summary; after moving out of gotham, you've forgotten your best friend. but he hasn't. and now that you've returned, you have a hard time recognising that, that hot guy in your class is the same little boy you once knew.
wtf. - damian wayne x m!reader
summary; after leaving a long day at high school, the last thing you expected was to see robin bleeding out and unconscious in an alley. obviously, you had to help himâ that's what good people do. he'd be grateful, right?.. right?
eepy - damian wayne x gn!reader
summary; damian is emotionally constipated. youâre touched starved but refuse to acknowledge it. but that is no more a secret after damian realised; you're a whole another person when you're sleepyâ so clingy. and so his.
mon chĂŠri - damian wayne x gn!reader
summary; since you moved to Gotham from France, having a crush was the last thing on your mind. first and foremost, adapting to the culture was the most important thingâespecially considering you're terrible at english. who would have thought that catching the eye of someone would come along before you mastered english?
rebel heart - damian wayne x m!reader
summary; damian desperately needs to behave like a normal teenager. and you'd be more than happy to help him with that. exceptâ your concept of ânormal teenager" means being an absolute menace to society.
iâm cheesing so hard gahh i ate up every single word i literally love you nica đżđżđż damimiiii đżđżđż iâve been missing him so much this is the best day ever đż unrelated but kind of related i recently picked up smoking again too, iâm trying to drop it though hmm if only there was someone named damian wayne throwing my cigs out for me hm
tsym đ I'm really glad so many people liked rebel heart đ I actually wrote that specific part of the fic bc I also came back to smoking đ but seriously, leave it, if you don't have a damian wayne to throw them out, you should do it yourself, it's never worth it. I hope that at least my writing gave you a little comfort :)
also i wanted to say your old friend fic is genuinely one of my favorites iâve reread it a bunch of times ahhh dami is so cute you do him so well sighs dreamily i larve him smsm
thank you so much 𫶠I love writing him, I'm so happy you enjoyed it that much đ it's one of my favourite fics I've ever written too
summary; part two of rebel heart. after what happened at the police station, you and damian navigate the dynamics of your friendship. but you're still you, and while he's learning to be normal, you're learning to not be the same person you once were.
wc; 13.4K
ramblings; you all really liked the first part so I had to write a second đ tysm for the support. honestly I really enjoy this dynamic lmao, I still have so many ideas for these two, but idk if y'all would want more parts. maybe drabbles? (I literally erased so much of the first draft of this bc it was too much) idk, let me know what you think! btw I just realized that I didn't mention damian's scars in the first part lmao. let's pretend I did. again, I apologize for the horrible format this has I hate Tumblr lmao, I apologize for any errors
warning; â ď¸ mention of delicate themes (neglect?, crimes, prison, mentions of killing? reader has a troubled past), smoking, fight, violence, blood, kisses/making out, suggestive, a little ooc but whatever it's a fanfic
taglist; @anidiots @sweatystrawberries
The next morning, Damian Wayne walks into school like he's attending his own funeral. You notice it immediately; The way his shoulders are set, the way his jaw is clenched, the way he's moving through the hallway like he's hoping the floor will open up and swallow him whole. There's something different about him today, something that looks almost like embarrassment. You're leaning against your locker, watching him approach, and you let the grin spread across your face before he's even close enough to see. "Morning, jailbird."
His eyes snap to yours. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't mention the fact that you spent two hours in a holding cell? Don't bring up the way you looked in that pool, all wet andâ"
"I will end you." You push off the locker, falling into step beside him as he walks. He's holding your jacket, perfectly folded, draped over his arm like it's a sacred offering. He stops. Turns to face you. "I'm returning this."
You look at the jacket. Look at him. Look at the way he's holding it, like he's not entirely sure he wants to let go. "Keep it." His brow furrows. "Keep it," you repeat, already walking again. "Looks better on you anyway." He stares at you. Actually stops walking and just stares, like you've said something in a language he doesn't speak. The hallway flows around him, students parting like water around a rock, and he doesn't seem to notice any of them.
"That'sâ" He pauses, jaw working. "That's not how borrowing things works."
"You came to me to learn how to be normal. Normal people borrow each other's clothes and don't give them back for weeks. Sometimes never."
"That's theft."
"It's fashion." He makes a sound that somewhat reminds you to a laugh trapped in his throat before it can fully form. You file that sound away with the others, the ones you've been collecting since he sat across from you in the cafeteria. He catches up to you, jacket still folded over his arm, and you notice he hasn't put it in his bag. Hasn't tried to shove it at you again. He's just carrying it. Like he's already decided to keep it but doesn't want to admit it.
"Then that means you have no intentions of returning my jacket." He asks as if it weren't obvious.
"Clever boy. Think of it as an exchange, I keep yours, you keep mine." He makes that sound again. You take it as an agreement.
The cafeteria is loud, same as always, but Damian doesn't slide into the seat across from you this time. He stands at the end of the table, looking at the bench like it's personally offended him, and you realize he's waiting for permission. You tilt your head. "You can sit down, you know. I don't bite."
"Debatable."
"Only if you want to, of course." His expression does something complicated: like offense and amusement are wrestling for control, before he finally sits. Not across from you this time, beside you. Close enough that his shoulder almost touches yours. You don't comment on it, but you also don't move away. "So," you say, settling into a cross-legged position. "How bad was it?"
"My father was... reasonable."
"Reasonable how?"
"I'm grounded for a week."
You blink. And then you burst out laughing with the kind of laugh that turns heads, that makes people at nearby tables glance over, that makes Damian's ears go pink because of embarrassment. "A week," you manage, gasping. "Youâ grounded."
"It's not funny."
"Oh, it's hilarious." You wipe your eyes, still grinning. "Oh my God. What does that even mean for you? No TV? No video games? Noâ" You gesture vaguely. "âwhatever rich kids do in their spare time?"
"No pâ... No family obligations."
You stop laughing and watch him for a moment. The way his hands have curled into loose fists on the table, the way his breathing has gone carefully controlled. You made a deal. You don't ask about that tiny slip that no one else would've catch, but you do because you're observant as hell even if you don't seem like it. And because it's rare for Damian Wayne to correct himself. But you can't ask. So you don't. "Okay," you say, letting it go. "So no family obligations for a week. What else?"
He relaxes, almost imperceptibly. "No training. No leaving the manor except for school."
"No leaving at all?"
"Not until next Wednesday."
You whistle, low and impressed. "Your dad doesn't mess around."
"He's... thorough."
You lean back, processing this. Damian Wayne, trapped in that massive manor for a week. No rooftops, no secret park spots, no abandoned pools. Just him and his family and a whole lot of expensive square footage. "That's brutal," you say. "What are you supposed to do? Just... exist?"
"That was the general instruction, yes."
You snort. "How's that going?" He doesn't answer. But the look he gives you, half-exasperated and half-bored, is enough.
The morning passes. Classes happen. You don't pay attention to most of them, because your mind keeps drifting to Damian. To the way he looked in the police station, your jacket around his shoulders. And the way he said âI wasn't going to let that happen.' To the almost-kiss that neither of you has mentioned and probably never will. By lunch, you've decided something. You find him outside, behind the gym, leaning against the same brick wall where this whole thing started. He's just staring at the gray sky, expression unreadable, your jacket still folded over his arm like he's been carrying it all day. "Hey," you say, walking up.
He glances at you. "You're supposed to be in class."
"So are you."
"TouchĂŠ." You lean against the wall next to him, close enough that your elbows brush. The air is cold, gray, but there's something warmer in the space between you now. Something that wasn't there a few weeks ago.
"So," you say. "A week. What are you going to do?"
He shrugs. "Exist, apparently."
You laugh. "Your dad really said that?"
"He said I should learn to be a normal teenager. Normal teenagers get grounded sometimes." Damian's voice is flat, but there's something underneath it. Something that sounds almost like wonder. Like he's still processing the fact that Bruce wasn't angry.
"Your dad sounds okay," you say.
Damian is quiet for a moment. Then: "I didn't grow up with him."
You turn to look at him. His profile is sharp against the gray sky, jaw set, eyes focused on something in the distance. He's not looking at you. He's not looking at anything. "You don't have toâ" you start.
"I know. I'm telling you because I want to." He cuts you off, but not harshly. "When I was ten I came to live with him. Before, I lived in another country with my mother and grandfather. And now my father..." He pauses. "He's trying."
You process this. The pieces rearrange themselves in your head; the calluses, the formal way he talks sometimes, the way he looks at the world like he's waiting for an attack. "Is that why you're so weird?" you ask.
He turns to look at you. His expression is caught somewhere between offense and something else. "Excuse me?"
"I mean it as a compliment." You bump your shoulder against his. "Weird is good. Weird is interesting. Normal is boring."
"Then why are you teaching me to be normal?"
"Because you asked." You shrug. "And because I figured out pretty quick that you don't actually want to be normal. You just want to fit in enough that people stop staring." He stares at you.
"You're very perceptive," he says.
"I'm very good at watching people who don't watch back."
Something flickers in his expression. That almost-smile, the one you've been collecting like rare coins. "Is that what you were doing? Watching me?"
"From across the cafeteria? Yeah. Everyone was." You pause. "You're kind of hard to miss, Wayne." He doesn't respond. But he doesn't look away either. And for a moment, the cold doesn't matter. The gray sky doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the space between you and the way his shoulder is still pressed against yours. "You never said anything," you say eventually, breaking the silence. "When you told me about the grounding. You never said that your father forbade you from hanging out with me."
Damian's expression goes carefully neutral. "Because he didn't. He said I could continue spending time with you."
"Is that weird? That he specified me?"
"I may have mentioned that I was with someone when we were caught."
"You told your dad about me?"
"He asked." Damian's voice is clipped now, but not cold. Guarded, like he's not sure how much to reveal. "I told him you were a friend."
"And he was okay with that? The friend who got you arrested?"
Damian's mouth twitches. "He seemed to think that getting arrested was a normal teenage rite of passage. He also mentioned that my brother's have all been detained at some point."
"Your brothers have been arrested?"
"Detained," Damian corrects. "There's a difference."
You stare at him. "Your family is insane."
"Extremely."
"And you're grounded for a week because of me."
"You jumped into a pool. I merely followed."
"You could have stayed on the side. You didn't have to get in."
He's quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you almost miss it: "Yes, I did."
Your chest does something complicated. You ignore it. "So," you say, clearing your throat. "A week. No leaving the manor. What does that mean for us?"
The word slips out before you can stop it. Us. You watch Damian process it, watch something warm flicker behind his eyes before he hides it. "It means," he says carefully, "that I can't go exploring abandoned buildings or climbing fire escapes. But my father didn't say anything about visitors."
"You want me to come to your house?"
"I wantâ" He stops. Starts again. "I would like it if you came to the manor. After school. To keep me company, since I'm trapped there."
"Trapped in a mansion with seventeen security cameras and probably a bowling alley."
"We don't have a bowling alley."
"You don't?" You grin. "You probably have a home theater. A library. A hedge maze."
"The hedge maze is seasonal."
You laugh, loud and bright, and Damian's expression softens in a way that makes your stomach flip. "Okay," you say. "Okay. I'll come visit you. But we won't do anything crazy. I don't want to add more days to your sentence."
"That's very considerate of you."
"Don't sound so surprised. I can be considerate. Sometimes. On special occasions."
He shakes his head, but he's smiling. That tiny, barely-there smile that you've been chasing since the sewer. "What did I get myself into.." he murmurs.
"You came to me, remember?"
"I remember."
"And?"
He looks at you. Really looks at you, green eyes warm in the gray afternoon light. "And I don't regret it." You don't have a response to that. For once, the jokes don't come. The teasing doesn't come. You just settle around this moment. Then the bell rings. Neither of you moves. "Your jacket," Damian says eventually. "You're sure?"
You glance at it, folded over his arm. He hasn't let go of it, apparently. The denim is worn, faded, full of holes and paint stains and memories you don't talk about. On him, it looks wrong and right at the same time. Like it doesn't belong to him but should. "Yeah," you say. "Looks good on you."
He doesn't argue this time. He just nods, once, and slips it into his bag with careful hands. "After school," he says. "The front gate. I'll have Alfred let you in."
"Alfred?"
"My butler." He pauses. "You'll like him. Everyone likes Alfred."
"Even you?"
"Especially me."
You push off the wall, stretching your arms above your head. The cold air bites at your skin, but you don't mind. You're still warm from standing next to him. "Okay. After school. Low profile. Calm things. No trespassing, no breaking and entering, no swimming anymore." You walk toward the school building together. Not close enough to touch, but closer than you need to be. The afternoon light is pale through the clouds, and somewhere in the distance, a train rattles along the tracks. "I'm glad your dad isn't mad. About any of it." you say as you reach the doors.
He glances at you. He considers it. Then says "I think he's just glad I have someone to get arrested with."
You laugh, pushing open the door. "That's a weird thing for a dad to be glad about."
"Welcome to my family." You hold the door for him. He walks through, close enough that his arm brushes yours, and you pretend not to notice the way your heart stumbles. And for the rest of the day, you can't stop smiling.
The week passes faster than you expect. Maybe it's because you spend most of it at the Manor. Not all of it, of course, you still have school, still have your own apartment, still have a mother who raised an eyebrow when you came home the night of the arrest and said "You smell like chlorine" and then didn't ask any follow-up questions, which is either trust or exhaustion. Probably both. But after school, you walk through gates that definitely have more than seventeen cameras (you count twenty-three on Friday, just to prove Damian wrong). And you let yourself be swallowed by a house that feels less like a home and more like a museum that someone forgot to close. The first time you walk through the front doors, you stop dead. "Rich people," you say, staring at the chandelier. "What the hell."
Damian, standing beside you with his arms crossed, looks personally offended. "It's just a chandelier."
"It's the size of my entire apartment."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not being dramatic." You turn in a slow circle, taking in the marble floors, the sweeping staircase, the portraits on the walls that probably cost more than your mom's car. "Your house has a staircase that could fit my whole building. Actually, noâ my building is narrower than this staircase. I could fit my building inside your staircase."
"You're exaggerating."
"I'm really not." He sighs and grabs your wrist, pulling you down the hall before you can embarrass him further. His hand is warm around your arm, and you let him drag you because it's not like you want him to let go. You meet Alfred on that first day. He appears in the doorway of the kitchen like a butler-shaped ghost, carrying a tray of something that smells incredible.
"Ah," he says, looking at you over Damian's shoulder. "You must be the young man who keeps getting my boy arrested."
You freeze. Damian freezes beside you. "Alfred." Damian starts.
Alfred just smiles. He sets the tray down on the counter. Sandwiches, you realize, perfectly cut into triangles like something from a TV show. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Damian has mentioned you."
You glance at Damian, his ears are pink. "He has?"
"Repeatedly," Alfred says. "At length. Often without being prompted."
"Alfred."
"The pool story alone was quite detailed." Alfred's expression doesn't change, but there's something dancing in his eyes. "I feel as though I was there."
Damian makes a sound like a dying animal. You, meanwhile, are trying very hard not to laugh. "It's nice to meet you, sir," you say, because your mom raised you right, even if she'd probably have opinions about you spending time in a mansion with a boy you barely even know. "Thank you for having me."
Alfred's expression softens. "No need for 'sir,' dear boy. Alfred will do." He gestures to the sandwiches. "Eat. You look like you haven't had a proper meal in days." You have. But you also weren't going to say no to free food, especially not food that looked like it belonged in a magazine. You grab a sandwich. Damian does the same, though he looks like he's bracing for more commentary. "He's not here," Alfred says quietly, and you realize he's talking to Damian. His shoulders drop. Just a fraction, just enough to notice. And you file that away, and the fact that Damian is different around Alfred, softer. You like Alfred immediately.
Hours later, you're questioning yourself on why you're here. You knew Damian had animals. He mentioned them once, casually, like it was normal for a sixteen-year-old to own multiple livestock. But knowing and seeing are two different things. "You have a cow," you say, staring at the massive creature in the stable behind the manor.
"I have a cow," Damian confirms.
"Her name is Batcow."
âThe name is not up for debate." You turn to look at him. He's standing with his arms crossed, chin up, like he's daring you to make fun of him. His expression is defensive in a way you haven't seen before. Like he's waiting for you to laugh and not sure what he'll do if you do. You have mercy and you don't laugh.
"Batcow," you say again, but this time you're smiling. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I love her."
Damian's expression flickers. Relief, maybe. Or something like it. "She was rescued from a slaughterhouse," he says. "Father let me keep her."
"Your dad let you keep a cow?"
"My father is... indulgent. Sometimes."
You look at Batcow. Batcow looks at you. She's massive, gentle, has no idea how absurd her existence is, and you kind of want to steal her. "Can I pet her?" you ask.
Damian's mouth twitches. "That's usually what one does with cows." You kind of want to refute that usually, people eat cows instead of pet them. Instead, you step forward, reaching out slowly. Batcow snuffles at your hand, warm and curious, and when you scratch behind her ear, she makes a sound that's almost like the purr version of a cow. "She likes you," Damian says, and there's something in his voice that sounds almost like wonder.
"Everyone likes me. I'm very likable."
"You're tolerable at best."
"You don't get to call me 'just' tolerable." He doesn't respond. But when you glance back at him, he's watching you with that soft expression again, the one that makes your chest do something complicated. "Who's next?" you ask, stepping away from Batcow. "You said you have a dog?"
"Titus," Damian says, and his whole face lights up. Actually lights up, like someone turned on a switch behind his eyes. "He's a Great Dane. He's inside. Come on." He grabs your wrist again. You let him guide you again. Titus is enormous. He's also, apparently, convinced that he's a lap dog. The moment you walk into the sitting room, he bounds toward you with the grace of a freight train, and you barely have time to brace yourself before he's got his front paws on your shoulders and his tongue on your face. "Titusâ downâ" Damian's voice is exasperated, but he's smiling. Actually smiling, not just twitching. A real, full smile that makes him look younger and nothing like the boy who walked through Gotham Academy like he owned it.
You're too busy being licked to death to appreciate it properly. "He'sâ veryâ friendlyâ"
"He likes you."
"He's trying to eat my face!"
"That's how he shows affection."
You manage to push Titus off enough to catch your breath. He immediately flops onto his back, demanding belly rubs, and you oblige because you're not a monster. "He's ridiculous," you say, scratching behind his ears.
"He's a good boy." Damian crouches down beside you, and for a moment you're both just... there. Petting a giant dog in a ridiculously expensive room, the afternoon light filtering through windows that probably cost more than your entire education. "Alfred the cat is somewhere around here," Damian says. "He's less enthusiastic about strangers."
"You named your cat after your butler?"
"Iâ" Damian stops and shakes his head. "He thought it was funny."
"Is it?"
"Objectively? Yes." You laugh, and Titus wiggles with joy, and Damian's smile doesn't fade. It stays there, soft and real, and you think you could get used to this. The Manor. The animals. The way Damian looks when he's not wearing his walls up.
You meet Tim by accident. You're wandering the halls on Wednesday; Damian got called away for something he called a "family discussion" but you suspect is actually about whatever weird family obligations keep him busy at night, and you take a wrong turn. Or maybe a right turn. The Manor is a labyrinth, and you're pretty sure some of these hallways move when you're not looking. You turn a corner and almost walk directly into a boy with dark hair and tired eyes, holding a mug of something that definitely is not coffee. "Oh," he says. "You're Damian's friend."
You blink. "You're Tim."
"I'm Tim." He doesn't offer his last name. You don't ask. "You're the one who got him arrested."
"I'm the one who got him arrested," you confirm. "Nice to meet you too."
Tim's expression doesn't change. He's hard to read, you realize, in a way that's different from Damian. Damian's walls are sharp edges and cold stares. Tim's walls are just... blank. Like he's already figured you out and is waiting to see if you figure him out too. "He's happier," Tim says. "Damian. Since he met you." You don't know what to say to that. So you don't say anything. Tim nods and smiles slightly, like you've confirmed something, and walks past you down the hall. He doesn't look back. You stand there for a moment, processing, and then you retrace your steps and pretend you never got lost in the first place.
The last day, you meet Bruce Wayne. You're nervous. You don't want to be nervous, you've never been nervous around parents before, because parents usually look at you like you're a problem they don't want to deal with. But Bruce Wayne isn't a normal parent. He's Bruce Wayne. The Bruce Wayne. And you're standing in his house, eating his food, spending time with his son. You pretend you're not nervous. You think you're doing a pretty good job. "He will know," Damian says, walking beside you toward the study. "That you're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You've adjusted your sleeve seventeen times in the last minute."
You stop. Look at him. "Are you counting what I do again? That's creepy. "
He gives you a side eye, you take a breath. Roll your shoulders. Try to look like someone who definitely hasn't been arrested multiple times and definitely isn't worried about what Bruce Wayne thinks of them. "Ready?" Damian asks.
"No." He opens the door anyway. The study is warm. Fire in the hearth, books on the walls, the smell of old paper and leather and something that might be expensive cologne. Bruce Wayne is sitting behind the desk, and when you walk in, he looks up. He's taller than you expected. Or maybe it's just the way he carries himself, the same way Damian does, you realize. Like he's prepared for anything. Like he's already seen everything. "Sir," you say, because your mom raised you right, even if she'd probably have opinions about you standing in Bruce Wayne's study.
"Please." He stands, walks around the desk, and offers his hand. "Bruce." You shake it. His grip is firm, warm, and he holds on for a moment longer than necessary. "I've heard a lot about you," he says.
"Hopefully not all of it from the police report."
A pause. Then Bruce's mouth twitches, the same twitch Damian does. The same almost-smile. "Damian mentioned you are honest," Bruce says.
"I'm not sure honest is the right word. I just don't know when to shut up."
"Sit down." You sit. Damian sits beside you, close enough that your knees almost touch. Bruce returns to his chair, and for a moment, no one speaks. "Thank you," Bruce says finally, "for not leaving him at the police station."
You blink. "Uhâ what?"
"When the guard caught you. Damian told me what happened. You could have run, yet you didn't."
You glance at Damian. He's staring straight ahead, jaw tight, like he's not sure where this is going. "I wasn't going to leave him," you say. "He was there because of me."
"Because of both of you," Bruce corrects. "Damian makes his own choices. He always has." You don't know what to say to that, so you just shut up. Bruce leans back in his chair, studying you with those sharp eyes. "Damian has... difficulty connecting with people. His motherâ" He stops. Corrects. "His upbringing was unconventional."
"I gathered."
"He's different around you. I've noticed."
Your chest does something complicated. You ignore it. "He's different around everyone. He's weird." Beside you, Damian makes an indignant sound. Bruce's mouth twitches again.
"He is," Bruce agrees. "But he's also... happier."
Tim said the same thing. You're starting to think this family talks about Damian when he's not in the room. Probably a lot. "I didn't do anything," you say. "I justâ he asked me to teach him how to be a normal teenager. So I did."
"And what does being a normal teenager involve?"
You think about it. The pool. The sunrise. The sewer full of color. "Stupid stuff, mostly. Breaking rules. Making bad decisions. Getting caught."
"You got him arrested."
"I got him arrested," you confirm. "And he got himself grounded for a week. Which isâ" You glance at Damian. "âhonestly, kind of on him. I told him we could run."
