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atrax robustus pairing: dick grayson & damian wayne / dick grayson x bw!reader warnings/tags: word count: ~8.9k

read on ao3 here

“I have an idea,” Dick says in between your legs.

Your eyes lazily drift close with every press of his lips as dip lower. “Dangerous.”

Dick pauses. “Or genius.”

There’s an expectant silence.

That’s when you realize Dick has no intention of continuing. There’s something on his mind, and it’s this instance he’s chosen to tell you; after plying with you with sweet kisses and making sure you have no width to leave. Dick’s arms are securely wrapped around your thighs, and something tells you he isn’t planning on moving.

This is strategic. Some deeply disturbing request that’ll make you want to enact a hasty retreat.

You mentally sigh, and open your eyes, slightly lifting your head from the bed and peering down at him. Dick grins, blue eyes alight cheekily.

“I was thinking…” he draws out, thumb caressing your inner thigh, keeping your body lax in his grip. “Wouldn't it be something if you came home with me for Bruce’s garden party?”

You let your head drop back onto the bed. “Bruce doesn’t want me in his house.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “Bruce can get over himself. I want you there.”

You appraise him, eyes lidded. Dick stares back, uncowed, looking unexpectedly serious. His hand has since moved, curled around your hip a smidge tighter than necessary.

“Careful,” Dick says lightly, despite the tense lines of his body. “I might develop a complex about you not wanting to be seen in public with me.”

You deflate, gaze going soft. You’ll never stop needing to feel like a secret, you suppose. How else would you leave? This is better; when Dick one day wakes up, and realizes there is something fundamentally wrong with you, you can give him an easy exit.

“I didn’t want to intrude on a reunion between old friends,” you say carefully, recalling the incident of Dick’s old team dropping by his apartment for an impromptu night out.

“As you’ve said,” Dick exhales through his nose. “Everyone wanted to meet you.”

You stay silent.

He looks at you resolutely. It makes you feel like the only person in the world, like you could never be forgotten, just as long as he keeps on looking at you. Dick is good at that, at making you feel like a human being. “I want you to come.” A hint of humor lightens his expression. “Please?”

“If you want me,” you say slowly.

A smile spreads across his face. There’s a painfully earnest look in his eyes. “I’d miss you too much otherwise.”

It’s the self assured smile of a man who is keenly aware of the fact that there is nobody on Earth who hasn’t forgiven him, and a smile that is impossible to say no to.

You close your eyes, reach down as your fingers gently entangle themselves in his hair, and feel him smile.

—

“I know you and Bruce have your differences, but he doesn’t actually hate you.”

Dick pulls up to the gated entrance of Wayne manor, and seconds later, with a groan and the sound of gravel crunching, the gate slowly opens.

There’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “I don’t really think Bruce hates me. I don’t think Bruce hates anybody.” Bruce loves the man next to you more than he could ever hate you. In the end, the truth is you don’t believe Bruce Wayne to have the capacity to hate more than love. There’s something to be said about a man who unflinchingly dresses up as a bat every night in an unending war against crime. He is a man capable of great love, the kind evident in the man next to you.

Dick glances at you, contemplative. The finger he had been previously tapping on the wheel stills. “Astute observation.”

“He just wishes I’d disappear.”

Dick frowns as he drives down the driveway, towards the manor. “No he doesn’t.”

“From your life,” you clarify, growing amused.

“He’s just awkward,” Dick says exasperatedly. “You know all that playboy Brucie Wayne persona is bull, right?”

“Of course,” you reply easily. You know all about personas . You just haven’t figured out whether Bruce Wayne or Batman is the mask, and that makes you wary.

Dick parks the car, and looks at you, expression withdrawn as if bracing himself for a hard landing. “Is it Bruce?”

You blink.

He exhales. “Is Bruce making you uncomfortable? I’ll talk to him, I promise.” His hand reaches out for yours, squeezing. Your hand stays limp under his.

“It’s not Bruce,” you say carefully, trying your best to convey the opposite of the fact that you could care less about what Bruce thinks of you lest you hurt Dick’s feelings. It’s difficult, being careful with your words. You’ve never liked lacing your words with easygoing sentiments. All the guile and dishonesty has tired you. You do not trade kisses for names or sex for information anymore, but you still feel tired.

It’s your recalcitrance to integrate into Dick’s life. His friends, his family, his father. He senses it; he’s been watching you closer than usual lately but there are no openings, no indication that anything is wrong. It’s been driving him crazy; the prevalence of some feeling, a precursor to something bad. He holds you a little tighter, kisses you a little desperately, looks at you a little longer.

You had watched Dick slide his arms around his friends, and press a kiss to cheek to a woman who smiled at you. They crowded him enthusiastically with cheers. A red headed man had winked at you. You thought. More family. Then you felt sick to your stomach, a suckerpunch to the gut made of pure longing that paralyzed you. You thought of a mansion, the lilt of a Southern accent, of a kiss pressed to your temple and a cross pressed into your hand, and felt that you might do something dangerous.

You slipped out of the room, straight to the fire escape of Dick’s window, and let your feet take you home.

You’ve been thinking of leaving.

You are not meant to be anything other than a secret. You do not fit in Dick’s life as seamlessly as others would. You are meant to be a ghost. You suppose all this makes you an easy person to dislike. You can’t object to Bruce’s feelings towards you. If the world’s best detective sees you, has deciphered you to your core, then he sees everything about yourself you hate.

“If I were your father, I wouldn’t like myself for you very much either.”

