Jason accidentally reveals he has a soon-to-be fiancée
Interrupted Dates
First Time
Shy (but experienced) Jason and his freaked-out (but inexperienced) girl
Jason Todd who makes everything in your home kiss
Random Headcanons
My pretty, pretty girl
Collar
Jason has a wet dream while you’re trying to wake him up
Jason is insecure about his scars
Jason Todd is hungry and impatient
Dick Grayson
Sweater Weather: Dick just wanted to have lunch with his best friend, but he didn't expect you to show up in some other guy's sweatshirt.
The Light Behind Your Eyes: A week spent at Dick’s apartment leads Damian to discover what unconditional love looks like.
Hard to Impress: Dick Grayson can't seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does
The "She's With Me" Is The New Gaelic Shrug (sequel)
Easy lovers: After a series of dates, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss from you.
Miraculous partners: Basically, a "Miraculous Ladybug" plot between you and Dick.
Territory, Marked: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park, and when his older brother tags along one day, he takes a little too much interest.
Dinner Was Not Served: Dick had one goal: to seduce his girlfriend. He forgot the part where he should check for unwanted guests first and narrates his plans in very, vivid detail.
Stakeout at Table Nine: Dick Grayson just wanted a normal date. No suits. No masks. Definitely no Batkid stakeout at a fancy restaurant. Too bad his siblings brought disguises, drama, and a front-row seat to his love life.
Lightning Strikes Twice: Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
Whatever You Say Teach: Damian gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damian’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.
His Person: You and dick have been close friends for years now, and that's all it would ever be, but after he snaps and upsets you, things change.
Random blurbs
Take him back, please!
Revealing Secrets
Interrupted Dates
Sleeping in his bed turns into something more
Damian Wayne (aged up ofc!!)
Near: He hates contact, except apparently when it’s you he’s inching toward.
Nepo Vigilante: After your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. Bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with Damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with Tim instead, sparking Damian’s outrage.
When The Spite Dies: You were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite, you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man and vice versa.
When The Spite is Desire (sequel)
The Heart Remembers: Damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolve all defenses and unravel the true depths of his undying devotion for you.
The Only Exception: Getting a list of everything Damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re Damian’s only exception.
Animal Interests: Damian’s father drags him along to an old acquaintance's house for intel, only to find that her teen also has an interest in animal rescues. In other words, she has a rescued panther as a pet.
Who Said The Waynes Were Cold: Damian Wayne, son of Batman, grandson of Ra's al Ghul, capable of neutralizing a threat in thirty seconds flat, is completely, irrevocably incapable of speaking to the girl he loves. The solution: an anonymous note slipped into a locker. Dick Grayson finds it hilarious. Damian doesn't.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Damian Wayne and Reader Get Domestic
Tim Drake
If I Was Your Boyfriend: Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.
Dairy Queen Closes in 10 Minutes: You broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Bruce Wayne
The Wrong Man’s Wife: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.
Like Real People Do: Bruce's wife goes missing, and the media and family are both in shambles. Bruce grows colder as the family tries their best to find her. To try and cheer him up, they find old video diaries from the couple’s early dating lives and witness a new side of Bruce.
The Watchtower's Worst Kept Secret: The Justice League suspects something is happening between Batman and Bruce Wayne's wife.
Seven Smacks: Bruce Wayne was a stubborn and fiercely independent man, which meant that his children were too. Unfortunately for you, that meant that scolding one of them was practically a moment to scold both.
The Bat's Wife: Some members of the league are still surprised by the way the Dark Knight's wife looks.
Oh, It's... Gold: Bruce made a small mistake on a gift he gave you, and everyone judged him for it.
batboys x fem!reader : kissing them while they're sleep...
DICK GRAYSON
He’s sprawled across your bed like he fell straight out of a mission and into a dream. One arm slung over his eyes, hair messy, chest rising slow under the blanket.
You lean in, just to brush your lips against his — a whisper of a kiss.
He stirs immediately. Of course he does. The man’s trained to wake at a pin drop, but this time… he doesn’t open his eyes.
A smile curls on his mouth instead, lazy and full of warmth.
“Mm,” he hums, voice rough with sleep, “was that real or am I dreamin’?”
You freeze, whisper something about him going back to sleep.
He hums again, turns toward you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his chest.
“Then keep dreamin’ with me,” he mumbles, already slipping under again, lips brushing your hair like muscle memory.
JASON TODD
He sleeps heavy — the kind of exhausted that only comes from carrying too much.
There’s a gun on the nightstand, a scar by his mouth, and a softness in his face that only shows when the world’s finally quiet.
You lean down, heart pounding, and press a kiss to his lips — gentle, almost scared.
He tenses. For a second, his hand twitches toward the weapon, but when his eyes flutter open and he sees it’s you, everything melts.
“...What was that for?” he asks, voice gravel low, still half-asleep.
You shrug, whisper, “You looked peaceful.”
He chuckles, quiet and broken around the edges. “You’re dangerous, y’know that?”
He drags you down into his chest, rough fingers sliding through your hair.
Next breath, he’s out again — heartbeat steady under your cheek, hand still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
TIM DRAKE
He’s asleep at his desk. Again. Head resting on folded arms, surrounded by cold coffee cups and open files.
You sigh, move closer, brushing hair from his forehead. His lashes flutter, his lips parted just slightly. He looks so young like this — unguarded, human.
You lean down, kiss him softly. Just one small press of lips — fleeting, tender.
He stirs. Blinks once, confused.
“...Wh—?”
“Go back to sleep,” you whisper.
He blinks again, eyes finding yours, unfocused and hazy. A sleepy smile ghosts across his face.
“You kissed me?”
You nod.
He sighs, a quiet, drowsy laugh slipping out. “Finally,” he murmurs before his head drops back down, out cold again — like he’s been waiting for that for weeks.
DAMIAN WAYNE
He’s not a deep sleeper — raised by assassins, after all — but tonight he’s still. Titus is at his feet. His hand’s resting loosely on the hilt of a blade by the pillow.
You hesitate. He looks so peaceful it feels almost cruel to wake him.
But you can’t help it. You lean in and brush your lips against his.
He stirs instantly, his eyes flashing open.
“Who—” he starts, then stops when he sees you.
You whisper, “Sorry. You were sleeping.”
He blinks. Processing. The tension in his shoulders eases.
“…That was unwise,” he mutters, voice low, but his ears are bright red.
You smile. “You didn’t push me away.”
He huffs quietly, looking away. “You caught me off guard.”
Later, when he thinks you’re asleep, he leans closer — and presses the softest kiss to your temple.
SYNOPSIS: Damian Wayne has never been the kind of man to fall in love halfway. And when he loves, he does it with all the ferocity and devotion of someone who was trained to safeguard what he holds most dear
So when the girl he loves shines—he makes sure the world never dims her
PAIRINGS: Aged Up! Damian Wayne x Reader
TAGS: Romance, Fluff, Implied Dick x Kori, Implied Tim x Kon
🜼 :: i've seen too much alpha male content on tiktok i had to write this masterpiece to calm myself
🜼 :: i get that this might be ooc for damian—like i said, i'm not very familiar with the canon material yet—but i don't care because this is my fic and i can do what i want with it
🜼 :: i wanted to post this before part three of my tim fic just 'cause that one isn't quite done yet. i'm not yet satisfied with the way i've written it so this is a little something to have while you guys wait for that one.
There’s something in her—
Something radiant.
It’s not loud or dramatic.
Not desperate or flashy.
It’s just… bright.
The way she walks into a room and transforms it, like someone opened the windows and let the sunlight in—suddenly everything feels warmer, clearer, alive.
Damian fell in love with that brightness.
And the moment he did?
He made it his job to protect it.
One Year Ago
He showed up on her window balcony with a dislocated shoulder and a look that said: don’t ask.
So she didn’t.
She just opened the window, said, “You’re bleeding on my basil,” and went to get the first aid kit.
They weren’t dating then. Not really.
He was Damian Wayne. She was the girl who sat beside him in class—lip gloss always perfect, boots too pretty for Gotham grime, with a knack for saying something ridiculous and making it sound profound.
They met in a Philosophy 101 elective.
He thought she was an idiot for quoting Barbie.
She thought he was repressing sixteen years of rage and probably slept with his fists clenched.
Both were right.
But they also partnered on a debate project, complained about their annoying classmates, and kept running into each other at increasingly inconvenient moments.
He’d show up to class with split knuckles and a stitched lip, and she wouldn’t ask. She’d just pass him an ice cold water bottle, slide her hoodie over for him to use as a makeshift ice pack, and keep talking like nothing was unusual.
One time he came in with blood drying beneath his collar. She only raised an eyebrow, moved her takeout box closer to him, and said, “The garlic bread is still warm.”
When he disappeared for five days and returned, knocking on her door—limping, face paler than usual and shoulder stiff—she didn’t ask where he’d been. She just opened her door, pointed him to the couch, made soup, and put on a movie he once mentioned he enjoyed.
He stopped showing up anywhere else after long nights. Only her window.
They weren’t supposed to fall in love. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love
There were too many unsaid things between them—too much shadow in his world, too much light in hers. He carried weight in his shoulders like he was always bracing for war. She wore joy like armor, all sunshine and clever comebacks, like she could survive anything as long as she stayed golden.
But he kept coming back. For her. For the way she patched him up in glittery pajamas and brewed him coffee the way he liked it. For how she met every argument he made—disarming his logic with a well-placed “actually”—and still managed to be gentle about it, like she was offering correction with a ribbon tied around it.
For the way she made being brilliant look fun—and made him feel things he wasn’t supposed to. Things he didn’t have the time or luxury for.
It drove him insane.
He called her infuriating. She called him dramatic.
He kept coming back. And she let him.
Eventually, he told her. About Robin. About the League. About the fact that he wasn’t just bruised from bar fights, but from chasing actual death through rooftops and gutters.
She blinked. Took a breath. Then asked, “So that’s why you’re so bad at texting back?”
He stared.
She handed him his coffee. “Cool. That explains a lot.”
Now
Damian Wayne doesn’t do anything halfway.
Not in battle. Not in love.
So when it came to her—there was never going to be anything halfway about it.
He calculated the risk, weighed the consequences, and still handed her the keys.
He didn’t accidentally fall in love.
He didn’t casually let her into the Bat-side of his life.
And he’s sure as hell not going to keep living under the same roof as his gossiping, nosy, emotionally invasive brothers when he could be waking up next to her in a place of their own.
So yes.
The only logical next step?
Move out. Take her with him.
“Damian. Baby. Love of my life. Please do not fold my dress like it’s a tactical vest.”
She didn’t even look up from her side of the room, where she was carefully organizing makeup into a padded case like it was crown jewels. Damian, meanwhile, was frowning over her favorite silk dress, currently flattened into a rectangle.
“It wrinkles when you pack it like that,” she said, tone calm but pointed—clearly watching him out of the corner of her eye.
“It’s more space-efficient,” he said flatly, still folding.
“It’s Dior.”
“That doesn’t make it less wrinkle-prone.”
She sighed, standing up and crossing the room to peel the dress from his hands. “This is why you’re not allowed near my closet unsupervised.”
“I rescued a civilian diplomat in less time than it’s taking you to pack makeup,” he muttered, watching as she delicately re-folded the fabric with a practiced roll.
“And yet here you are,” she said softly, “ still showing up for me anyway.”
He flies her to the new place—not because it’s far, but because he likes the way her eyes light up when he does things like that. Private jet. Window seat. Her favorite drink already waiting.
The residence is technically still in Gotham.
Discreet. Reinforced. High above the noise.
A penthouse—three levels of clean lines and curated light.
The kitchen looks like it was designed for a cooking show.
There’s library already holds all her annotated books, shelved just the way she likes them.
Their bedroom has blackout curtains, soft sheets, and her favorite throw blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed.
She’s silent for a long moment. Then:
“You decorated.”
“Tt. I’m not a savage.”
The adjustment, the rhythm, the quiet luxury of building something together.
It doesn’t happen all at once. But the space eventually starts to feel like them—like a home.
Damian, ever precise, takes to domesticity the way he does combat: intensely, instinctively, and with startling dedication.
He remembers—too clearly—those nights she wordlessly cleaned the blood from his knuckles, nudged a warm bowl of fresh soup toward him, handed him a fresh shirt and didn’t ask questions.
Back then, he hadn’t known how to say thank you. So now, he shows it in the only way he knows how: by making her life gentler wherever he can. By handling the sharp corners before she gets near them. By protecting her from the quiet exhaustion she never complains about.
It starts small.
She’s humming—soft, distracted—while folding towels on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
Damian walks in.
Pauses. Frowns slightly.