Damian's jaw drops. "You did not tell meâ"
"You're the one who surrendered."
"You were about to get hit!"
"So? I've been hit before. It's not that bad."
"You're unbelievable."
"You're grounded."
Bruce clears his throat. You both stop. Look at him. He's watching you with an expression you can't quite read. "I think," Bruce says slowly, "that you're a good influence on him."
You stare. "I got him arrested."
"You got him to act like a teenager." Bruce's voice is quiet. Certain. "Do you know how long I've been trying to do that?"
Damian makes a strangled sound. "Fatherâ"
"I'm not finished." Bruce holds up a hand, and Damian falls silent. "You're welcome here. Whenever you want. No invitation needed."
You don't know what to say. Your throat feels tight, and your chest feels full, and you're pretty sure Bruce Wayne just gave you a key to his house without actually giving you one. "I'll try not to get him arrested again," you manage.
Bruce smiles. Actually smiles, not the media smile you've seen in photos, but something smaller and more real. "I'm not worried about that."
"You should be."
"I'm not." You sit there for a moment, the three of you, the fire crackling in the hearth. Damian's knee is pressed against yours now, and you don't move away. Later, after Bruce has excused himself to deal with something that sounded like âWayne Enterprises nonsenseâ and you're walking back toward the front door, Damian falls into step beside you.
"My father approved of you," he says. Like he's still processing it.
You glance at him. "Is that a good thing? I feel like I'll never be able to escape this family now."
His expression does something complicated. "Is that what you want? To escape?" You stop walking. He stops beside you. The hallway is empty, the portraits on the walls watching you both with painted eyes.
"No," you say. "That's not what I want."
Damian holds your gaze for a long moment. Then he nods, just once, and keeps walking. You follow. Because that's what you do now. Follow Damian Wayne through mansions and hallways and moments you don't have names for. "Same time tomorrow?" he asks as you reach the door.
"You're not grounded anymore."
"I know."
"So you could theoretically leave the Manor. Go places. Do things."
"I could."
You push open the door. The cold air rushes in, sharp and familiar. "Then why would I come here?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Because I'd like you to."
You look at him. The afternoon light is fading, painting the sky in shades of orange and gray, and Damian Wayne is standing in the doorway of his ridiculous mansion with his hands in the pockets of your jacket (the one you gave him, the one he's been wearing all week) and he looks almost nervous. "Same time tomorrow," you agree. He nods. Doesn't smile. But his eyes are warm, and that's enough. The train ride home feels shorter than usual. You spend it thinking about cows named Batcow and cats named Alfred and brothers named Tim who talk about happiness like it's something measurable. You spend it thinking about Bruce Wayne, who looked at you like you were something other than a problem. You spend it thinking about Damian, who kept your jacket and your company and apparently, now your place in a family you never asked to join. You're smiling when you walk through your apartment door. Your mom takes one look at you and says, "You're staying at that boy's house again tomorrow, aren't you?"
"Probably," you admit. She sighs. But she's smiling too.
The thing about being a "normal teenager," you've learned, is that it's mostly about making bad decisions and pretending you meant to make them. So when you text Damian on Saturday morning 'bus station. noon. don't be late' you don't have a plan. You don't have a destination. You don't even have a return ticket. You have a backpack, a hoodie that smells like shit, and the kind of restless energy that only comes from spending five days in a mansion with millions of security cameras and a boy who keeps looking at you like you're a puzzle he's trying to solve. Or like he wants to kiss you, you're still figuring that out. Damian is already there when you arrive. He's leaning against the wall outside the station, dressed in dark jeans and a gray sweater. Your jacket (probably his, now) is zipped up to his chin, and he's holding two cups of coffee and a paper bag that smells like pastries. You stop in front of him. Stare at the bag. "You remembered."
"I said I would."
"Yeah, but people say things. They don't usually.." You gesture at the bag. "Follow through."
He shoves the coffee into your hand. "Take it before I change my mind." You take it. The warmth seeps through the cup, into your fingers, and you're smiling before you can stop yourself. "You're getting soft." He makes a sound (the one between a scoff and a laugh) and falls into step beside you as you head toward the ticket counter. "Where are we going?" he asks.
"No idea."
"You don't have a destination?"
"That's the point." You glance at him. "Normal teenagers don't plan. They just... go. See where the bus takes them."
"That's irresponsible."
"So what? It's just a normal Tuesday."
"It's Saturday."
"Even better." You stop in front the schedule board, scanning the list of destinations you've never heard of. "Pick a bus. Any bus. We'll get on it and see what happens."
"That's not how transportation works."
"That's how adventure works." You nudge him with your elbow. "Come on, Wayne. Where's your sense of spontaneity?"
"I don't have one."
"Then it's time you developed one." He stares at the board for a long moment. His jaw works, you can see him calculating, weighing options, looking for the safest choice. Then his hand lifts, and he points at a destination halfway down the list.
"Alice Springs," he says.
You blink. "That sounds fake."
"It's a real town. About three hours east."
"How do you know that?"
"I know a lot of things."
You look at the board. Look at him. Look back at the board. "Alice Springs," you repeat. "Sounds like something out of a horror movie."
"Then we should fit right in."
You laugh loudly and drag him toward the ticket counter before he can change his mind. Once you're on the bus, you realize it's crowded. Not with people, exactly. With the kind of quiet that only exists on routes no one takes by choice. The other passengers are mostly older, mostly asleep, their faces slack and unfamiliar in the gray afternoon light. You take a seat near the back, Damian beside you, your shoulders pressed together in the narrow space. "You told your dad where you're going?" you ask as the bus pulls away from the station.
Damian glances at you. "I learned from last time."
"So he knows you're on a bus to a town called Alice Springs with a person who got you arrested."
"He knows I'm with you. The destination was... secondary."
You grin. "Secondary. Sure." The bus rumbles onto the highway. The tall buildings, the crowded streets, the particular gray of Gotham that you've known your whole life falls behind you. In its place, trees. Green fields. The kind of scenery that makes you want to blast songs with a huge speaker and open your arms wide in the air like teenagers in coming-of-age movies do. "Have you ever been outside Gotham?" you ask.
"Of course."
"I know, not like that. I meanâ" You gesture at the window. "Just to see what's there. Without doinâ family obligations, weird shit or boring things."
Damian is quiet for a moment. "No," he says finally. "I haven't."
You look at him. His profile is sharp against the window, the gray light catching the edges of his face. He's watching the landscape pass, and there's something in his expression that looks almost like wonder. "Well," you say. "I'm being your first time in a lot of things." He gave you a stinky side eye.
The town, when you finally reach it, is exactly what you expected. Which means: abandoned. Alice Springs is less a town and more a collection of buildings that forgot they were supposed to be alive. Main Street is three blocks long, lined with storefronts that haven't seen customers in years. A gas station at the edge of town, the pumps rusted and the windows boarded. A diner with a neon sign that flickers OPEN in uneven letters, even though you're pretty sure no one's opened that door in a decade. "It's a ghost town," Damian says, stepping off the bus.
"It's atmospheric."
"It's depressing."
"It's an adventure." You spread your arms wide, spinning in a slow circle. "Look at this place. No people. No adults. No one telling us what to do."
"There's probably a reason for that."
"Fear? Cowardice? Lack of imagination?"
"Common sense."
You drop your arms, grinning at him. "Since when do we have common sense?" He doesn't answer. But he's not walking back toward the bus either. He's standing on the cracked sidewalk, looking up at the flickering sign, and there's something in his posture that looks almost like curiosity.
"One hour" he says.
"Three."
"Two."
"Deal."
You two spent the afternoon exploring. The diner is locked, but you find a window in the back that's been broken for so long the glass is worn smooth. You climb through, Damian following after sighing in resignation and find yourselves in a room frozen in time. Booths with cracked vinyl seats. A jukebox in the corner that hasn't played music since before you were born. Counter stools that spin in slow, creaking circles when you push them. "This is unsanitary," Damian says, running his finger over a table. The dust is thick enough to write in.
"This is history."
"This is a health code violation."
You grab a napkin from the dispenser, the paper yellowed with age, and wipe a clean spot on the counter. Then you hop up, sitting cross-legged where someone probably ate breakfast fifty years ago. "Tell me something," you say.
Damian eyes you. "What kind of something?"
"I don't know. Something I don't know about you."
"That's a broad category."
"Then start small." You gesture at the room around you. "What's the first memory you have? The earliest one."
He goes still. The kind of stillness of someone who's not sure they want to answer. "I was four," he says finally. "Maybe five. There was a garden. Someone tended it. I don't remember who. But I remember the smell. Jasmine, I think. And the way the light looked through the leaves." He pauses. "I wasn't allowed to touch anything."
You watch him. His face is carefully blank, but you notice a tiny emotion in his eyes. "That's sad," you say.
"It was what it was."
"You were a kid. You should have been allowed to touch things."
He looks at you. Just looks, for a long moment, and you can see him trying to figure out what you mean. Whether there's a trap in your words, an angle, a hidden question. "It was a long time ago," he says.
"That doesn't make it less sad."
He doesn't respond. But he walks toward the counter, slides onto the stool beside you, and sits in the dusty silence like he's trying to figure out what to do with your words. "Your turn." he says.
"My first memory?" He nods. You think about it. The question should be easy, but your memory is tangled up in things you don't talk about. Things you're not sure you want to share. "My mom," you say finally. "She was singing. I don't remember the song. But I remember thinking she sounded pretty."
Damian's expression softens. Just a fraction, just enough to notice. "That's not sad."
"No," you agree. "It's not." The general store is next. It's way bigger than the diner, dustier, full of shelves that still have products on them. Canned goods with labels you don't recognize. Boxes of cereal that expired before you were born. A rack of postcards near the front, the images faded to almost nothing. You grab one. Hold it up. "We should send this to your house."
Damian stares at you. "It's addressed to no one."
"We'll address it to Alfred. He'll think it's funny."
You find a pen behind the counter. Miraculously, it still works, and then you scribble a message on the back. 'Wish you were here. The dust is lovely this time of year.' Damian reads it over your shoulder. His breath is warm against your neck, and you try very hard not to lean into it. "That's not funny," he says.
"That's hilarious."
"It's barely a joke."
"It's the best joke I've ever written." He takes the pen from your hand. His fingers brush yours, deliberate or accidental? you can't tell. He writes something below your message, folds the postcard, and pockets it. "What did you write?" you ask.
"You'll find out when it arrives."
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't usually." You glare at him. He glares back. And somewhere in the middle of the dusty general store, surrounded by expired cereal and faded postcards, you start laughing. He doesn't join you. But he doesn't make a face either. You get out of the store. The sun is setting when you realize you have nowhere to stay. "Five hours," Damian says, and his voice is pointed. "We were supposed to stay for two."
"Time got away from me."
"Time didn't get away from you. You got distracted by a taxidermied squirrel."
"That squirrel had a lot of personality!"
"The bus left an hour ago."
You look at the empty street. At the fading light. At the sky turning orange and purple in a way that never happens in Gotham, where the clouds are always too thick and the city too bright. "Okay," you say. "So we stay the night."
"Here."
"It's called 'spontaneity,' Damian."
"It's called 'poor planning.'" You shrug, smirking. He pinches the bridge of his nose. It's such an exasperated gesture, so dramatic, so entirely him, that you can't help but grin. "There's a hostel," he says finally. "At the end of Main Street. I saw it when we arrived."
The hostel is... a building. That's the nicest thing you can say about it. The windows are intact, which is more than you can say for most of the other structures. The door opens when you push it, which is a pleasant surprise. And there's a desk in the lobby with a bell and a sign that says RING FOR SERVICE in handwriting so faded it might be a century old. You ring the bell. Nothing happens. You ring it again. A door behind the desk opens, and a woman appears. She's old, seventies maybe, with gray hair pulled back in a bun and eyes that have seen too many travelers come and go. "We need a room," you say.
She looks at you, looks at Damian, then back at you. "One room," she says. "Two beds?"
You glance at Damian. His expression is carefully neutral. "One bed is fine," you say. Damian's head turns toward you so fast you almost hear his neck crack. But he doesn't argue. And when the woman hands him a key, he takes it without comment. The room is at the end of the hall. It's small, smaller than you expected. The walls are paneled in something that might be wood or might be plastic, and the window looks out onto the alley behind the building. There's a dresser with a mirror, a lamp with a frayed cord, and a bed. One bed.
"One bed," Damian says. "We can't share a bed."
"Why not?"
He stares at you, blankly. His ears are pink, you notice that, file it away with the other things you're not supposed to notice. "It's inappropriate," he says.
"We're not dating."
"It's not necessâ" He stops. "That's not the point."
"Then what's the point?" He doesn't answer. He just stands there, in the middle of the tiny room, holding the key like he's not sure what to do with it. You drop your bag on the floor. Sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress sags under your weight, the springs groaning in protest. "I'll sleep on the floor," you offer.
"You're not sleeping on the floor."
"Then what's your brilliant plan?"
He looks at the bed. Looks at you. Looks back at the bed. "We'll share."
"Oh, so now it's fine?"
"Don't make this weird."
"You're the one making it weird." You kick off your shoes, swinging your legs onto the mattress. "Get over here. I don't bite. If you don't want to."
He doesn't move. You can see him arguing with himself, doing that thing he does where every decision feels like a chess move. Then he sighs, pulls off his own shoes, and sits on the opposite edge of the bed, as far from you as the narrow mattress allows. "This is a terrible idea," he says.
"Maybe."
"We're going to regret this."
"Doubt it." He lies back and stares at the ceiling, pretending to be offended and not nervous. You lie back too, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the blankets, far enough that you're not touching. The ceiling is cracked. Water damage, maybe, or just age. You watch the shadows move across it, cast by the streetlight outside, and try not to think about how close he is. "Damian," you say.
"What."
"About the pool."
The silence that follows is deafening. You can hear his breathing change; the way it hitches, just slightly, before evening out again. "What about it," he says. His voice is flat. Careful.
"You know what."
"I don't."
"You almost kissed me."
He doesn't respond, so you turn your head to look at him. His profile is sharp against the pillow, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it holds the answers to every question he doesn't dare to ask. "You almost kissed me too," he says quietly. You can't deny it. You don't want to.
"So," you say. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
"It has to mean something."
"Does it?" He turns his head then, meets your eyes. The distance between you is small. Inches, maybe less. You can see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. "Can't it just... be?"
"That's not how things work."
"That's how I want them to work."
You stare at each other. The room is dark, the only light from the window, and it casts strange shapes across his face. Makes him look softer. You could get used to seeing him like this. "Okay," you say. "We don't have to figure it out tonight. But don't thank me yet. I'm still going to make fun of you for almost kissing me."
He groans, turning back to the ceiling. "I will strangulate you."
"Ohh, kinky." His head snaps toward you. His eyes are wide, his mouth open, and for a moment he looks genuinely shocked. Then his expression hardens, and you can see him fighting a smile. He doesn't respond. But when you close your eyes, you feel him shift on the mattress. Closer, this time. Not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him through the thin blankets. You fall asleep like that. Side by side, centimetres apart, the weight of everything unsaid settling around you.
Old habits die hard. That's what they say, anyway. You're not sure who "they" are though, probably the same people who say "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" and other lies people tell themselves to feel better about bad decisions.
The truth is simpler: you used to smoke. Not much. Not the kind of habit that had you sneaking out at midnight to buy packs from the corner store. Just occasionally, when things got loud in your head. When the walls of your apartment felt too close and your thoughts overwhelmed you and you needed something to do with your hands. You quit when you met Damian. Not because he asked, he didn't even knew. You just stopped. Because you didn't needed it anymore. Suddenly, the loud things were quieter. Because the walls didn't feel as close when you were with him. Because you had something better to do with your hands, like spray-painting on sewer walls and holding coffee cups on cold mornings and cupping his cheek. Well, that hasn't happened. Yet. The thing is, you didn't even miss smoking. Until today. The box is at the bottom of your closet, buried under old notebooks and a sweater you haven't worn since middle school. You're cleaning, because your mom made that face last week, the one that says "I love you but your room is a biohazard" and your hand closes around the familiar cardboard. You pull it out. Three packs. One of them open, two of them still sealed. You'd forgotten you had them. Forgotten the way the packaging looks, the way it feels in your hands, the way your fingers know exactly what to do. You should throw them away. You know you should throw them away. But you put them on your desk instead.
The first one is an accident. That's what you tell yourself. You're tidying, your hands are restless, and the pack is right there. Just one. Just to see if it still feels the same. If you still know how to do it. You crack the window, lie down on your bed. Light it. Inhale. It tastes like before. Like the person you used to be before Damian Wayne sat across from you in the cafeteria and asked for help being normal. You smoke it down to the filter, stub it out and stare at the ceiling. Then you light another one.
Damian notices the next day. You think you're being careful; you showered, you brushed your teeth, you wore a hoodie that hasn't been anywhere near your room since you found the packs. But Damian Wayne notices everything, and apparently he also has the nose of a bloodhound. You're sitting on the bench behind the gym, waiting for him to finish whatever he was doing inside, when he walks up and stops. Stops, he literally freezes. You look up. His expression is unreadable, but his nostrils flare slightly (just a twitch, just enough to notice) and his eyes narrow. "You smoked," he says.
You blink. "What?"
"You smoked. Yesterday. Or this morning." He steps closer, and you watch him observe your clothes, your hair, the way you're suddenly very interested in the ground. "The smell is faint. But it's there."
"I don'tâ"
"Don't lie to me." His voice is quiet. Not angry, but almost disappointed, and somehow that's worse. You've never seen him angry, but it's probably better than how he's looking at you.
You exhale. Run a hand through your hair. "It was just one cigarette. Yesterday. While I was cleaning."
"Don't lie. How many?"
You hesitate. His eyes don't leave your face. "...Two," you admit. He narrows his eyes. "Two and a half. The third one was mostly ash, I don't think it counts."
He stares at you. You stare back. The afternoon light is pale through the clouds, casting shadows across his face, and you can see him doing that thing: the calculation, the assessment, the quiet figuring-out of whatever problem you've just presented him with. "Give me one," he says.
Your brain short-circuits. "What?"
"Give me a cigarette."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Becauseâ" You stop. Start again. "Because they're bad for you. Because you're notâ Damian, no."
He crosses his arms. Your jacket pulls across his shoulders, he's still wearing it, you notice, even though you told him to keep it weeks ago. "You have them. You're smoking them. Give me one."
"That's not how this works."
"How does it work, then?"
You stand up. Face him. You're close enough to see the slight tension in his jaw, the way his breathing has gone carefully controlled. "I was the reason you got arrested," you say. "I won't be the reason you get lung cancer."
His expression flickers. Something softens, just for a moment, before the mask slides back into place. "One cigarette won't give me lung cancer."
"One cigarette leads to two. Two leads to a pack. A pack leads toâ"
"To what?"
"To me," you say. "To the person I used to be. And I don't want that for you." The words hang in the air between you. Heavy. Honest. More honest than you meant to be. Damian doesn't speak for a long moment. He just looks at you like he's trying to read something written in a language he's still learning.
"You quit," he asked. "When?â
"When I met you."
His eyes widen. Just a fraction, just enough to notice. "That was months ago."
"I know."
"You haven't smoked since then?"
"Not until yesterday."
"Why yesterday?"
You think about the question. About the loud things in your head, the walls of your apartment, the restless hands that didn't know what to do with themselves. About the box at the bottom of your closet and the person you used to be and the strange, uncomfortable feeling of being happy and not knowing what to do with it. "I don't know," you lie. He knows you're lying. You can see it in his eyes. But he doesn't call you out.
"You should throw them away," he says finally.
"I know."
"You won't."
"I know that too." You almost smile. But there's something in his voice that makes the joke feel wrong. Something that deserves better than deflection. "Damian," you say. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For being like this. For having stupid habits."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "You're not the only person with habits they're not proud of." You look at him. His expression is guarded again, but almost understanding. "Give me the pack," he says.
You stare at him. "You're going to smoke them?"
"I'm going to dispose of them."
"I can throw them away."
"You won't. You'll put them back in your closet and find them again in three months and smoke another half a pack and feel guilty and the cycle will repeat." He holds out his hand. "Give them to me."
"You're very bossy."
"You're very stubborn."
"Youâ"
"Give. Me. The. Pack." You look at his outstretched hand. At his face. At the way your jacket fits him, the way he's wearing something of yours like it belongs to him now.
"I don't have it with me," you admit.
"Then bring it tomorrow." His voice is firm. Final. "You'll bring the pack. You'll give it to me. And you won't buy another one."
"You can't control what I do."
"I'm not trying to control you" His eyes soften. "I'm trying to keep you alive."
The words hit you somewhere soft. Somewhere you didn't know you had. "I'm not going to die from a few cigarettes," you say.
"No. But you might die from a few hundred. And I'd rather not find out." You just stand there, in the cold afternoon light, and let him look at you like you're something worth keeping alive. You bring the pack the next day. All three of them, the open one and the two sealed ones. You put them in a paper bag and hand them to him in the cafeteria, sliding across the table like you're making a drug deal. He takes the bag. Looks inside. His expression doesn't change. He sets the bag beside him on the bench, close to his body, like he's protecting it. Like he's afraid you might try to take it back. You won't. You already decided that last night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way he said 'I'm trying to keep you alive' because apparently for him, you're worth the inconvenience. "Promise me," he says. "That you won't smoke again."
You look at him. His green eyes are steady, serious, no trace of the almost-smile you've been collecting. "And if I can't?" you ask.
"Then I'll make you."
"How?" He doesn't answer. But his expression shifts and you realize he's not bluffing. He would find a way. He would follow you around, confiscate every pack you bought, sit on your fire escape at five in the morning and lecture you about lung capacity until you gave up. "Okay," you say. "I promise. No more."
He studies you for a long moment. Looking for the lie, probably. The evasion, the thing you're not saying. You're not lying. That's the strange part. You mean it. It's not like you even like smoking anyway. "Good," he says. Then he picks up the bag, walks to the nearest trash can, and drops the whole thing inside. You watch him do it. Watch the bag disappear into the bin, the cigarettes gone, the habit probably not, but the person you used to be is slipping further and further into the past.
"That was dramatic," you say when he comes back. "You're threw away perfectly good cigarettes."
"They weren't perfectly good. They were old. And stale. And bad for you."
"You're very responsible all of a sudden."
"I've always been responsible. You just haven't been paying attention."
You lean back in your seat, grinning at him. "I do pay attention."
"To what?"
"To you." His ears go pink. He looks away, but not before you catch the flicker of softness in his eyes. He doesn't respond. But when you look at him, you see the corner of his mouth twitch. That almost-smile. You're collecting them, you realize. Keeping them somewhere safe in your mind, somewhere the old you couldn't reach. "Thank you," you say quietly. "For caring. Even when I'm stupid."
His expression softens. Just a fraction. Just enough. "Someone has to," he says. And that's that.
"You want to go to a party," Damian says. His voice is flat, unimpressed, like you've just suggested something so offensive, like jumping off a cliff.
"Normal teenagers go to parties," you say, for the third time. You're leaning against his locker, watching him pack his bag. "It's Saturday. There's a party. Marcus invited me."
"Marcus."
"Guy I used to know."
Damian closes his locker and turns to face you. His expression is the one he wears when he's already decided something and is waiting for you to catch up. "I'm not going."