There’s a crease between his eyebrows as his lips purse. “Well, I like you,” he says quietly. “I like you a lot.” His voice gains a hard edge. “And I don’t care what Bruce thinks—”

You reach out, fingertips sweeping his face, lean close and capture his lips with yours. Dick goes lax underneath your touch, surging forward. You feel his hand curl around the nape of your neck, caressing but firm.

Of course you do, you don’t say when you’ve pulled away, Dick’s fingers attached to your fluttering pulse like a brand. You calmly look towards the front, and past the windshield.

Dick follows your gaze and you feel him jump. His hand pulls away. “Ch-rist.”

Damian stares you down, crossing his arms. His gaze is flinty, marked by a clear disapproval, and more subtly, a disappointment that envelopes his entire body.

Dick straightens and opens the door. You watch him open his arms, beaming. “Come here kid, I missed you!”

Damian makes a face, and lets Dick wrap his arms around him for a good three seconds before he begins to squirm. “Richard,” he says, somehow managing to find his bearings after a good hair shuffling, “I see you aren’t alone.”

You’ve left the car, leaning against the door as Damian scrutinizes you.

“Couldn’t just leave my girl behind,” Dick says amiably, the words pointed. “Say hi Dami.”

“The invite didn’t allow for a plus one,” he sneers. “Father will be displeased.”

“Hi Damian,” you say before Dick can respond. “It’s nice to see you too.”

“I wish I could say the same,” he says coolly.

That draws a twitch to the corner of your lips while Dick frowns. “Dami, we talked about this.”

A dark cloud descends on his face. “Your tendency to run your mouth does not constitute an equivalent exchange of ideas.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” Dick says, annoyance starting to seep through his expression, one that reads: didn’t you say you’d be on your best behavior?

“I’m sure we wouldn’t want to keep Alfred waiting,” you interrupt. Damian fumes at your blatant intervention, before turning on his heels and stalking back into the house.

Dick inhales. Exhales. There’s an apologetic smile on his face when he turns to you, one that pairs well with the warmth in his eyes. It doesn’t mask the rigid hold of his body. He encircles your waist. “Have I told you I am endlessly grateful for your patience when it comes to my family?”

“Dick, it’s okay. Really.” You aren’t even lying when you say, “he’s cute.”

In a deadly sort of way. Like a venomous spider. A memory rushes to the surface before you can stop it, and you can see the curl of her lips, the slight pout. The man had died too quickly, back when the two of you had clung to apathy to survive. Not enough suffering. Not enough pain. It’s so rare we get to kill people who deserve it, she said.

All you could think was that you deserved it more, and if anybody killed you, you wanted it to be her. You imagined it lovingly.

“That’s a first.” You watch his jaw work through the words, finding the right ones. “Damian can be extreme. His upbringing was…difficult as you know.” To put it lightly. “He’s a lot better now! But man, those first couple of years were tough. Then Bruce came back from the dead, and…” he trails off, face overcome by a soft nostalgia only unlocked by the years he had spent flying through the air with Damian at his side, as the Robin to his Batman. I wanted to adopt him. I was young, and I could barely handle my own life, but god I wanted…

“He’s better now,” Dick finishes. “But you’ll tell me if he does anything, won’t you?” He looks at you solemnly. “If he says anything, even the slightest bit suspect, I want you to come to me.”

You fix him with a wry stare, putting your hand on his neck, right where it meets his shoulder, and feel him go slack underneath your touch. You don’t think Damian exactly does subtle. He is a boy who has learned to expect the world at his fingertips. One who never expected he’d have to fight for a father’s love, and now finds another one pulling away from him. “No faith?”

“Of course I have faith in him,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing at your waist. “But he has his bad days, and he’s been in some kind of mood lately. Tim’s been refusing to eat dinner downstairs just to avoid a fight. I just don’t know what’s going on with him. I really thought they were doing better.”

You have an idea or two, and all involve you and Dick. “We all have our bad days.”

"He has a bit more than most," he says lightly, "and I have socks older than him." But there's a hint of a growing smile. In the end he acquiesces, head inclined. His gaze grows lidded, zeroed in on the bottom half of your face. “I want you to be comfortable.”

His hand strokes your face, tilts it to the side, and he kisses you once more. There’s a warmth in your body. Your feet are rooted to the ground, and the idea of walking away when Dick’s arms are around you seems wrong. There’s a lump in your throat.

You could leave, but it wouldn’t be easy. Maybe it is too late.

He presses one more chaste kiss to your lips, eyes twinkling, before he groans and lets his forehead fall on your shoulder. “We don’t want to keep Alfred waiting,” he says, with effort.

The two of you stay entwined for just a moment longer.

—

Tim and Damian glare at each other from over their bowls of risottos. Cassandra picks at her food, taking bird bites from both her and Stephanie's plates, while Stephanie eagerly chatters about college life with Duke, who had stopped by the manor after his own classes. The two of them come to the conclusion that group projects, well, suck. Bruce is absent, but you’re sure he’s around, judging from Alfred’s clear dismay as he announced dinner without the head patriarch.

Dick converses with them, while keeping a cautious eye on Tim and Damian. Although he and Stephanie soon become embroiled in a conversation about penguin naming conventions. The Gotham Zoo had just unveiled a baby penguin whose name was unimaginably stupid, according to Stephanie. You hope Dick doesn’t tell her about Mr. Wiggles.

Duke turns to you, a lopsided grin on his face. “So, how’d Dick wrangle you back here?”

It was always nice to see the fellow mutant. Not that he’d know what you are. Duke had been introduced to you with an easygoing smile on his face and a shrewd, quick thinking gaze. It’s easy to like him; another eccentric member of the Dick’s family, one too smart for their own good.