“Beloved.”
“Hmm?”
“You shouldn’t be doing that.”
“It’s laundry. I’m not battling Deathstroke.”
“Still.”
Two days later, every piece of clothing she owned—including ones she didn’t remember buying—was folded, hung, and steam-pressed in perfectly color-coded rows.
No explanation.
Just a silent housekeeper named Marta, who appears twice a week like clockwork.
“Why?” she asks later, a little amused.
“Because you were humming,” he says simply. “And your voice is better when you’re not tired.”
She doesn’t cook. Unless you count heating water for tea.
Every morning, she wakes up to a pre-set breakfast bar tailored to her weekly cravings.
Avocados? Already sliced.
Eggs, soft-boiled for exactly six minutes? Naturally.
Chocolate-dipped strawberries on Tuesdays? Of course.
She once jokingly asked for pancakes shaped like bats.
The plate was waiting the next morning—complete with tiny edible batarangs.
“You know I can cook, right?” she once mumbled, more puzzled than insistent.
Damian, without looking up from his tablet, “You could also write a thesis in glitter gel pen. Doesn’t mean you should.”
She doesn’t grocery shop. She’s never had to.
The fridge is always stocked. The pantry never dips below half. The fruit is always fresh, the snacks never stale, and somehow, everything she loves appears just before she realizes she’s craving it.
The exact brand of instant ramen she lives on during final?
Local lemonade she swears tastes better than store-bought?
Her favorite brand of oat milk that always sells out?
It’s just there. Always. As if the universe anticipated it
—or Damian Wayne.
He’d hired a private grocer before they even moved in. Arranged deliveries on a rotating schedule. Commissioned a smart inventory system that flagged replacements before she noticed anything missing.
There’s no grocery list taped to the fridge, no scribbled reminders on the counter, no panicked “we’re out of milk” moment. It just… never happens.
“Did you go to the store?” she asked once, squinting at the restocked shelf of her favorite jam.
“No,” Damian said. “The store comes to us.”
She doesn’t clean.
Not because she’s lazy.
Because Damian has built a life where she simply doesn’t have to.
The housekeeper arrives exactly when they’re out.
The vacuum runs on a silent schedule while they sleep.
There’s a scent diffuser system that releases calming scents like warm vanilla and fresh linen.
The kinds of scents that say: You’re home.
She tried to vacuum once.
He unplugged the cord without a word, handed her a cup of tea, and delegated the task to Marta.
“This feels excessive,” she said once, laughing.
“No,” Damian answered. “It’s called priorities.”
“Priorities?”
“Yes. You have better things to do than chase dust bunnies.”
She huffed a laugh. “Like what?”
“Being brilliant. Annoying me. Tending to your garden of plants you call your children.”
“Your attention is a resource I refuse to waste on dust.” he said simply.
The only time she ever picked up a broom was to threaten Jason with it.
She asked him once.
“Is this a power thing?” she’d asked, curled in his lap on their couch.
“Are you trying to take care of me because you think I can’t?”
He had looked at her then, calm and deadly sincere.
“No. I’m taking care of you because you shouldn’t have to waste your time doing menial things. Because your time is valuable. Because your mind is extraordinary. Because I can.”
She didn’t answer right away. Just rested her head against his shoulder, eyes soft.
“You know I’d do the same for you, right?”
“I know,” he murmured, brushing his fingers through her hair. “That’s why I won’t let you beat me to it.”
“You protect the city,” she tells him once. “And I don’t even do the dishes.”
He looks at her like she’s lost her mind.
“You protect me.”
He said it like a fact.
And she didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll her eyes or argue like she usually might.
It was ridiculous. Over the top. The kind of thing people say in movies, in poems, in love songs whispered between verses.
But the thing about Damian Wayne was—
To him, her happiness wasn’t a luxury. It was a metric. A criteria for what was worth her time, her effort, her energy.
If it drained her, it was cut. If it bored her, it was handled. If it made her pause too long before smiling, it was gone by morning.
“But Damian—”
“If it doesn’t make you happy,” he said, quietly, forehead pressed to hers, “it doesn’t belong in your day.”
One of the things she does do—without fail—is wait up.
Damian came back with blood on his sleeve and exhaustion in his bones. The patrol had gone longer than expected, and the gash across his arm told her more than any debrief ever could.
She met him at the balcony window, arms crossed, your expression sharp with worry poorly disguised as irritation.
“We are having words,” she said firmly.
“I neutralized a threat—” he started, voice hoarse.
“No,” she interrupted, stepping forward and grabbing his uninjured wrist. “We are having nourishment, then words. In that order.”
He grunted something unintelligible, but didn’t pull away. Let her guide him out of his boots. Let her steer him to the kitchen. Let her fuss over him even as he rolled his eyes and muttered that he was fine.
Damian Wayne might be a soldier, might be lethal, might have faced down warlords and monsters—
But in her hands, he was just a man who needed soup, stitches, and someone to tell him not to bleed on the countertop.
And she always did. Every time.
“You disobeyed a direct girlfriend command,” she said, dabbing antiseptic on his scrapes and bruises. “I should revoke your forehead kisses.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” he grunted.
She simply leaned in, kissed his brow—gentle, lingering, a silent promise—and whispered, “Next time you come home bleeding, I will.”
It makes her happy, he knows.
To help.
To protect him the way he protects her.
To be part of this secret thing that is his, and now, theirs.
And because he has her…
He trains harder. Fights harder. Smarter. Cleaner.
He fights with her voice echoing in his ear, and with the knowledge that if he slips—if he falters—it will scare her.
“You did good tonight,” she says after every patrol. “Come home safe. That’s all I want.”
So he does.
Because she keeps him steady.
Keeps him from going too far, from losing himself in the mission.
From the silence that used to follow him home.
It was the first time she’d ever hosted anything in their penthouse.
She’d sent the invite on impulse, halfway through raiding the pantry for snacks. Damian hadn’t said anything when he saw the group chat name pop up. He only raised a brow and muttered something about “surviving one evening of meddling.”
The Gotham Partners Support Group™
hangout? snacks, drinks, and possibly unsolicited love advice
KORI: absolutely, i will bring flowers!!
KON: on my way as long as no one makes me play charades
DICK: lies, you love it
She laughed out loud reading it, already half-buzzing with excitement.
Kori’s heels click against the polished marble, echoing softly through the open space.
Kon lets out a low whistle when he sees the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Dick stops in front of the kitchen island, eyebrows raised. “Is that real marble?”
Tim pretends not to be impressed, but his fingers haven’t stopped tracing the edge of the built-in espresso bar for five solid minutes.
There’s music—soft. Lighting—warm, romantic. Scents—floral and calming.
And in the middle of it all is her, radiant in pink silk shorts and a cardigan she didn’t button up all the way, offering fresh lemonade in glasses that chill themselves.
Kon accepts his with both hands, eyes wide as he takes in the curated calm of the space.
“This is what you live like?” he asks her, somewhere between awe and disbelief.
Tim doesn’t look up from where he’s adding a lemon slice to his own glass. “This is what Damian insisted she live like.”
Kon whistles low. “Damn. I get it now.”
Kon finds the in-house massage chair. Within seconds, he’s flat on his back, eyes closed, muttering something about never leaving.
Dick discovers the balcony garden—rows of herbs, sun-warmed terracotta, and a vine-draped bench with a throw pillow. He whistles low, brushing his fingers over the rosemary. “Didn’t know Damian had a green thumb.”
“He doesn’t,” she calls from the kitchen. “I do. He just bought the balcony.”
Kori, meanwhile, opens the walk-in pantry—and promptly gasps. “You have an entire section just for different kinds of honey??”
“I like options.”, she beams.
Jason hasn’t even shown up yet, and already the place is buzzing.
Kon’s half-asleep in the massage chair, murmuring threats to anyone who tries to make him move. Dick is crouched in the garden corner, dramatically sniffing potted herbs and assigning them names with far too much confidence. Kori’s opened three jars of honey for “taste-testing purposes” and is now trying to convince Damian to try the lavender one on toast.
Tim is loitering by the drinks counter, drink in one hand, the other typing furiously on his phone, pretending not to laugh at the chaos around him.
And through it all, she’s just laughing—at ease, perfectly unbothered—as Damian leans against the kitchen island behind her, watching it all unfold with a look that says: this is his personal hell and also he’s never been happier.
They gather around the low table in the lounge—pillows everywhere, soft throws tossed over laps, bowls of popcorn and fancy chips within reach, half-finished drinks sweating on coasters. Laughter echoes off the high ceilings, warm and unhurried.
Kori nudges her with a grin, eyes sparkling.
“So you really don’t cook?”
“Nope.”
“Or clean?”
“Not once.”
“And Damian doesn’t mind?”
Before she can answer, Damian—seated beside her, legs crossed, perfectly composed, fingers idly brushing her knee—scoffs.
“Mind? I’d be offended if she tried.”
Jason, fork in hand, lazily gestures toward her as he leans back into the cushions.
“So what do you even do in the penthouse all day if you’re not cooking, cleaning, shopping, or doing laundry?”
The question wasn’t malicious. Just curious. Playful, even.
Damian answers before she can—calm, certain, unapologetic.
“She studies, she writes, she drives me insane by reciting musicals.”
Tim snorted into his drink. “You’re spoiling her.”
“She deserves it,” Damian said simply.
Jason raised a brow. “What’s she ever gonna do if you’re not around to handle everything?”
“Thrive,” Damian repeated—cold, final. His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I’m building her a life where she can.”
Damian leans back, calm and unaffected. “I don’t understand why her not doing chores surprises you. My mother never lifted a hand to sweep a floor in her life. And no one dared question her capability.”
Dick raised a brow. “Your mother also runs an empire of assassins.”
Damian doesn’t miss a beat. “Exactly. And she never wasted time on tasks that diluted her strength.”
Because Damian Wayne may live under Bruce’s roof, fight under the Bat’s symbol, and protect Gotham’s streets—
But the foundation of his worldview?
That was all Talia al Ghul.
“I grew up watching people serve my mother. Not because she demanded it, but because her time was valuable. You don’t train the world’s most dangerous woman to hand-wash her robes. You let her focus on what makes her extraordinary.”
His gaze flicked to her, sitting beside him—pink silk and soft joy wrapped in confidence.
“So I made sure my beloved—who is, in her own right, extraordinary—lives the same way.”
Kori nodded slowly. Kon glanced her way, thoughtful.
Damian spoke without hesitation. “Why would I ask the person I love to waste time on things I can pay others to handle—when she could spend that time with me, pursuing her passions, or simply existing in peace?”
Dick leaned back, arms crossed, mulling it over. “So it’s not spoiling her.”
“It’s honoring her,” Damian corrected, voice calm but absolute.
Jason scoffed, grinning. “And here I thought you were just whipped.”
Damian raised a brow. “Oh, I am. Fully. Willingly.” A pause. “You should try it.”
Everyone stared at him for a moment. Then:
Kon let out a low whistle. “Honestly? I get it. She glows in this place. Like she owns the world.”
“She does,” Damian replied, calm and certain. “Mine.”
꒰ 🦇 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 after your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with tim instead, sparking damian’s outrage.