"Did I ask you to go?"
"You're about to."
"I'm not," you lie. "I'm just telling you about my plans. Informing you. Keeping you updated on my social calendar."
"You want me to come."
"I want you to do whatever you want."
"That's not true."
"Fine." You throw your hands up. "I want you to come. But I'm not going to beg."
"Good. Because I wouldn't say yes."
You stare at him. He stares back. His arms are crossed, his whole body radiating the particular stubbornness that you've come to recognize as his default state. "Fine," you say. "I'll go alone."
"Fine."
"Fine." You turn and walk away. You can feel his eyes on your back the whole time.
The party is exactly what you expected. Loud music, dim lights. Too many people in too small a space, all of them holding red cups and pretending they're having fun. You don't know why you came. You don't know why you thought this would be a good idea. Marcus is nowhere to be found, and the few people you recognize are too drunk to hold a conversation, and everywhere you look, you see couples pressed against walls, making out and grinding against each other. Or doing something else that you really don't want to see in a supposedly public space. You grab a drink. Something cheap, something that burns your throat on the way down, yet it doesn't help to not think about him. About Damian. About thinking that maybe if he was here, you'd be one of those couples. 'That'd gross him out, though' you think, because now apparently you know what he likes and what he doesn't.
An hour passes. Maybe two. You're standing in a corner, watching the chaos, when someone bumps hard into you and doesn't apologize. "Watch it," you mutter.
The guy turns. Tall, broad. The kind of build that comes from too much time in a gym and not enough time learning manners. His eyes are unfocused, and he's smiling in a way that makes your skin crawl. "What the hell did you say to me?"
"Nothinâ. Forget it."
"No, no." He steps closer. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, cheap and sour. "I want to know what you said."
You should walk away. You know you should walk away. But Damian's not here. No one's here. And you're tired of being pushed around by people who think they're tougher than you. "I said fucking watch it," you repeat. This time slower, clearer. "You bumped into me. You didn't apologize."
His smile twists into something uglier. "You want an apology?"
"I want you to back up."
He doesn't back up. He steps closer, chest bumping yours, and his hand comes up to shove your shoulder. "Wait." He stops, looking at your eyes intensely. "Oh, I know you. You're Marcus's friend, right? The one that got his little friend kâ"
After he mentioned your past, you don't think anymore. You just drop your empty cup and swing. Your fist connects with his jaw. It's a good hit, satisfying, but it doesn't do much except make him angry. He recovers fast, faster than you expected, and then his fist is connecting with your cheek, and the world goes white. You stumble. Catch yourself and punch again. He blocks it, hits you again. Your lip splits, you can feel your nose already bleeding. He's talking, but you're not hearing anything, except that he mentions the name of somebody you'd rather forget, something that just causes you to go even more feral. You can taste blood, copper and salt, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you're counting the hits. One. Two. Five. Eight. You get a few in yourself. His nose, his stomach, his ribs, you see his face bleeding, and your knuckles are now covered in blood. There are people watching, laughing, cheering, and no one is stepping in to help. You're on the ground before you realize you've fallen. His boot connects with your ribs, and you curl up, hands over your head, trying to protect the important parts. The kicking stops and you hear glass breaking. Shit. Shit, shit shit. You open your eyes, and now that guy has a broken beer bottle on his hand. You move on the floor.
"Heyâ" A new voice. Sharp. Cold. The kicking stops. You look up and see Damian standing in the doorway of the living room. His eyes sweep the scene; the guy standing over you, the crowd watching, the blood on the floor and something in his expression shifts. It goes dark. "Get away from him," Damian says.
The guy laughs. "Or what?" Damian doesn't answer. He just moves.
You've never seen him fight before. Now, you can only see flashes. The way Damian flows around the guy's punches like water. The way his fists find soft spots: throat, solar plexus, kidneys. The way the guy goes down, hard, and doesn't get up. The room is silent, the people cheering shut. Damian turns to you, he's not even faced, his breath is even, his chest is not heaving. His knuckles are bloody. His eyes are wild, searching your face, cataloging the damage. "Can you stand?" he asks. You do, your ribs scream. Your knee buckles. Damian catches you before you fall, his arm around your waist, pulling you against him. "We're leaving," he says. You don't argue.
The run back to your apartment is a blur. You don't remember the streets, the alleys, the fire escape. You don't remember climbing the stairs and opening your window. You just remember Damian's hand on your back, steady and warm, and the way he kept saying your name like he was afraid you'd stop answering. Your apartment is empty. Your mom is working a late shift, she mentioned it this morning, something about overtime and bills and the particular exhaustion of being a single parent in Gotham. You're grateful. You don't want her to see you like this.
"Sit," Damian says.
"I'm fine." But you sit. On the edge of your bed, because the couch is buried under laundry and the kitchen chairs are wobbly and Damian is already opening your bathroom cabinet like he owns the place. "You don't know where anything is," you call.
"I know where you keep the first aid kit." You don't remember telling him. Before Damian can come out of the bathroom, you speak.
"How did you find me? I never told you where the party was." There's a moment of silence when he's finally returning with the kit, a small white box your mother brought years ago and never restocked. "Youâ" You stare at him. "You stalked me?"
"I protected you."
"Did you put a tracker on my phone without telling me?"
"Yes."
"Youâ" You stop. Process. "Okay, honestly? That's kind of hot."
His ears go pink. "We're not talking about that." You laugh. It comes out wrong, too loud, edged with something that isn't humor. The sound echoes off your room and disappears into the night. Damian watches you. His eyes are sharp despite the exhaustion. "We need to talk," he says.
"Do we?"
"You just fought a man twice your size." His voice is steady, but there's something underneath it. Something that sounds like barely contained fury. "Yes. We need to talk."
You look away, at your window. You can see the street lights flickering, a million stories unfolding in the dark. You tense your jaw. "There's nothing to talk about," you say, your tone is colder than anything Damian has heard of you.
"Bullshit." You blink. You've never heard him swear before, at least not like that, sharp and immediate and completely without filter.
"I'm sorry," you say. "Did Damian Wayne just say bullshit?"
"Don't change the subject." He takes a step toward you. Then another. "You could have died tonight," he says.
"I've almost died before."
"That doesn't make it okay."
"I didn't say it was okay. It just isn't new."
"Stop." His voice cracks on the word. Just slightly. Just enough for you to notice. He sits beside you on the bed, close enough that your knees touch, and pulls out antiseptic wipes and gauze and medical tape. You watch him as he works. His hands are steady cleaning the blood from your lip. His face is close to yours, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the furrow of concentration between his brows.
"It's not your fault," you say.
"It is. I let you go alone."
"I'm not a child, Damian. I can make my own decisions."
"Your decisions are terrible. You're doing what's easy. What's familiar. What you've always done."
"And you know me so well?"
"I know you better than you think."
"You don't know shit about me, Damian." Your voice rises, and you get up your bed. You can't help it. The alcohol, the fear, the fight, it's all spilling out, and you can't stop it. "You don't know where I came from. You don't know what I've done. You don't know the kind of person I was beforeâ"
"I don't care."
"You should."
"I don't." He's in your space now, chest almost touching yours, chin tilted up to meet your eyes. "I don't care who you were. I don't care what you did. I care about who you are now. And who you are now is someone who deserves better than this."
"I'm dangerous, Damian. You don't understandâ"
"I understand more than you think." He leans closer. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, wiping away a streak of blood. "I'm not a saint either. I'm probably worse than you."
You laugh. It comes out broken, not quite a laugh at all. "Pff. You? I doubt it."
"You don't know me. You know what I let you see." His voice is quiet now. Intimate. Like he's telling you a secret. "You don't know what I've done. The people I've hurt. The things I'm capable of." You open your mouth to speak, but he's quicker. "I'm telling you this so you understand." He's closer now. Close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, warm and steady. "You're not the only one with darkness. You're not the only one who's made mistakes. And you're not going to scare me away by pretending you're something you're not."
"I'm not pretending."
"Then stop pushing." His hand pushes you lightly, pressing against your chest. "Stop trying to protect me from yourself. I don't need protection. I need you."
The words hang in the air between you. Heavy. Fragile. Real. "I need you too," you whisper. The admission costs you something, some wall you've been building for years, some armor you've been wearing since before you can remember. "That's the problem."
"It's not a problem."
"It is when I'm going to ruin you."
"You won't."
"You don't know that, Damian." There's a moment of silence. "We shouldn't see each other anymore," you say.
His whole body goes still. "What?"
"You heard me." You look away. The wall is easier to look at than his face. "I'm not good for you. I've got you arrested, Iâve made you to vandalize, I almost made you smoke, and now you're hurt because of me after fighting with an idiot. You wanted to be normal, not a fucking criminal, and this will only continue to escalate. You don't know the things I've done. The people I've been involved with. Theâ"
"I don't care."
"You should care."
"I don't." He raises his voice, looking at you like something you're worth keeping. "You don't understand? I don't care who you were. I don't care what you did. I care about who you are now. And who you are now is someone I'm not going to let push me away." His words hit like punches. Each one landing, each one bruising, each one finding a target you didn't even know you had.
"You don't understand," you whisper.
"Then make me."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
You run a hand through your hair, making it even messier, because you need to do something with your hands and because you don't know how to control your desperation. "Becauseâ" Your voice breaks, you hate that it breaks. You hate that he's seeing you like this, raw, broken and nothing like the person you pretend to be. "Because if I tell you, you'll look at me differently. You'll realize what I really am. And you'll leave."
Damian goes very still. "Is that what you think?" he asks. "That I'll leave?"
"I know you will. Everyone does, in some way."
He stares at you. His expression is unreadable, closed off, guarded, the mask he wears when he's trying not to feel something. "You're an idiot," he says finally. His voice rises a little, but there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just something that sounds almost like defeat. "You're an idiot if you think I'm going anywhere." He comes closer, lifting his hand and cupping your cheek. You flinch, almost unnoticeable even for you, but not for Damian. His expression bitters.
"How? How can you possibly know that?"
"I know because I'm in love with you."
The world stops. Not metaphorically. Actually stops. The city, the apartment, the blood on your shirt, all of it fades to white noise, and there's only Damian. Damian with his bruised knuckles and his hand on your face like you're something precious. "Uh?" you breathe.
"I'm in love with you." He says it like it's simple. Like it's obvious. Like he hasn't just detonated a bomb in the middle of your chest. "I've been in love with you for weeks. Maybe longer. I don't know. I've neverâ" He stops. Swallows. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. And I'm terrified. Because you keep doing things like this. You keep putting yourself in danger. You keep acting like nothing matters, like you don't matter, and I can'tâ I can'tâ" He sighs, deeply, like he's trying to control something that's urging to flourish from his insides. "I can't lose you." His voice breaks, his eyes lower. For real this time, no hiding it. "I just found you. I can't lose you."
You stare at him. The boy who walked through the world like it personally offended him. The boy who climbed your fire escape at five in the morning to show you a sunrise. The boy who let himself get arrested so you wouldn't get hurt. He's in love with you. He is in love with you. He's in love with you. Oh holy shit he is in love with you. "Why?" The word comes out raw, cracked, nothing like you intended. "Why do you care so much? I'm nobody. I'm nothing. I'm a kid from the wrong part of town with a criminal record that makes stupid decisions andâ"
"You're not nothing." His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away tears you didn't know you were crying. "You're the most everything person I've ever met. You're reckless, infuriating and you never take anything seriously and you make me want to be better than I am. You make me want to be normal. You make me wantâ" He stops. Swallows. His eyes are bright, wet, green as spring. "You make me want." he finishes.
The silence stretches. The city holds its breath. And you realize, somewhere in the chaos of your chest, that you've been in love with him too. You don't know when, or an exact moment. Your feelings are more like a virus that keeps growing and growing until you're completely sick and die. You'd die for this emotion. For him, for Damian. "Damian," you murmur. "You owe me a kiss," you say. "Since the pool." It's a joke. A stupid joke, the kind you always make when things get too real, the kind that fills the silence with something lighter. You're grinning when you say it, expecting him to roll his eyes, to scoff, to call you impossible. He does roll his eyes. Then he leans in and presses his lips to yours. It's soft, gentle. Nothing like the way he behaved in the party. His mouth is warm, lips slightly chapped, and the kiss tastes like the cheap alcohol you were drinking. He pulls back. You stare at his lips. Your brain has stopped working. Your lips are tingling. Your cheek doesn't hurt anymore, or maybe it does and you just can't feel it because every nerve in your body is focused on the space where his mouth just was. "I didn't think you..." you manage.
He raises an eyebrow. "You never think."
"That'sâ" You swallow, still staring at his lips. "Okay, I'll let you have that one. For now." You kiss him. This time it's not gentle, nor careful. It's the kind of kiss that happens when two people have been circling each other for weeks, months or forever, when the tension has built so high that the only release is collision. His lips are warm against yours, split lip be damned, and he makes a sound, a small, surprised sound that you swallow like oxygen. His hands slide from your face to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling you closer. You grab his shirt, the front of it, fisting the fabric like he might disappear if you let go. He kisses you back like he's been waiting his whole life for this. Like every moment before this was just practice. Like the world could end and he wouldn't notice as long as your mouth was on his. You break apart, gasping. "Again," you say. He doesn't argue, he kisses you again, even harder this time, deeper, his tongue sliding against your lower lip, and you moan. Actually moan, like a guy in a bad porn movie, and you'd be embarrassed if you could think about anything other than the way he tastes. Copper from your split lip. Something else underneath. Something that's just him. "Dami," you breathe against his mouth.
"Don't talk."
"Rude." He kisses you again to shut you up. It works. You let it work. He walks you to your bed, still kissing you. Your back hits the mattress, you don't remember lying down, don't remember pulling him with you, but now he's pressed against you, warm, solid and real. His hands are everywhere. Your face, your shoulders, your waist. Touching you like he's memorizing you, like he's afraid you'll disappear.
You gasp for air, and you slide your hands to his hips, and without asking, he kisses you again. And again. And again. Each kiss is different. Some are soft, almost tentative, like he's still not sure this is real. Some are fierce, demanding, his teeth catching your lower lip and damaging it even more in a way that makes your head spin. Some are somewhere in between, lingering, like he's trying to tell you something he doesn't have words for. You lose track of time. The city could burn down around you and you wouldn't notice. There's only Damian; his hands, his mouth, the way he says your name like it's the only word that matters. Finally (hours later, minutes later, you have no idea), you pull back just enough to look at him. His face is flushed. His lips are swollen. His eyes are bright and soft and nothing like the cold, calculating gaze he wears like armor. "Hi" you say.
"Hi."
"You're a really good kisser."
His ears go pink. "You're concussed."
"I'm a little concussed. I was also a little concussed thirty minutes ago when we started kissing, and I stand by everything I said."
He rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. That tiny, barely-there smile that you've been collecting like treasure. It's different now, though. Brighter. Freer. Like something's been unlocked. "We should probably talk about this," he says.
"Later." You kiss him again. Softer this time. Slow. A promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His breath is warm on your lips. His hand is still on your face, thumb tracing the edge of the bandage he put there. You smile. And in the dark of your room, with the city sleeping outside and the bandage on your cheek and Damian's weight warm against you, you close your eyes and let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserve this. "I'm glad you came to the party."
He snorts. "I didn't come to the party. I came to rescue you from your own stupid decisions."
"Same thing." You kiss him again, just because you can. Just because his lips are there and his hand is in your hair and the world feels smaller and larger and more bearable than it has in years. "Stay," you say.
"I was planning to."
"All night?"
"If you'll have me." You pull him closer, ignoring the protest of your ribs, and tuck his head under your chin. His breathing slows. His body relaxes against yours, tangling your legs with his.
The first thing you need to understand about Damian Wayne is that he walks through the world like it personally offended him. The second thing? He is incredibly soft when he cuddles.
would it be okay if i inspired myself on this fic of yours? (rebel heart)
I will change majority of the things and the only thing iâll keep would be the dynamics of reader being a male and a rebel :)
iâll tag you when iâm finished, if you grant me permission đ
anyways i loved your writing!
hi :)
yes, of course! please tag me when you publish it. I genuinely love this type of dynamic, especially on Damian, it has so much potential đ also I'm all about male reader lmao so hell yeah, do it
summary; this is the aftermath/part two of rebel heart: damian desperately needs to behave like a normal teenager. and you'd be more than happy to help him with that. exceptâ your concept of ânormal teenager" means being an absolute menace to society.
wc; 3k
ramblings; so uhhh apparently 17k words is long so I couldn't fit this into the og content so. I had to do this lmao. read part 3 here
The manor looms at the end of the drive, and Damian wishes, not for the first time, that he could simply disappear into the night. Dick's car crunches to a stop on the gravel. Neither of them moves. The engine ticks as it cools, and somewhere in the house, Damian knows, the news has already arrived. It always does. Alfred knows everything. Bruce knows everything. And his siblings have probably already started a bet. "This is going to be unbearable," Damian says.
Dick kills the engine. "You broke into an abandoned building, got caught by a security guard, and spent two hours in a holding cell. What did you expect?"
"Not this."
"This," Dick says, and there's something in his voice that's almost gentle, "is exactly what you should have expected. You're part of a family, Damian. Families notice when you get arrested."
"I wasn't arrested. I was detained."
"Semantics." Damian's jaw tightens. His clothes are still damp in places, his hair dried into something that probably looks ridiculous, and somewhere in the back of his mind he's still thinking about the pool. About the way you looked in the water and how you looked at his lips. About the moment before the guard's footsteps shattered everything. "You're thinking about him," Richard says.
"I'm thinking about how to survive the next hour."
"You're thinking about your friend." Dick's voice is careful. Neutral. "The one whose jacket you're still wearing."
Damian looks down. Your jacket (the one you left on the bench when you took his) is still draped over his shoulders. He'd grabbed it without thinking, some instinct driving him to hold onto something that smelled like you. Damp denim and spray paint. He pulls it off, folds it with precise, controlled movements. "I'll return it tomorrow."
Richard doesn't say anything. But he's smiling. Damian can hear it in his silence. "Don't," Damian says.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're thinking it."
"I'm thinking," Dick says, opening his door, "that you've never borrowed anyone's jacket before."
Damian gets out of the car. Slams the door. Walks toward the house with your jacket folded over his arm and his spine straight and his face set in the expression that usually makes people stop asking questions. It doesn't work on Dick.
It never works on him.
The sitting room is warm. The comfortable chaos of his family arranged across the couches like they've been waiting for this moment all night. Alfred is there too, standing by the door with a tray of tea that he sets down with the kind of deliberate calm that means he's been worried. Even Jason, who kind of hates staying in the Manor after patrol, is there. Damian stops in the doorway. The room goes quiet while everyone looks at him. Then Jason throws his head back and laughs. The kind of laugh that comes from somewhere deep, that echoes off the walls, that makes Tim wince and Cassandra's lips twitch and Dick press a hand over his mouth to hide his own smile.
"You're getting grounded," Jason sing-songs, gasping. "You're getting grounded for trespassing in a condemned building."
"It wasn't condemned," Damian says through his teeth.
"It was scheduled for demolition."
"The permits are still being disputed."
"Oh my God." Jason is crying now, actually crying, tears streaming down his face as he doubles over. Tim is trying very hard to look composed. He's failing. His shoulders are shaking, and he's hiding his face behind a book that is upside down. Cassandra has no such compunctions. She's watching him with bright, knowing eyes, and her smile is small but genuine. She doesn't say anything, she rarely does, but Damian thinks it's better this way. When she speaks, she usually says things Damian would rather not hear. He doesn't want to know what Cass thinks about this situation.
"It's not funny," Damian says.
"It's hilarious," Jason corrects. "You, of all people, got caught by a rent-a-cop in an empty building because you wereâ what, exactly? What were you even doing there?" Damian's mouth opens. Closes. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, and he hates it, hates the way his siblings are looking at him, hates that he can't explain. That he can't say âHe was showing me the pool or he dared me to jump in or for one moment, I forgot to be carefulâ. "Oh shit," Jason says again, sitting up straight. His laughter cuts off abruptly. His eyes narrow. "Who were you with?"
"No one."
"You were with someone." Jason's grin is back, sharper now, predatory. "You got caught trespassing because you were with someone. And you're blushing."
"I am not blushing."
"You're the color of a tomato."
"I am notâ"
"That's not your jacket. And it's a boy's." Tim's voice is not innocent. He's lowered the upside-down book, and his expression is the one he uses when he's solved a case and is waiting for everyone else to catch up.
Damian's grip tightens on the denim folded over his arm. "It's cold outside."
"It's February. Everything's cold outside."
"Then why are you asking questions you already know the answer to?"
Tim's smile is infuriating. "Because watching you squirm is entertaining."
Damian turns to Dick, who is supposed to be the reasonable one, who is supposed to have some sense of loyalty after driving them home without asking too many questions. Richard holds up his hands. "Don't look at me. I'm just the chauffeur."
"You're the one who told Father."
"I didn't tell Bruce anything. Alfred heard our call, he told Bruce. And Bruce toldâ" Dick gestures vaguely at the assembled siblings, "âeveryone, apparently."
Damian closes his eyes. Takes a breath. Opens them. "Where is Father?"
"In his study," Alfred says quietly. "He asked to see you when you arrived." Damian does not want do hear whatever lecture his father prepared. Still, he squares his shoulders, turns, and walks toward the hall.
Behind him, Jason's voice follows: "Tell Bruce I want to hear about the boyfriend later!"
"He's notâ" Damian stops. Spins. Jason is grinning, Tim is smirking and he can swear he heard Cass murmuring something like "cute". Dick has given up all pretense and is laughing openly.
"He's not what?" Jason asks. Damian turns on his heel and walks away before he says something he'll regret.
The study door is closed.
Damian stands outside it for exactly thirty seconds, a delay he will later justify as gathering his thoughts and not, under any circumstances, procrastinating. Then he knocks.
"Come in." Bruce's voice is calm. The voice he uses for board meetings and charity galas and every other situation where he needs to project control. Damian knows that voice. He's heard it a thousand times. He opens the door. Bruce is sitting behind his desk, reading something that he sets aside when Damian enters. The fire in the study is smaller than the one in the sitting room, the light lower, and for a moment Damian is reminded of being ten years old and standing in this same room, newly arrived, newly angry, waiting to be judged.
It's different now. He's different. But the weight in his chest is the same.
Bruce doesn't speak immediately. He looks at Damian and he forces himself not to fidget under the assessment. His clothes are still slightly damp. His hair is still a mess. He's holding a jacket that doesn't belong to him, and he knows Bruce has already noticed.
"Sit down," Bruce says. Damian sits. The chair across from the desk is leather, cold, familiar. "You were in a police station tonight."
"Yes."
"You were trespassing in a building that's private property. The security guard considered pressing charges."
"He decided not to."
"Because Richard convinced him otherwise." Bruce's voice is still calm, but there's an edge to it now. "And because the company that owns the building has better things to do than prosecute two teenagers for breaking into an empty pool."
Damian's jaw tightens. "It was my fault. I made the decision to go. I made the decision to stay when the guard caught me. If there's blame to assign, it belongs to me."