You offer him a small smile. “He asked very nicely.”

“That easily?”

You affect innocence. “He’s convincing when he wants to be.”

Duke snorts, before his voice lowers. Amusement paints his features. “I think B is avoiding you. He hasn’t left the Batcave since you guys arrived.”

You don’t even blink. “Now why would he be doing that?”

“Because you,” Stephanie says, spoon swinging to point at you, “refuse to be intimidated by his—" she clears her throat, making it gravelly "—I am the night. Fear me. schtick."

Damian makes a noise from his throat.

“O-kay,” Dick cuts in immediately, before the night ends in disaster. “Can we change the topic please? B’s not even here to defend himself.” He flashes you a grin, hand reaching for yours underneath the table. “Not that I disagree.”

“Are you coming to the party?” Stephanie asks, leaning forward. Her eyes are bright with a mischievousness that spells trouble. “Please tell me you’re coming. You’re way too cool for Dick to be hiding you away all the time.” The grin grows sharp. “Have you met Brucie Wayne yet?”

Dick covers up his laugh with a cough. His hand squeezes yours. “Yes, she’s coming. Yes,” a pointed look towards Stephanie’s direction, “Bruce knows. Don’t you youngsters have other things to talk about other than gossip?”

Damian stabs his plate of sauteed vegetables with a little more force than necessary as Stephanie and Duke protest the use of the word youngsters. You watch Damian, body pressed into himself, tight and compact as if bracing for a blow, the white knuckled grip on his fork, and the sullen expression plastered to his face.

“I pay my own phone bill!”

“Yeah, with Tim’s credit card.”

“Tim claims me on his taxes! Tell him, Tim!”

“She’s a dependent,” Tim replies dryly.

“Fancy way of saying sugar daddy,” Duke teases as Cassandra shakes her head.

Tim chokes while Stephanie guffaws gleefully: Thank you dadddyyyyyyyyy. Oops, guess I shouldn't let Kon hear me say that!"

“So,” Dick murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Bruce has a pool.”

You subtly angle your head towards him. “A pool.”

“A big, fancy, private heated pool.” His arm snakes around your waist.

You look at him, face carefully deadpan. “I didn’t pack my bathing suit.”

Dick grins, looking as if he’ll kiss you. It’s a dangerous look in public. “Neither did I.”

Damian scowls and pushes his plate back. The china rattles. “This inane prattle has eliminated my appetite.”

As the room goes silent, Cassandra stills, and Tim rolls his eyes. “Here we go,” he mutters.

“Aw Dami,” Dick coos cajolingly, turning his attentions to the boy, still in good humor. “Talk to me. What’s going on at school? Taking any interesting classes? Made any new friends?”

Damian’s face grows tight, hand curling into the placemat. “I’m surrounded by imbeciles.”

Tim squeezes his lips together, as if holding back a particularly nasty retort.

Dick’s eyebrows are furrowed in concern. “Dami—”

The chair squeaks against the floor as he stands. “Save it, Richard. I’d rather a lobotomy.” He glowers at you, and disappears down the hall.

Dick pinches the bridge of his nose, looking stressed.

“God he’s angsty,” Stephanie remarks after Damian leaves. “What crawled up his ass?”

Tim blows a hard breath. “You’re telling me. I’m the one that has to live with him. He nearly bit off my hand yesterday for breathing his air yesterday.”

“Is he fighting with Bruce?” Dick asks, looking into the hallway as if Damian might reappear through sheer strength of want.

Tim shrugs, face closed off. He has a good poker face, but you can still discern the chagrin underneath. The woes of a middle child. “Not to my knowledge, but I’m busy with my own cases,” he says pointedly. There’s a pause, an inability to resist Dick when he asks so nicely. “He got in trouble at school the other day though.”

Dick looks to him, blinking. “When was this?”

“Last week?” Tim looks to Duke.

Duke snaps his fingers. “Tuesday. The movie theatre bombings. Bruce benched him.”

Dick shakes his head. Before he can open his mouth, Cassandra stands, as quiet as a shadow.

“I’ll…go.” She doesn’t wait for a response before gliding out the room.

“He didn’t finish dinner,” Dick says mournfully. Tim stares down at his plate of food.

Dinner ends quickly after that. Alfred reappears shortly after, glancing at Damian’s half finished plate with an understanding that makes him sigh. The table is easily cleared with multiple hands, and dishes are quickly washed. Alfred wraps Damian’s leftovers.

You’re helping Dick dry everything as Dick and Alfred converse about Bruce’s new case; the introduction of a drug targeting at-risk youths in shelters, inducing violent hallucinations and bloody confrontation. A new strain of fear toxin, except the Scarecrow is currently locked up in Arkham.

The conversation falls silent. You continue drying dishes.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says. “I’m glad you’ve deigned to come up for dinner.”

“B,” Dick turns, shoulder still pressed to yours. “Hey.”

You hear Bruce clearing his throat. “Welcome home.” There’s a pause. “Both of you.”

You put the plate down. “Hello Bruce,” you greet.

He tilts his head in response, face unreadable. Batman? Or Bruce Wayne? It’s clear he’s come from some work out, fresh from the shower. There’s a towel around his neck, and Alfred places a shake of some sort in front of him. You push the thought away. Your curiosity is unwarranted.

Out of the corner of your eye, Dick stifles a smile that quickly disappears. “What trouble did Damian get into at school?”

There’s a ripple in his impenetrable facade as he takes the cup, eyebrows heavyset in a way that spells trouble. “There was an…altercation with another student.”