GRIEF MAKES THE WORLD LOOK DIFFERENT.
the city has been loud your entire life, but ever since your parents died, it feels muted in strange places and deafening in others. the quiet parts hit hardest. the little moments where you forget for half a second and then remember all over again, the kind of remembering that isn’t a thought but a physical sensation, like a punch behind the ribs.
none of this was supposed to be yours.
their storage vault, the one bruce unlocked for you with the kind of calm that made you want to break something, smells like cold air, graphite, and steel. it’s carved deep beneath an old building that hasn’t seen sunlight in decades. the lights flicker in a way that suggests they were installed before you were born. it’s not a place designed for grief, it’s a place built for purpose. precision. continuation.
your parents’ suits hang on reinforced mounts, suspended just above eye level like they’re watching you judge whether you’re capable of this. your mother used to joke that the suits looked better in motion; standing still made everything seem too dramatic. you never understood what she meant until now, the way the armor casts double shadows, the way it mirrors shapes that are no longer there. you stare at them too long because it feels like the only thing left to do.
bruce had told you that all assets were transferred to your name. equipment, tech, safehouses, unfinished case files, half-deciphered intel. a legacy that was never meant to feel like an inheritance but does now, painfully.
you didn’t even know some of this existed.
you didn’t want to know.
they trained you, yes. they taught you how to throw a punch, how to read a situation, how to outrun consequences. but they also told you, repeatedly, that you could choose differently. that their path wasn’t meant to be hereditary. that the blood they spilled didn’t need to belong to anyone else in the family. you used to cling to that promise. now you hold their mask in your hands, and it feels like a broken version of a future someone else should’ve had.
everyone keeps telling you they died heroes, as if that’s supposed to dull anything. as if noble deaths hurt less. as if the city mourns them the way you do. the city moves on. the city always moves on. but you’re still standing here, breathing in recycled air and trying to figure out what part of your life is supposed to continue. your parents never believed in destiny. they believed in choice. in stubbornness. in doing the right thing because no one else would. and now, ironically, you are the one no one else is left to turn to.
the storage unit is colder than it should be. you’ve spent so many hours here lately you could map the room blindfolded. the crates of gear you haven’t opened yet, the leftover tech your parent never got to update, the suits displayed as if they’ll step back into it any minute. you shouldn’t still come here every morning. you know that. the batcave is bigger, safer, better equipped. but this place is theirs, and somehow staring at the suit in this cramped little box hurts less than seeing it under the manor’s bright clinical lights.
your phone vibrates. training cycle begins in 30 minutes. you don’t need the reminder; you’ve been counting the minutes anyway. the dread has been with you since you woke up, since your feet automatically carried you back to this unit, since you realized another morning means another sparring session with the demon brat incarnate.
you dread it.
you dread him.
damian.
the name alone is enough to sour your mood. you feel it immediately, your shoulders tightening, your jaw locking, your pace quickening in some futile hope that if you get there early enough you can ask bruce to pair you with literally anyone else. you know that won’t happen. damian wayne is unbearable. there’s no polite version of that. no “he has his moments” or “he means well” because he really, genuinely doesn’t. he’s a black hole of superiority, dragged around by entitlement so deeply rooted it might as well be genetic. he walks like the world is his inheritance and everyone else is trespassing.
he is arrogant in a way only someone who has never been allowed to fail can be. sharp-tongued, sharper-eyed, constantly calculating and constantly disappointed in everyone around him. including you. especially you. spoiled isn’t even the right word. damian is something harder, a prince raised in a fortress and told the world outside is beneath him. he carries himself like any deviation from his expectations is a personal insult, and he treats you like you breathe incorrectly.
and the worst part? the truly unfair part?
he’s good.
not “for his age” good. not “bruce trained me” good. he’s the kind of good that makes your blood heat because you hate giving him that win. when he fights you, it feels personal even when he swears it isn’t. there’s an intensity in him that borders on cruel, like he’s always trying to prove something, always needing to be sharper, faster, better. especially compared to you. of course bruce keeps pairing you together.
you exhale slowly, press your thumb against the message to dismiss it, and glance at your watch. if you leave now, you can get to the manor ahead of everyone else. being early gives you time to brace yourself, to shrug off grief and put on whatever version of yourself can withstand damian’s perpetual disapproval. you grab your bag, pull the metal door shut, and lock the padlock with a soft click. outside, the morning is still gray, the sky washed out and half-asleep. the city traffic hasn’t peaked yet. you keep your hood up.
you make it to the outskirts of the manor grounds with time to spare. the iron gates loom ahead, old enough to creak but still strong enough to give off that Wayne aura of we have money and secrets. the access scanner blinks once in recognition and unlatches the gate. the walkway up to the house is quiet, all manicured lawn and morning dew and the far-off rustle of wings. the manor itself looks almost peaceful from here, like nothing inside it could possibly be chaotic or loud or irritating.
a lie. obviously.
you steel yourself before stepping in. early is good. early means that hopefully you won’t walk into damian’s glare the second you arrive. early means you can stretch, breathe, maybe even convince yourself today won’t devolve into insults, scowls, and wanting to push him into a wall and also possibly strangle him.
or both. definitely both.
you swipe into the elevator, hit the sequence bruce programmed, and watch the floor drop away beneath your feet as the platform descends into shadow. the cave lights hum awake. water drips from stalactites. you step off, rolling your shoulders once, already planning the quiet you’ll get before anyone else arrives — a few minutes of peace, of solitude, of breathing room—
but no.
of course not. there he is.
damian stands in the center of the training mats like a statue carved out of irritation. already changed, already warmed up, already swinging a bo staff through the air with that crisp, too-perfect precision that makes you want to fling something heavy at his head. he doesn’t even look surprised to see you. just… mildly offended by your presence. his eyes track you the way a cat tracks a fly it isn’t sure is worth killing yet. then he speaks, voice flat, cool, the verbal equivalent of an eye-roll: “you’re late.”
you stop walking, blink once, and stare at him. “i’m early,” you say, very clearly, because you checked the time twice on the way here.
damian finally lowers his staff. not out of respect — no, never — but merely to cross his arms with maximum judgment. “early,” he repeats, like the word itself has personally insulted him. “you are precisely thirty four minutes and nineteen seconds later than the time i arrived. therefore, you are late.”
you suck in a sharp breath. “that’s not how that works.”
damian tilts his head, mouth twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk, the kind that says he knows exactly how annoying he is and simply accepts it as part of his nature. “that is exactly how it works. punctuality is measured by standards, not feelings. if i am present, and you arrive after me, you are—”
“don’t say it.”
“—late.”
you resist the urge to throw your bag at him.
he watches you like a hawk watches prey struggling with a trap. his gaze drops briefly, to your stance, your posture, how tired you look, how stiff your shoulders are, and then flicks away again like none of it matters. like he’s already cataloged you and moved on. you hate that he’s always here early. you hate that you’ve almost never once walked in without finding him already sweating, already glowering, already working three times harder than anyone asked him to.
you hate that it makes you feel behind.
he turns away first, which infuriates you more, as if you’re not worth continued attention. “you should stretch,” he says, dismissive, arrogant as ever. “you’re sluggish in the mornings.” damian glances back just long enough to add, “try not to fall behind today.”
training hasn’t even started and you already want to strangle him. you inhale through your nose, he kind of breath meant to keep you from launching yourself at a smug, infuriating, morally superior gremlin of a boy. it doesn’t help. at all. but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you rise to it this early in the morning, so instead of snapping back, you drop your bag a little harder than necessary, kneel, and start stretching, pretending not to notice the way damian keeps glancing over in those sharp, evaluating passes, tracking you like part of his warm-up routine is assessing your weaknesses. you refuse to give him anything. not a flinch. not a sound.
you move through your stretches methodically, shoulders, arms, back, legs, and by the time you finish, your annoyance has settled into something sharp and clean. you stand. damian meets your eyes for exactly one second, nods once, the barest acknowledgment that you are, in fact, ready, and then the two of you slip wordlessly into your usual rhythm. warm-up drills. strikes. footwork. flow sequences.
the only sound between you is impact, gloves hitting pads, feet sliding across mats, the faint grunt of effort when he pushes harder than necessary (which he always does). you match him blow for blow. if he’s escalating, you escalate. if he’s testing you, you test him back. you don’t know how long you’ve been at it when you hear footsteps on the metal stairs.
damian is the first to break stance, head snapping up, expression twisting with immediate displeasure, as if the intrusion itself is personally offensive. tim appears first, holding a coffee the size of his head, hair a disaster, sweater hanging off one shoulder like he got dressed at a red light. he blinks at the two of you brawling at sunrise. “oh,” he says. “you guys are already trying to kill each other. nice. love the consistency.”
right behind him, cass moves with grace, eyes scanning the mat, giving you both a subtle nod that somehow manages to feel more respectful than anything damian’s ever given anyone. steph clomps down next, ponytail bouncing, still chewing half a granola bar. “morning! you two look like a divorce waiting to happen.”
damian glares at her like she personally offended a dozen generations of al ghuls.
duke trails last, hoodie pulled over his head, yawning. “didn’t know sparring started early.”
“it didn’t,” tim says, sipping his coffee. “they just hate each other.”
steph gestures at you. “no, they don’t. they hate everyone else. each other is foreplay.”
damian inhales sharply, scandalized, turning a lethal death-glare on her. you pretend you’re not on the verge of combusting. cass hides her smile behind her hand. before you can even decide whether to walk away or throw something at damian’s head, the temperature in the room shifts. it always does when he arrives, bruce steps out of the shadowed doorway with that unnerving, near-silent glide he’s perfected over decades. he surveys the group with an expression that barely qualifies as a nod. “morning.”
you straighten instinctively. damian does too, but with the insolent ease of someone who thinks he’s the favorite son, the heir apparent. somehow he can stand at attention while still looking like he’s tolerating everyone else’s existence.
bruce gives the usual rundown: drills first, then sparring rotations, then assessments. your muscles burn through the first round of drills, kicks, strikes, bursts of footwork across the mat, but the sting is almost grounding. easier than dealing with the person two paces ahead of you who insists on being perfect and loud about it. you’ve never understood what exactly you did to earn his contempt.
and of course, when bruce calls out the sparring pairs, he doesn’t even have to say the names. you already know you’ll get partnered up. damian doesn’t even look irritated, he just tilts his chin the slightest degree, that arrogant flicker of superiority. you swallow the spike of annoyance climbing your spine.
cass gives you a sympathetic look. tim quietly mutters “godspeed.” steph pretends to hide behind duke. bruce pretends not to see any of it. damian steps onto the mat, rolling his wrists, already in perfect form.
you follow, heart thudding, not with fear, but with frustration. sparring with damian is like sparring with a blade that resents being touched. he doesn’t go easy. he doesn’t slow down. he doesn’t adjust. he just cuts. the second bruce signals for you to begin, damian moves, slicing across the mat like the fight is already his. he doesn’t warm up, he doesn’t test distance, he just attacks.
his first kick nearly clips your ribs; you block too high, stumble back half a step. you bite down the instinct to snap at him. focus. you counter with a punch, clean, aimed for his shoulder; he avoids it without even looking, twisting out of reach and sweeping at your legs. you jump it, barely. he’s already coming in again. it’s impossible—
how the hell are you supposed to beat someone who was raised as a child assassin, who trained under people who don’t believe in rest or mercy, who has been fighting his whole life?
you’re good. you know you’re good. but damian is something else entirely.
the fight goes on like that, your lungs burning, your arms throbbing, damian not even winded. every time you get close, he pivots. every time you try something new, he shuts it down like he predicted it minutes ago. “you’re telegraphing,” he says at one point, dodging your strike. “and your footing is sloppy.”
you glare, breathless. “thanks, coach.”
he ignores the sarcasm completely and goes for your knees. you block late, and pain sparks up your leg. he sees it. he absolutely sees it, and yet he keeps coming. your frustration curdles into something hotter. the kind of anger that sits burning in your chest. unfair, you think. unfair that he gets to hate you for existing, unfair that he gets to win, unfair that bruce keeps pairing you with him like you’re supposed to just learn to survive him.
you go in again, one last strike, one last try, but damian is already there, sweeping your leg and hooking the back of your ankle with brutal, ruthless efficiency. your balance goes. you hit the mat hard. something cracks, sharp pain blooming up your arm as your elbow smashes against the ground wrong. the air sucks out of your lungs. you don’t scream, but you freeze, shock pinning you still. you only register the taste of copper a second later. blood sliding from somewhere near your eyebrow down your cheek. damian stands over you, bo staff poised at your throat, the picture of victory.
and something in you, something that has been caged inside of you for months since you’ve started training with them, finally snaps. not into grief. into rage. it rises fast, not at the pain, not even at the humiliation, but at what it represents. his contempt. his certainty you don’t belong. that you’re an inherited symbol, not a threat. that you didn’t earn this life. that you can’t live up to what your parents were, because you weren’t raised in a league, trained from childhood, sculpted into a weapon on purpose.
you think of your parents, the way they moved through the world like it could be better if someone just tried, and you think of damian, born into war, and how he looks at you as if you are soft. lesser. temporary.
your jaw clenches, and you move. you surge up off the mat so fast that damian barely has time to retract his staff. your fist meets his guard with a crack that rings through your bones. the pain in your arm screams, but anger burns hotter, drowning it out. damian’s eyes widen, barely, but enough. then you strike again, faster, heavier, not waiting for bruce’s command, not giving damian a breath, a second, an inch. you hit him like you’re trying to punch through every doubt, every comparison, every expectation. your blade flashes next, close enough that the edge slices a thread off the hem of his sleeve. he shifts back, blocking with the staff, but the rhythm he always controls isn’t his anymore. you don’t let him adjust. you won’t.
you go at him again. punch, kick, strike, blade, another punch. damian meets every attack but only just. he’s fast—always faster—but you don’t give him the one thing he usually owns: time.
he parries your sword and you’re already slamming your shoulder into his chest. he deflects your fist and your leg snaps up into a sharp kick. he twists to avoid a slash, and you’re following. relentlessly. “enough,” damian snaps once, breath clipped, rattled.