Bruce leans back in his chair. The firelight catches his face, shadows pooling under his eyes, and Damian is suddenly aware of how tired his father looks. How tired he always looks these days. "I'm not assigning blame," Bruce says. "I'm trying to understand."
"Understand what?"
"Why my son, who has been trained in infiltration and evasion since he could walk, got caught by a security guard in a condemned building."
Damian's hands curl into fists on his knees. "I was distracted."
"By what?" He can't say it. Can't say by you or by the way you laughed when you jumped into the water or by the moment he almostâ Bruce watches him. The silence stretches. Damian has faced down assassins, terrorists, demons. He has stood in rooms where one wrong word meant death. But sitting in his father's study, with your jacket folded over the arm of his chair, he feels like a child.
"Your siblings seem to think you were with someone," Bruce says. "A friend."
"They're wrong."
"Are they?"
Damian looks at the fire. The flames are low, mostly embers now, glowing orange and red against the dark. He thinks about the pool. About the way the city lights reflected off the water. About the sound of your laugh when you surfaced, gasping and cold and so alive it made his chest ache. "They're not wrong," he admits.
Bruce's expression softens, the lines around his eyes easing, his shoulders dropping just slightly. "A friend from school?"
"I don't want to talk about him."
"You don't have to." Bruce pauses. "But you should know that Richard told me what happened. The security guard was going to hit him. You stepped in."
Damian's eyes snap to his father's face. "I didn't step in. I simplyâ"
"You surrendered." Bruce's voice is quiet. "You let yourself be caught so the guard wouldn't hurt him."
Damian's fists tighten. Bruce leans forward, elbows on his desk. "Damian. I'm not angry that you were caught. I'm not angry that you broke into a building, or that you went swimming in February, or that you spent two hours in a holding cell."
Damian stares at him. "Then what are you angry about?"
"I'm not angry at all."
"Youâ" Damian stops. Blinks. "You're not?"
Bruce's expression does something complicated. He looks at Damian for a long moment, and then he smiles. It's small, barely there, a quirk at the corner of his mouth that's gone almost as soon as it appears. "I asked you," Bruce says, "to be a normal teenager."
Damian's stomach drops. "Fatherâ"
"I asked. And you said yes." Bruce sits back, and the smile is gone, but something warmer has taken its place. "I know that normalcy in Gotham means being charged with trespassing at least once. It's practically a rite of passage. Jason did it. Tim did it. Even Dick did it, back when he first came to live with us."
Damian's mouth opens. Closes. "Richard was arrested?"
"He was trying to stop a mugging in the Bowery and ended up on the wrong apartment. The police were not impressed with his explanation." Bruce's eyes are distant, remembering. "He was grounded for some days."
"I'm being grounded?"
"You're being grounded." Bruce says it like it's obvious. Like it's not the most humiliating thing that's happened to Damian since he arrived in Gotham. "A week. No patrol and no training. No leaving the manor except for school."
"A week."
"Seven days."
Damian stares at his father. The fire crackles. Somewhere in the house, he can hear Jason's laugh echoing through the halls, and he knows that his siblings are going to make this the longest week of his life."That's unreasonable," Damian says.
"It's parenting."
"I've faced global threats. I've fought alongside the Justice League. I'veâ"
"You've been learning how to be your age," Bruce's voice is firm, but there's something underneath it that sounds almost like amusement, "and part of being a normal teenager is getting grounded sometimes." Damian opens his mouth to argue, he has so many arguments, so many perfectly logical reasons why this is unnecessary, why his time is too valuable, why he should be exempt from this particular humiliation; but Bruce isn't finished. "You can still hang out with that boyfriend of yours, though."
The words hit Damian like a physical blow. His face goes hot. His hands go cold. And for one terrible, wonderful moment, he forgets how to speak. "He's notâ" Damian's voice cracks. He clears his throat, glares at the fire, and tries again. "He's not my boyfriend."
Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Your siblings seem to think otherwise."
"My siblings are imbeciles."
"They seem to think you borrowed his jacket."
"Iâ" Damian looks at the denim folded on the arm of his chair. He'd forgotten it was there, for a moment. Forgotten how it smelled, how it felt when you draped it over his shoulders in the police station. "I was cold."
"Of course." Bruce's voice is perfectly neutral. "And the fact that you haven't let go of it since you walked in has nothing to do with anything." Damian looks down. His hand is resting on the jacket, fingers curled into the worn denim like it's something precious. He pulls his hand away, forces it to his side, and does not look at his father. "You're fortunate," Bruce says quietly, "that he wasn't here to hear your siblings."
Damian's head snaps up. "What?"
"Your siblings. The teasing." Bruce's expression is unreadable again, but there's something in his eyes that looks almost like sympathy. "They would have been relentless. And from what Richard tells me, your friend already had a long night."
Damian thinks about you in the police station. Your damp hair, your ruined jacket, the way you leaned against the wall and laughed like getting caught was the best thing that had happened to you all week. He thinks about the way you looked at him before you left, the way you said next time like it was a promise. He's glad you weren't here. Glad you didn't have to hear Jason's jokes, Tim's insinuations, the way Cassandra looks at him like she knows something he hasn't admitted yet.
"I will return the jacket," Damian says.
Bruce nods. "That would be appropriate."
There's a silence. Damian doesn't move. He should leave. He's been dismissed, effectively, and there's nothing left to say. But his father's words are still echoing in his head, and there's something he needs to know. "Father," Damian says slowly. "When you said I could still see them. Did you meanâ"
"Yes." Bruce's voice is quiet. Certain. "Whoever he is, whatever he is to you, you don't have to hide it. Not from me."
Damian stares at him. For a moment, he's not sure what to say. Not sure how to process the weight of those words, the permission they contain, the trust he's being offered. He stands. Picks up your jacket. Holds it close to his chest without meaning to. "Thank you," he says. The words feel strange in his mouth. He doesn't say them often. Not to Bruce.
Bruce nods. There's something in his expression now that Damian has only seen a few times; pride, maybe, or something close to it. "Get some sleep. You have school tomorrow."
"And a week of grounding."
"And a week of grounding," Bruce confirms, and this time he doesn't hide the smile. It's small, barely there, but it's real. "Welcome to normalcy, Damian."
Damian turns toward the door. His hand is on the handle when Bruce speaks again.
"Damian." He stops. Doesn't turn. "He seems like a good friend. I'm glad you have that." Damian's grip tightens on the door handle. His chest is tight and warm and entirely unfamiliar. He thinks about your laugh, your recklessness, the way you looked at him in the pool like he was something worth seeing.
"He's insufferable," Damian says. "Reckless. Impulsive. He has no sense of self-preservation and a complete disregard for authority."
"That sounds difficult."
"It is." Damian pulls the door open. The hallway is dark, quiet, the sounds of his siblings muffled by the walls. "He's also the best person I've ever met." He doesn't wait for a response. He walks down the hall, your jacket pressed against his chest, and he doesn't look back.
The hallway outside his room is occupied. Jason is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, grin firmly in place. Tim is beside him, pretending to check his phone but clearly listening. Cassandra is sitting on the floor, back against the wall, her eyes bright and knowing. Richard is at the end of the hall, trying very hard to look like he wasn't waiting.
Damian stops. Regards them. "Don't you all have somewhere to be?"
"Nowhere nearly as interesting as here," Jason says. "How'd it go? Did Bruce give you the 'I'm not angry, I'm disappointed' speech? Did he mention the boyfriend? He mentioned the boyfriend, didn't he. I bet he mentioned the boyfriend."
"He's not my boyfriend."
"Sure he isn't." Jason pushes off the wall, circling Damian like a shark. "That's why you let yourself get caught."
"I didn't let myself get caught."
"You absolutely let yourself get caught." Jason's grin is sharp. "You could have taken that guard in two seconds. Instead, you stood there and let him grab you. Because your boyfriend was there. Because you didn't want him to get hurt."
Damian's jaw tightens. He can feel the truth of it settling in his chest, heavy and undeniable.
"So what if I did?" he says, and his voice is quieter than he intended. The hallway goes still. Tim looks up from his phone. Damian doesn't explain. He doesn't defend. He just stands there, holding your jacket, and lets them see what he's been hiding for weeks. Cassandra is the first to move. She rises from the floor, crosses the space between them, and looks at him with those eyes that see everything.
"Good." She says. "You deserve good."
Damian's throat tightens. He nods, once, and she steps back.
Jason clears his throat. "Okay," he says, and his voice is different now. Less sharp. "Okay. So. Not your boyfriend. Yet. But he could be. And when he isâ" He points at Damian, "âI get to say I told you so."
"You can't tell me "I told you so" if you haven't said anything to begin with."
"I'm telling you now. You're going to date him. It's inevitable. I've seen the way you look at that jacket."
Damian groans and takes a breath. "I'm going to my room."
He pushes past them, down the hall, toward the door at the end. Behind him, he hears Tim's voice: "He didn't deny it."
"He can't," Dick says, "You should have seen the way they looked at each other in the police station.â
Damian closes his door. Leans against it. He looks at the jacket in his hands and then hangs it on the back of his desk chair. Sits on the edge of his bed. The house settles around him; his father in the study, his siblings in the hallway, Alfred somewhere in the kitchen preparing for tomorrow. And somewhere across the city, you're probably in your apartment, your own room, your own bed, wearing his jacket because he left it with you.
He should text you. Make sure you got home okay. Make sure your mother wasn't too upset. His phone is in his hand before he can think about it. The screen glows in the dark. Your name is at the top of his messages, the last text from hours ago: Don't worry about it. I'll see you tomorrow.
He types: I have your jacket. He stares at it for a moment. Deletes it. Types again: I'm grounded for a week. That's not right either. He deletes it, pockets the phone, and lies back on his bed.
The ceiling is dark. The house is quiet. And somewhere in his chest, something warm is spreading, something he doesn't have a name for but recognizes anyway. He's grounded. He's in trouble. His siblings will never let him live this down, and his father is probably still smiling in his study, and tomorrow he has to go to school and see you and pretend that nothing happened in that pool.
He smiles. He can't help it. It's small, barely there, the same smile his father wears when he thinks no one is looking.
He falls asleep with your jacket hanging on his chair and your name on his lips, and tonight is one of those rare nights where Damian Wayne dreams instead of having nightmares.
summary; damian desperately needs to behave like a normal teenager. and you'd be more than happy to help him with that. exceptâ your concept of ânormal teenager" means being an absolute menace to society. read rebel heart: the aftermath here. read rebel heart: the sequel here.
wc; 16.6K (holy shit)
ramblings; sorry for disappearing lmao school is killing me. i fucking hate the block limit of tumblr lmao sorry for the format. also it's probably ooc but I still liked writing this so whatever. anyways, people yearn for damian with a male reader. me, i'm people.
The first thing you need to understand about Damian Wayne is that he walks through the world like it personally offended him.
Youâve noticed it before, in the narrow halls of Gotham Academy, in the way he holds his shoulders, too straight, too rigidâ like a soldier expecting an ambush. He doesnât slouch. He doesnât laugh at the wrong times. He doesnât lean against lockers with that particular brand of careless ease that everyone else seems to have been born with. Heâs been here for a few months now, and the rumors have already spread: weird, they whisper. Stuck-up. Freak. Probably got kicked out of some fancy European school for choking a kid. Youâve heard them all. Youâve contributed to exactly none of them, but youâve also done nothing to stop them, because frankly, youâve been busy being your own brand of problem.
So when he slides into the seat across from you in the cafeteria on Tuesday, youâre more amused than surprised. He doesnât have a tray. He doesnât even pretend to be here for the slop the principal calls food. He just sits straight-backed, green eyes fixed on you with an intensity that would make a lesser person squirm. You lean back in your chair, feet up on the table, and let a grin spread across your face. âThe Wayne Heir. To what do I owe the pleasure?â
His jaw tightens. You can practically see him counting to ten in his head. âI have a proposition.â
âProposition,â you repeat, drawing the word out. âShould I be flattered or concerned?â
âNeither.â He pauses. âI merely need... assistance.â
You let your feet drop from the table. Not because youâre taking him seriously, well, maybe a littleâ but because this is already more interesting than anything thatâs happened to you in the last two months of school. âAssistance,â you echo. âFrom me.â
âDonât let it go to your head.â
âToo late.â You prop your chin on your hand, studying him with a huge smirk on your face. Up close, you can see the sharp lines of his face, the way his hands are perfectly still on the table, the faint calluses on his knuckles that donât quite match a rich boyâs lifestyle. âWhat kind of assistance, exactly?â
He exhales through his nose. âMy father has expressed⌠concern. Regarding my ability to integrate with my peers.â
You blink. Then you laugh. A short, sharp bark of sound that earns you a few glances from nearby tables. âYour daddy thinks you donât have any friends?â
âThat is notââ He stops, visibly restraining himself. âHe believes I should behave more like a normal teenager.â
The way he says it, like the words are foreign, like they taste bad in his mouth just makes your grin widen. âAnd you came to me.â
âYou are,â he says, and now his jaw moves like heâs chewing glass, âwidely considered to be a normal teenager.â
You actually snort at that. âMe?â
âBy certain metrics.â
âWhat metrics?â
âThe metrics my father uses.â
You stare at him for a long moment. The cafeteria noise hums around you; the clatter of trays, the distant sound of someoneâs laugh, the thrum of two hundred teenagers pretending theyâre not all looking at the Wayne heir sitting with the known delinquent. âSo,â you say slowly. âLet me get this straight. Bruce Wayne told his son to act like a normal teenager. And his son, Damian Wayne, came to me, the guy with the reputation for getting expelled, arrested, and cycling through girls like theyâre library books, to teach him how to be normal.â
He doesnât flinch. âThat is an accurate summary.â
You lean forward, suddenly very, very interested. âYou know what I think?â
âI imagine youâre going to tell me regardless.â
âI think,â you say, dropping your voice to something just above a whisper, âthat you picked the right person. But probably not for the reasons you think.â
His eyes narrow. âExplain.â
You stand up, grabbing your tray. He doesnât move, just watches you with that hawk-like focus, and you wonder if he realizes how funny this is. The great Damian Wayne, heir to a fortune, son of the most powerful man in Gotham, asking you for lessons in normalcy. âMeet me after school,â you say, already turning away. âBehind the gym.â
âI donât follow orders.â
You look back over your shoulder, letting your grin sharpen into something a little dangerous. âThen consider it a suggestion. From your new normal-teacher.â You donât wait for his answer. You just walk, dumping your tray with the rest of the trash, feeling his eyes on your back the whole way out of the cafeteria.
Behind you, you hear the faint screech of a chair being pushed back. Heâs going to show up. Youâd bet your entire questionable reputation on it.
Heâs already there when you arrive.
Leaning against the brick wall behind the gym, arms crossed, looking like heâs doing you a favor by breathing the same air. The afternoon light catches the green in his eyes, turns them sharp and unreadable. You stroll up with your hands in your pockets, taking your sweet time. âYou came.â
âIâm here,â he says flatly. âWhatâs your plan?â
âPlan?â You lean against the wall next to him, close enough to be annoying, far enough to dodge if he swings. Heâs got the look of someone who might. âThereâs no plan. Thatâs the first lesson.â
His eyebrow twitches. âThatâs not a lesson. Thatâs an absence of one.â
âExactly.â You turn to face him fully, spreading your hands. âYou want to be normal? You gotta stop planning everything. Stop calculating. Stop looking at people like theyâre targets and start treating them like⌠I donât know, like theyâre mildly interesting and youâve got nothing better to do.â
âThatâs not how I do things.â
âItâs normal.â He stares at you. You stare back. The silence stretches, and you can see him turning the words over in his head, dissecting them, looking for the trap. âYou think Iâm lying,â you say.
âI think youâre presenting a simplified version of a complex social dynamic.â
âI think,â you say, and you push off the wall, stepping into his space just to see if heâll move. He doesnât, of course, he just holds his ground like a goddamn statue, âthat youâre overthinking it. Normal teenagers donât think about social dynamics. They show up late to class. They skip lunch to vape in the parking lot. They do stupid shit because itâs funny, not because itâs strategic.â
âAnd you believe this constitutes a worthwhile existence?â
âI believe,â you say, and now youâre close enough to see his pupils contract âthat it beats whatever youâve been doing.â
Something flickers in his expression. Not anger, exactly. Something closer to⌠confusion. Like youâve said something that doesnât compute. You step back, giving him room to breathe. âLesson one: weâre ditching first period on Friday.â
His eyes narrow. âAbsolutely not.â
âYour dad said act like me. Problematic kids ditch class.â
âMy father did notâ weâre not ditching class.â
You shrug, already walking backward toward the parking lot. âSuit yourself. But if you want to learn how to be a normal teenager, youâre gonna have to do some abnormal things. Thatâs the secret.â
âThatâs a contradiction.â
âThatâs life, Wayne.â You turn, waving a hand over your shoulder. âFriday. Parking lot. Donât be late.â You donât hear him follow. But you also donât hear him say no. And in your experience, silence is just a yes that hasnât admitted itself yet.
Friday morning, youâre leaning against a car in the senior parking lot, tossing a lighter between your fingers and pretending you donât see the sleek black sedan that pulls in three spaces down. The door opens. Damian Wayne gets out, looking like he would rather be dead. He spots you immediately, and you watch him visibly brace himself before walking over.
âYouâre early,â you say.
âYouâre earlier.â
âIâm always early. Keeps people guessing.â You pocket the lighter, pushing off the car. âReady to become a menace?â
His expression goes flat. âI agreed to ditch class. Not to become a⌠what did you call it?â
âA menace. A scourge. A public nuisance.â You spread your arms wide. âAll the best things a teenager can be.â
âI donât want to be a public nuisance.â
âSure you donât.â Youâre already walking toward the street, not bothering to check if heâs following. He is. âBut hereâs the thing, Wayne. You came to me. And my brand of normal isnât studying for SATs and joining the debate team. My brand of normal is doing exactly what everyoneâs too scared to do and making it look easy.â
âYour brand of normal,â he says, catching up to you, âappears to consist primarily of violating school policy.â
âSee? Youâre learning already.â You lead him off campus, down the block, past the coffee shop where the art kids hang out, past the comic store where the nerds spend their lunch money, past the crumbling apartment buildings that bleed into the nicer part of town. He follows silently, and you can feel his eyes cataloging everything; every street sign, every person, every possible threat.
Itâs a little weird. But then again, everything about Damian Wayne is a little weird. You stop at the edge of Robinson Park, where the old maintenance shed sits boarded up and forgotten. Thereâs a gap in the fence you discovered last year, just big enough to slip through, and you gesture for him to follow. He doesnât move. âYou brought me to a park.â
âI brought you to the good part of the park. The part where the groundskeeper gave up five years ago and now itâs just⌠ours.â
âOurs?â
âMine,â you amend. âBut youâre welcome to it. For today.â You slip through the gap, and after a beat of hesitation, he follows. The shed is half-collapsed, covered in graffiti, surrounded by overgrown grass and the remains of what might have once been a vegetable garden. Thereâs a beat-up bench you dragged out here months ago, and you drop onto it like you own the place. Damian stands in the middle of the clearing, looking around like heâs not sure whether to be disgusted or impressed.
âThis is where you go,â he says slowly, âwhen you skip class.â
âThis is where I go when I need to think.â You pull a pack of gum from your jacket, offer him a piece. He stares at it like it might explode. âRelax. Itâs just gum.â
He takes it. Doesnât unwrap it, just holds it between his fingers like a foreign object. âYou donât actually do anything.â
âIâm doing something right now.â
âYouâre sitting.â
âIâm existing. Thatâs the second lesson.â You pop a piece of gum in your mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness. âTeenagers donât need a reason to exist. They just do. They hang out. They waste time. They do nothing, and theyâre fine with it.â
Damianâs jaw tightens. âI am fine.â
âYouâre standing in the middle of an abandoned park like youâre waiting for a sniper to take a shot.â
He looks down at his feet, and for a moment you see something crack in that perfect facade. âI donât know how to do nothing,â he says quietly. That's probably the most honest thing he has ever said.
You pat the bench next to you. âThen learn.â
He stares at the space beside you like itâs a trap. Maybe it is. But after a long, tense moment, he walks over and sits. His posture is still too straight. His hands are still folded in his lap like heâs at a formal dinner. But heâs here. At least heâs trying. You lean back, looking up at the sky through the gaps in the shed roof, and let the silence stretch. âYou know,â you say eventually, âwhen you came to me, I thought youâd want the full experience. Keying cars. Spray-painting the gym. Maybe a little light arson.â
âArson?â
âKidding. Mostly.â You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. âBut you really just want to be... normal?â
Heâs quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is different. âMy father wants me to be normal. He thinks⌠he thinks if I can just act like everyone else, then maybeââ He cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut like heâs said too much.
âMaybe what?â
âNothing.â
You donât push. Thatâs another lesson, one you learned the hard way: people tell you what they want you to know, and trying to force the rest just makes them clam up. Instead, you stretch out your legs, let your head fall back, and say, âOkay. Hereâs the deal. Iâll teach you how to be a normal teenager. But we do it my way.â
His head turns, eyes sharp again. âWhatâs your way?â
âYou donât ask questions. You donât plan. You will just follow my lead.â
âI donât follow.â
âYou want to learn or not?â
The silence that follows is thick enough to cut. You can practically hear him arguing with himself, weighing options, calculating risks. The way his brain works is almost funny, like every decision is a chess move. Finally, he says, âI reserve the right to object if your methods are excessively dangerous.â
âDeal.â You hold out your hand. He looks at it like youâve offered him a dead fish. Then, slowly, he takes it. His grip is firm. You notice the calluses again, rough against your palm, and you wonder for the hundredth time what Damian Wayne does in his spare time that leaves his hands like that.
You donât ask. Thatâs not part of the deal.
âOne condition,â you say, letting go.
âI thought I was the one reserving rights.â
âThis is a small condition. Very small. Tiny, even.â You grin, and you know itâs the grin that makes teachers nervous, the one that says Iâm about to do something stupid and youâre not going to stop me. âYou have to call me by my first name.â
He blinks. âWhat?â
âYou heard me. You keep looking at me like Iâm a suspect in an interrogation. If weâre gonna do this, weâre doing it as peers. Equals. People who ditch class together and donât call each other by their last names like theyâre in a period drama.â
His expression flickers between offense and something that might, possibly, be amusement. Itâs hard to tell with him. âThatâs your condition?â
âThatâs my condition.â
He stares at you for a long, considering moment. The afternoon light filters through the gaps in the roof, catching in his eyes, turning them a shade of green thatâs almost unfair. âFine,â he says, and your name sounds strange in his mouth, like heâs tasting it, testing it, deciding whether it fits. âThen you call me Damian.â
âDamian,â you repeat, drawing it out. âSee? That wasnât so hard.â
He makes a sound that might be a scoff, might be something else. âDonât push your luck.â
You lean back on the bench, arms behind your head, and let yourself grin at the ruined roof of the maintenance shed. âOh, Damian,â you say, and you watch him tense at the casual use of his name, like heâs not sure how to feel about it. âPushing my luck is the whole point.â
The thing about Damian Wayne is that heâs too observant for his own good. You notice it on the walk to the train station, the way his eyes track every shadow, every corner, every person who glances at you a little too long. He walks like he owns the street, shoulders back, chin up, like the crumbling buildings and flickering streetlights are beneath his notice. But you see the way his fingers curl at his sides. The way his breathing stays measured, controlled. Heâs not scared. Youâre pretty sure Damian Wayne doesnât get scared. But heâs alert. And alert in this part of Gotham is smart.