Dick raises an eyebrow, demanding more. “Altercation?”

“It’s handled,” Bruce says firmly, shutting down any other mention of the topic.

“It clearly isn’t if he’s still lashing out at everyone,” Dick says, tone dangerously edged. He’s gearing up for an argument. “Is he going out on patrol tonight? Or are you still punishing him?”

Bruce is silent, gaze sliding to you. Dick straightens, eyes narrowed. “Come off it already, Bruce. What more is there to keep a secret? She knows.”

“Trust is a two way street,” he replies calmly, eyes bearing into yours with an intensity that makes you feel like you’ve committed a crime. You’ve committed many crimes. It tells you all you need to know. Your paperwork is faked. You have no birth certificate. You are not recorded in any kind of registry. Proof of your existence dates back to a year and a half. You are a complete unknown. He’s right to be wary.

You stare back unperturbed. “I’m an open book.”

WIth that, you lock eyes with Dick. It’s okay. Don’t fight. You lightly brush by him and leave the kitchen.

“Don’t you dare start this now,” Dick says, voice catching through the hall as you walk away. This is an argument you shouldn’t be privy to.

You head towards the west wing of the house, treading on carpet through the portraits eerily hanging on the walls, catching up to Alfred who holds a tray of food in his hands.

“I can take that.”

Alfred lurches in surprise. It makes you realize you forgot to make your footsteps audible.

“Forgive me,” he says, smiling warmly at you. “You startled this old, frail man.”

“Sorry,” you say. “I…thought I could take that up to Damian myself.”

Hesitation mars his face. “An undoubtedly kind gesture. However, I’m afraid Master Damian can be stubborn.” You’ve heard that one before.

Your lips curl at the corners. “I can handle stubborn.” You can handle angry, disgruntled, child assassins just as well as you can handle troubled teenagers with powers too big for their bodies. “He probably won’t even come out, but I think I want to try.”

Alfred holds your gaze before assenting. “Very well,” he says kindly. “I must insist you call at even the slightest disturbance.”

“I will.”

He pauses. “Master Damian is rough at the edges, but beneath it all he is a kind boy. I can only humbly request that you give him patience.”

You walk to Damian’s room, tray in hand. His leftovers, a plate of warm cookies, and a glass of milk. As you approach, you can hear hushed murmurs coming from his door. They go quiet as you step in front of his room. You knock.

Silence.

Just as you raise your hand once again.

The door swings open, and Damian stands in front of you, nose crinkled. “I’m busy, Pennyworth—”

You look at him. Then glance at the scuffed up shoe sticking out from beneath Damian’s bed.

The door slams shut in front of you with enough force that the plates tremble.

Nothing you didn’t expect. You stand there for a couple seconds. “Dick was worried because you didn’t finish dinner.” You tell the closed door. “I’ll leave your food here.”

You place the tray on the floor and leave.

—

Dick comes in while you’re lying in his bed, staring at a sliver of moonlight illuminating the floor. You don’t move, but you hear him pad to the bathroom, and wash.

He collapses onto the bed with a huff, but before you can turn, he presses himself to you. Arms wrapping around you, you can feel the light puffs of his breath against the back of your neck, and his lips when he brushes them right beneath your ear.

You wait for him to speak.

“He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

“I don’t mind.”

His arms around you tighten. “There’s a lot you don’t mind. I wish you would.”

You stare at the dark wall. The two of you fall into a silence.

“I’m scared I failed him,” Dick says quietly. “Did I make a mistake leaving him here?” He holds you to him; the two of you breathe together.

“He’s with his father.” You decide to play devil’s advocate.

You don’t have to look to see the stubborn set of his jaw. “Bruce doesn’t understand —” he huffs a breath. “He’s not happy.”

You almost smile at that. “Kids his age rarely are.” You turn to face him, and gently push him to his back. You settle next to him, fingers reaching out to brush his damp hair out from his face. His gaze grows slightly lidded, head leaning into your touch. “You did your best.”

He blows out a tremulous breath, looking to you. His eyes are pleading. “And if that wasn’t enough?”

“Dick,” you say, fingers stilling. In the darkness, you can still make out his defined features. His blue gaze fixed to your face, and a hand resting on your bare waist. “Damian is not angry or violent or even troubled. He’s a child, unorthodox upbringing aside. All because of you. A difficult child, maybe, but you did your best. He loves you.”

He’s just a little boy, you think. You can imagine him, uprooted from all he has ever known, to come to this dark, looming mansion in New Jersey to be with his father who he has known to be more myth than man. Damian is a little boy who loves his brother, desperately so. A boy who still looks to Dick, more than Bruce who is heavy handed in his ways, unyielding in his actions. A boy who takes each rejection to the heart, bundles it up with his hurt, and lashes out.

You remember the time you spent locked in your room, the days after you had first come to the mansion. You remember the noises terrified you. People running along the hall, laughing, talking, and yelling. So many people. It made you feel wrongfooted, as if you had landed on some alien planet where people could afford to be kind. Everything hurt, as if someone had torn out your bleeding, wanting, disgusting heart. You wanted her.

Dick’s face goes pained. “God, I love that kid. He makes me want to tear my hair out some days, but…” That simple nostalgia seeps into his expression, as if he’s envisioning some fond memory. He briefly closes his eyes. “I could have made it work. Adopting him.”

“I know.” Your hand traces the silhouette of his face. He holds your hand there, and tucks a kiss into the palm of your hand. The warmth is searing, sending a prickle down your back. But would it have been enough? You do not tell him Damian would undoubtedly be happier with him than Bruce. You do not tell him that a part of Damian is still longing for what their relationship had once been, but maybe he already knows. All children have to grow up.