“no,” you spit back, punching harder.
a hit breaks through, your elbow to his ribs, and he grunts, doubling half a step. you don’t stop. not even then. anger drives you. your parents steady you. damian’s doubt fuels you. every expectation presses into your knuckles.
finally, one mistake, one slip of footing, and damian goes down on his back, hitting the mat with a thud. he tries to roll, already bracing to counter, but you’re faster, and you plant your foot firmly on his chest, pinning him down.
the cave goes silent.
damian is beneath you, panting hard, chest rising in sharp, uneven pulls. sweat slicks across his skin, turning the warm brown tone of it into something luminescent under the cave lights. loose strands of hair fall over his forehead, messy, sticking to the curve of his cheek. his jaw is tight, furious, but his eyes… his eyes are something else entirely.
wide. startled. dark with heat and something like reluctant awe. he’s looking up at you like he can’t reconcile the version of you he’s built in his head with the one standing over him now, foot pressed to his sternum, breathing hard, blood sliding down your face like a war mark you earned.
for a second, just a second, damian actually looks flushed. not embarrassed. not humiliated. flushed.
his gaze trails the line of blood at your temple, the rise and fall of your chest, the grip you still have on your sword. and something softens, barely, but it’s there. admiration. or something even more dangerous. then, instantly, he shutters it. wipes the expression clean. molds his face back into its usual carved arrogance. but he can’t hide the way he’s still breathing too hard, or the way his pulse jumps visibly at his throat.
you stand over him, chest burning, anger still pulsing through you, hot and alive and undeniable. for the first time since you stepped into the cave, damian isn’t looking down at you.
he’s looking up.
the next few days pass like you’re moving through water that’s resisting you at every turn. you throw yourself into training. not normal training. punishing training.
you’re in the cave before sunrise, long before even damian filters in. you hit the bags until your knuckles ache deep into the bone. you run drills until your vision blurs. you practice footwork until the mat feels like it’s tilting beneath you. every hour you carve out of the day becomes a place to bleed frustration into movement. it’s easier than thinking. easier than remembering the way damian looked lying beneath you. easier than remembering the flicker of—whatever that was—in his eyes.
and you ignore him.
very deliberately.
very thoroughly.
he walks into the cave during breakfast hour? you pivot away. he enters the training mat? you tighten your jaw, focus on the target dummy, and act like he’s made of air. he stands close enough that you can feel the shift in temperature from his body heat? you move five steps to the left without acknowledging him. you don’t give him even a nod.
and damian, naturally, does not take it well.
damian wayne is infuriating. arrogant. he speaks like everything he says is an objective truth and everything you say is an inconvenience. every time you think about the way he looked at you right before he knocked you on the mat and made you bleed, something twists in your chest. you want to punch him. you want to yell at him. you want to demand why he hates you so viciously when you never asked for any of this. but mostly, what destroys you, is the frustration. the way he makes you feel like you’re always one step too slow, one swing too reckless, one mistake too obvious.
you’d never admit it aloud, but sometimes your chest gets so tight with how he gets under your skin that you have to step into the hallway and breathe through it before you start to tear up. if damian wants to act like you’re some sort of cosmic inconvenience—fine. it’s not like you want to be friends with someone like that anyway.
on the fourth morning after that day, you’re stretching, wrapping your hands, trying to focus on anything other than the tightness behind your ribs when you hear the elevator. of course it’s him.
damian’s footsteps hit the stone with their usual measured pace, irritated at the concept of existing near you. you don’t even wait for him to speak. you grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and head straight for the elevator.
“where are you going?” he snaps.
you keep walking.
his voice sharpens. “I am speaking to you.”
you don’t turn, not even half an inch. you hit the elevator button harder than necessary. the doors slide shut on his glare.
you head two floors up to the manor proper, heartbeat still too fast. you need a buffer, someone who is not damian, someone who won’t make you want to scream or break something or accidentally cry. tim is the most neutral option.
you knock on his door.
a muffled, exhausted: “…yeah?”
you slip in. tim is at his desk, hoodie on, hair sticking up like static, surrounded by three monitors and a half-eaten granola bar. he blinks at you like he genuinely isn’t sure if you’re a hallucination. “can i train with you today?” you ask.
tim pauses. stares. looks over his shoulder as if checking whether damian is standing behind you with a sword to your back. “I’m sorry,” he says slowly, rubbing his face, “did I die in my sleep?”
you sigh. “please.”
tim leans back in his chair, rolling slowly toward you like a confused, sleep-deprived cat. “why me? i should be the last-choice option. like, I’m the ‘everyone else is busy or unconscious’ pick.”
you drop your bag on the floor and mutter, “i don’t want to train with damian.”
tim makes a soft noise, somewhere between a hum and a concerned question. “that bad?”
“he hates me,” you say, and it comes out more exhausted than intended. “he’s always… extra harsh with me. like he goes out of his way to piss me off. or embarrass me. or get under my skin. and I just—” your voice cracks despite your best effort. “—i don’t want to deal with him today.”
tim stares at you for a long moment, eyes clearer now, softening with something close to sympathy. “you know, for someone raised by assassins, he’s… weirdly terrible at hiding things.”
you frown. “hiding what?”
tim spins halfway in his chair, giving you a raised eyebrow. “he doesn’t hate you.”
you scoff immediately. “yes, he does.”
“no,” tim says with a half-laugh, “if damian hates you, you’ll know it. like, i know it seems like he hates you, but trust me, i’ve seen what it looks like when damian hates someone.” he shudders.
“tim—”
“what damian does with you,” he interrupts, pointing vaguely in your direction, “is not hate. it’s… something more irritating.”
your stomach does a stupid twist. “like what?”
tim shrugs. “i bet he likes you and doesn’t know how to show it.”
you freeze. “no. no, he doesn’t. he’s—he throws me into the floor.”
“yeah,” tim says, nodding slowly, “and he looks like he stops breathing when you ignore him.”
“he does not.”
“he does,” tim pauses. “trust me. I’ve seen the ‘why isn’t my sparring partner looking at me’ face. it’s tragic.”
“tim… i think he genuinely wants me dead.”
tim rolls his eyes. “no. please. that’s his flirting.”
“that’s NOT—”
“trust the local damian expert.” tim taps his own chest. “he acts like this when he’s conflicted.”
you sink onto the edge of his bed, head in your hands for a second. “i’m so tired, tim.”
tim’s expression softened into something you’ve only ever seen in moments where he’s too sleep-deprived to mask sincerity. “yeah, I know,” he says. “he’s… a lot.”
you let out a short, humorless exhale. “that’s one word.”
“look,” tim starts, leaning his elbows on the desk, “damian wasn’t raised with… normal emotional frameworks. or social ones. or friendship ones. or—human ones.”
you glance up at him.
tim gestures broadly. “the league isn’t exactly the place where kids learn, ‘hey, when you like someone, maybe try being gentle.’ they learn ‘if something scares you, strike first.’ ‘if you respect someone, challenge them to see if they’re worthy.’”
you frown, shoulders tight. “that’s… messed up.”
“yeah,” tim says. “and that’s damian’s baseline. that’s where he started. so when he doesn’t know what to do with someone,” he motions toward you again. “he defaults to the only tools he was ever given.”
you stare down at your hands. “you’re saying he’s being awful because he… doesn’t know better?”
“no. i’m saying he’s being awful because it’s the only way he knows how to handle caring about someone. damian’s whole life, affection was… conditional. if he liked someone, it was dangerous. if he got attached, it made him vulnerable. he trained himself to cut the feeling off before it roots. when he does the push-you-away, insult-you, out-perform-you thing? that’s him trying to keep the feeling small. and you make him feel big things. you must. i’ve never seen him get this worked up over someone.”
your pulse picks up, something complicated, uncomfortable, strangely warm and guilty all at once. “i never—” you start, voice thin. “i never thought about it like that.”
“no one does,” tim says softly. “it’s easier to just say ‘damian’s a jerk.’ and he is. he is. but the jerk part is the smoke, not the fire.”
you huff. “he makes me want to cry or commit a felony, tim.”
“yeah, that’s basically what dating him will feel like,” he deadpans.
“we’re not—!”
“uh-huh.”
you groan into your hands.
“okay,” tim says, resigned, rubbing a hand over his face. “fine. if you don’t believe me, yes, you can train with me today. we’ll see how he reacts. it’ll either prove my point or at least annoy him, and he does deserve a little annoyance after sweeping your legs like you’re a training dummy.”
you hesitate… then nod. “yeah. okay. i don’t want to deal with the attitude. and… i don’t want to cry in the stupid bathroom again.”
tim’s face softens. “hey. that’s not on you. damian’s never learned how to… want things without resenting that he wants them. it’s like—” he waves a hand vaguely, “like giving a feral cat a bowl of warm milk. it hisses at you and knocks it off the counter, but eventually if you keep feeding it, it still comes back.”
you blink. “…i’m the warm milk?”
“unfortunately, yes.” he pats your knee with dramatic sympathy. “congrats.”
tim stands with a groan. “alright. give me a minute to get dressed. then we go down.”
“and you really think he’s gonna… what, throw a fit?”
“he won’t throw anything. he’ll just stand there and seethe like someone critiqued his sword grip. trust me. i’ve been annoying damian for years.”
you almost laugh. “fine. okay. we’ll do your plan. not—” you point at him, “because of the plan. because I actually want to train with someone normal.”
“mm-hm,” tim hums, already walking toward his closet. “keep telling yourself that.”
you wait for tim in the hall.
when he finally cracks his door open he jerks his chin. “c’mon. let’s go ruin someone’s morning.”
this time, you enter the training room right when the clock hits the hour. not one second earlier. heads turn when you step inside, the usual shuffle of boots on mat slowing for a beat. everyone’s already warming up: cass stretching, duke rolling out his shoulders, steph braiding her hair back. and damian. the picture of discipline. the picture of someone who expects the world to follow his timing, his pace, his order. his eyes find you the second you cross the threshold like he’s been watching the door, waiting for the exact moment you appear.
your stomach twinges—annoyance, maybe. or pride. or something else you clamp down hard on. but before he can speak or gesture or frown or do anything remotely damian-like, tim steps in beside you. casual. comfortable. like the two of you walked down together because you chose to.
damian’s expression falters. only for half a second. a millisecond, really. the narrowing of his eyes goes rigid, the line of his mouth tightens. confusion flickers across his face, the kind he never lets anyone see. you can almost hear the thought:
why are you with him?
he masks it quickly, molding his face back into something bored, unimpressed, aristocratically above caring. his chin tilts, imperious, but the damage is done. you saw the break in the armor.
you force yourself not to look at him again. instead, you move toward the mats with tim, mirroring his relaxed pace. you kneel to tie your laces, fingers steady even though you feel heat gathering at your throat. tim shoots you a sidelong glance—see?—but doesn’t say the words aloud.
damian’s attention doesn’t leave you.
you can feel it. not just watching, tracking. cataloging. analyzing the shift in your routine, your placement, your partner choice. you don’t seek his gaze, but your peripheral vision catches him anyway, expression carefully blank in a way that only highlights how not blank he is. he’s thrown off. deeply. visibly. and he hates it.
you settle into your warm-up stance, letting the distance hang like a boundary. tim rolls his neck, glancing at damian with an oh-this-is-gonna-be-fun kind of smirk.
bruce claps once, sharp. “pair up.”
tim steps forward towards you without hesitation, and damian’s whole expression fractures.
it’s subtle, if you didn’t know him, you might miss it. but you do know him, or at least you’re starting to. he looks, honest to god, like he wants to rip tim’s head off and mount it on the trophy wall. tim doesn’t notice. or he pretends not to. he just tosses you a lazy, half-smile, equal parts encouragement and chaos.
duke glances up, sees you and tim pairing off, and his eyebrows climb high. he shoots tim a look—oh, I see what’s happening—then shoots you another—damn, you’re just abandoning me like that? you can’t help the faint shrug you give him. move first, consequences later.
duke sighs dramatically, theatric betrayal dripping from every syllable when he mutters, “wow. okay. guess I’m with demonspawn today.”
damian snaps, “I heard that.”
“meant for you to hear it,” duke replies, already walking over. “don’t stab me.”