âWhere are you taking me?â he asks for the third time since you got off the train.
âTold you. A place.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âItâs the only one youâre getting.â He makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh. Youâre starting to recognize that sound. Itâs the one he makes when heâs deciding whether to argue or endure. Today, apparently, heâs choosing endurance. Smart boy. You lead him through streets that donât have names anymore, past boarded-up storefronts and buildings that should have been condemned a decade ago. The graffiti here is thicker, angrier; territory markers and memorials and messages youâve learned to read but never repeat. Damian notices them too. You catch him watching the tags, the symbols, the ones that look fresh.
âYou come here often,â he says. Itâs not a question.
âOften enough.â
âTo do what?â
You stop in front of a storm drain set into the sidewalk, half-hidden by a broken shopping cart someone dragged over. The grate is rusted, the lock on it newer; a padlock you know the combination to, because youâre the one who put it there. âTo do this,â you say, crouching down and spinning the dial.
Damian stares at the grate. Then at you. Then back at the grate. âYouâre taking me into the sewers.â
âThe tunnels,â you correct. âThereâs a difference.â
âIs there?â
âOne smells worse.â You pop the lock, lift the grate, and drop down without waiting for his response. The ladder is cold and damp under your hands, the darkness below swallowing you up to your knees before your feet find the first rung.
Above you, Damian hesitates. You canât see his face from here, but you can imagine it; the war between his need for control and whatever strange curiosity has kept him following you for the past hour. âComing?â you call up. A beat of silence. Then the scuff of shoes on concrete, and heâs climbing down after you.
The tunnel at the bottom is wide enough to walk side by side, curved ceiling dripping condensation, the air thick with the smell of damp and rust and something older. Your flashlight cuts a narrow path through the dark, illuminating walls covered in decades of graffiti. Layers upon layers of paint and memory, some of it beautiful, some of it raw but all of it yours. Well. Not yours, exactly. But you know this place. Youâve walked these tunnels enough times to map them in your sleep. âThis way,â you say, and you start walking. Damian follows. His footsteps are nearly silent. You notice that, file it away with the calluses and the too-straight posture and the way he looked at the fresh gang tags like he was reading a language he shouldnât know.
âHow did you find this place?â he asks after a few minutes of walking.
âExplored.â
âYou explored the Gotham sewer system.â
âI get bored.â You glance back at him, flashlight beam catching the sharp lines of his face. âWhat, youâve never gone somewhere you werenât supposed to?â
His expression does something complicated. âNot for recreational purposes.â
âWhat purposes, then?â He doesnât answer. You let it drop. The tunnel opens up after another hundred feet, widening into a space that shouldnât exist; an old maintenance hub, maybe, or a forgotten piece of the cityâs bones. The ceiling is high enough to echo, the walls stretching up into darkness, and everywhere you look thereâs color.
You stop at the entrance, letting Damian take it in. The walls are covered. Every inch, from floor to where the light stops reaching, is layered in paint. Thereâs a massive piece on the far wall; a womanâs face, half in shadow, one eye spilling paint down the concrete like tears. Beside it, a bird made of fire, wings spread across two panels. Above, constellations you made up on a night when you couldnât sleep, stars connected by lines that donât follow any real pattern. And everywhere, in between, smaller things. Hands reaching. A city skyline melting into water. Words in languages you donât even speak.
Damian has gone very still beside you. You donât look at him. You donât want to see whatever expression heâs wearing right now, the judgment, the curiosity or the pity. You brought him here because it was the next lesson. Thatâs what you tell yourself. âYou made this,â he says.
âSome of it.â You walk forward, letting your fingers brush against a dragon you painted last winter, its scales still holding their shine. âOther people added. Itâs⌠a shared space. Sort of.â
âSort of.â
âYou donât get to keep secrets in a place like this.â You turn to face him, flashlight beam at your feet now, casting strange shadows across your face. âPeople find it. People add to it. And eventually, people move on, and someone else finds it, and the cycle starts over.â
Damianâs eyes are moving across the walls, cataloging. You watch him take in the bird made of fire, the constellations, the hands reaching from the dark. His expression is unreadable, but his hands have uncurled from their usual fists. They hang loose at his sides now, fingers slightly spread, like heâs resisting the urge to reach out and touch. âWhy did you bring me here?â he asks.
âNext lesson.â You pull two cans of spray paint that were previously hidden in a crate behind a support beam and toss one to him. He catches it one-handed, reflexes sharp. âNormal teenagers do graffiti.â
He winces, looks at the can in his hand. âGraffiti is vandalism.â
âGraffiti is art.â
âItâs illegal.â
âSo is ditching class. So is trespassing. So isââ you gesture vaguely at the tunnels around you, ââprobably half the things youâve done to get those calluses on your hands.â
His head snaps up. For a moment, something sharp flashes in his eyes, gone before you can name it. You hold up your hands, palms out. âNot asking. Dealâs a deal.â
He stares at you for a long moment. Then he looks down at the spray can again, turning it over in his hands, reading the label. âYou just carry these around.â
âIn my jacket. Yeah.â
âIn case you spontaneously decide to vandalize property.â
âIn case inspiration strikes.â You shake your own can, the rattle of the mixing ball loud in the enclosed space. âCome on. Thereâs a blank wall in the back. Iâve been saving it.â
You lead him deeper into the space, past the woman with the tear-stained eye, past the burning bird, past a piece you recognize as someone elseâs: a skeleton wearing a crown with its jaw open in a silent scream. The blank wall is at the far end, a rough rectangle of gray concrete surrounded by color, waiting. You gesture at it. âGo on.â
Damian doesnât move. âI donât know how.â
âNobody knows how the first time. Thatâs the point.â
âYou expect me to just... paint.â
âI expect you to try.â You lean against the wall beside the blank space, arms crossed. âNo oneâs watching. No oneâs judging. Whatever you make, it stays here. Or someone paints over it next week. Either way, it doesnât matter.â
âIf it doesnât matter, why do it?â You look at him for a long moment. The flashlight between you casts his face in half-light, shadows pooling under his cheekbones, his jaw, the sharp line of his brow. He looks young, suddenly.
âIf we're going to die,â you say. âwhy do we live?â Something shifts in his expression. You watch him look at the blank wall, then at the can in his hand, then at the walls around him. He steps forward. You donât watch him at first. You turn away, busying yourself with your own can, picking a spot on the opposite wall thatâs been bothering you for months. You shake the can, pop the cap, and start painting.
The hiss of spray paint fills the space. Itâs a familiar sound, comfortable in the way that only secret things can be. You lose yourself in it for a while, adding depth to shadows, sharpening edges, fixing the curve of a line thatâs been wrong since winter. Youâre so focused that you almost donât notice when the sound behind you changes. Almost. You turn slowly, not wanting to spook him, andâ Damian Wayne is painting. And heâs good as fuck. The blank wall is no longer blank. A shape is taking form under his hands. Something organic, fluid, lines curving and twisting in ways that shouldnât work but do. Heâs working fast, confident, his movements precise in a way that has nothing to do with spray paint and everything to do with years of practice. You watch him add a line of white, then step back, assessing. His head tilts, the same way it does when heâs solving a problem in class, but softer somehow. Less like heâs preparing for battle.
âYouâve done this before,â you say.
He doesnât flinch. Doesnât look away from the wall. âIâve taken art classes.â
âArt classes donât teach you to paint with spray cans.â
A pause. His hand lowers slightly. âMy family believes in a well-rounded education.â You want to ask. God, you want to ask. What kind of family teaches the youngest member to paint graffiti? What kind of life leaves a sixteen-year-old with calluses like his and eyes like his and hands that move like theyâve held more than a spray can a hundred times before? But you made a deal. You donât ask. So instead, you walk up beside him and look at what heâs making.
Itâs a bird. Itâs wings spread wide, feathers layered in shades of blue and black and deep, deep green, edges sharpening into points that seem to cut through the concrete. The head is turned to the side, one eye fixed on something outside the frame, and thereâs something in that eye, something fierce, something defiant, something that looks like itâs daring the world to look away. Itâs beautiful. Itâs also, you realize, the same bird you painted on the far wall. The one made of fire. âItâs not finished,â he says, and thereâs something almost defensive in his voice.
âItâs incredible,â you say. He looks at you then, and for a moment you see something behind those green eyes that youâve never seen before. Not arrogance. Not calculation. Something that looks almost like hope. Then itâs gone, and heâs Damian Wayne again, shoulders back, chin up, the mask sliding back into place.
âItâs adequate,â he says.
You laugh, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. âAdequate. Right.â
He frowns at you. âWhatâs funny?â
âNothing.â You shake your head, still grinning. âJustâ you. Youâre something else, Damian.â
His frown deepens, but thereâs something in his eyes now that wasnât there before. Something lighter. Something almost like warmth. âYouâre one to talk,â he says. âYou brought me to the Gotham sewers to teach me how to vandalize.â
âNormal teenagers do graffiti.â
âNormal teenagers donât have secret underground art galleries.â
You glance around at the painted walls, the stacked crates, the hidden space youâve been building for longer than you care to admit. âItâs not a gallery.â
âWhat is it, then?â
You think about it. About the nights youâve spent here, alone with your thoughts and your paint. About the people whoâve come and gone, leaving pieces of themselves on the walls. About the way it feels to create something that doesnât have to be good or bad or anything at all, just yours. âA place.â you say finally. Damian looks at you for a long moment. Then he turns back to his bird, picks up the can again, and starts adding detail to the feathers. You watch him for a few seconds more, then go back to your own wall.
You paint for hours, or maybe minutes. It's hard to tell down here, where time moves differently. The only sounds are the hiss of paint and the distant drip of water somewhere in the dark. Itâs comfortable in a way you didnât expect. When you finally step back to look at your work, youâve added something new to the unfinished shape: a small bird, dark against the light, wings folded, watching. Behind you, Damian sets down his can with a soft clink. You turn to look. His bird is finished. And itâs stunning. Wings spread wide, feathers sharp, that fierce eye fixed on the horizon. Itâs the kind of piece that makes you want to look away and stare forever, all at once.
âWell?â he says, and thereâs something almost nervous in his voice. Almost.
âYouâre good,â you say. âReally good.â
He doesnât preen. Doesnât boast. Just looks at the wall with an expression you canât quite read.
His head turns toward you. In the low light, his eyes are almost luminous, green and sharp and something else underneath. âYou think so?â
âI know so.â You walk up beside him, close enough to see the individual layers of paint, the way heâs built the feathers from dark to light, the tiny flecks of silver heâs added to the edges. âThis is passion. Type of thing you do because you can not.â
Heâs quiet for a long moment, and when he looks at you again, this time the mask doesnât come back. You see him for the first time. The boy who walks through school like heâs waiting for an attack. The boy who asked you, of all people, to teach him how to be normal. âWhy are you helping me?â he asks. âYou donât know me. You have no reason to trust me.â
You think about the question. About all the reasons you shouldnât be here, shouldnât have brought him here, shouldnât be standing in a sewer tunnel looking at a piece of art that makes your chest ache. âBecause you asked,â you say. âAnd because nobody ever asks me for help with anything.â
He blinks. Something in his expression shifts, softens, becomes something you donât have a name for. âThank you,â he says. Itâs quiet. Earnest. Nothing like the sharp-edged boy who sat across from you in the cafeteria.
You shrug, looking away. âDonât thank me yet. Iâm supposed to be teaching you how to be a menace, remember? Painting in sewers is step one. Step two is actual vandalism.â
âIâm not committing vandalism.â
âYou literally just did.â
He looks at the bird on the wall. Then back at you. And for the first time since you met him, Damian Wayne smiles. Itâs small. Barely there. A twitch at the corner of his mouth thatâs gone almost as soon as it appears. But you see it.âOne piece of graffiti,â he says, âdoes not make me a criminal.â
âGive it time.â You pick up your paint cans, start gathering your things. âWeâve got all semester.â
He doesnât argue. He just picks up his own can, checks the cap, and looks at the wall again. âNext time,â he says, âI want to paint something bigger.â
You stop what youâre doing. Look at him. Heâs still looking at the wall, but his profile is sharp in the low light, jaw set, eyes bright. He looks like heâs planning something. Like heâs already thinking about the next piece, the next wall, the next thing he can make.
You grin. âBigger,â you repeat. âNow we're talking.â
He glances at you, and thereâs that almost-smile again, hiding in the corner of his mouth. âDonât look so pleased. Iâm still not committing actual vandalism.â
âSure youâre not.â
âIâm not.â
âWhatever you say, Dames.â
You lead him back through the tunnels, retracing your steps through the dark. The flashlight beam bounces off walls covered in color, and you find yourself looking at them differently tonight. Like theyâre not just paint on concrete. Like theyâre something alive.
Behind you, Damian walks a little closer than he did on the way in. At the ladder, he stops. Youâre already halfway up when he says your name, quiet in the dark. You look down. Heâs standing at the bottom, face tilted up, the flashlight from above catching his features in strange ways. âThis place,â he says. âYou shouldnât show it to anyone else.â
Itâs not a threat, nor a warning. Itâs something else. Something that sounds almost like concern.
âWhy not?â
He holds your gaze for a moment. Then he looks away, climbing the ladder past you, and you have to press yourself against the rungs to let him through. âBecause itâs yours,â he says as he passes, voice close to your ear. âAnd some things should stay that way.â Heâs up and out before you can respond. You stand on the ladder for a moment, flashlight dangling from your wrist, the dark of the tunnel pressing in around you.
Then you climb out, close the grate, and follow him back into the light.
The first time Damian Wayne knocks on your window, you genuinely consider throwing a shoe at his head. Itâs five in the morning. Five. In the morning. The sun hasnât even started thinking about rising, the city is still doing its best impression of a corpse, and youâre pretty sure youâve been asleep for approximately forty-five minutes after spending the night finishing a guitar piece thatâs been living in your head for weeks.
The knock comes again. Three sharp raps against the glass. You groan into your pillow, face-down, hoping that if you ignore it hard enough, itâll go away. It doesnât. Another knock, more insistent this time, and you finally roll over with the kind of sound that should legally qualify as a threat. Your window opens onto the fire escape, you definitely did not give anyone permission to use but that now as a silhouette blocking out the faint glow of the city beyond. A familiar silhouette. Too straight and controlled. Even at five in the morning. You stumble out of bed, blanket tangling around your ankles, and yank the window open with more force than necessary. Cold air rushes in, sharp and wet with the particular dampness of Gotham at night, and there he is.
Damian Wayne. On your fire escape. At five in the fucking morning. Heâs wearing dark jeans and a black hoodie, hood down, hair sticking up slightly like he ran his hands through it and didnât bother to fix it. His eyes are bright in the low light, alert, like he hasnât slept at all or maybe like heâs running on something else entirely. Probably drugs, you think.
You stare at him. He stares at you. âWhat,â you say, your voice still half-gravel from sleep, âis this? A rom-com from the 2000s? Who the heck climbs someoneâs fire escape?â
He doesnât flinch. Doesnât apologize. Just looks at you with that steady, unreadable expression and says, âPut your shoes on.â
âIâm going to kill you.â
âShoes. Now.â
You open your mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove his shoes, what you think of people who show up at your window before the sun, and what specific circle of hell is reserved for rich boys with no concept of appropriate hours. He puts a finger to his lips. Itâs such a simple gesture. Such a quiet one. But thereâs something in his eyes that makes the words die in your throat. Something that looks almost like please. You look at him for a long moment. The city hums below, distant sirens, the rumble of an early truck. The wind shifts his hair, and he doesnât move to fix it.
âYouâre insane,â you say. But youâre already reaching for your shoes. He doesnât smile. But something in his posture eases, just slightly, and you pretend not to notice.
The streets are empty. Thatâs the first thing you register as you follow him down the fire escape, feet quiet on the metal stairs, your jacket pulled tight against the cold. The second thing is that Damian moves like heâs done this a thousand times; silent, sure, his footsteps barely registering on the rusted steps. You, by contrast, make enough noise to wake the dead. Youâre not trying to be quiet. Youâre not trying to do anything except figure out what the hell is going on.
âWhere are we going?â you hiss when you hit the alley. He doesnât answer. Just keeps walking, hands in his pockets, shoulders cutting through the pre-dawn dark like he owns it.
You follow. Because apparently thatâs what you do now. Follow Damian Wayne through empty streets at five in the morning like some kind of bad decision you keep making on purpose. He leads you through streets you know, then streets you donât, then streets that feel like they belong to a different city entirely. The buildings here are older, taller, their facades all gargoyles and ornamentation that Gotham stopped building fifty years ago. The streetlights are fewer, the shadows deeper, and you realize youâve never been this far north before, not at this hour, not with anyone.
âDamian,â you say, and your voice comes out louder than you meant it, echoing off the empty storefronts. âSeriously. Where are weââ
He stops. Turns. And for a moment, he seems... nervous. âTrust me,â he says. You should say no. You should turn around, go back to your apartment, crawl into your bed, and pretend this never happened. Thatâs what a reasonable person would do. Thatâs what a person with any sense of self-preservation would do. But youâve never been reasonable. And youâve never had much sense. You gesture for him to lead on. He turns, and you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch before he starts walking again.
Your first thought while climbing the fire escape is that it's old as hell. The second is that itâs high, higher than you expected, the rungs cold and slick with condensation under your fingers. Damian climbs ahead of you, movements efficient, not once looking back to check if youâre following.
He doesnât need to. Youâre following. Of course youâre following. Apparently that's what you do now, follow Damian Wayne like a lost puppy.
The building is one of the old ones, the kind that predates the skyline, all brick and iron and the kind of architecture that makes you think of a time when Gotham believed it could be beautiful and safe. Finally Damian reaches the top and pulls himself onto the roof. He turns back, offering a hand. You look at it. Look at him. His palm is up, waiting patiently. You take his hand. His grip is firm, warm against the cold metal, and he pulls you up with an ease that speaks to more strength than he lets on. For a moment youâre closer than you expected, close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his breathing is barely elevated despite the climb. Then he lets go, and you step back, and the roof opens up around you.
Itâs flat, mostly, with the kind of gravel surface that crunches under your shoes. Thereâs an old water tower at one end, dark against the sky, and a few vents and pipes that look like they havenât been maintained in decades. You walk toward the edge without meaning to, drawn by the way the city spreads out below you, all those streets and buildings and lights fading into the dark of the harbor beyond.
âCareful,â Damian says, and you realize heâs right beside you, closer than you thought. âThe railing isnât stable.â
You look at the railing. Itâs rusted, half-attached, the kind of thing that would absolutely not pass any kind of inspection. You take a step back, and Damian moves with you, like heâs done this before, like he knows exactly how far is safe and exactly where you should stand to see what he wants you to see.
âWhat are we doing here?â you ask, and this time your voice is quieter. The city feels closer here, somehow. More present.
Damian doesnât answer immediately. He just stands beside you, looking out at the horizon, and for a moment you let yourself look at him instead. The pre-dawn light is starting to do something to the sky; a pale gray at the edges, bleeding into the deep blue of night. It catches on his face, softens the sharp lines, makes him look... Something you don't want to think.
âI used to come here,â he says finally. âWhen I first moved to Gotham.â
You glance at him. His eyes are fixed on the horizon âTo this roof?â
âTo roofs. Any roof.â He shrugs, a small movement, almost self-conscious. âIt was⌠easier. Being above everything. Watching from a distance.â
You think about that. About Damian Wayne, fresh from somewhere you donât ask about, standing on rooftops alone because it was easier than standing anywhere else.
âAnd now?â you ask.
He doesnât answer. But he shifts, just slightly, and his arm brushes yours. Whether itâs on purpose or not, you canât tell. You donât move away. The sky is changing now. The gray is giving way to something softer, pink at the edges, pale gold bleeding into the clouds. You watch it happen, the slow dissolve of night into morning, and you understand why he brought you here. Itâs not just the view. Itâs the moment. The way the city holds its breath between dark and light. The way everything feels possible for exactly one second before the day begins.
Damianâs voice, when it comes, is quiet. âI wanted you to see this.â
You look at him. His profile is sharp against the growing light, but thereâs something soft in the way heâs standing now, shoulders less rigid, hands relaxed at his sides. He looks like heâs waiting for something. Like heâs not sure what youâll say.
âDamn,â you say, and you canât help the grin thatâs spreading across your face. âYou really do believe that this is a rom-com, huh?â
His head turns toward you so fast you almost miss the flicker of embarrassment in his eyes before itâs replaced by something harder.
âI donâtâ thatâs notââ
âClimbing my fire escape at five in the morning,â you count off on your fingers. âTaking me to a secret rooftop. Making me watch the sunrise.â You raise an eyebrow. âNext youâre gonna tell me youâve got a boombox waiting somewhere.â
âI donât even know what a boombox is.â
âOh my God.â You put a hand over your heart. âYouâre worse than I thought.â
He glares at you, but thereâs no heat in it. If anything, he looks almost relieved. Like your teasing is permission to breathe.
âI was trying toââ He stops, jaw working. âI thought you would appreciate it. The sunrise. From here. Thatâs all.â
âThatâs all,â you repeat.
âYes.â
âYou climbed my fire escape. At five in the morning. To show me a sunrise. Because you thought Iâd appreciate it.â
Heâs quiet for a moment. Then, very quietly: âYou showed me your place. I wanted to show you mine.â
Your grin fades. Not because youâre not amused (you are, more than you should be, probably) but because thereâs something in his voice that makes the joke feel wrong. Something that deserves better than a punchline. You look back at the sky. The pink is deepening now, orange bleeding in, the clouds catching fire at the edges. Itâs beautiful. More beautiful than you expected from Gotham, which has never been known for its sunrises.
âItâs a good roof,â you say.
He makes a sound that might be a laugh. Might be. âItâs a mediocre roof.â
âItâs your mediocre roof.â You bump your shoulder against his, just enough to feel him shift. âThat makes it the best.â
He doesnât respond. But he doesnât move away either. And when you glance at him from the corner of your eye, you see that his shoulders have dropped another inch, his hands tucked into his pockets now, his face turned toward the sky.
The sun crests the horizon. It happens slowly, then all at once. A line of gold that spreads across the city, touching buildings and streets and the distant bridge with the same careless grace. The clouds turn coral, then copper, then bright. The shadows that have been clinging to the rooftops retreat, pulling back into the alleys and corners where they live during the day. And Damian Wayne, standing beside you on a roof you never knew existed, watches it like heâs seeing it for the first time. You watch him instead. The light catches his face, turns his skin gold, makes his eyes look almost amber. Heâs not wearing his usual expression, heâs just looking. Just watching. Just letting the sun rise without planning for what comes after.
âThank you,â you say, and you mean it.