You imagine Dick, one large, tender wound in the days after Bruce’s seeming death, living in grief. You know the hand he extended to Damian to have meant everything to him. You remember your own grief had licked at your ankles, forcing you away. Everything else seemed insignificant. You floated through it, until the waves swallowed you whole.

“It’s not always enough,” you say quietly. You can’t help but think Dick would have been enough. Sometimes, you can love someone more than yourself and they will still die. A fist squeezes your heart. You lay down and place your head, face first, into the crook of his neck, and try not to think about anything.

Dick holds you for a long time.

—

The party is in full swing around you in the Wayne backyard when Damian approaches you, face arranged into a completely neutral expression.

“I have poisoned your tea,” he says, eyes flashing in the low garden lights. “Drink and perish.”

You look at him, and then the flute of champagne in your hand that a random man had pushed into your hand. Interesting. “Just my tea?”

“Pennyworth has relayed to me that you scarcely partake in imbibing yourself silly, unlike these fools, so he has taken pains to brew you a special concoction. I have poisoned it.”

“Okay,” you say. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be careful.”

He stares at you, expression slowly growing into bewildered outrage. “I have told you—”

“Damian,” Tim appears, tugging at his sleeves. He flashes you a weary but no less genuine smile. He tells Damian, “Bruce is looking for you.”

Damian glares at you for a few more seconds, then turns it on Tim, before disappearing into the crowd of socialites. Tim’s face takes on a severity that could be alarming.

“Was he threatening you?” He asks, glancing back at the crowd as if Damian might make a reappearance.

You give him a small smile. “Hardly.” You’d say the opposite if he was giving you a heads up.

Tim winces, straightening when a few men passing wave in greeting. “I’ve been on the other side of a few Damian threats myself. Trust me I know the look. But I didn’t think—I mean Dick made it pretty clear if he’d be pissed if the demon spawn tried anything tonight.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean any of it,” you say, despite the skeptical look on his face. “Dick still running late?”

Breakthrough on a case. He texted you earlier saying he wouldn’t be missing the party, just a little late, combined with an indulgent amount of emojis.

“He said he’d be here by 8,” he replies apologetically. “Not even Damian would try anything if Dick were here…”

“He doesn’t like me,” you remark. Understandably.

The two of you share a smile. "Welcome to the club," he says.

“I can deal with it.”

“Damian isn’t exactly like the other kids on the playground.”

“I don’t know, he seems like one to me.”

TIm raises an eyebrow. “What kind of kids have you been around?”

Children that could level a city with a thought. Children who could sever necks with a snap of their fingers. Children who had been abandoned, rejected, and alone. Children who hated the world around them.

“How’s Connor?” You ask, enjoying the flush that rises to his face. “Is he here?”

“He’s good,” Tim says nervously, as if he would rather talk about anything else. There’s a story there, but you won’t push. “Not this time."

You watch his face. "You should visit more often," you find yourself saying. "Dick is always saying how you don't come by like you used to."

Tim exhales, a self deprecating scoff that tumbles out before he can stop it. "Yeah, sure."

You tilt your head. "You don't believe me."

"Not like that," he says quickly. A grimace marks his face. "It's just. Dick would say the same about anyone. I'm not special."

I made a lot of mistakes with Tim, you recall the memory of Dick saying. I don't know how he ever found it in his heart to forgive me.

You're his little brother just as much as Damian is, you want to say, but it's different. You know it's different. It's not something that should come from you. The fact that Dick's relationship with Damian will never be what Dick has with Tim. Dick admires and loves Tim in equal measure; it's an entirely different relationship.

"Do you know what happened on our fifteenth month anniversary?"

His eyebrows crease. "There's no such thing as a fifteenth month anniversary."

The curve of your lips is pure amusement. Of all the things to fixate on. "You don't need to tell me. He's the one that insisted we celebrate some made up, arbitrary date. I think he just wanted to celebrate. It was important to him."

"That's Dick for you." He pauses. "What happened?"

"He stood me up."

Tim's eyebrows are almost to his hairline. "What an asshole."

"November 6th. Last year."

Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Oh," he says.

"So," you say. "Come over next week. Bring some friends or don't. I'll make Dick cook."

He's still taken aback. "He...really?"

"Tim. His little brother asked him. Of course he had to. Now say yes."

He jerks his head down. "Okay, yeah. Yes." He looks at you, meeting your gaze easily. There's a forthrightness to him you like. "I'd like that. Thank you."

"No need," you reply softly. The rest is a conversation for Dick to have. It's not your place to tell him how Dick doesn't stop talking about how proud of him he is.

A group of men call to Tim to talk shop. W.E. business. You watch the sudden shift in his demeanor as he straightens with great interest. You excuse yourself when Tim begins to talk about the state of last quarter’s finances. You could excuse yourself to the kitchen with Alfred until Dick comes. You could also observe Bruce in another context, where he acts the fool on purpose.

You don’t have to make a choice, because Alfred approaches you with a tray in his hands, and a smile on your face. There’s a beautiful, ornate teapot on it that you know must be steaming, and a teacup.

“Master Dick has made me aware that you do not drink.” He smiles. “This is a special Arabian blend with an Assam base that is typically steeped for twelve minutes.”

You soften. “Thank you Alfred. You shouldn’t have.”

“Nonsense,” he says, placing the tray down on the table. One of the dozens set up throughout the first half of the garden. “It was my pleasure. Master Bruce can be vexing, but I would hope that you do not take his behavior to heart.”