“don’t give me cause.”
steph and cass pair without a word, steph chattering, cass smiling quietly at her enthusiasm, and the room settles into its new formation. you turn to tim and it hits you how different this feels. sparring with him isn’t effortless—tim is good, annoyingly good, and precise in a way that keeps you on your toes—but it’s… kind. respectful. there’s give-and-take. room to breathe. no sharp edges meant to cut you down even when you block them. tim ducks under your swing, taps your rib with the blunt end of his staff, then backs up with a soft, “good—again.”
across the room, damian sees every second of it. he’s barely paying attention to duke—who, to his credit, is doing his absolute best to keep the session from becoming a murder attempt. damian’s strikes are clean but rushed, sharp but distracted, eyes constantly cutting back to you and tim like he’s waiting for one of you to call time-out and say the universe glitched. his stare is blistering. betrayal. irritation. confusion. something fierce lodged right behind his eyes like he hasn’t decided whether he wants to fight you or throw a tantrum or drag you back by the wrist.
he misses a parry—damian, missing a parry—and duke yelps, “bro, focus!”
“I AM FOCUSED,” damian snarls, not even looking at him.
he’s not. he’s zeroed in on you. tim taps your elbow lightly—not a “you messed up,” but a “don’t look now.” you look anyway. damian’s chest rises and falls too fast, and duke is standing there with both palms up like he’s trying to pacify a rabid, extremely judgmental raccoon. you try to go back to sparring, but your eyes keep pulling toward damian against your will, and every time you glance over, he’s already watching.
training ends with far less form than usual. steph is sweaty and laughing, cass serene, tim steady as ever. duke looks exhausted, wiping his face with his shirt like he’s survived something unspeakable.
damian? still scowling. still thundercloud-dark. still furious in that tight, brittle way that means he’s trying very, very hard not to be obvious. tim leans in as you grab your water bottle, voice pitched low. “told you so.”
you elbow him lightly, because you hate that he’s right. bruce steps forward then, silent in that way that means he’s been watching everything, and says, “damian.”
damian stiffens and he pretends he didn’t hear.
“damian.”
this time he can’t pretend. he stalks over, irritation radiating off him. bruce pulls him aside and directs him a few steps away. you can’t hear the words, but you don’t need to. bruce stands with that immovable calm only he can pull off, arms loosely crossed, expression carved from stone. the kind of look that means disappointment, not anger, far worse, at least for any of his kids.
damian’s posture goes tight. not his usual arrogant, chest-forward confidence. this is different. smaller in a way he’d never allow you to see if he could help it. chin tipped down just a fraction, arms stuck rigidly at his sides like he’s fighting the instinct to cross them. his brows pull together, a deep line forming between them. bruce speaks quietly, but every line of his body says lecture. damian refuses to look directly at him. he keeps glancing off to the side, mouth pressed thin like he’s biting back words he wants to say but knows better. you can read him: annoyed. cornered. and trying very, very hard not to be disrespectful.
bruce lifts a hand and whatever he says with it makes damian’s shoulders lock up, he shakes his head, frustrated, practically vibrating with the effort of holding himself together under his father’s scrutiny. you’ve never seen him so… contained. then he turns, too fast, too sharp, and storms out. not dramatically, but with that fury that means he’ll explode the second he’s alone.
you find him hours later in the kitchen just after sundown, standing stiffly at the counter like he’s been there and hasn’t moved in an hour. he’s just… standing there, hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing. he doesn’t acknowledge you when you come in. he doesn’t speak. just the faintest tightening of his fingers on the marble, like he can hold himself together with sheer force of will. you take a breath. be patient. tim’s voice nags in the back of your mind. he’ll never make it easy.
“…hey,” you try, keeping it gentle. “long day?”
nothing.
you take a few steps in, slower, giving him space to bark at you if he wants to. “i didn’t see you the rest of the day. thought maybe you were—”
“busy.” the word is clipped, flat, and icy enough to sting. “i was busy.”
okay. that’s… something.
“i wasn’t asking for your schedule. just… checking.”
nothing. not even a twitch. you try again. “you left pretty fast earlier. bruce looked—”
“father always looks like that.” cold, immediate. “he has perfected the expression.”
“did he… say something?”
“he lectures. that is his specialty,” he answers, still not looking at you. “discipline, focus, what is expected of me, what i failed to meet. it’s nothing new.”
the tone is so deceptively calm that it almost hides the tension buried under it. almost. you can hear the shame, anger, something like hurt, compressed into a perfect, emotionless blade. “he wasn’t mad at you. he was just worried—”
“don’t.” the word is soft but sharp. “do not attempt to explain my father to me.”
you swallow that down. he’s not trying to be cruel, he just is right now. “i’m trying to understand,” you say. “you’ve been… really shut down with me. and i want to know why.”
“i am not shut down.” he says it instantly, defensively, like the idea itself is an insult. “i simply have nothing to say.”
you study him, really look at him: the rigid posture, the unreadable face, the way he’s keeping his gaze fixed anywhere but on you. he’s angry, yes. but he’s also embarrassed. frustrated. disappointed in himself. and, if you read him correctly, hurt that you didn’t go to him today.
you take another tiny step closer. “is this about training?”
“it’s about many things,” he mutters. “none of which concern you.”
“i think they do.”
his jaw flexes. finally, finally, he looks at you, just a flicker of eye contact, before he tears his gaze away again. “father believes i allowed myself to be distracted,” he admits, voice almost too controlled. “that i let something… personal interfere with my performance.”
“was he wrong?”
damian’s nostrils flare. “i do not get ‘distracted.’ i do not falter. i do not—” he cuts himself off. “i should not have been affected.”
“but you were,” you say softly. he doesn’t deny it. he doesn’t confirm it. he just stands there, breathing tight, shoulders drawn toward his ears as if the world is trying to crush him inward. you try again. “you don’t have to shut me out.”
“then stop trying to read me. i didn’t ask for your concern.”
you let that roll off. “you’ve been upset all day. i’m not trying to fight—”
“you always try,” he snaps, too quickly. “you push. you demand answers. you demand space in places you haven’t earned.”
you flinch at that. “i’m trying to talk to you.”
“and I said stop.”
“whatever bruce said clearly upset—”
“it doesn’t matter what he said.”
“then why won’t you look at me?”
he freezes. and when he speaks again, his voice has changed, aimed right at the softest part of you. “you don’t belong in this life.”
you go still.
he continues. “you weren’t raised for this. you weren’t trained for it from birth, or forged by necessity. you came into this world by choice, not by blood or war. and you think a few late nights and bruises make you ready?” you stare at him. he doesn’t stop. “you’re not suited for it. you’re just some nepo vigilante. you’re not… shaped for it. you hesitate. you question. that gets people killed.”
your breath shakes, just a little. “is that really what you think of me?”
he doesn’t answer. he doesn’t have to. you blink hard, because suddenly your vision blurs at the edges. stupid. pathetic. you promised yourself you would never let him see you unravel like this, but his words hit every fault line you’ve tried to seal. you don’t belong here. you weren’t made for this. you’re not enough. echoes of fears you’ve carried since the day you put on the suit. echoes of what you sometimes wonder your parents would think if they saw you stumbling through a legacy built on grief. would they be proud? or would they see exactly what damian sees, someone trying too hard, someone always two steps behind, someone who can’t keep up?
your throat locks. your chest tightens. one more breath and you might crack in half, so you don’t say anything. you don’t trust your voice. you just turn and head for the doorway. you need to leave before the heat in your nose becomes tears. before he sees you break. before you embarrass yourself any further. your foot hits the threshold— and a hand closes around your wrist. almost… startled.
“hang on—”
his voice is strained. you freeze, staring at the floor because you can’t look at him, not right now. damian’s grip tightens, not enough to hurt, enough to say don’t go, not yet. “i…” he starts, then stops. the words jam in his throat. he’s staring at the floor between your feet, like he can’t bear to lift his eyes. “i didn’t mean to say that.”
you don’t turn back. you can’t. your wrist is still held in his hand. he tries again, quieter this time, the words sounding dragged out of him. “why did you… partner with drake?”
you blink. that’s what he’s asking? now? his shoulders are tight, ears slightly pink like he hates the question even as it escapes him. you exhale, slow and shaky, not because of him, because you’re still stung. your voice comes out sharper than you intend. “maybe i just wanted to train with someone who can actually stand being around me.”
for a second, he looks like he’s trying to speak, like something is clawing its way up his throat, but nothing comes out. then he goes still. too still. the kind of stillness that means he’s thinking so hard it might shatter him. you tug your wrist lightly. “if that’s all, i’m gonna—” you jerk your arm, breaking his hold—
“wait.”
you barely have time to register the word before he moves. it’s fast, a clean strike of motion tied to training and desperation and something he refuses to name. he catches your waist just enough to spin you, guiding you backward until your spine meets the cold edge of the kitchen counter. your breath stops. his hands plant on either side of you, caging you in without touching you, one palm braced on the countertop, the other hovering close enough that you can feel the residual heat of his skin. you look up, and there he is. damian wayne, inches from your face.
and god, up this close he’s almost unreal. the overhead light is dim, warm, turning the sharp lines of his face into something sculpted. his skin, smooth, warm-toned, unblemished, catches the light like polished bronze. no shadows under his eyes, no imperfections, his lashes are stupidly dark, stupidly long, the kind of lashes people pay for. they cast shadows across his cheekbones every time he blinks.
his hair is slightly mussed from training, still perfect, somehow, but one curl brushes his forehead. he smells like soap and whatever expensive detergent alfred uses. you’ve fought beside him dozens of times, but you’ve never seen him like this, never been close enough to catalog the exact shade of green in his eyes. it’s darker up close. deeper. flecked with gold that catches in the light. he’s tense, as if he’s wrestling with himself, wrestling with you, wrestling with the space between you that feels suddenly, impossibly charged.
you swallow. “what are you doing?”
he doesn’t answer. he just stares at you, eyes too intense, too alive, like you’ve cracked something open in him without meaning to.
“you are maddening.”
your heart jumps in your throat.
“i— what?”
his eyes flicker down to your mouth for half a second, then back to your eyes with ruthless discipline. “i cannot breathe when you are upset with me.” the confession is sharp, bitten-off. “i cannot think properly when you ignore me.” damian looks furious with himself for saying it. furious with you for making him say it. furious with whatever emotion is tearing through him with too much intensity for someone raised to kill, not feel. “i do not want you training with drake,” he adds, breath brushing your cheek, “i do not want you choosing anyone else.”
your fingers curl against the counter because you suddenly don’t know what your legs are doing. “damian…”
“you frustrate me,” he scoffs, eyes flickering between yours. “you infuriate me.” a beat. “and i cannot stay away from you.”
you don’t know if you want to shove him or pull him closer. your thoughts tangle, snarl, crash over one another in a way that makes your pulse jump unevenly. this—whatever this is—was never part of the equation. the two of you exist in a constant cold war: distance, irritation, bickering. you built your expectations around that. around him being the brat who can’t stand the sight of you. the one who corrects your form too sharply and watches your mistakes with thinly veiled disdain. not this. not him, inches away, admitting—something. something dangerous. something you don’t have the training or composure to identify.
is this a confession? is this what it looks like when damian wayne tries to say he cares? you don’t know. no one prepared you for the possibility that he might want something other than superiority and distance. your heart lurches, a painful, disbelieving twist. it makes you angry. it makes you burn. because if this is real—if this tension, this jealousy, this intensity is real—then why the hell has he been so cruel?
you think of tim earlier. his accuracy.
“he acts like this when he’s conflicted.”