He glances at you, and for a moment his composure slips. But then itâs gone, and heâs Damian again, chin up, expression cool. âDonât get used to it,â he says. âIâm not climbing your fire escape every morning.â
âGood. Because I was about to say, if this becomes a regular thing, youâre bringing coffee.â
âCoffee.â
âAnd pastries. Iâm not watching sunrises on an empty stomach.â
He scoffs, but thereâs no bite to it. âYouâre crazy.â
âYou climbed my fire escape at five in the morning. You donât get to call me crazy.â
The sun is fully up now, the city waking below us in fits and starts. A car horn somewhere in the distance. The rumble of the first train. The sounds of a city that doesnât care about sunrises or rooftops or the strange boy who stands at the edge of it all like heâs still not sure if he belongs.
âWe should go,â Damian says, but he doesnât move. Neither do you.
âProbably,â you agree. You stand there for another minute. Maybe two, or five. The morning light warms your face, and the city stretches out below, and Damian Wayne stands close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your jacket.
âHey,â you say, not looking at him. âFor what itâs worth, Iâm glad you showed me.â
Heâs quiet for a long moment. Then, so soft you almost miss it: âIâm glad you came.â You donât say anything to that. You donât tease him, donât make another joke about rom-coms, donât do any of the things you usually do when things get too real.
The climb down is easier. You know what to expect now, and Damian moves slower, matching your pace, one hand occasionally reaching back to steady you on the rusted stairs. You donât comment on it. He doesnât comment on you letting him.
The streets are waking up when you hit the sidewalk. A hot-dog cart on the corner. An old woman walking her dog. The first few cars, headlights still on, cutting through the morning haze. Damian stops at the corner. You stop with him. âI can walk you back,â he says. Itâs not quite an offer. Itâs something else. Something that sounds almost like heâs not ready for this to be over.
You shake your head. âI know the way.â He nods. His hands are in his pockets again, shoulders back, mask firmly in place. But youâve seen him without it now. Youâve seen him at sunrise.
âNext time,â you say, and his eyes flick to yours, âyou bring coffee.â
âNext time,â he repeats.
Youâre already walking backward, hands in your own pockets now, grinning at him across the empty street. âAnd pastries. Iâm serious about the pastries.â
He watches you for a moment. Then, slowly, that almost-smile appears at the corner of his mouth. The one youâve only seen twice before. âFine,â he says. âPastries.â
âGood.â You turn, finally, heading toward your street, toward your apartment, toward the bed you should have never left. âSee you at school, Wayne.â
You donât look back. But you hear him; a soft scoff, carried away by the morning wind. And youâre still smiling when you climb back through your window, kick off your shoes, and collapse into bed with the sunrise still burning behind your eyes.
It was afternoon, and sunset was beginning to set in. You wait outside the manor gates for exactly twelve minutes before you start to regret every life choice that led you here. Itâs not that the manor is intimidating. Okay, it is extremely intimidating; the gates alone are taller than your entire building, and the cameras perched on either side swivel with a smoothness that suggests someone is very, very interested in whoâs standing outside. Youâve been leaning against the wall for long enough that the cold has started seeping through your jacket when a figure finally appears on the driveway. Damian walks like heâs not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. His hands are shoved in the pockets of a dark jacket, his scarf wrapped high enough to hide half his face, and thereâs something about the way heâs moving that suggests he had to argue with someone to get out the door.
You push off the wall, spreading your arms wide. âWell? Iâm here. I braved the dragonâs den. You owe me.â
He stops on the other side of the gate, eyes narrowing. âItâs a gate. Not a dragonâs den.â
âThere are cameras everywhere. I counted six.â
âThere are seventeen.â
You stare at him. He stares back, serious. âSeventeen,â you repeat slowly. âYour house has seventeen cameras pointed at the front gate.â
âThe manor has extensive security.â
âI canât climb your window, Damian. Your house has more security than Alcatraz.â
Something flickers in his expression, not quite a smile, but close. âAlcatraz hasnât been operational for decades.â
âThatâs not the point.â
âWhat is the point?â
âThe point,â you say, gesturing at the gate, the cameras, the sprawling estate behind him, âis that you got to show up at my window like some kind of gothic romance protagonist, and I have to stand out here like a peasant begging for an audience.â
He considers this for a moment. Then he pulls a key card from his pocket, swipes it against a panel you hadnât even noticed, and the gates swing open with a soft mechanical hum. Swipes it again, and the gates close automatically. âYouâre not a peasant,â he says as he walks through. âYouâre just inconvenient.â
âWow. Thank you.â
âThat wasnât a compliment.â
âIâm choosing to take it as one.â
He falls into step beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush. Up close, you notice the faint shadows under his eyes again, the same ones you saw on the rooftop, the ones that suggest heâs not sleeping as much as he should. You donât mention it. Youâve learned that Damian Wayne doesnât like being observed too closely.
âWhere are we going?â he asks as you lead him away from the manor, down the long drive, toward the street where your car is parked.
âYouâll see.â
âI donât like surprises.â
âYou climbed my fire escape at five in the morning to show me a sunrise. You donât get to complain about surprises.â
âYou are never letting that go, are you?â
âNever, ever. Maybe next time it'll be my turn to act like we're in a rom-com. Maybe I'll confess my inexistent feelings while it's raining or I will read a poem about 10 things I hate about you.â
âThat's a terrible reference.â he whispered, almost against his will.
âOh, so you do know what happens in rom-coms, huh?â He makes a sound that might be agreement or might be a threat. You choose to interpret it as agreement.
The building is a ghost. A skeleton of something that was supposed to be, abandoned halfway between demolition and resurrection. It rises up from the block like a monument to Gothamâs particular brand of failure, with empty windows and blank concrete, surrounded by a chain-link fence thatâs been cut open so many times the city stopped fixing it. Damian looks at it. Looks at you. Looks back at the building. âThis is your place,â he says.
âItâs not my place. Itâs just... a place.â
âA condemned building.â
âItâs not condemned. Itâsââ You wave a hand vaguely. ââin limbo. The company that owned it went under, someone bought the debt, someone else is arguing about zoning permits. Itâs been like this for three years.â
âAnd you found it.â
âI find a lot of things.â
He doesnât respond to that. Heâs looking at the building with an expression you canât quite read. âThereâs a security guard,â he says, and youâre not surprised he spotted the car in the lot, the light in the ground-floor window. âHow do you usually get in?â
âThereâs a blind spot in the east stairwell. He does rounds every forty-five minutes. We have about twenty until he circles back.â
Damianâs eyebrow rises. âYouâve done this before.â
âSome, yeah.â
âHow many times are actually 'someâ?â
You ignore that question, youâre already moving toward the fence, toward the familiar gap in the chain-link.
The east stairwell is dark, the kind of dark that presses against your eyes and makes every sound too loud. Your flashlight cuts a narrow path through it, illuminating dust and old newspapers on the ground and the kind of graffiti thatâs more territorial than artistic. You move quickly, counting steps, counting time, your body remembering the rhythm of this place even when your mind is focused on the boy behind you. Damian moves like he belongs in the dark. You notice the way his footsteps barely register, the way his breathing stays even, the way he doesnât seem bothered by the cold or the damp or the particular weight of an empty building at night. You file it away with everything else you donât ask about. The stairwell door on the top floor is unlocked. You made sure of it last time, wedged a piece of cardboard in the latch just enough to keep it from sealing. You push it open, and the space beyond opens up like a held breath. The top floor used to be something special. You can tell from the way itâs laid out; wide open, almost no walls, just columns and windows. The indoor pool takes up most of the space, a massive rectangle of pale blue tile that catches the city light filtering through the glass. The water is dark now, still, reflecting the sky that can be see through the glass ceiling.
Itâs beautiful. Damian steps past you into the space, and for once he doesnât look like heâs calculating the nearest exit. His head tilts back, taking in the glass ceiling, the way the clouds move across it, the faint glow of the city beyond. âIt was supposed to be a penthouse,â you say, walking toward the poolâs edge. âLuxury condos. The top floor was going to have a pool that looked out over the skyline.â
âWhat happened?â
âSame thing that always happens. Money ran out. Someone got greedy. Someone else got sued.â You crouch at the edge of the pool, trailing your fingers through the water. Itâs cold, but not muchâ the buildingâs maintenance includes the pool, apparently, because someone in some office somewhere hasnât gotten around to shutting it down yet.
Damian comes to stand beside you. His reflection is distorted in the dark water, fragmented, almost unrecognizable. âHow did you find this place?â he asks.
âFollowed a guy I knew. He was tagging the stairwell. I came back later.â
âAlone?â
âUsually.â
He doesnât say anything to that. But something in his expression shifts, a tightening around his jaw, a flicker in his eyes that you canât quite name. You stand up, brushing off your jeans. The cold is starting to seep through your shoes, and youâre suddenly very aware of how still the water is, how dark, how it would feel to break that surface. Damian is watching you. Heâs always watching you, youâve noticed. But thereâs something different about the way heâs looking at you nowâ like he knows what youâre thinking before you do.
âDonât,â he says.
âDonât what?â
âWhatever youâre about to do.â
You look at the pool. Look at him. Look back at the pool. âI didnât plan it,â you say, and youâre already unzipping your jacket. âBut now that you mention itâŚâ
âNo.â
âDami.â
âAbsolutely not.â
âItâs a pool. Weâre here. The waterâs not even that cold.â
âItâs February.â
âItâs almost March.â
âThatâs notâ youâre notâ donât you even dareââ
You drop your jacket. Your shoes are next, kicked off with more enthusiasm than coordination. Damian is staring at you like youâve lost your mind, which, fair. You probably have. But thereâs something about this place, about the dark water and the empty building and the way Damian is looking at you like youâre the most reckless person heâs ever metâ It makes you want to prove him right.
âYouâre insane,â he says, and thereâs something in his voice that might be admiration or might be horror. Possibly both.
âYou keep saying that like itâs an insult.â You toe off your socks, then your shirt. Your jeans are next, and youâre aware, distantly, that youâre standing in an abandoned building in your underwear while Damian Wayne watches with an expression thatâs become very, very still.
âIf you get hypothermia,â he says, âIâm not carrying you out.â
âLiar.â And before you can talk yourself out of it, you jump.
The water is fucking freezing. The kind of cold that steals your breath, that wraps around your chest and squeezes, that makes your muscles seize up for a split second before you remember how to move. You surface gasping, hair plastered to your face, and the sound you make is somewhere between a laugh and a yell.
âOh my God,â you say, treading water. âOh my God, itâs cold as hell.â
âI told you.â Damian is standing at the edge, arms crossed, looking down at you with an expression thatâs trying very hard to be disapproving and failing entirely. âYouâre an idiot.â
âGet in.â
âNo.â
âDames.â
âNo.â
âThe waterâs fine.â
âYou just said it was freezing.â
âI was being dramatic.â You splash water in his general direction. Most of it misses, but a few drops catch his jacket, and the look he gives you could curdle milk.
âYouâre going to pay for that.â
âGet in and make me.â Thereâs a long, charged moment where neither of you moves. The water laps against the edges, against your skin, against the silence between you. Damianâs jaw is set, his arms still crossed.
He pulls off his jacket. You watch, treading water, as he folds it with deliberate precision and sets it on the nearest lounge chair. His shoes go next, lined up beside your scattered pile. His shirt follows, and you try very hard not to stare at the way the low light catches on his shoulders, his arms, his abs, the lean muscle that youâve always suspected was hiding under those expensive sweaters.
You fail. You stare. He catches you. âEnjoying the view?â he asks, and thereâs something in his voice thatâs almost teasing, almost smug.
âGet in the water, Wayne.â He does. His entry is nothing like yours. No running start, no reckless abandon. He simply steps off the edge, clean and controlled, and slices into the water like heâs done this a thousand times. When he surfaces, his hair is dark against his forehead, water streaming down his face, and his eyes are bright with something that looks almost like joy.
âHappy?â he asks.
âEcstatic.â He splashes you. Full force, a wave of cold water that hits you square in the face and has you sputtering. âYouââ You wipe water from your eyes. âOh, youâre dead.â
You lunge for him, and for a moment the pool is chaos, splashing and laughing and the kind of wild, reckless play that you havenât engaged in since you were a kid. Damian is fast, faster than you expected, twisting away from your grabs with a grace that should be illegal. But youâre not trying to win. Youâre just trying to get close. Eventually, you do. Your hand closes around his wrist, and he goes still. The water settles around you, the ripples fading, the giggling ceasing and suddenly youâre very aware of how close you are. His face is inches from yours, water droplets clinging to his lashes, his lips slightly parted, his chest rising and falling with the effort of the chase.
âYou caught me,â he says, and his voice is low. Different. Your fingers are still wrapped around his wrist. You can feel his pulse there, faster than you expected, matching the rhythm of your own heart.
âI always catch you,â you say, and youâre not sure what you mean. Neither is he, apparently, because his eyes search your face for a long moment, looking for something youâre not sure you know how to give.
The water is cold. You should move. You should let go. You should do any number of things that donât involve standing in an abandoned pool at midnight with Damian Wayneâs pulse under your fingers and his breath warm against your cheek. You donât move. Neither does he. âYouâre shivering,â he says.
âSo are you.â He looks down at where your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. When he looks back up, something has shifted in his expression. It's softer, almost wondering.
âThis isââ he starts, and then stops. You wait. The water laps against the edges, against your skin, against the silence that stretches between you. âThis is insane,â he finishes, but he doesnât pull away.
âThe best things usually are.â
He laughs. It's low and somehow warm even in the cold water, it's the first time you've heard it and is the most beautiful thing youâve ever heard. A thought crosses your mind. Something stupid, reckless, that borders on insane. But his lips look so soft, and suddenly you wonder what it would be like to kiss him. You probably stared at Damian's lips for longer than you'd like to admit, because when you look up and meet his eyes, he's already looking at you with a glint of something in his eyes.
You catch him as he slowly lowers his gaze to your mouth, and you suddenly feel an urge to grab the back of his neck and bring your lips together, but you shut down those intrusive thoughts. The water around him ripples gently as he slowly moves to you, and you hesitantly caress his wrist with your thumb. You let out a trembling sigh, still staring at his lips. Damian has come so close that now your chest is touching his, you feel his hot breath mingling with yours and for a moment, you really think he's going to kiss you. Your gaze drifts to his eyes, those deep green eyes are now half-lidded, staring at your lips, as if he were calculating something. You tilt your head slowly and subtly, beginning to close your eyes, already feeling how his lips brush against yours almost imperceptibly, almost feeling like the inevitable is going to happenâ
The moment shatters like glass.
Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, echoing up the stairwell with the particular rhythm of a security guard making rounds. The beam of a flashlight sweeps across the stairwell door, and you both freeze. Damian's wrist still in your hand, your faces still millimetres apart, the cold water suddenly feeling like ice against your skin.
"Someone's here," Damian breathes, and he's already moving, pulling you toward the edge of the pool. "The guard's early."
"His rounds are forty-fiveâ"
"He's early. Move."
You don't argue. You're out of the pool in seconds, water streaming down your legs, your fingers numb as you scramble for your clothes. Damian is faster, he's already yanking his shirt over his head, his hair dripping dark trails down his neck. You put on your jeans, your jacket, your socks slipping through wet fingers as the footsteps grow louder.
"Stairs," you hiss. "We can take the westâ"
"No time." Damian's hand closes around your arm, pulling you toward the far end of the pool, toward the emergency exit you forgot existed until this very moment. "There's a service elevator. Maintenance access."
"How do youâ" He doesn't answer. He just pulls, and you follow, because that's what you do now. Follow Damian Wayne through abandoned buildings and dark stairwells and moments that almost became something else. The service elevator is a metal box that smells like rust and cigarettes. Damian slams the button, the doors slide shut with a groan, and for one terrible moment you think you're safe.
Then the flashlight beam hits the glass doors of the pool room. A voice, gruff and surprised: "Heyâ!"
The elevator lurches downward. You stumble into Damian, your wet clothes cold against his, and for a second you're pressed together in the dark, both of you breathing too hard, both of you trying not to laugh, adrenaline running through your veins. Then the elevator stops. The doors open onto the ground floor lobby. Empty, dark, the reception desk covered in dust. The front doors are fifty feet away. The security guard is six floors up and coming down fast.
"Run," Damian says. You run. The front doors are right there, glass and metal, the parking lot beyond, freedom just a few feet away. Damian is running alongside you, probably holding back from running faster so he doesn't leave you behind. Your hand is on the bar, you're pushing, you're already grinning because you're going to make it, you're actually going toâ
A hand closes around the back of your jacket. A voice, sharp and angry: "Got you." You're yanked backward so hard your feet leave the ground. Damian spins, something flashing in his eyes that looks almost dangerous, and for a moment you think he's going to do something stupid. Something that will get both of you in real trouble. But he stops. You see him stop, see the way his hands curl into fists at his sides and then force themselves open. The security guard is older than you expected. Fifties, maybe, with a face that's seen too many nights in empty buildings. He's got you by the jacket and his eyes are on Damian, narrow and suspicious. "Two kids," he says, radio crackling on his free hand. "In the pool. Yeah, I got 'em."
Damian's jaw is tight. His hair is still wet, curling at the temples, and there's a flush high on his cheekbones that could be from the cold or something else entirely. "You're trespassing," the guard says, looking between you. "Breaking and entering. Destruction of propertyâ"
"We didn't destroy anything," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel.
"Doesn't matter. You were in there. That's enough."
Damian takes a step forward, and you see the guard's hand twitch toward something on his belt. A baton. Maybe worse. "Call the police," Damian says, and his voice is calm. Too calm. The voice of someone who's been in worse situations with worse people. "We'll wait."
The guard blinks. He was probably expecting tears, begging, maybe an attempt to run. Not this. Not Damian Wayne standing in a puddle of pool water with his chin up and his eyes cold, waiting for the law like it's a minor inconvenience.
"You're not gonna run?"
"We were leaving," Damian says. "You caught us. The police will handle it." You look at him. He doesn't look back, but when the guard let go of your jacket, his hand finds yours in the dark of the lobby. Just for a second, just a brush of cold fingers against cold fingers. That's when you understand. This is him choosing the least bad option. This is him protecting you from something worse.
The guard radios it in. The sirens come minutes later.
The police station smells like coffee and despair. You've been in one before. Once, when you were younger, for something you don't talk about. The fluorescent lights are the same, the gray floors, the way the officers look at you like you're a problem they don't have time for. Your clothes are still damp, your hair plastered to your head, and you're pretty sure you look exactly like what you are: a kid who got caught doing something stupid. Damian, somehow, looks like he's waiting for a business meeting. His posture is perfect, his expression composed, his wet hair the only sign that something unusual has happened. The officer who processed you kept glancing at him like he couldn't quite figure him out. Now you're in a holding cell. Just the two of you and a bench that's seen better times. The door is locked, the desk sergeant is on the phone, and somewhere in the building, someone is yelling about their rights and you swear you heard a gunshot but in Gotham, you always need to pretend you do not hear gunshots.
You sink onto the bench, water still dripping from your sleeves and let out a breath that's half-exhaustion, half-laughter. "Well," you say, looking around at the gray walls, the scratched floor, the camera in the corner. "What a nice change of scenery."
Damian is standing by the door, arms crossed, watching the desk sergeant through the glass. He doesn't turn. "It's a prison cell."
"I was being sarcastic."
"Tt."
You lean back against the wall, letting the cold concrete seep through your damp jacket. "Could be worse."
"How?"
"We could still be in the pool." You grin, even though he's not looking. "At least here we're not freezing to death." He turns at that, just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His expression is unreadable. As if he wanted to say something, about what almost happened, as if he wanted to find out if you regretted it.
"You're taking this remarkably well."
"Been here before." You shrug. "Not this station. But the vibe is the same."
"What for?"
"Deal's a deal, Wayne. I don't ask, you don't ask." He looks at you for a long moment. Then he turns back to the front, and you let the silence settle between you. It's not uncomfortable. That's the strange thing. Even here, in a police station holding cell with your clothes still damp and your hair a disaster, being with Damian doesn't feel wrong. You almost enjoy it.
"You need to call someone," you say eventually. "They're gonna want an adult." His shoulders tense. You see it happen, the way the muscles in his back go rigid, the way his hands tighten where they're folded across his chest.
"I know."
"Your dad?"
"Absolutely not." The answer comes so fast, so sharp, that you blink. There's something in his voice now that sounds almost like fear, and that doesn't make sense. Bruce Wayne is one of the most powerful men in Gotham. A trespassing charge is nothing to him. A phone call, a check written, and it's over. But Damian is looking like he'd rather be dead than making that call.
"Your brother, then," you say. "The oldest one. Grayson, right? He seems... chill."
Damian's jaw works. "Richard."
"Yeah. Call Ricky."
He doesn't move. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and somewhere down the hall someone is crying. "I don't want them to know," he says, and his voice is quiet. Private. Like he's not sure he should be saying it at all. You get it more than you want to admit. The weight of expectations, the fear of being seen as something less than what you're supposed to be. The particular shame of getting caught when you were supposed to be better.
"Hey." You stand up, cross the small space, and stop beside him. "They're gonna find out either way. Better it comes from you than from a police phone call at three in the morning."
"You're not scared," he says.
"Scared of what? A trespassing charge? My record's already a mess." You nudge his shoulder with yours. "Besides, you're the one who has to face your family. I just have to call my mom and listen to her tell me she's not mad, she's just disappointed."
His mouth twitches. "That's worse."
"So much worse."
The desk sergeant looks up from his phone, gesturing toward the cell. "You two want to make your calls or what? I got paperwork to file." Damian exhales slowly. You watch him make a decision, watch the mask slip back into place, but not all the way. There's something softer underneath it now. Something that's been there since the pool. Or before that, you're not sure.
He walks to the cell door, and the sergeant lets him use the phone on the desk. You can't hear the whole conversation from inside the cell, but you catch fragments: "Yes, I'm fine. No, father doesn't need to know. Grayson, please. Just come get us." He hangs up. Comes back. Slides onto the bench beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
"He is coming," he says.
"How mad is he?"
Damian considers the question. "He's not my father. He'll pretend to be angry, but he's not."
"You sound sure."
"I know my brother." A pause. "He's the reason I'm not... worse."
You want to ask. God, you want to ask. What does that mean? Worse how? Worse than what? But the deal is the deal, and Damian has already given you more tonight than he's given anyone. Instead, you lean your head back against the wall and let the cold seep into your bones. "Your brother sounds okay."
"He's insufferable. Cheerful. Optimistic." Damian says the words like they're insults, but there's something fond underneath.
"Sounds terrible."
"You have no idea."
The silence that follows is easier. You're both still damp, still cold, still sitting in a police station holding cell at what must be two in the morning. But Damian's shoulder is pressed against yours now, solid and warm through your jacket, and you're not sure when that happened. "You didn't have to turn yourself in to the guard," you say quietly. "When he caught us. You didn't have to make it easy."
"I could have fought him."
"I know." He turns his head, just enough to look at you. In the bad light of the holding cell, his eyes are dark, almost black, but you remember what they looked like in the pool. Bright. Close.
"He would have hurt you," Damian says. "I wasn't going to let that happen." Something twists in your chest. Something warm and sharp and entirely unwelcome. You look away, focusing on the scratched floor, the graffiti on the walls, anything but the boy beside you.
"You're supposed to be learning how to be a normal teenager," you say. "Normal teenagers don't worry about getting hurt in abandoned buildings."
"Normal teenagers," Damian says slowly, "don't have friends who take them to indoor pools in the middle of the night."
