🍂 Autumnal Affection—Part 4
🥧 Holiday Protocols & Other Catastrophes 🦃
Damian Wayne x Reader (6 months into dating — established, soft, still shy)
Damian Wayne brings you home to Wayne Manor for Thanksgiving, determined to orchestrate a dignified, flawless introduction. Instead, you walk straight into the warmest, loudest, most chaotic family gathering Gotham has ever seen — and Damian nearly combusts trying to keep it together. But as the night winds down on a quiet balcony and he shyly asks you to come back for Christmas, you realize you’ve just been welcomed into something that feels a lot like home.
Damian knocks on your apartment door exactly at 7:02 p.m.
Not 7.
Not 7:05.
He has definitely been pacing outside.
When you open the door, he stands there holding… a folder.
“Good evening,” he says, completely serious. “I’ve prepared brief notes for tomorrow.”
“…Notes?” you echo.
“For Thanksgiving.” He flips the folder open like he’s leading a board meeting.
Inside is a handwritten itinerary labeled HOLIDAY OPERATION: SEAMLESS INTEGRATION OF SIGNIFICANT OTHER.
You’ve been together for six months — long enough that you know the folder is a love language.
“Damian,” you say gently, “are you nervous?”
He pauses — that microfreeze he does when he’s caught.
“…No,” he lies.
Then softer, “…Perhaps.”
You kiss his cheek.
He melts instantly.
You don’t even make it through the foyer before things unravel.
Warm light spills across the marble floor, fireplaces crackling in distant rooms, the Manor smelling faintly of cinnamon, cedar, and wood polish—old money comfort wrapped around pure chaos.
Bruce greets you warmly, but Alfred is 0.2 seconds behind him scolding:
“Master Bruce, your tie is crooked. Do try to look like you’re hosting rather than being hosted.”
Tim walks by carrying three mugs of coffee and somehow spills from all three.
Jason calls from the kitchen,
“IF ANYONE TOUCHES MY ROLLS, I’M FIGHTING GOD.”
Dick runs through the hall wearing oven mitts, yelling,
“THE TURKEY IS ALIVE, THE TURKEY IS ALIVE—nope, wait, false alarm.”
Damian closes his eyes like he’s in pain.
“This is not how I wanted your introduction to go,” he mutters.
You squeeze his hand, heart fluttering despite the madness.
“Dami… this is exactly what I expected.”
He groans.
Dinner starts beautifully.
Golden light from the chandelier warms the long mahogany table, reflecting off crystal glasses and Alfred’s impossibly perfect place settings. The room smells like roasted sage, warm bread, and something sweet cooling on the counter — cinnamon, maybe.
For a heartbeat, you think: Wow, Damian really pulled this off.
Then the Batfam sits down.
Tim immediately nods off sideways against your shoulder, fork still in hand.
Jason swaps the regular butter for ghost pepper butter “as a treat,” and Bruce accidentally spreads it on his roll. His face does not change, but his soul briefly leaves his body.
Dick narrates the entire meal like it’s a Food Network special:
“And now, watch as Alfred delicately plates the mashed potatoes—look at that form, folks—”
Cass steals your napkin just to watch Damian react.
Stephanie asks loudly if you’re “planning to move in,” and in the chaos of everyone choking, no one notices Damian gripping his water glass like it personally offended him.
The silverware clinks, chairs scrape, someone knocks over the gravy boat, and Alfred appears beside you without a single sound to offer a fresh plate like a guardian angel.
Through it all, Damian sits beside you tense as drawn wire — but every time you glance at him, he meets your gaze immediately.
Checking.
Worried.
Hopeful.
Trying so hard.
You nudge his knee under the table.
His shoulders drop by a fraction.
He breathes.
“I intended something more dignified than… this,” he mutters under his breath.
You hide a smile.
“Dami,” you whisper back, “this is perfect.”
He groans again, but this time the corner of his mouth betrays him with the softest, smallest almost-smile — the kind he only shows you.
The kitchen is quieter than the dining room — dimmer, warmer, lit by the soft glow under the cabinets and the faint amber flicker of the stove light. The air smells like cinnamon, roasted vegetables, and the faint smokiness of something Jason definitely set on fire earlier.
Damian is attempting to “assist Alfred,” which really means he’s stalking around the countertops like a hawk, trying to prove he belongs in a domestic setting.
You’re drying plates when you see it happen.
He reaches for a pan fresh out of the oven — bare-handed.
“Damian!”
You drop the towel and catch his wrist just in time, fingers wrapping around his pulse. His hand is warm, too warm, and you instinctively cradle it in both of yours, checking for burns.
He freezes.
Not from pain — but because you’re touching him.
The tension in his shoulders spikes, then melts in a wave so visible you almost see it travel down his spine.
“You cannot,” he says softly, voice a little unsteady, “simply grab me like that without warning.”
“You were about to burn yourself.”
You tilt his hand, examining the skin with gentle focus.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he says, too quickly, too low.
Then, quieter:
“I… am now.”
Alfred watches from the other side of the kitchen island, expression politely blank, eyes screaming finally before he drifts away like a benevolent ghost.
Damian shifts closer.
Not enough to crowd you — but enough to be unmistakable.
Your thumb brushes lightly across the heel of his palm, checking one last spot, and his breath catches like you pulled a thread somewhere deep.
“You’re shaking,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.