“he never learned how to express anything.”
you didn’t want that to be true. you didn’t want to give damian that benefit of the doubt. it was easier to armor yourself with irritation, easier to convince yourself he hated you. that he saw you as an intruder, a burden, a pretender wearing a legacy he thought you hadn’t earned. but standing here, pressed between the counter and his braced arms, with his breath mixing with yours, tim’s words ring uncomfortably, painfully true. beneath the arrogance, the discipline, the superiority, he is terrified. he is inexperienced. he is trying so hard to act unaffected that he’s hurting everything in his path, including you.
resentment. confusion. longing. anger. all of it, stacked so thick you can barely breathe. you find your fingers curling against the counter, grounding yourself before you do something stupid like lean in. “you can’t— you don’t get to say things like that after the way you treat me.”
his eyes flicker, that dark, molten green sharpening. you see confusion flash first. then indignation. then something like guilt, so brief he tries to bury it immediately. you shove at his chest. not enough to move him, because he’s a literal wall, but enough to break the trance, to remind yourself you still have a spine. “you’ve been awful to me,” you snap. “you insult me, you belittle me, you… you act like i’m a mistake bruce brought home.”
his jaw tightens. “i have never—”
“you have,” you bite. “constantly. every time we train, every time i’m in the same room, every time you so much as look at me. and now you’re suddenly— what? jealous? possessive? whatever this is?”
he flinches, the smallest betrayal of emotion, and his fingers curl tighter against the countertop. “i did not mean—” he swallows. “i do not wish for you to feel—”
“hurt?” you finish for him, voice rising. “belittled? unwanted?”
there’s a pause, long, heavy, almost unbearable, and you realize he’s leaning in. not carelessly, not with arrogance, but with this strange, hesitant deliberation, like he’s testing the air, testing you, testing himself. his body shifts forward, closing the space between you until the edge of the counter presses against your thighs, and your arms feel trapped, pinned not harshly but insistently. his hands hover for a moment near your sides, the faintest brush of his fingers against your waist. his lips hover above yours, close enough that you can see the catch in his breath, you can feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer intensity of his stare as if he’s daring you to respond. and god, he smells impossibly clean.
then, impossibly, he closes the gap. it’s slow. nervous and commanding all at once. your breath hitches in surprise, in disbelief, in the way your body reacts before your mind even catches up. his lips are infuriatingly soft, warm, and insistent, brushing against yours with the faintest pressure before pulling back. he’s almost fragile in that hesitation, like he’s afraid if he tries too much, you’ll reject him, and he can’t bear that thought.
you don’t even think. you kiss back. your lips move against his, initially uncertain, and then with a force born of every frustration, every harsh word, every moment he’s pushed you to the edge. he tilts his head, searching for the right angle, softening where he can, hardening where he must. his arms cage you against the counter, claiming this moment with a possessiveness that leaves your pulse hammering. your hands find his chest, you notice the rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his messy dark hair brushes against his forehead, how impossibly perfect everything about him seems in this suspended, stolen second.
he pulls back just enough to breathe, just enough to let you process the fire in his eyes, and you can see it, the flush in his cheeks, the flash of vulnerability he’s desperately trying to mask behind that familiar scowl. you can’t believe, for the first time, that this—this utterly impossible, maddening, beautiful boy—is leaning into you like he wants, no, needs, you just as much as you need him.
you can’t believe what just happened. you kissed damian wayne. damian wayne. the damian wayne. the boy you’ve sparred with, argued with, wanted to strangle and run away from in equal measure. the boy who has made mornings unbearable, nights restless, your every day a calculus of irritation and fascination. and now his lips had been on yours, shy and tentative at first, almost apologetic, like he didn’t quite believe he could do it, but gentle in a way that made your chest ache. that was a good kiss. better than you imagined. infuriatingly perfect and infuriatingly shy at the same time. you pull back slightly, trying to collect yourself, and you see him do the same.
it’s almost laughable how long it took to get here. you glance up at him, and he’s staring at you too, eyes impossibly earnest, betraying every ounce of his usual composure. then, almost instinctively, you reach up, fingers threading into his hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. he catches your movement in an instant, and his hands find your waist, just enough to let you know he wants this too. your lips meet again, this time slower, hungrier. the first kiss had been tentative; this one is more insistent, deeper, exploratory, and it shocks you with how much it says without words.
he’s surprisingly capable. his technique is precise, careful, controlled, but not without feeling. he’s not the most experienced, not in the sense of someone who’s practiced this kind of intimacy, and yet every motion, every press of his lips against yours, every gentle tug of your hair, speaks to a kind of instinctive perfection that leaves you dizzy. he’s learning, adapting to you, and you feel it in the way he shifts, the way his hands move, the subtle urgency in his breath. when you finally pull back for air, cheeks flushed and chest heaving, he doesn’t let go. you can’t help a small laugh. “what was that for?” you whisper, trying to catch your breath and your thoughts at once.
he doesn’t answer immediately. instead, his lips brush yours again, soft, testing, insistent. “you… are not unwanted.” he admits.
your chest tightens with disbelief and warmth, and you almost can’t stand it. the way he sounds, the way he looks, the way he is—perfect and infuriating and wholly him—leaves you breathless. he pulls back slightly, just enough to see your reaction, and you see that glint of mischief in his eyes return. “we should… probably sleep,” he says, voice more controlled, formal, but the flush in his cheeks betrays him.
“bedtime already?”
he doesn’t answer, just gives you a brief, almost imperceptible nod, and that’s enough. you let him slip away, and you retreat to your room, closing the door softly behind you. the quiet hits like a wave, and you collapse onto your bed, heart still hammering, tingling where his hands had held you. you stare at the ceiling, the way the light catches the dust motes in the air, and you replay it, every detail, the brush of lips, every infuriating way he had pressed against you. you think about his hair falling into his eyes, his lips parting slightly, the way he smelled, the way he looked so impossibly perfect, so … damian.
you bite your lip, a shiver rolling through your chest. your mind refuses to let it go, twisting it over and over: the way he had held you close and yet seemed to want to apologize with every movement. you can’t quite believe it happened, can’t quite believe that it felt so right. just as your thoughts threaten to spiral, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. you groan, too tired, too flustered, too wrapped up in your own pulse to check it immediately, but eventually, curiosity wins.
you blink. one second later, another notification. an image. your stomach twists, both mortified and amused: a photo of you and damian kissing in the kitchen, taken from just far enough to look stealthy. damian’s arm is braced against the counter, your hands tangled in his hair, and both of your faces are flushed. you throw the phone onto the bed, groaning. “tim,” you mutter, voice half-laugh, half-exasperation. “you little creep.”
even as you say it, you can’t help smiling. tim is definitely a little weirdo. but as your eyes finally drift closed, heart still fluttering, you can’t help thinking: he was right.
The thing about dying, you discovered, was that it was simultaneously more dramatic and more boring than you'd expected.
There were machines beeping, bright lights overhead, people in scrubs moving with purposeful urgency. Very medical drama. Very exciting.
But there were also long stretches of nothing—waiting for test results, waiting for doctors, waiting for your heart to decide whether it was going to keep beating or just give up entirely. That part was boring. Tedious, even.
You drifted in and out of consciousness, catching fragments.
"—severe dilated cardiomyopathy—"
"—why wasn't she on a transplant list—"
"—Guardian? We need to contact—"
"—Bruce Wayne, apparently, but no one's answering—"
That tracked. Of course no one was answering. It was gala night. The Waynes had more important things to do than answer calls about their dying daughter.
Except they didn't know you were dying, did they? Because you'd never told them. Because Bruce had kicked you out of his office. Because no one had cared enough to notice.
"We'll keep trying," someone said, and you wanted to laugh. Good luck with that.
At some point—hours? minutes? time was weird—you surfaced enough to find a doctor standing by your bed. She was older, South Asian, with kind eyes and tired features.
"Hello," she said gently when she noticed you were awake. "I'm Dr. Kaur. You're at Gotham General Hospital. Do you remember what happened?"
"Bus bench," you croaked. Your throat was raw. "Couldn't breathe."
"You had a cardiac event. A very serious one. Your heart is—" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Your heart is very sick. You have dilated cardiomyopathy. Were you aware of this diagnosis?"
"Yes."
"And you were being treated?"
"Was. Ran out of medication."
Her expression shifted—not quite anger, but close. Frustration, maybe. Disappointment in the systems that had failed you. "How long have you been without your medication?"
"Day and a half."
"And before that? Were you taking it regularly?"
"When I could afford to refill it."
Dr. Kaur's jaw tightened. "You're sixteen years old. You should not be managing a life-threatening heart condition on your own." She pulled up a chair, sat down like she had all the time in the world even though you could hear the chaos of the ER beyond the curtain. "We've been trying to reach your father, Bruce Wayne. We've called multiple times, but—"
"He won't answer." Your voice was flat. "He's at a gala tonight. Important people, important causes. He won't answer."
"We'll keep trying. You're a minor. We need parental consent for treatment, and we need medical history, and—"
"I can consent," you interrupted. "Emancipated minor laws. If my guardian is unavailable and it's an emergency, I can consent to life-saving treatment. I looked it up."
You had, actually. Months ago, when you first got diagnosed and realized you were on your own. Just in case.
Dr. Kaur looked at you for a long moment, something sad and angry warring in her expression. "You're sixteen," she repeated, softer this time. "You should not have to know those laws."
"Yeah, well." You tried to shrug, but moving hurt. "Here we are."
"Here we are," she echoed. She pulled out a tablet, started pulling up screens. "All right. Let me tell you what's happening. Your heart is functioning at about thirty percent capacity. That's dangerously low. We've started you on IV medications to help support your heart function, and we're running tests to determine the full extent of the damage. But I need to be honest with you—this is very serious. You should have been in treatment months ago."
"I was trying," you said, and hated how defensive you sounded. "I went to a clinic. Got diagnosed. Got medication. I was taking it. I just—ran out."
"Why didn't you get a refill?"
Because you were alone. Because you had no money. Because asking for help meant admitting how bad things were, and you'd been so sure you could handle it yourself.
Because you were tired of being a burden no one wanted to carry.
"Complicated," you said finally.
Dr. Kaur's eyes were too understanding. "I'm going to keep trying to reach your family. In the meantime, is there anyone else we can call? Other family members? Friends?"
Your friends. God, your friends. You were supposed to be at Dani's house right now, eating tamales and watching movies. They were probably wondering where you were.
"My phone," you said. "Where's my phone?"
"The paramedics brought your belongings. Hold on." She stepped away, returned with a plastic bag containing your waterlogged phone, your wallet, your keys. The phone screen was more crack than glass now, but when you pressed the button, it miraculously turned on.
Seventeen missed calls. Thirty-four texts.
Dani: where are you???
Marco: yo you were supposed to be here an hour ago
Jas: this isn't funny anymore. call us back
Dani: im actually worried now. please respond
Marco: if youre dead im going to kill you
Jas: we're calling the police
Dani: no wait marco found your location. your phones at gotham general. WHAT THE HELL
All three: OMW
The last text was from fifteen minutes ago.
"My friends are coming," you told Dr. Kaur. Your voice cracked. "They're—they'll be here soon."
"Good. That's good." She made a note on her tablet. "I'll let the nurse know to send them back when they arrive. But sweetie, we really do need to reach your father. There are decisions that need to be made, and—"
"He won't come." You said it with certainty, with the weight of sixteen years of evidence. "You can keep calling. But he won't come. Not for me."
"Let's try one more time." Dr. Kaur pulled out her phone, dialed the number the hospital had on file. You could hear it ringing on speaker.
One ring. Two. Three. Four.
"You've reached Bruce Wayne—"
She hung up, tried another number. "Is there an alternate contact? An assistant, maybe?"
"Alfred Pennyworth. He's—" What was Alfred, exactly? Butler felt reductive. Guardian felt inaccurate. "He takes care of things at the house. He might answer."
You didn't have Alfred's number. You'd never needed it. But Dr. Kaur got it from the hospital records—apparently it was listed as an emergency contact, which was more than Bruce had managed—and dialed.
It rang once before a familiar, cultured voice answered. "Pennyworth speaking."
"Mr. Pennyworth, this is Dr. Kaur at Gotham General Hospital. I'm calling about—" She glanced at you, and you nodded. "About your—about Miss Wayne. She's been admitted with a cardiac emergency."
There was a beat of silence. Then: "I beg your pardon?"
"She collapsed earlier today. She's stable now, but her condition is very serious. We've been trying to reach Mr. Wayne, but—"
"He's at the gala. They all are. I'll—give me ten minutes. I'm on my way."
He hung up. Dr. Kaur looked at you. "He's coming."
"Yeah." You felt something loosen in your chest. Alfred was coming. It wasn't the same as your father, wasn't the same as the family you'd wanted your whole life, but it was something. "He's good like that."
"I'll be back to check on you in a bit. Try to rest." She paused at the curtain. "Your friends are lucky to have you. I hope you know that."
"I'm lucky to have them," you corrected.
She smiled, sad and knowing, and left you alone with the beeping machines and your failing heart.
You closed your eyes, just for a moment.
You woke to the sound of barely contained panic.
"—just found her like this? On a bench? In the rain? What the actual fuck—"
"Marco, you need to calm down, they're going to kick us out—"
"I don't care! She could have died! She—" His voice cracked. "She almost did die, Dani."
"I know. I know. But she didn't. She's okay. She's—"
"She's awake," Jasmine said quietly, and three faces swiveled toward you.
They looked terrible. Dani's eyes were red and puffy from crying. Marco's jaw was clenched so tight you worried about his teeth. Jasmine's usual composed mask had cracked, revealing raw worry underneath.
"Hey," you said weakly.
"Hey?" Marco's voice pitched up. "Hey? You almost die and that's all you've got? 'Hey?'"
"Marco—" Dani warned.
"No! No, she doesn't get to just—" He was pacing now, all nervous energy and unleashed fear. "We've been terrified! You sent that text—just 'help,' that's it, that's all we got—and then nothing! Your location showed the hospital and we thought—we thought—"
"I'm sorry," you said, and your voice broke. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
"What happened?" Jasmine asked. She'd pulled a chair up to your bedside, was holding your hand like she was afraid you'd disappear. "The truth this time. No deflecting."