"Friends?" You didn't mean to say it like that, like the word is strange, new, something you're tasting for the first time. But it comes out that way anyway, and Damian goes very still beside you.
"Is that not what we are?" His voice is careful. Measured. Like he's not sure of the answer.
You think about it. About fire escapes and rooftops and sunrises. About sewers full of color and the almost kiss and the way Damian's hand felt in yours when you were running from the guard. About all the things you don't ask and all the things he doesn't say. "I don't know," you admit. "I've never had one before."
He's quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you almost miss it: "Neither have I." You sit with that for a while. The station hums around you; phones ringing, keys jangling, the low murmur of voices from the front desk. "You're shivering," Damian says.
"So are you."
He shifts, and for a moment you think he's going to move away. Instead, he shrugs off his jacket, still damp, but warmer than nothing, and drapes it over your shoulders. His hands linger for a second longer than necessary, and when he pulls back, his fingers brush against your neck. "You're freezing," he says, and there's something in his voice that sounds almost like concern.
"I told you the water was cold."
"We jumped in anyway."
"Worth it." He stares at you. You stare back. And for a moment, you're back in the pool, close enough to count his lashes, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. The moment stretches, taut and fragile, and you're not sure who moves first or if either of you moves at all. Then the front door of the station opens, and a voice cuts through the fluorescent hum like a blade:
"Damian?" Richard Grayson is taller than you expected. Or maybe it's just the way he carries himself. His hair is dark, his jacket is expensive, and his eyes sweep the station with a speed that misses nothing. They land on Damian, then on you. Then on Damian's jacket draped over your shoulders. Damian stands. His posture is perfect again, his face composed, but you see the way his hands still at his sides.
"Grayson," he says.
Dick crosses the station in five long strides. He just looks at Damian for a long moment, and then he sighs, a sound that seems to come from somewhere very deep. "You're lucky it was me," he says. "If Bruce finds outâ"
"He won't."
"I'm not covering for you."
"You don't have to. I'll handle it."
Richard's eyebrow rises. He looks at you, then back at Damian, and something passes between them.
"And your friend?" Richard asks.
"He's with me."
It's such a simple statement. Three words. But the way he says them makes something catch in your chest. Richard studies him for a moment. Then his expression softens, just slightly, and you realize he's not angry. He's something else. Something that looks almost like relief.
"Let's get you both out of here," he says.
The paperwork takes twenty minutes. Richard handles it: his signature, his ID, his calm voice explaining that it was a misunderstanding, that the kids were just exploring, that no charges will be pressed. The security guard looks like he wants to argue, but everyone knows who Dick Grayson Wayne is. And everyone knows is not good to contradict a Wayne. You stand by the door, Damian's jacket still around your shoulders, watching the whole thing unfold. Damian is beside you, arms crossed, his shirt still damp in places, his hair starting to curl as it dries.
"You didn't have to say that," you say quietly. "That I'm with you."
He doesn't look at you. "I wasn't going to let them call your mother at two in the morning."
"She'd want to know."
"She'd worry."
"That's what mothers do."
He turns then, and there's something in his expression that you can't quite name. "Grayson will drive you home," he says. "I'll make sure he doesn't ask questions."
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"You'll be okay?"
He blinks. "I'll be okay," he says, and for once you believe him.
Richard finishes at the desk and walks toward you, keys already in hand. "Ready?" You nod. Damian's jacket is warm on your shoulders, and you're not sure when you started thinking of it as warm, but you don't want to give it back, at least not yet. At the door, you turn. Damian is standing in the middle of the station, his silhouette sharp against the fluorescent light, and for a moment he looks like he belongs there; in the in-between, in the spaces that don't quite fit, in the limbo between who he is and who he's trying to be.
"Hey," you say. He looks up. "Next time, I'll let you pick the place."
Something crosses his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something like it. Then the corner of his mouth lifts, that almost-smile, the one you've only seen a handful of times. "You think there's going to be a next time?"
"I know there is." You push open the door, the cold night air rushing in to meet you and sunk beneath your bones. "You still owe me pastries, remember?"
You only hear his characteristic "Tt" before going out into the darkness of the night
summary: you had always adored damian⌠till you overheard his complaints to his brothers on your clinginess. so why was it that when you decide to give him what he desires, he is the one trying to close the gap he desperately wanted?
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: hurt-comfort, angst+fluff, hea, grovelling+yearning, desperate damian who bites his own words that make him go through it, reader with boundaries
âSheâs clingy.â
Damianâs voice is unmistakable. Cut-throat, swift in its delivering blow. Even with his back turned to you, you could recognise it in a heartbeat.
âC'mon, Dames.â Dick teases. âYou enjoy her company.â
A cold, scathing scoff echoes. âHer smothering can barely be considered company. Consuming my entire weekâthen coming along to the gala just to torment me further? You're mistaken.â
Pressing the gap of the door shut, your numb fingers dig into the wood. His bitter admission parted from his lips so easily. His harshly thrown words didnât just shatter your heart physically into piecesâno, there isn't a harsher tidal wave crashing over you than the realisation that whatever bond you shared with Damian was a complete, utter lie.
Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.
When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.
When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.
When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.
Was it all a ruse?
The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now⌠if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.
If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.
You donât notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feetâtill you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes⌠or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if itâs been an illusion all along.
âSpaced out?â Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."
I told you not to come. Youâre not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.
âTired.â You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. Youâve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. âI think I should head home.â
His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, youâd drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it shouldâve been.
His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. âVery well. Iâll escort you.â
âNo.â It blurts out quick, desperate.
His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretchedâfreezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.
âYou should be with your family.â You reply, straining a smile. âI wonât take up more of your time.â
It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.
His eyes narrow in puzzlement but youâve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesnât make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.
Youâll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurtâbetrayalâshock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.
Damian hasnât heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you werenât kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.
His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text âHave you arrived?â remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's firstâfor his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that youâre somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.
He shouldâve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concernâwhich is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didnât master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.
Heâs overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his handsâblurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye⌠that left him strangely unsettled.
"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mindâa poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."
He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. Itâs not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. Heâs sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expressionâthe discomfort in his chest will disappear.
Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto himâa rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.
Youâre laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worriesâto see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.
All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side insteadânaturally.
This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raisesâand meets his gaze.
You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.
Only for you to walk right past him.
He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsivelyâright as you made your turn towards the hallway.
You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. â...Damian?â You blink as if stunned, like you hadnât just walked past him like he was a ghost.
âYou havenât responded to my messages.â He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. âAh, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?â
Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he canât figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. âYouâve been conversing with Drake?â
âI needed his help with finding a new collectionâheâs also a fan of the series.â You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I mustâve missed yours."
âYour business with Drake isnât my concern.â He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasnât privy to... it was irritating.
Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.
âWhat is our relationship then?â You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. âIf your concern is so situational."
Whatever he was expecting, he didnât expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?
âWerenât you the one who always decided the labels for us?â He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.
Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.
âIâll let you answer for us this time.â You reply, and itâs distantâcold. Unlike you. âYou can choose whichever you deem fit.â
âWait.â His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. âAre we not supposed to have lunch together?â
You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesnât reach your eyes. âIâm having lunch with Lawrence, so itâs okay. You donât need to accompany me.â
Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?
"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.
You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.
There was something, very obviously wrong.
You arenât sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, thatâs meant for you.
It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.
He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.
He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.
To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?
That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.
Another troubled âTtâ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.
When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.
Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.
His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothersâwho knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.
Or maybe, heâs displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connectionsâthey were always needlessly complicated.
What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.
It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.
Butâwhat does she mean to you, Dames?
What would your life look like without her?
In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.
It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it soâthat any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.
He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.
He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.
He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to othersâbut it's you.
He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.
Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.
He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messagesâhorrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.
He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.
He misses you... terribly.
It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.
Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.
"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you lookâyou are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that youâll only back away from his touch.
"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.
His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.
A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damianâs gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instinctsâwhen your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.
He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.
You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."
His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.
âIâm afraidââ His voice cuts in, deadly calm. ââshe already has a partner for tonight.â
Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.
It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.
Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.
That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.
âIs that the label youâve decided on?â You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. âPartners?â
âDoes it displease you?â He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. âI will change it to whatever you prefer.â
You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. âI donât understand you.â
He exhales lowly. âI should say the same for you. You are the one whoâsââ His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. ââdrifting away.â From me, why are you acting as if I donât matterâas if this doesnât matter?
He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.
Alcohol doesnât affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade himâout of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never doâbeing impulsive.
At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, smallâand you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.
Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."
A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.
Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmthâbut when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony thatâs been inflicted on him these past two weeks.
You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.
âDrifting away?â Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? âYouâve seen me the entire week.â
He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. âI won't be easily fooled. Youâre avoiding me. Standing in places youâre not supposed to be.â
It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldnât stop drinking you in.
âOpting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.â It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. âYour behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, youâre out of reach.â
âAnd you say Iâm the clingy one?â Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.
His brow creases. âWhen have I everââ
His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. âSheâs clingy.â
The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.
He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistakeâit feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.
You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if youâve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.
âI overheard you at the charity gala.â Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.
It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.
"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasnât space what you wanted?â You ask, and there is no anger in your voiceâonly apathy. "It was what I needed."
The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.
No. It wasnât what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasnât the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.
âIsnât it better for us both, if we kept our distance?â You propose. âSince weâve gone past the line of hurting each other. Itâll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.â
Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, itâs as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.
He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.
Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what heâs done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.
âDamian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get upâ"
âI was wrong.â He admits without hesitation. âAll the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.â
Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.
âYou asked me to define us once, by labels.â He recalls. âI am not good with words. It has always beenâdifficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, butâI know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."
"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."
âThe lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.â He admits through the grit of his teeth. âThey were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around youâit was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.â
âThey tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.â He whispers. âI had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."
âI uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldnât rip you away so easily.â
âI was a coward.â He murmurs, pleading in earnest. âI have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."
"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.â He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I canât imagine a life without you, soâ"
"Pleaseâ" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "âit is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment butâI canât lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."
Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.
"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."
His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.
"WâWhat do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actionsâI can improve. I can fix this."
You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowlyâpainfully waits.
"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."
"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see youâand I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to peopleâdoesn't mean that you get an easier way out."
"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasnât fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and itâs not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."
He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.
"But I am willing to give you that chanceâto heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."
He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.
"Iâ" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.
From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fearâand it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.
"I know." You whisper, silently reading what heâs trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."
He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingersâa soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence thatâs finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.
"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.
"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."
"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.
"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."
Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.
"I'd like to see that."
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
summary; since you moved to Gotham from France, having a crush was the last thing on your mind. first and foremost, adapting to the culture was the most important thingâespecially considering you're terrible at english. who would have thought that catching the eye of someone would come along before you mastered english?
wc; 4.4k
ramblings; my first request, yay! I'm really sorry for how long this took, my exams are killing me đŽâđ¨. I took some liberties bc to be honest, I didn't really know what to write 𼲠my knowledge of France and its culture is the size of a walnut and I did not knew how to end this.. still, I hope you like it. tysm for the glitter :)
btw tumblr is not letting me answer directly so I had to put a screenshot đ
The cafeteria of Gotham Academy was a chaotic mix of sounds you couldn't quite sort out. Trays clattered against metal racks. Chairs scraped against the polished floor. And all around, students shouted to be heard over each other, their words blending into a rapid mumbling of English that your brain simply could not keep up with.
You stood at the end of the lunch line, clutching your tray like a shield. Your eyes scanned the offerings behind the glassâsteaming trays of mashed potatoes and a gravy-covered meat that the sign identified as "Salisbury steak."
You felt the eyes on you before you heard the whispers. You stepped forward when the line moved. When it was your turn, you pointed at the Salisbury steak and tried to smile at the lunch lady.
"Uh... this one, please," you said, your accent wrapping around the words.
The lunch lady, a tired-looking woman with hair net, nodded and slapped the food onto your tray. "Roll or cornbread?"
You blinked. "Pardon?"
"Roll. Or. Cornbread." She pointed at each option with her serving spoon, speaking slowly and loudly, as if volume would unlock your understanding.
"Ah. Uh... roll?" You said it like a question.
She grunted and dropped a roll on your tray. You moved on, your cheeks warm.
Behind you, you heard it. A perfect mimicry of your voice. "Uh... this one, please." Followed by snickering.
You kept walking. You had learned, in your three weeks here, that acknowledging it only made it worse.
Finding a seat was its own ordeal. The tables were territories, claimed by invisible borders you couldn't see. You spotted a small empty space at the end of a table near the window and made your way toward it. But as you approached, a girl stretched her arm along the bench, blocking the spot.
"Sorry," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "My friend's sitting there."
You knew better than to argue. Your English wasn't fast enough for arguments.
"Okay. Sorry," you mumbled, and kept walking.
You ended up at a small, wobbly table near the garbage cans. It was clearly where the overflow sat. You didn't care. You just wanted to eat and survive the next forty minutes.
You poked at the Salisbury steak with your fork. It looked sad. You missed your grandmother's food, you missed the way the bread tasted in France. You missed understanding what people said and people not being assholes to you.
Halfway through forcing yourself to eat the dry roll, a shadow fell over your table.
You looked up.
Three of them. The ringleader was a boy named Kyle, a junior with a sharp jaw and a sharper smile. Behind him, two other students you recognized from your English literature classâa boy and a girl who never spoke to you but always laughed when Kyle did.
"Mind if we sit?" Kyle asked, already pulling out a chair.
You didn't say anything; you already knew this wasn't a real question.
Kyle sat, his friends flanking him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wobbly table. "So. How do you say 'I'm a loser' in French?"
The boy behind him snickered. The girl hid her smile behind her hand.
You stared at your tray. Your heart was beating too fast. You knew what he was doing. You had seen it in movies, had heard stories from other kids who moved to new places. But knowing it and living it were two different things, you thought that only happened in places where misery existed because there was salvation. Or a savior.
"Come on," Kyle pressed. "We're just trying to learn. Isn't that why you're here? To teach us stuff?"
You forced yourself to look up. "I do not... I do not understand what you want." Your voice was quiet, but steady.
Kyle's smile widened. "Oh, I think you do." He leaned closer. "Let's start simple. Say 'hello.' No, waitâsay it like you do. 'Ello, my name eeâ'"
"Kyle."
The voice cut through the cafeteria noise like a knife. Damian Wayne stood five feet away, tray in hand, expression flat. He wasn't looking at you. He was looking at Kyle, and the look on his face made something cold settle in your stomach. You had heard of him, of course. Everyone had. The youngest Wayne. The one with the reputation for being... difficult.
Kyle straightened immediately. "Wayne."
Damian didn't acknowledge the greeting. He simply stood there, green eyes boring into Kyle's with an intensity that seemed to suck the air out of the small space.
"Is there a problem here?" Damian asked. His voice was calm. Too calm.
Kyle's smirk faltered. "No problem. Just talking to the new kid."
"You're done talking." It wasn't a suggestion.
The silence stretched. Kyle glanced at his friends, looking for backup, but they had suddenly become very interested in the floor. He cleared his throat, pushing his chair back. "Whatever. Was leaving anyway."
He stood, and his friends scrambled to follow. As they passed, Kyle muttered something under his breath, but you didn't catch it. You were too focused on Damian Wayne, who was still standing there, watching them go.
When they were far enough away, Damian finally turned to look at you.
You braced yourself. You had learned that people here, even the ones who didn't mock you, looked at you with either pity or irritation. Pity for your struggle. Irritation at the inconvenience of your existence.
Damian's look was neither.
He studied you for a long moment, his gaze sharp, assessing. Then, without a word, he set his tray down on your table. On the other side of the table, across from you. He sat.
He picked up his fork and began cutting his own Salisbury steak. "Eat your food," he said, not looking up. "It's almost cold."
You blinked. "You... you are sitting here?"
"The table is not occupied." He took a bite, chewed, swallowed. "Now it is."
You opened your mouth. Closed it. "Thank you," you managed. "For... for what you did. With them."
Damian glanced up, his fork pausing mid-air. He looked at you and for a split second, something flickered in his eyes. Maybe curiosity. He continued eating.
"They're beneath your attention," he said flatly. "Don't give them the satisfaction of your distress. It's what they want."
You nodded slowly, even though you weren't sure he was looking. But then his eyes flicked to you again, and he added, almost as an afterthought:
"Your English is fine. Their manners are not."
It was such a simple thing. Five words. But something in your chest loosened, just a little.
You looked down at your tray, picked up your fork and took a bite of the Salisbury steak. It was still terrible.
But for the first time since you'd arrived in Gotham, you didn't feel quite so alone.
You risked a glance at the boy across from you. He was ignoring the rest of the cafeteria, ignoring the whispers that had already startedâ why is Damian Wayne sitting with the new student?
He didn't seem to care. And for some reason, neither did you.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. You kept expecting Kyle or his friends to find you again, to make up for their lost opportunity at lunch. But they didn't. Every time you saw them in the hallway, they were looking the other way.
And every time you turned a corner, you caught a flash of dark hair, of a posture so rigid it could cut glass.
Damian Wayne was never far.
He didn't approach you again that day, didn't speak to you. But when you walked to your next class, he was three people behind you in the hall. When you sat in the library during free period, he was two tables over, reading a book on botanical poisons. When you fumbled with your locker combination and your books spilled everywhere, you bent to pick them upâand when you straightened, someone had already stacked them neatly on the bench beside you.
You looked around.
Damian was at the end of the hall, his back to you, walking away. You clutched the books to your chest, your heart doing something strange and unfamiliar.
You didn't know much English yet. You didn't know Gotham. You didn't know these people or their ways. But you were starting to learn one thing: Damian Wayne was watching out for you;
The first time you noticed the pattern, it was raining.
You had forgotten your umbrella again. Gotham's weather was unpredictable in a way that felt personal, as if the city itself enjoyed watching newcomers get soaked. You stood under the small overhang of the school's side entrance, watching the rain turn the courtyard into a blur, resigning yourself to arriving in first period looking like a drowned cat.
Then a black umbrella appeared beside you.
You turned. Damian Wayne stood there, holding it, his expression as unreadable as ever. He wasn't looking at you, he was looking at the rain
"You'll be late," he said.
"I... yes. I have noâ" You gestured at the rain, then at yourself, then shrugged helplessly.
Damian sighed, a short and sharp exhale that seemed to be his version of patience. Without another word, he stepped closer, positioning the umbrella over both of you.
"Walk," he commanded.
You walked.
The umbrella was not large. To keep both of you dry, you had to stay very close, close enough to smell whatever expensive soap he used. Close enough to notice the height difference. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his with every step.
The rain drummed against the umbrella, your heart drummed against your ribs.
At the main entrance, he stopped. You expected him to hand you the umbrella, or maybe just walk away. Instead, he looked down at you, his green eyes sharp.
"Tomorrow," he said. "Check the weather."
Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd, taking the umbrella with him. He had walked you all the way here and was now going back out into the rain to get to his own entrance.
You stood in the doorway, dry and confused and something else you couldn't name.
Two weeks later, the pattern was simply undeniable.
When you sat in the library during lunch because the cafeteria had become too stressful, Damian would appear at a nearby table with a stack of books. He never spoke. He just... sat there pretending to read.
When Kyle and his friends passed your table in the library on a Tuesday, Damian looked up. Just like that, Kyle's steps faltered. He left and took his entourage with him.
When you struggled with a particularly difficult passage in your English textbook during free period, muttering the words under your breath, trying to make them sound right, a piece of paper slid across your table.
You looked up. Damian was already walking away. On the paper, in precise, sharp handwriting, were three words:
Thought. Though. Through.
Beneath each one, he had written a simple sentence; "I thought about it. Even though it rained. I walked through the door."
You stared at the paper for a long time. Then you folded it carefully and put it in your pocket.
Art class was the one place you felt almost comfortable. You could create without needing words. You could mix colors without conjugating verbs. And this week, you had been partnered with Damian Wayne for a project.
The assignment: create a piece that represented "connection."
You sat across from each other at a large table, a blank canvas between you. The teacher had explained that you would work on it together, adding elements in turn, building something neither of you could predict. Damian looked at the canvas. You were looking at Damian.
"So," you said, your voice small. "What... do we do?"
He picked up a charcoal pencil and, in quick, confident strokes, drew the outline of a building, a familiar one. The old Gotham Cathedral, with its twin spires reaching toward an invisible sky.
You watched, fascinated. His hands moved with the precision of an experimented art student. It was obvious this was not the first time he'd drawn Gotham's Cathedral.
He finished and set the charcoal down, sliding it across the table to you. "Your turn."
You picked up the charcoal. Your hand hovered over the canvas. Then, slowly, you began to add things. Just small details, with the fear of ruining his drawing. A tree beside the cathedral. A bench beneath it. A bird taking flight from the branch.
Damian watched you with the same intensity you had watched him. "Where are you from?" he asked suddenly.
You nearly jumped. In three weeks of silent protection, he had barely spoken to you. Now this.
"France. Europe."
"I know where France is." A pause. "What is it like?"
You thought about it. How to explain your home in words that weren't your own?
"It is... old," you said slowly. "But not old like here. There, old is... beautiful. The buildings, they are pink and gold in the sun. And there is food everywhere. Good food. Not..." You gestured vaguely at the cafeteria direction. "...this."
Damian's mouth twitched. It might have been a smile. It was gone too fast to tell.
"And you?" you asked, emboldened. "You are from Gotham?"
Something flickered in his eyes. "No. I was raised elsewhere. I came here later."
"Like me." The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Damian looked at you and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then he reached for the charcoal, and his fingers brushed yours as he took it.
"Like you." he quietly agreed, nodding slightly.
He added a small figure to the drawing. A person, sitting on the bench beneath the tree.
Halloween in America was strange.
In France, you had barely celebrated it, some parties and lots of candyâ but here, it was different. Here, it was everywhere. Pumpkins on every doorstep. Fake (or real, you're still not sure) webs in every window. Students arriving at school in costumes, which you had learned was allowed, apparently, because this country had no sense of propriety.
You had not worn a costume. You had not understood that you were supposed to.
So when you walked into the decorated gymnasium for the Halloween social, wearing your normal clothes, you immediately felt the weight of eyes on you. Everyone else was dressed as somethingâa witch, a superhero, a ghost, a cat. You were just... you.
You stood near the wall, holding a cup of apple cider you didn't want, watching the chaos.
Then a hand touched your elbow.
You turned.
Damian stood beside you. He was not in costume either. He wore his usual dark clothes, his expression its usual mask. But his hand was still on your elbow, light and warm.
"Come with me," he said.
He led you out of the gymnasium, away from the noise and the staring, through hallways that grew quieter with every step, the music fading into the background. Finally, he stopped at a door you had never noticed before. He pushed it open.
It was a small balcony, overlooking the city. The Gotham skyline stretched before you, dark and glittering, a million lights piercing the October night. Above, the sky was as clearer as Gotham allowed it, scattered with stars you rarely saw through the city's fog.
You gasped softly.
Damian stood beside you, leaning against the railing. "Better than cider and idiots in cheap costumes" he said.
You laughed. The sound surprised youâit had been weeks since you had actually laughed. Damian glanced at you, and this time, the twitch of his mouth was definitely a smile. Small, almost noticeable, but real.
"You laugh," he observed.