You watch him pour the dark, translucent liquid with curiosity. He passes the teacup on a saucer to you. The tea is warm and fragrant; no cloudiness or slight scent to the poison. You wouldn’t expect anything less.

It’s just poison. Your body has been trained to do many things. You can survive poison, just as you trained yourself to find sex pleasurable. Just as you trained yourself to embrace pain and ignore it.

You put your lips to the rim of the teacup, and tilt it forward. Your liquid just barely touches your tongue when a pressurized spray of cold water blasts you in the face. You protect the teacup with your hands to prevent it from shattering, until the water gradually dies down.

You meet Damian’s wide, panicked gaze.

The music comes to an abrupt stop, and the crowd goes silent. People stare at you wide eyed, and gawking. Tim’s jaw has dropped, and Stephanie who has found her way to his side looks torn between horror and laughter. Even Bruce looks downright bewildered, his arms around the waist of two beautiful women. His arms drop back to his side as he intends to make his way forward.

“M-Master Damian!” Alfred splutters at your side, unfortunately not spared from the waterfall. The two of you are drenched, dripping onto the garden tiles. “Just what—”

“Damian!” Dick’s voice is as sharp as a whip, and just as cutting, face angrily contorted as he walks over to the boy. “What the hell are you doing!?”

You gently place the teacup on the table, overturning the rest of the liquid into the grass. Better not take any chances.

“Oh my,” Alfred says harriedly, dabbing at his ruined suit.

You walk over, and put a hand on Dick’s taut shoulder with a bright smile at the passerby as you plant a kiss on his cheek. “Well, this is what I get for saying I wanted to go for a swim,” you say pleasantly.

That draws a laugh from the crowd, air immediately lightening. People still eye you warily, whispering as the quartet reluctantly starts up again. You are soon relegated to yesterday’s gossip. Though a few people mill around you, undoubtedly still interested, whether in Dick or the situation at hand.

Dick shrugs off his jacket, placing it around you. Concern is bright in his eyes as he scans you.

Damian is hunched over, shoulders nearly up to his ears. His knuckles are pronounced as he holds the garden hose in his hand. He looks as if he’s poised for execution, the inevitable blow. You look at Damian, small, and think of how the Red Room had not spared you either.

Dick takes your cue, and forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his hard eyes.

“We are going to talk about this, do you understand me?” He murmurs to Damian, whose gaze is glued to the ground. He jerks his head down.

“What’s this?” comes Bruce’s jovial voice as the crowd parts to let him appear. There’s lipstick stains on his open collar. “If I had known this was a pool party, I would have brought my trunks!” Everyone laughs, breaking into chatter. Bruce gestures to Damian, the movement curt. “Come here, son.”

Damian is pale, eyes wide, as he shuffles forward. Bruce clamps a hand down on his shoulder. Crowd sufficiently distracted, Dick takes your wrist and leads you away back into the house. He doesn’t stop until the two of you are back in his room.

He shuts the door, locks it shut, and places both hands on your face, appraising you seriously. “This is proving every point of yours right, isn’t it?”

You exhale with a tinge of laughter. Your dress is uncomfortably clinging to you, and there’s water in your heels. “Actually, this trip has been very entertaining.”

“Please don’t joke right now,” Dick says, still upset. “I really thought everybody would be on their best behavior this time. He’s never been like this. I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, looking one breath away from pacing the length of the room. “I can’t believe he did that. I’m mortified.”

You place a hand on his face. He stills. “We were playing a game.”

Dick looks at you in disbelief. “A game.”

“I lost.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to—”

“I’m not,” you say. You shouldn’t have needlessly antagonized Damian by trying to take a sip. You had just been curious. You know he recognizes something in you that makes him wary. He can’t put a name to it, or he won’t, perhaps out of fidelity to Dick. It’s impossible to begrudge him that. Both of them. You should have left when you could.

Dick examines you, like a detective analyzing blood splatters left on a wall. You pretend not to notice.

“Don’t be too harsh on him. He’s dealing with things.”

Dick brings you close, without a care for your soaking clothes, and presses your foreheads together. “I didn’t even get a chance to tell you that you look beautiful. I wanted to dance with you,” he adds ruefully.

You slowly wrap your arms around his neck and smile. “What’s stopping you?”

Your tongue swipes against your upper lip, where you can taste the faint traces of poison. It almost makes you laugh. Spider venom.

—

Dick makes his way to Damian’s room, each step a study in muscle memory, still slightly high off the memory of your kisses. Dick could walk this path blindfolded, one hand tied behind his back, and on one foot. He made the journey to Damian’s room almost daily when it had been just them two in a haunted manor. Damian, callous and biting and terrified. Dick, hanging on a thread, restless, and exhausted. He hated the cowl, he hated how Damian refused to listen, he hated Bruce for leaving them in pieces.

The first thing they had shared was not a father. It was the grief. He had looked at Damian, and thought, he’s too young. It’s not fair.

Then he remembers the first time he had cradled Damian’s small form in his arms, trudging down this exact hall, listening to Damian’s slow breaths, and how he had held him to his chest just a little bit tighter.

He remembers a lot of things about their time together. Damian sick, sweating onto the sheets in the medbay as he slapped the medical tray out of Alfred’s hands with a snarl. Damian sitting next to him, meticulously organizing a large box of colored pencils according to color. Damian beaming at him, the excitement of a child lighting up his face and a deep satisfaction spreading over his chest.

It’s not good to indulge in memories as much as he does when he looks at Damian, but he can’t quite help it. There was the bad, but there was also the good. So much good. Sometimes when he leaps into the air, just before the click of the grapple, he can hear Damian’s laughter along with the rush of wind in his ear. It takes everything in him not to look.