So you told them. About the diagnosis three months ago, about the medication you'd been managing alone, about running out of pills and not knowing how to get more. About trying to tell Bruce and being dismissed. About the texts from the mysterious stalker. About collapsing on a bus bench in the rain.
By the time you finished, Dani was crying again, and Marco had stopped pacing to grip the rail of your hospital bed so hard his knuckles were white.
"You should have told us," Jasmine said. Her voice was steady, but her hand was shaking. "We could have helped."
"How? You're seventeen, sixteen, and seventeen. What were you going to do?"
"Literally anything!" Marco exploded. "We could have—I don't know, helped you pay for medication, or made you go to the doctor, or told your family, or—something! Anything would have been better than you handling this alone!"
"I didn't want to be a burden—"
"A burden?" Dani's voice was sharp. "You think—God, do you really think that's how we see you? As a burden?"
"You have your own problems—"
"So? Everyone has problems! That's life! That doesn't mean you have to face everything alone!" She was crying harder now, ugly-crying in a way that would have been embarrassing in any other context. "You're our best friend. You matter. You matter so much, and the fact that you don't know that is—it's—"
"It's fucked up," Marco finished. "It's completely fucked up. Your family doesn't see you, fine, they're emotionally constipated billionaire vigilantes, whatever. But we see you. We've always seen you."
"You're not invisible to us," Jasmine added quietly. "You never have been."
Something inside you broke. Not your heart—that was already broken, literally and figuratively. Something else. Some wall you'd built to keep yourself together, to keep the pain manageable.
You started crying, and once you started, you couldn't stop. Great, heaving sobs that made your chest hurt worse but felt necessary, like lancing a wound. All the fear and loneliness and exhaustion you'd been holding in for months—years, really—came pouring out.
Your friends held you. Dani on one side of the bed, Jasmine on the other, Marco standing at the foot, all of them anchoring you to the world, reminding you that you weren't alone even when it felt like you were.
"I'm scared," you finally gasped out between sobs. "I'm so scared. My heart is—they said it's really bad. And I don't know what's going to happen, and my family doesn't care, and—"
"We care," Dani said fiercely. "We care so much."
"We're not going anywhere," Marco added. "You're stuck with us."
"Even if you want to get rid of us," Jasmine said, attempting lightness. "Especially then."
You laughed, wet and messy. "I don't want to get rid of you."
"Good. Because we're going to be super annoying about this. We're talking daily check-ins, medication reminders, doctor's appointment escorts—the works."
"You don't have to—"
"We want to," Dani interrupted. "Let us be here for you. Please."
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
A nurse poked her head in. "Sorry, visiting hours are technically over, but—oh." She took in the scene—you crying, your friends clustered around, all of you holding onto each other like lifelines. "I'll give you a few more minutes."
"Thank you," Jasmine said.
The nurse left, and you settled back into the terrible hospital pillows, exhausted from crying but feeling lighter somehow. Less alone.
"Did they reach your family?" Marco asked after a moment.
"Alfred's coming. He should be here soon."
"And your dad?"
"At the gala. Won't answer."
"I'm going to key his car," Marco announced.
"You don't even know which one is his."
"I'll key all of them. Every single Batmobile or whatever the hell he drives."
"That's the Batmobile," you corrected automatically. "His regular cars are—"
"Don't care. Keying them all."
Despite everything, you smiled. "I love you guys."
"We love you too," Dani said. "So much."
"Even when you're being stupid and self-sacrificing," Marco added.
"Especially then," Jasmine agreed.
You closed your eyes, feeling their presence, their warmth, their fierce protectiveness. Your family might not have shown up, but your people had.
That had to count for something.
Alfred arrived twenty minutes later, and the change in energy was immediate. He swept into your room like a force of nature, all British composure on the surface but with worry radiating from every line of his body.
"Miss," he said, and his voice was rough in a way you'd never heard before. "My dear girl."
Your friends stepped back, giving him space. He took Jasmine's vacated chair and immediately took your hand in both of his, studying your face with those sharp butler's eyes that missed nothing.
"I'm okay," you said automatically.
"You are decidedly not okay." He glanced at the monitors, at the IV in your arm, at your pale face. "How long have you been ill?"
"Three months. Diagnosed, I mean. Probably longer than that."
His expression did something complicated—pain, guilt, anger, all carefully controlled. "And you didn't tell anyone."
"I tried. Bruce—" Your voice caught. "I tried to tell him. He was busy."
Alfred's jaw tightened. "I see."
"It's not your fault," you added quickly. "You have so much to manage. I didn't want to add to it."
"My dear child." His voice was gentle but firm. "You are never an addition to my burdens. Never. Do you understand? You are part of this family, whether they remember to act like it or not."
"They're at the gala," you said. Stating the obvious, but it felt important somehow. "All of them. Together. Being the perfect Wayne family."
"I will call them immediately—"
"Don't." You grabbed his hand tighter. "Please don't. Not tonight. Let them have their gala. I'll still be here tomorrow."
"This is a medical emergency—"
"I'm stable. The doctor said so. And if you call Bruce now, he'll be angry that I interrupted his important event. He'll come because he has to, not because he wants to. I don't—" Your voice cracked. "I don't want that. I'd rather be here with Alfred, who actually cares, than have Bruce show up out of obligation."
Alfred looked at you for a long moment, and you saw the war in his expression—duty versus compassion, protocol versus your obvious pain.
"Very well," he said finally. "But first thing tomorrow morning, I will inform them. This cannot continue."
"Okay."
"And I will be staying here with you tonight."
"You don't have to—"
"I am staying," he repeated, in a tone that brooked no argument. "End of discussion."
You nodded, too tired to fight.
He turned to your friends, who'd been watching the exchange with interest. "And you three must be the friends she speaks so highly of."
"She speaks about us?" Marco looked surprised.
"Occasionally. Usually when she's trying to avoid discussing her own wellbeing." Alfred's expression softened. "Thank you for being there for her. For seeing her when others did not."
"She's our best friend," Dani said simply. "Of course we're here."
"Yeah, you couldn't get rid of us if you tried," Marco added.
"I have no intention of trying. In fact—" Alfred pulled out his phone. "I would like your contact information, if you're comfortable sharing. Someone should know how to reach her support system."
They exchanged numbers, and you watched through heavy eyelids, feeling a weird sense of worlds colliding. Alfred and your friends, the two parts of your life that actually cared, coordinating.
Maybe tomorrow would be terrible. Maybe Bruce would show up angry or indifferent. Maybe your brothers would be uncomfortable and distant. Maybe this whole thing would just reinforce how little you mattered in the grand scheme of Wayne family dynamics.
But tonight, you had Alfred and your friends, and you were alive, and that was enough.
Dr. Kaur returned, ushering your friends out with promises that they could visit tomorrow. They hugged you goodbye—carefully, mindful of the wires and IVs—and left with backward glances and worried expressions.
"I'll text you," Dani called from the door.
"Constantly," Marco added. "Like, annoyingly often."
"We'll coordinate a schedule," Jasmine said, ever practical.
Then they were gone, and it was just you and Alfred and the steady beep of the heart monitor.
"Rest," Alfred said, still holding your hand. "I'll be right here."
"Don't you need to get back? The gala—"
"The gala will manage without me. You will not."
You wanted to argue, but exhaustion was pulling you under. "Alfred?"
"Yes, Miss?"
"Thank you. For coming. For caring."
"Always," he said quietly. "I am sorry I didn't see this sooner. I am sorry you felt you had to face this alone."
"Not your fault."
"Perhaps. But I should have looked closer. Should have noticed. That is my failure, not yours."
You wanted to say more, wanted to absolve him of guilt he didn't deserve, but sleep was claiming you. The last thing you heard before you drifted off was Alfred's voice, quiet and determined:
"I will make this right. I promise you, my dear girl. I will make them see."
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You don't know your boyfriend is Robin just yet, and to his utter horror—you want to get matching plushie keychains of Robin and Flatline. Damian puts his dignity on the line to get out of this one.
word cnt. 3.1k
aka ›››› "Can we make out later?" You whisper. For one frozen moment, Damian short-circuits. Then he physically shoves you back toward the walking area with the most controlled and gentle force you've ever felt
“I’m going to break up with you,” Damian mutters as you shift him by the shoulders, turning him around beneath the skeletal winter trees of the Gotham park, their bare branches webbing together overhead like veins against a washed-out sky.
Snow crunches softly under your boots as you move, the kind that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to melt or commit, and Damian can hear the giddy lift in your breathing even before he hears the faint jingle of metal as you clip the plush Robin keychain onto his backpack. Your fingers are swift but careful, fussing with the tiny ball chain like this is something sacred, like if you don’t secure it just right the whole day might fall apart.
“You love me,” you coo, voice bright and teasing, making absolutely sure the clasp is fastened before you gently turn him again and rest your chin on his shoulder, your scarf brushing his jaw, warm and soft against the sharp cold of the air.
“It doesn’t even look like him,” Damian sighs, gesturing with his chin toward the small stand set up along the park’s pathway, where a folding table is draped in a faded black cloth and weighed down at the corners with stones so it doesn’t lift in the wind.
You look anyway, at the angry little chibi face of the plush that's no taller than ten centimeters, expression stitched into a permanent scowl, tiny blush marks sewn into its cheeks. It’s surrounded by others just like it, all handmade, all a little uneven in that earnest way.
“It looks exactly like him,” you say without hesitation. “Now pay the nice lady, Damian.”
He grumbles as he reaches into his wallet, fingers stiff from the cold, but when he hands over the cash there’s a small, barely-there smile he doesn’t bother to fight. “You’re the Robin fan, not me,” Damian says as he turns back to you, snowflakes catching briefly in his hair before melting away. “Why do I have to wear the Robin keychain?”
“We’re going to match,” you grin, already turning back toward the stand like you’re being pulled there by gravity itself.
Two tables have been pushed together, forming a long, uneven display: the popular heroes clustered on one side where most people stop—Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman—Robin placed neatly beside Batman like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and then, as the stand stretches on, the choices on people get stranger, more niche.
“Match?” Damian repeats, softer now, the word settling somewhere behind his ribs. His ears might as well perk up, even if he doesn’t realize it. He already knows the keychain will disappear into a drawer the second he gets home, hidden from judgment and siblings alike, but right now, standing here in the snow with you smiling up at him, he can’t bring himself to care.
Then something catches, sharp and unexpected.
The last time you wanted to match with him, it had been phone charms—two little chibi anime characters swinging from your cases, identical except for color.
Love interests.
The memory lands quietly but heavily, like snow piling up until a branch finally gives.
“Who are you picking?” he mumbles, resting his chin on your shoulder as you look at the stand, voice low enough that it almost blends into the hush of the park. Your hair tickles his cheek, your scarf smells faintly like your perfume and something warmer beneath it, and if the world were kinder to him, if this weren’t Gotham and public and complicated, his face would already be buried in it, pretending the cold didn’t exist at all.
Damian feels his stomach drop the moment you reach for it.
Your fingers hover for only a second before lifting the Flatline plushie from the stand, the small fabric body light and unassuming in your hand. You hold it up to show him like it’s obvious, like it’s already decided, snow catching briefly in the stitched hair before melting away. “Matching set, see—”
“No.”
The word cuts through the cold air sharper than it has any right to, abrupt enough that it startles even him. His smile is gone before you can register it, wiped clean like a slate dragged through snow.
You blink at him, confusion flickering openly across your face, your brows knitting together as if you’re trying to reorient yourself in a conversation that just took a wrong turn. “What do you mean no?” you ask softly. “Aren’t they dating?”
“No,” Damian repeats, faster this time, too fast, shaking his head with a firmness that feels rehearsed, defensive, like if he says it clearly enough it’ll become truer than it already is.
You hesitate, then glance back down at the plushie in your hand. It’s cute in that deliberately rough way—stitched eyeliner, a crooked smile, jagged strips of fabric meant to pass as hair. Someone put care into it. Someone thought it was charming.
You would agree.
To Damian, it’s a mirror he didn’t ask to look into.
From the outside, it probably looks like you’re considering whether to buy another toy. From the inside, he’s fourteen again for half a second, standing too close to a decision he made when he was younger and louder and trying very hard to be something other than a child. A pretty idea, he thinks bitterly. That’s what it was. Not good. Not smart. Just pretty in the way things are when you don’t yet know how sharp the edges can be.
Only a fourteen-year-old boy would do that to himself, he thinks—would step into a relationship with someone whose morals clashed so violently with his own and call it maturity instead of what it really was: curiosity dressed up as bravery. Damian was acting his age without realizing it. Making mistakes not because he was careless, but because he didn’t yet know what was worth protecting then.