“I am not—”
He swallows.
“…Perhaps.”
You look up.
He’s already looking at you — eyes soft, guarded walls cracked just enough to see the truth underneath.
“You fluster me,” he admits, and the honesty in it hits you like warm air from the oven behind him.
No sarcasm.
No defensiveness.
Just Damian, raw and startlingly sincere.
You lean up just enough for your forehead to brush his — a small touch, a quiet promise.
His hand, the one you saved from the pan, curls slowly around your waist like he’s learning how to hold something precious.
The chaos of the Manor continues somewhere down the hall: laughter, arguments, something that sounds like Dick falling off a chair.
But in here, in the dim kitchen light, it’s just the two of you suspended in a calm, warm pocket of domestic peace.
The Manor is loud behind you — laughter echoing down the hall, the scrape of chairs, the familiar chaos of a family that’s never been quiet a day in their lives. But the balcony is still.
Cool night air wraps around you, smelling faintly of woodsmoke from distant chimneys and the crisp sweetness of fallen leaves. The grounds stretch out in a dark gold sprawl beneath the moonlight, the trees shifting like slow waves.
Damian stands at the railing, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect even now — except for the way his shoulders soften when he hears your footsteps.
“I apologize for earlier,” he says quietly, without turning.
“For what?” you ask.
“For the… disorder. For the lack of decorum. For Jason’s… existence.”
He exhales, jaw tightening. “I wanted your first holiday with my family to be dignified.”
You step beside him until your shoulders brush, gently.
“Dami,” you say softly, “this is your family. And I love every loud, messy part of it.”
His breath catches.
He turns his face toward you, and under the soft balcony lights, he looks younger somehow — open, hopeful, trying so hard not to show it.
“I have never brought someone home for this,” he murmurs.
“Not like this. Not someone who…”
He swallows.
“…matters.”
Warmth blooms in your chest so quickly it almost steals your breath.
Your hand finds his — tentative at first, then sure. He lets you take it, fingers curling around yours with a quiet kind of reverence.
“Damian,” you whisper, “you don’t have to make it perfect.
You just have to be here with me.”
His eyes drop to your mouth then, and the shift is palpable — a subtle pull, like gravity reorienting itself.
He steps closer, enough that the edge of his coat brushes your legs, enough that the heat from his chest seeps through your sweater. One hand lifts, cautious, fingers hovering just at your jawline.
“May I…?” he asks, voice low and breathless.
You smile — soft, certain.
“Yes.”
He kisses you like he’s memorizing something.
Slow.
Steady.
Warm as the golden lights glowing behind the balcony doors.
His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you just a little closer, as if he’s afraid you might drift away with the breeze. The world narrows to the taste of autumn air, the warmth of his breath, the way he exhales against your lips like he’s finally releasing a truth he’s held too tightly.
When he pulls back, your foreheads rest together, breaths syncing in the quiet.
“I am grateful for you,” he murmurs — so soft, it almost disappears into the wind.
Your hand slides down his lapel, fingertips brushing the stitching he never lets anyone touch.
“I’m grateful for you too,” you whisper back.
Below the balcony rail, a gust of wind sweeps across the grounds, scattering the last leaves like glowing embers in the moonlight — a perfect echo of the warmth blooming between you.
The Manor has finally begun to quiet.
The laughter fades room by room, replaced by the soft click of doors, the shuffle of Alfred tidying what doesn’t even need tidying, the faint hum of the old heater kicking on for the night.
You and Damian linger outside the balcony doors, unwilling to break the moment. When you step in from the cold, he stays close — not quite touching, but hovering in that way he does when he wants to reach for you but hasn’t yet learned how to ask.
Inside, the lights have softened to a gentle amber glow. The long dining table is half-cleared, pie plates pushed to one end, napkins folded with compulsive Alfred precision. You can hear Dick and Jason arguing over who gets the last slice of pecan pie; Tim sleepwalks past holding a mug that is absolutely empty.
For the first time, you see it the way Damian must:
The Manor isn’t a museum.
It’s alive.
Messy.
Chaotic.
Full of love he pretends he doesn’t need but craves in every bone.
He walks you toward the foyer slowly, as if each step risks shaking something loose in him. At the doorway, he hesitates — not ready to let the night end.
You brush your hand against his.
He takes it immediately.
“Thank you,” he says again, voice quiet, steady now. “For today. For… navigating my family.”
“They’re wonderful,” you say.
Then, teasing: “Terrifying. But wonderful.”
A soft huff of laughter escapes him — that rare, unguarded sound you’ve learned to treasure.
Damian lifts your hand, kisses your knuckles gently — an old-world gesture, tender and deliberate.
“Then… I hope you will consider returning.”
He hesitates, breath catching just slightly.
“For Christmas.”
The words land with the warmth of a lit hearth — unexpected, earnest, vulnerable in a way Damian rarely allows.
You rise on your toes and kiss the corner of his mouth — a promise.
“I’d love to.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, as if letting the answer settle into places that once expected nothing good. When he opens them again, he looks at you like he’s memorizing the sight.
Outside the tall windows, the last leaves drift across the Manor grounds, catching the moonlight like tiny sparks — bright for a moment, then settling quietly into the grass.
Damian laces your fingers together as the door shuts behind you, the echo warm and certain.
“Come,” he says softly. “Let me walk you home.”
And for the first time all evening, he looks completely at peace.
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