It’s odd, how some of the happiest memories of his life could have only been formed from grief. Given meaning from sorrow.

Dick knocks on Damian’s door. “It’s me Damian. Can we talk?”

He doesn’t expect the door to open as quickly as it does, as if Damian had been waiting for his fist to meet the door.

Damian’s face is grave with a seriousness that makes him want to joke, who died? He’s sure it wouldn’t be appreciated when Damian looks like he’s seconds from being hanged. Dick closes the door, leads Damian towards his bed, and takes a seat. Damian stands, as stiff as a board. Keeping his distance, Dick notes. The thought makes his stomach unfurl uncomfortably.

Maybe he should be angrier; he had taken two steps in your direction before Damian had blasted you with enough water to refill the fountain in the center. He had been upset, and he still is. No matter Damian’s feelings towards you, that was unacceptable. You’ve done nothing to warrant his ire. He’s half surprised Damian hasn’t run you off yet, but you have a way of always doing what he least expects.

“Don’t spare my feelings now,” Damian says tightly, fists balled. “Tell me you despise my very essence, that you wish the foulest of curses upon me, and that you,” he sucks in a breath that makes Dick’s heart twinge, “ you never want to see me—”

Dick blinks, completely baffled. He’s never seen Damian so repentant before. Over some horseplay? “Woah, woah.” He raises his hands up. “Hold on just a second. What’s going on? Dami, your behavior earlier was unacceptable, but I’d never—” Dick stares at him, as if he can convey the sheer amount of love he has for the boy in front of him. “I love you. You know that right?”

Damian eyes him in disbelief, chest heaving. “Is she…” his voice warbles, “okay?”

A bewildered breath of laughter escapes Dick’s throat. He places his hands on his brother’s face, and looks at his ghostly pallor, before bringing him to his chest and holding him tight. “Dami,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to his head. “She’s perfectly fine. Soaked, but fine.” Fine enough that you had given him several kisses, and very generously let him into the shower with you. Not exactly the train of thought he wants to pursue right now.

He lets go, Damian owlishly blinking at him as he regains his height, and Dick crosses his arms. “Which is why I’m here. The two of you were playing some kind of game?”

An obvious lie on your part, but Dick decides to play along. If anything, it’ll grant you points in Damian’s book while giving him an excuse to make sure nothing like this ever happens again.

Dick watches Damian closely as the implication falls on his face. “Game,” he repeats.

Dick arches an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you won.”

“Yes…” Damian starts slowly, straightening. The color returns to his face. “The game.”

Dick feels a loose smile appear on his face despite it all. He pats the spot next to him. “Sit down, please?”

Damian reluctantly takes a seat.

Dick keeps his voice gentle. “You know that wasn’t right, don’t you?” He pauses, trying to make a lighthearted joke. “You’ve never been this bothered by my love life before.”

“As dismal as it is,” Damian sniffs. Dick snorts.

Dick knows you have your reservations about his family, or even family in general. You are tightlipped about anything pertaining to your own birth. Dead parents, no relatives, no siblings. He knows it’s a lie. Most of it. He knows you were hurt by some amorphous childhood you never bring up. Just like he knows you’re waiting for him to leave. He’d be offended, if he wasn’t confident he could wait you out.

What was your childhood like? He asked you, early into your relationship when you shied away from calling it a relationship and him your boyfriend. The two of you in bed, one of the rare times you stayed past midnight.

You looked at him, face indecipherable. It happened, you simply said. He had gotten the sense that you could have lied about it, but didn’t.

You left soon after, making Dick wonder what he should have said to make you stay.

He couldn’t help but think it was an odd choice of words. If he were to look too closely into it, he’d say a detached trauma response, but it felt wrong. You weren’t another case file or some printed name in the newspaper. You were a person, an impenetrable wall of mystery that shouldn’t have called to him as strongly as it did.

It happened. Something, someone. And it happened to you. Someone hurt you, and he’d known he was in too deep when it didn’t even matter anymore. All that really mattered was making you flash him that smile of yours that slightly trembled at the edges, as if you wanted to laugh but didn’t know how.

Damian stares at his lap. “She is…” he trails off, quiet. He pointedly does not meet Dicks gaze. “Do you love her?”

Somehow, he had known this was coming. He runs his hand through Damian’s hair, lightly petting. It’s easier than he expected to say, “Yeah, I do.”

It’s crushing to see his brother’s face fall. He meets Damian’s red rimmed gaze. “You do not know her. She is…dangerous.”

Dick thinks that’s a bit disingenuous. He doesn’t not know you. The person he knows now is as much as a person as you were before he met you, just as Nightwing is a part of him as much as Dick Grayson is. He’s able to interpret the subtlest of your cues now, the shape of a lie when he kisses it off your tongue…and the nights you’ve locked yourself in the bathroom, and he listens to you breathing heavily, you’ve stayed where before you’d slip off into the night. He knows there are so many things you want to say, but can’t.

You’re still a question, an inexplicable presence that might up and disappear for good if he pushes too much. But maybe you won’t be able to leave, not if he learns you completely.

“Yeah,” Dick breathes out, smile turning pained. “She is.”

Nobody is as still as you are without being trained for it. Not calm, still. There exists a preternatural quality to your demeanor. An observing stillness that watches the world around them instead of being a part of it. Are you aware he’s watching you back?

His mouth goes dry, and he’s all too aware of every single heartbeat in his chest. The hand he has rubbing Damian’s back, stills. “Do you think she’d hurt you?”