“I swear I saw them kiss in some magazine when I was like fourteen,” you mumble, tilting your head just slightly, blinking that way you do when you’re genuinely confused, the kind of look that would melt someone else entirely, maybe make them brave enough to reach out and take your hand. But Damian has priorities right now.
“Nope.” He shakes his head firmly, voice low and final, cutting through the muffled hum of the park.
“Well… she’d still go really cute on my bag,” you murmur, eyes dropping to your black purse with its silver clasps, silver catching faint light and matching the tiny chains on the plushie like a cosmic coincidence.
“If you want something to match your bag—get like… I don’t know… Black Canary? I’ll get Green Arrow and—”, Damian starts up hopelessly.
You pause, shrugging, as if you can’t quite see the logic or consequences of this little suggestion.
“Do you have something against emos?” You chuckle, awkwardly, nervously, because the way he’s gripping the strap of his backpack and staring at the plushies like they’re miniature conspirators is absurd and almost endearing.
Damian wants nothing more than to bury himself in snow and never come out, to let the cold cover him like armor, but there’s warmth in your voice, stubborn and bright, that sticks to him anyway, like the last ember before winter fully claims the city. He shifts, quietly, unsure whether to scowl or laugh, and the snow keeps falling, silent witness to the chaos you bring.
“Babe… I go to Comic Con,” Damian sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s already exhausted by a battle he knows he’s losing. “What do you think?”
“Then…” you brighten instantly, voice lifting with dangerous cheer, “…I’m buying her!”
It’s obvious now—you’re doing this on purpose. Less about matching, more about poking him until he reacts. You pivot on your heel, already half a step past him, snow crunching under your boots.
“So you hate me,” Damian says, loud and dramatic, pitched just high enough to be heard over the low murmur of the park.
That’s what stops you.
You freeze mid-step, breath fogging in front of you as the words settle in your chest. It’s ridiculous. It’s harmless. And it sounds exactly like something a clingy, needy girlfriend would say to get her way.
Worse—you’re pretty sure you’ve said it to him before.
Slowly, you turn back around, eyes narrowing with interest instead of concern.
Oh.
Oh two can play that game.
“Oh?” you hum, leaning into it, letting your shoulders slump just a touch. Your voice softens, exaggerated, wounded in a way that’s almost theatrical. “So… you don’t trust my taste?”
You glance down at the plushie in your hand, thumb brushing over the stitched smile, then lift it up beside your face like a comparison photo, tilting your head. Snow dusts into your hair and clings to your scarf, framing you like you’re part of the display.
“You don’t think she’s pretty?”
The park seems to go quiet around him—snow falling heavier now, lights blurring, the vendor’s stand glowing too brightly in his peripheral vision. Damian feels heat crawl up his neck as if Gotham itself is laughing at him, every flake of snow another accusation.
He stares at you, at the plushie, at the smug little curve of your lips that he wants to kiss off.
More importantly though, Damian wants to bury himself in the snow.
After he kills himself.
Preferably before you say anything else.
Two options.
Yes—okay, fine, I’ll buy it for you—let’s match. And Damian knows the second he plucks up the courage to tell you his secret, the real, hidden identity beneath all the layers of leather, gadgets, and shadow, he’ll never be able to let it go. It will linger like a blade at his ribs, a promise unfulfilled. Fuck, maybe you won’t even care that he called his ex-girlfriend pretty in front of you, but he will. Damian holds honor like a lifeline, grips it harder than he does his own shadow, and the last thing he wants is to ever diminish yours—even with something so small, so meaningless to everyone else and possibly you.
No—just pick something else. And he has to watch it: the flicker of disappointment cross your face, subtle but sharp, like icicles breaking underfoot. Your shoulders slump, just a little, your smile forced and small, fragile against the cold wind curling through the skeletal branches overhead. It lingers for what feels like an hour in the still, gray Gotham afternoon, punctuated only by the soft crunch of snow beneath your boots. He hates it already.
So he picks neither.
Instead, Damian’s sharp gaze flicks past the smaller plushies—the chibi Robin, the little Flatline you’d picked up with careful hands—to the towering, overpriced giants at the back of the stand.
Batman and Superman, looming like they’ve stepped out of a newspaper cartoon, stitched with care, their soft capes catching the faint light of the hanging bulbs strung along the vendor’s table.
The tags gleam, $150 each, bold and unapologetic.
Or.
Hold onto a spinning pull up bar for 10 minutes for a chance to win.
“We match with those,” he says, voice low but decisive, a knife of authority cutting through the quiet hum of the falling snow.
You blink, heart tipping forward in your chest, tracking his line of sight, eyes glistening as they flicker between him and the plushies. Your words come out hesitant, fragile, soft as frost melting on bare skin. “I…I don’t know, Damian…those are…a little pricey. And if your thinking about the second option I don’t want you to strain yourself—”
Not a no.
Damian practically runs to that fucking bar.
There’s a small wait, stretching like it’s testing your hesitance, the snowy Gotham afternoon muffling the usual chaos of the park. Two boys, maybe fifteen, fumble at the little bar, their hands slipping over the smooth surface. You wince when the taller one loses his grip entirely and falls backward into the snow, boots flailing, a small puff of icy powder puffing around him.
Your scowl sharpens as the old man running the bar part of the stand cackles, the laugh too loud, too brittle, a sound that makes the air feel colder.
You open your mouth, “Hey, I don’t know—” and stop. Mid-sentence, your gaze falls on Damian. And all the chatter, the clatter, the wind whipping icy flakes into your scarf, fades. He’s there, quiet but unyielding, every movement precise, deliberate. His shoulders squared against the cold like a prince, his hands adjusting the straps of his backpack, the faint tilt of his chin, the way he surveys the small chaos of the park as if he can contain it all with sheer will.
And he notices you. Not the boys or the falling snow or the absurdly loud old man—just you. The way your fingers curl slightly tighter on his coat sleeve, the tilt of your head, the slight flush rising against the winter chill.
You can feel it in the way he shifts, the careful calculation of his steps, the subtle angle he takes to stand beside you rather than in front of you, the gentle awareness of your personal space. He carries you in that way, like he’s holding both of you in balance without touching too tightly, a quiet knightship that leaves a warmth behind.
Okay.
Weirdo.
The thought strikes, soft, unbidden, curling like smoke into your chest. Determined, stubborn, impossibly careful—he’s all of it and somehow still this impossibly magnetic presence, grounding and wild all at once. You notice the sharpness of his jaw under the winter light, the way his silky black hair captures a few snowflakes, the way he carries himself like every small motion is meant to shield you, protect you, be near you without needing to touch.
…Your weirdo.
And it hits differently now. You can’t help it; you watch the way he shifts, just the faintest tilt of his head toward you, the way he glances at your footing on the cracked snow covered pavement, small things that are just for you. You want to reach for him, to lean into that protection, to let yourself melt into the care he carries in the simplest motions.
The thought betrays you before your mind can resist: he’s yours, always has been, and the snow, the park, the ridiculous little plushies, they all fade to the edges. All you can see, all you can feel, is him.
“Hey.” You mumble it so quietly it almost dissolves into the cold air, more breath than word.
Damian glances down at you, dark and thick brows knitting just slightly, thrown off by how suddenly your demeanor shifted from hesitant to soft, how the energy around you has shifted. The park hasn’t changed—snow crunching under boots, the two teenage boys still failing spectacularly at the bar a few feet away, the old man hovering near the stand like a gargoyle—but it feels like the space between you has narrowed anyway. The fair hums around you, crowded and loud in theory, yet everyone is wrapped up in their own little worlds, conversations overlapping and blurring together until it’s all just background noise.
“Mhm?” he murmurs back, instinctive, distracted—and then his hand is at your waist, firm and warm through layers of fabric, guiding you just a little closer to him, just a little farther from the walking path. It’s protective without being obvious, the kind of touch that says I’ve got you without ever needing to say it out loud.
You hesitate for half a second, then lean into your scarf, hiding your mouth and nose like it might save you from your own boldness. “Can we make out later?” you whisper, the words barely surviving the cold, ridiculous and sincere all at once.
For one frozen moment, Damian short-circuits.
Then he physically shoves you back toward the walking area with the most controlled and gentle force you've ever felt, his free hand flying up to yank his scarf over the lower half of his face, eyes wide and burning as red creeps up his ears. You burst out laughing immediately, loud and unrepentant, the sound bright against the gray winter air.
He turns away sharply, shoulders stiff, absolutely refusing to look at you, while you’re still cackling like you’ve just won something. And maybe you have—because even as he pretends to recover, its like his hand can't leave your side even for instant, lingering just enough to remind you that he did not say no.
“Happy?” Damian mumbles once the two of you are back in your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality. The space feels different immediately—quieter, sealed off from the cold and the crowd and the noise. No one else is home. Just you, just him. The heater hums low in the background, and somehow the room already feels warmer than it should.
“Very,” you say brightly, grinning down at the Batman and Superman plushies cradled in your arms. They’re oversized, ridiculous, far more expensive than anything you’d ever justify buying for yourself.
Damian hadn’t even broken a sweat.
The memory flashes uninvited: the way a small crowd had slowly gathered as he stepped up to the bar, coat shrugged back just enough, gloves still on, expression bored in that familiar way that always means he’s about to show off without admitting it. The effortless strength in the way he’d lifted himself, clean and controlled, hanging there like gravity was optional. The man at the counter growing redder by the second because he must have been sure the bar was polished to the point of only causing slip.
The murmurs. The phones discreetly angled because Damian Wayne is practically a B-list celebrity.
And Damian—trying and failing to hide his grin because you were staring at him like he hung the sun and strung the moon.
Even bundled up, even half-hidden behind winter layers, the way you looked at him had warmed him more than the coat ever could. He’d felt it in his chest, in the way his balance wavered for just a split second when he caught sight of your face.
Especially when you’d turned that sharp, unapologetic glare on the small group of women giggling nearby, daring them to keep looking.
That glare—Gods. It was the only thing that almost made him lose his grip entirely.
Now, back in the apartment, he watches you from a few steps away, plushies in your arms, cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, eyes bright and satisfied as you find a place on your bed to situate the one you want to keep. His shoulders finally loosen, tension bleeding out of him as he exhales.
Yeah.
You’re happy.
The proof of it makes his heart settle.
⸝⸝ ₊ ⊹ damian wayne-al ghul tag list tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) : @foivetimesacharm, @tasia13, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @strawbrysapphic, @theonlyshowgirl, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @kekeanna266, @nayy-a,
reblogs and replies always appreciated, lmk what u think .ᐟ
Thinking about Damian Wayne becoming obsessed with you, the intern at Wayne Enterprises who loves a very specific species of animal. You have your screensaver and background on your work computer set as your favorite animal, plus a few cute knickknacks and a themed calendar in your cubicle.
Bruce tells him to see how the office staff in the building are doing, framing it as an employee satisfaction check. After a raised eyebrow from his son, he sighs and tells him to go try to make a friend. Damian begrudgingly goes off and while the rest of the staff are doing their jobs, he sees you watching a baby animal compilation of the animal that your cubicle is themed around. He stands over your shoulder and watches the show until you notice him and yelp.
You were terrified. One of the boss's sons was right there, the one with the reputation for the worst temper, and you were absolutely positive that you'd be fired. You wince and prepare to be thoroughly berated.
Instead, Damian began rattling off facts about the species of animal, native habitat, and the animal's natural behaviors. You politely nodded along and after a while, began telling him facts as well and showed him a live stream of a zoo enclosure with the animal inside. Damian nodded approvingly before leaving.
Bruce had to stay late for a meeting about a week later. He expected to come home to an argument or to his children studying. What he didn't expect was to come home to Damian with one of his employees gagged and chained up on the couch in the main living room. Damian was happily petting the top of your head and had tucked a plushie of your favorite animal under your arm earlier in an attempt to make you feel more comfortable. He had also put a sweater with the animal's face on it over your shirt, telling you how cold Gotham could be, then turned on the massive TV to the live stream that you had shown him. You looked, understandably, very upset about your situation as you sat silently on the couch.
"Father, Drake and Grayson have proven to be inadequate companions. I have taken initiative and made sure that I have found an acceptable one. They enjoy tea and animal facts. They will be staying with us for the foreseeable future." Damian stated bluntly, not even bothering to look up at Bruce as he continued to pet the top of your head.
"Damian, you can't just kidnap someone--" Bruce attempts before being cut off.
"I have revealed our secret identities to them. If they do not stay, they will be in mortal danger and could put the entire family in further danger. Besides, they have already been introduced to all of the animals and it would upset all of them if they were to leave the manor. This is for the best. You understand, don't you, Father?"