What Dick thinks doesn’t matter. It’s about the boy in front of him. The boy who started not as a choice, but an obligation. The boy he will always be responsible for in some way, even if they are separated by distance and time. It’s about the boy who let Dick carry him to bed and pretended to be asleep just to keep him with him a little longer.

It’s always been about this boy.

Damian presses his lips together, shaking his head.

The relief is a soft balm. He smiles, voice low and coaxing. “Then I need to know.”

Damian takes a slow breath. Then in an even, devastating voice he says: “She will leave, and she will take you with her. Because you intend on keeping her.”

Dick is aware of his mouth parting in slight disbelief. The words make his chest ache. There’s a litany of things that come to mind, but he knows they wouldn’t be the truth. Not the entire truth.

Because the truth is this: Dick loves his city, his friends, and his family, just as much as he would die for each and every one of them. He’s got one beating heart in his chest, twenty-four hours in a day, and too much love to give. When you disappeared for a week he had been enveloped by an ice cold terror rivaled by the worst day of his life. It was the entirely new prospect of dying before ever seeing you again that terrified him. It’s something that he can freely admit to himself now. Wanting to live for someone is so much harder than wanting to die for someone.

“Damian,” Dick says, slipping off the bed to kneel in front of him. He takes his hands in his. “I can’t stay.”

Damian’s face is shadowed, body still.

Dick tries for a smile, but he can’t muster up the humor. “We were good together, weren’t we?” He waits.

There’s a crack in his composure as he begins to blink. A lost child. “We were the best.”

Dick licks his lips, feeling them loosen enough to speak. “Listen up, because I need you to know this: nothing could ever take me away from you. You’re my brother. You’re family.” Once, Dick thinks, you could have been my son. He lets the thought wrap around his heart like a vice, and then lets it go. “I love you. I don’t want you to ever think it’s some kind of competition, because it’s really not. You…you deserve more than what I can give you. Back then and now.”

Dick thinks: you deserve a chance to be whatever you want. Whoever you want. Something more than just my Robin because I know you are so much more.

Now Dick knows, it wouldn’t have been enough. But there will always be that nudging inkling. That what-if.

There's a tremor in his voice. "Do you understand?"

Damian holds his gaze, and slowly begins to nod.

Dick hears your voice. He’s just a child. And knows you’ve seen Damian just as he does. Just like you see him.

Dick feels the small tug of a smile, and grips Damian’s hands. “You’re never getting rid of me. Ever. I promise.”

He plans on watching Damian grow up, at being at Damian's graduation, seeing wherever his passions take him. He thinks, I'm going to be there for you. Always.

After a small silence, Damian finally speaks with the gravitas of his usual self. “My behavior has been abhorrent.” It’s a front, a weak show of strength at best, acquiescing to the shapeless, unformed concept that everything will be okay. Dick is immeasurably proud of him. He also thinks he might cry.

Dick stands, forcing himself to grin, feeling wrung dry. “Glad I didn’t have to say anything,” he jokes.

“I would like to apologize tomorrow.”

He places a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “She’d appreciate that, kiddo.”

“Goodnight Richard,” Damian says quietly, peering up at him.

It’s this simple sentiment that almost has Dick unraveling. Placing Damian beneath his sheets, and pulling them over him. He remembers placing his hand on Damian’s face, remembers thinking how small he looked curled up in his comforter. Just before he closed the door shut: Goodnight Grayson , in a voice so small it had barely carried to his ears.

“Goodnight Dami.”

All good things come to an end. Bruce had come back, saved by Tim’s unflinching belief, and Dick had packed his bags once more. He would never be comfortable as Batman, but he had been Batman for long enough for it to be dangerous. It was dangerous because the more Dick looked at Damian, the more he forgot about the weight of the cowl. It was a single, composed thought:

I wouldn’t mind forever.

–

Dick enters the room quietly. In bed, your gaze travels to him immediately to where he wordlessly stands.

“Come here,” you murmur, gaze indescribably sad.

When Dick reaches you, kneeling on the bed, you hold his face between your hands. He knows at once you share the same grief when you press a kiss to his temple.

You wrap your arms around him. The two of you are in his bed. He shudders into your neck, and you whisper something to him in a language he doesn’t recognize.

—

“I apologize for my behavior yesterday,” Damian forces out, the words stilted. He glances at Dick, who pretends to be stern despite the smile inappropriately inching onto his lips. “Richard has made sure to impress on me the importance of appropriate conduct in a public setting.” There’s a pause. “Last night’s party was inopportune timing for our… game.”

“That’s okay,” you say gently. “It was all in fun.”

Damian assesses you, lips pressed into a line. Not distrustful, but contemplative.

Dick drops the guise. “See, that wasn’t hard!” he reaches out and tousles his hair. Damian lets him, unmoving. “I’m proud of you.”

Damian’s gaze is glued to the ground. “I will miss you Richard.”

Dick softens, gaze turning forlorn. You walk over to the car, and unlock it. Dick kneels down, lips moving. Dick wraps his arms around the boy, pressing a kiss to his temple. You watch Damian cling to him. The two of them stay, forehead to forehead, as Dick murmurs more to him.

The two of them reluctantly disengage; Damian wrenching his arms back. Damian walks over with Dick. Dick goes to put your bags in the trunk.

“You drank it,” Damian says quietly. “I saw you.”

“People are afraid of spiders, but I like them,” you reply blithely. “You guessed correctly.”

Dick waves to Damian once more from the car. Damian watches you until he grows smaller in the distance, and Dick is blinking hard in the rearview mirror.

You take his hand, and squeeze.

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