"Sometimes," you said. "When there is... when there is reason."
He looked back at the skyline. "Then I will endeavor to provide more reasons."
You didn't know what to say to that, so you said nothing. You just stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, watching the city that had felt so hostile now seem almost beautiful.
After a long silence, you spoke.
"In France, we do not honour the dead like this. We have La Toussaint... All Saints' Day. We visit graves of family." You paused. "It is quieter."
Damian nodded slowly. "I prefer quiet."
"Yes," you agreed. "I think... I think you do."
He turned to look at you. The city lights reflected in his green eyes. "And you? Do you prefer quiet?"
"I prefer... this." You gestured vaguely at the balcony, at the sky, at the space between you. "Quiet with one person. Not loud with many."
Damian held your gaze. "Then this," he said quietly, "is what you shall have."
The library had become your sanctuary. Your table in the corner, the one near the window, had become your table. And Damian's presence at the table across from it had become as reliable as the air.
Today, you were struggling. Your English teacher had assigned a short presentation. Just five minutes, on any topic but the thought of standing in front of the class, of all those eyes, of your accent tripping over every word, made your stomach clench.
You were muttering to yourself, practicing, when a voice spoke from across the aisle.
"You're overthinking it."
You looked up. Damian was watching you over the top of his book. The Complete Works of Shakespeare. Of course.
"I have to... to speak in front of everyone," you said. "My words... are not right. People will laugh."
"People are idiots." He said it with such conviction that you almost smiled. "Their laughter is not a measure of your worth."
You fidgeted with the edge of your notebook. "It is easy for you to say. Your English is perfect."
Damian closed his book. For a moment, he was silent. Then he spoke, and his voice was different. Quieter.
"When I first came to Gotham, I spoke a language that no one here understood. I had been trained to do... Other things before I had been trained to conjugate. The other students..." He paused. "They did not laugh. They were too afraid. But they whispered. They stared. They treated me like something that did not belong."
You stared at him. In all these weeks, he had never shared anything like this.
"How did you... how did you manage?" you asked.
Damian met your eyes. "I decided that their opinions were irrelevant. And I found..." He looked away. "I found that one person who did not treat me as other. That made the rest bearable."
The silence stretched. You understood what he was saying. You understood that he was telling you something important.
"Thank you," you whispered.
He shrugged, picking up his book again. "Practice your presentation. On me. Now."
And so you did. You stood there, in the corner of the library, and you gave your five-minute presentation on the cuisine of Lyon to Damian. He listened without interrupting. When you stumbled, he waited. When you finished, he nodded once.
"Adequate," he said.
You knew enough about him by now to know that "adequate" was the highest praise he gave.
You sat down, your heart lighter than it had been in weeks.
Damian had asked you to meet him after school, in a small park a few blocks from campus. You were nervous, though you didn't know why.
When you arrived, he was sitting on a bench, holding a small paper bag.
"You came." he said.
"You asked." you replied.
He nodded, as if that settled something. Then he held out the bag. You took it, confused. Inside was a pastry. A familiar one. A pain au chocolat.
"I looked up where to find authentic French food in Gotham," he said, his voice carefully casual. "This bakery was acceptable."
You stared at the pastry. Then at him. Then back at the pastry.
"You... you went to a French bakery? For me?"
He shifted, looking uncomfortable. "You mentioned missing the food. I thought... it seemed logical to provide an alternative to the cafeteria's culinary crimes."
You didn't know what to say. No one had ever done something like this for you. No one had ever noticed like this. You took a bite. It was perfect. Flaky, buttery, the chocolate warm and rich. It tasted like home.
You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the taste wash over you. When you opened them, Damian was watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
"Good?" he asked.
"Perfect," you said. And then, because something in you needed to say it: "No one has ever... no one has ever been kind to me like this. Not here. Not since I arrived."
Damian looked away. "I am not kind," he said flatly. "Kindness implies choice. This is not a choice."
You didn't understand. "What do you mean?"
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was low.
"From the first moment I saw those idiots cornering you, I knew I would not allow it. I did not decide to protect you. It simply... was. As natural as breathing. As necessary as air." He finally looked at you. "I do not know what that means. But I know it is not a choice."
Your heart was pounding. The pastry sat forgotten in your lap.
"Damian..." you whispered.
He stood abruptly. "I should go. My father will worry."
He walked away, and you sat on that bench, holding a half-eaten pain au chocolat and a heart full of something you were almost afraid to name.
You arrived first at the library this time, settling into your usual corner with a textbook you couldn't focus on. Five minutes later, Damian appeared, sliding into the seat across from you without a word. He had a book, as always. Today it was something about medieval warfare.
For twenty minutes, you pretended to study. He pretended to read. But you caught him glancing at you over the top of his pages, and you knew he caught you doing the same.
Finally, you broke the silence.
"Why medieval warfare?"
He looked up. "Excuse me?"
"Your book." You pointed. "Why that?"
Damian glanced at it as if he'd forgotten what he was holding. "It's relevant to current... family discussions."
You tilted your head. "Your family discusses medieval warfare?"
"Constantly." A pause. "You would find it tedious."
"I find many things tedious. I ask anyway."
Damian's mouth twitched. "My father has... strong opinions. I am preparing counter-arguments."
You stared at him. Then you laughedâ that same surprised laugh from the balcony. Damian Wayne, preparing for a debate about medieval times with his father. It was so absurdly him that you couldn't help it.
He watched you laugh with an expression that was almost soft. "You find this amusing."
"Very much," you admitted. "In my family, we argue about cheese."
"Cheese?"
"Yes. My uncle believes Roquefort is the king of cheeses. My grandmother insists it is ComtĂŠ. Last Christmas, they did not speak for three days."
Damian considered this. "I would side with your grandmother."
You blinked. "You know French cheese?"
"I know excellence when I hear it."
You smiled, warm and unexpected. "You would like my grandmother."
Something flickered in his eyes. "Perhaps someday I will have the opportunity to meet her."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Someday. A future. A possibility. You looked down at your textbook, your cheeks warm.
Your art project was nearly finished.
The cathedral stood complete, its spires reaching toward a sky you had filled with soft watercolor clouds. The tree had grown leavesâtiny gold and orange dots that caught the light. The bench remained. And the small figure still sat beneath the tree, watching the cathedral.
But now, there were two figures.
You had added the second one without discussing it. A smaller figure, standing beside the bench, looking up at the cathedral. And Damian, without a word, had added a detail of his own: the standing figure's hand, reaching slightly toward the sitting figure.
Neither of you acknowledged it. Neither of you needed to.
Today, you were adding final touches. Damian mixed paints with the focus of a chemist. You watched his hands move; precise, capable, careful.
"Damian," you said quietly.
He glanced up.
"Thank you. For... for everything. For the bakery. For the umbrella. For the words you wrote for me. For..." You gestured vaguely, helplessly. "For all of it."
He was silent for a moment. Then he set down his brush.
"You do not need to thank me."
"I want to."
He met your eyes. "Then you are welcome." A pause. "But know that I would do it regardless. Thank you or not. It changes nothing."
You swallowed. "Why?"
The question hung between you. Why did he care? Why did he watch over you? Why did he sit with you and teach you words and bring you pastries from bakeries across the city?
Damian looked away. For a long moment, you thought he wouldn't answer.
Then, quietly: "Because when I am near you, the noise stops."
You didn't understand. "What noise?"
He gestured vaguely, a rare moment of uncertainty. "The noise. In my head. The expectations. The..." He stopped. Shook his head. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters," you said softly. "If it matters to you, it matters."
He looked at you then, and something in his expression crackedâjust slightly, just enough to let you see beneath.
"No one has ever said that to me," he admitted.
You reached across the table, your fingers brushing his. Just barely. Just enough.
"Then I will say it again," you promised. "As many times as you need.â
starring; damian wayne x gn!reader (established relationship)
summary; damian is emotionally constipated. youâre touched starved but refuse to acknowledge it. but that is no more a secret after damian realised; you're a whole another person when you're sleepyâ so clingy. and so his.
wc; 1k
ramblings; this is just a quick blurb written at 5 am before school do not judge me.
The blanket was soft, at least. That was the only positive thing you could muster about this movie. Some mindless action flick Damian had put on, probably just to have noise in the background of your shared space. Your apartment. His presence. It was a combination that still felt new, even after a few months.
You were curled at one end of the couch, Damian at the other. A respectable distance. A comfortable distance. The kind of distance that had become the unspoken rhythm of your relationship. He was Damian Wayne, after all. Emotional displays were a language he spoke with hesitation. And you⌠you were fine. You didnât need to be draped all over someone to feel connected. A quiet evening, a shared pot of tea, the occasional brush of fingers when passing the remote; that was your vocabulary of affection. It was enough. It had to be, because youâd built your entire fortress around the idea that wanting more was a weakness.
From his end of the couch, Damian stole glances at you that heâd never admit to. He watched the way the light from the screen cascade across your features, the way your brow furrowed slightly in concentration. He wanted to close the distance. To feel the solid warmth of you against his side. But the words, the simple act of asking, got stuck in his throat like a bone. What if you didnât want that? What if you were perfectly content with this careful, measured space?
An hour in, the explosions became a dull roar. Your eyelids grew heavy. The warmth of the blanket, the low hum of the TV, the secure knowledge that Damian was thereâit all conspired against you. You tried to fight it, blinking rapidly, but your body had other plans. The world began to soften at the edges, the sharp lines of your thoughts blurring into a comfortable fog. You were falling asleep.
Damian noticed the change immediately. The rigid set of your shoulders, the one you always held, slowly melted. Your head, which had been upright and alert, began to list to the side. He watched, fascinated, as your poker face simply dissolved. Your lips parted slightly, your brow smoothed out, and you looked younger, softer. Vulnerable.
Then, you moved.
With a soft, almost inaudible murmur, you shifted. You turned, your body curling towards him like a sunflower seeking the sun. You stretched out a hand, patting blindly at the cushion until your fingers found his arm. And then, with a contented sigh that went straight through him, you scooted closer. You pressed your cheek against his bicep and your arm looped clumsily, trustingly, around his.
Damian froze. His entire body went rigid. He stared down at the top of your head, your hair slightly mussed, your breathing now deep and even. What�
This was not the person heâd been dating. This was a myth. A legend. You were being clingy. And it was the most incredible thing he had ever felt.
Carefully, as if approaching a startled animal, he moved. He untangled his arm, holding his breath, terrified youâd wake up and the spell would be broken. But you just made a small sound of protest, your brow puckering for a second. He quickly wrapped that arm around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his chest. You immediately relaxed, nuzzling into the warmth of his hoodie, your fingers curling into the fabric.
He was surrounded by you. Your weight, your warmth, your scent. And for the first time in months, the constricting knot of want in his chest loosened. He could hold you. You were letting him. You were asking him to, without a single word.
The movie played on, forgotten. Damian didnât move a muscle. He just held you, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head, a strange, unfamiliar ache blooming behind his ribs. It felt like his heart was too big for his chest.
An indeterminate amount of time later, you stirred. The fog receded. Awareness crept back in, and with it, the horrifying realization that you were not at your end of the couch. You were wrapped around Damian Wayne like a koala. Your eyes flew open, you went rigid. You tried to pull back, your face flooding with mortification, a thousand excuses already forming on your tongue.
But his arm tightened, just slightly, holding you in place.
You looked up, your guarded mask hurriedly slamming back into place, meeting his unreadable green eyes.
For a long moment, he just looked at you. Then, the corner of his mouth ticked up in the faintest hint of a smile.
âYouâre a blanket hog when youâre unconscious,â he said, his voice low and even. A simple observation.
Your brain scrambled for a response. âI⌠I wasnâtâŚâ
He shifted, bringing his other hand up. Your breath caught as he gently, deliberately, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was electric.
âItâs fine,â he said quietly. Then, after a beat, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip. âDonât move.â
It wasnât a request. It was a statement. A command wrapped in the thinnest layer of vulnerability.
And for once, your poker face failed you completely. You couldnât hide the flicker of shock, the desperate, starved hope that lit up your eyes. He saw it. He saw everything.
You didnât move. You stayed right there, in the circle of his arms, as the credits rolled on the forgotten movie. The distance between you, the careful space you had both maintained, was gone. And neither of you seemed in a hurry to put it back.
summary; after leaving a long day at high school, the last thing you expected was to see robin bleeding out and unconscious in an alley. obviously, you had to help himâ that's what good people do. he'd be grateful, right?.. right?
wc; 3k
ramblings; damn my first ff got a lot of notes đ thank you. i hope y'all like this one too. i know male reader it's not common but iâm tired of that being the case, m readers rise uppp
No offense to myself or anything but what the fuck am I doing.
You thought, while wrapping a bandage around Robin's waist.
How did you get to this? Well..
It was common for you to stay after class. After all, you're the president of the student council.
Tonight, it had been the annual charity gala planning committee, which meant three hours of listening to Missy Cartwright argue about whether the napkins should be cream or eggshell. Eggshell, youâd decided randomly, just to make it stop.
By the time youâd locked up the student council room, the sun had long since abandoned Gotham, leaving the city to its neon and shadows. Your shortcut home was an alley. A dumb decision, but it shaved ten minutes off your walk and you had a mountain of calculus homework. The alley smelled like wet cardboard and week-old Chinese food.
Then you almost tripped over something soft.
You yelped, stumbling back. Your first thought was a homeless person, your second was please be alive. But as your eyes adjusted to the dim light from a flickering streetlamp, you saw a cape. And blood.
Oh no. Oh shit. Oh no no, no.
It was Robin. The Robin. Batman's sidekick, not the tall one with yellow cape, but the one who always looked permanently constipated and probably slept with his katana. And he was lying in a puddle of something that was definitely not rainwater, with a knife deep in his side.
Ouch.
Your survival instincts screamed at you to run, scape and leave him there. Maybe call the cops, let the professionals handle the vigilante with a huge stab wound. Didn't he had like, years of training to be Batman's sidekick? How did someone even manage to stab him?
But then he made a small, pained sound, and his hand twitched toward the knife.
âDon't you dare touch that,â you hissed, your body moving before your brain could catch up.
You were on your knees in the filthy alley, you'd bag long forgotten on the ground. Your first-aid training from a random lifeguard certification you took years ago kicked inâ thanks to your friends for forcing you to do side quests, at least that one was useful.
Pressure on the wound. Don't remove the object. Check for breathing. His pulse is thready but there. âOkay. Okay, you're fine.â you muttered, more to yourself than to him.
You fumbled in your bag, you always carried a small first-aid kit; student council president perk, you were always prepared. You ripped open gauze pads with your teeth, pressing them around the base of the knife. His costume was a mess of Kevlar and blood, you had to rip off part of the fabric. Then you noticed; half of his domino mask was broken, leaving one eye uncovered.
You pressed your lips into a thin line, averting your gaze, trying to respect his identity as much as possible. You were just starting to wrap a bandage around his middle to hold the gauze in place when his eyes opened abruptly.
They were green. Shockingly green. Spotify greenâ you laughed internally at the comparison. And they locked onto you with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
In a flash, his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. His grip was strong, even injured. âStop.â he rasped, his voice weak but growl.
You stared at him, then pointedly looked down at the knife sticking out of him, then back at his face. âYou're injured.â
âI'm finââ
âI would believe that you're fine. But you have a knife sticking out of your abdomen. So.â
He blinked, as if he wasn't expecting for you to interrupt him. âWho are you?â he asked, his hand still holding your arm tightly.
âThe person stopping you from bleeding out in an alley. Now let go so I can finish.â You tried to pull your wrist back. He held on. â Seriously? I'm not a criminal. I'm just a guy with a very impatient mom who is going to kill me if I'm not home in twenty minutes.â
Something flickered in his eyes. Slowly, his grip relaxed and his hand fell away. His eyes fluttered closed again.
â.. Okay,â you murmured, resuming your work. âJust sleep. Or pass out. Whatever's easier.â
You finished the bandage, tight and secure. It wasn't hospital-grade, but at least he wasn't bleeding out anymore. You pulled out your phone, ready to dial 911 and bolt. But then his eyes opened again, slightly. âDon't.â he whispered. âThey'll find me.â
âThe police?â
A weak, condescending snort. âNo.â Then you understood. Of course, the Bats. The nocturnal weirdos who would probably not appreciate a civilian calling an ambulance for their bleeding bird. You sighed. A long, put-upon sound that was surely becoming your trademark after tonight.
âFine. Don't die. I don't want a bat furry interrogating me because I was the last who saw you alive.â
He didn't respond. He was out cold again.
You sat back on your heels, looking at the unconscious Robin, the blood on your hands, the knife in his side and the general absurdity of the situation.
âWell,â you said to the empty alley. âThis is going to be a hell of a story to tell at my wedding someday.â
A shadow detached itself from the fire escape above. A much, much larger shadow. You looked up to see the silhouette of Batman staring down at you.
You flinched. He was way more intimidating in real life than stories could ever conceive. Still, you gave a tiny, awkward wave. The Bat just descended, gathered the boy in his arms like he weighed nothing, and then was gone.
You were alone again, the only evidence of what happened the last ten minutes being the blood staining your favourite jeans. You grabbed your bag, stood up on shaky legs, and continued your walk home.
How am I going to explain this to my mother?
A week later, you're starting to convince yourself it never happened.
The blood on your jeans had washed out. Your mom had believed the story about tripping near a dumpster. Your life returned to its regularly scheduled programming of quizzes, extracurricular drama, and the eternal question of what to pack for lunch.
That night was a fever dream. Robin was an hallucination brought on by stress and the lingering fumes of that Chinese restaurant.
At least, that's what you told yourself at 3:00 PM when you left school.
By 8:30 PM, walking home alone after a marathon student council meeting about napkin placement âeggshell had been overturned, they couldn't decide yet again and you wanted to screamâ, you were less sure.
The feeling started around block three. A prickle on the back of your neck. The feeling of being watched that made your shoulders tense and your pace quicken. You told yourself it was Gotham paranoia. It was practically the city's motto: Gotham; Where Everyone's Being Followed, Probably.
But this was different. This gaze felt... focused. You stopped dead in the middle of the sideway. The street was empty, just the distant hum of traffic and the gentle rustle of the wind. That, by the way, smelled awful.
âOkay,â you said aloud. âIf someone's there, I have a very sharp key and I'm not afraid to use it. And I took a self-defense class in eighth grade. I'm basically a death trap.â
Silence.
You waited. Then, from above and behind you, a voice; It was dry, unimpressed. âYour stance is wrong. You'd be on the ground in three seconds. â
You spun around.
Robin. Very alive, definitely not bleeding. He was standing on a fire escape, one floor up, arms crossed over his chest like he was posing for a photoshoot.
Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me.
He dropped from the fire escape, landing in front of you with absolutely no sound. It was hugely unsettling, humans weren't supposed to move like that. He straightened, and even though you had a few inches on him, the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the shorter one.
âYou're a difficult person to locate,â he started. âNo social media presence worth mentioning. You don't take the same route home twice in a row. And you spend a inordinate amount of time in that coffee shop on Bleaker Street.â
Your brain short-circuited. âYou've been... following me?â
âObserving.â
âStalking for a week.â
âEnsuring your silence.âHe said it like a threat. âYou saw my face. You touched myââ He stopped, a flicker of something almost like embarrassment crossing his features. âYou provided aid. That requiered me to asses potential threats.â
You stared at him, mouth agape. He stared back. â..You are the worst stalker I've ever had.â
His eyes narrowed. âHave you had others?â
âDo you have any idea how creepy that is? I've been looking over my shoulder for days! I almost maced a mailman yesterday!â you ignored the question.
âA reasonable response to a potential threat.â
âThe threat was you! You're the threat! You're literally standing here, admitting you've been following me, and you don't see the problem?â
He tilted his head. âI was discreet.â
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out except a sound of pure, unfiltered exasperation.
âYou know what? Fine. Okay. Let's address this logically.â You held up a hand, ticking off fingers. âOne: I didn't tell anyone about you. Two: I don't plan to tell anyone about you. Three: if I was going to tell anyone about you, I would have done it already, probably for a substantial amount of money, because have you seen the tabloid rates for Batman stories?â
Something shifted in his expression. Almost imperceptible, but you caught it. Surprise, maybe. Or grudging respect for your negotiation skills. âYou wouldn't sell the story.â he said like he was certain.
âI have plans for my future. You think I want my legacy to be 'that guy who sold out a teenager in tights'?â
His eye twitched. âThey're not tights. They're tactical armor weave.â
âForgive me. Tactical armor weave tights.â
For a moment, you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. It was gone so fast you couldn't be sure.
âYou're annoying.â he said flatly.
âComing from the guy who's been 'observing' me for a week. That's rich.â
He was quiet for a moment, studying you with an intensity that made you want to check if you had something on your face. Then, slowly, he asked, âWhy did you help me?â
The question caught you off guard. It was genuine. Curious. Like he genuinely couldn't comprehend why someone would kneel in a dirty alley to help a bleeding stranger.
You shrugged. âYou were hurt. I had bandages. Seemed like the obvious thing to do.â
âNo one in Gotham does the obvious thing.â
âYeah, well.â You shifted your bag on your shoulder. âMaybe they should.â
Another long look. Then, without warning, he moved. One second he was five feet away, the next he was right in front of you, close enough that you could see the way his jaw was set in a permanent line of determination. His hand shot out and adjusted the strap of your bag, which had been slipping.
âThere,â Robin said, stepping back. âYou'll walk more efficiently now.â
You blinked. âDid you just... fix my bag strap?â
âYour gait was uneven. It was distracting.â
âMy gait.â He's so awkward it's funny.
âFrom the fire escape. For the last three blocks. Your left strap slips.â
You had no words. Genuinely, completely, absolutely no words. âI'll continue observing,â he announced. âTo ensure your continued silence.â
âMy continuedâI just told you I'm not talking!â
âWords are cheap. Actions require verification.â
And then he was gone.
âNext time I'm going to commit.â you whispered to the night air.
A block away, you heard a faint thud, followed by a muffled curse. You looked up just in time to see a small figure untangling himself from a clothesline on someone's fire escape.
You had a routine. In a city like Gotham, routines were how you kept the chaos at bay.
Monday through Thursday: school, student council, homework, bed. Friday: same, but with takeout and a movie your mom pretended not to notice you staying up for. Saturday: catch up on sleep, study, maybe see friends if the social battery allowed. Sunday: dread Monday.
It was a Thursday, two weeks after the alley incident and one week after the sidewalk confrontation. You were in your room, calculus textbook open, pencil behind your ear, and a mug of tea going cold on your desk. The window was cracked open because your room ran hot, letting in the distant sounds of Gotham traffic and the occasional siren.
Then a shadow passed across your balcony.
You didn't notice at first. You were too deep in the agony of derivatives. But then came the thump, like someone had dropped a very determined cat onto the wrought iron railing outside your window.
You froze.
Your balcony was on the third floor. There was no fire escape. No way up except through your apartment or a very ambitious climbing attempt.
Please be a cat, you thought. Please be a very large, very clumsy cat. You turned slowly toward the window.
Robin was standing on your balcony like he owned it. His arms were crossed. His cape billowed dramatically in the breeze. Through the glass, you could see him surveying your room with the critical eye of a building inspector.
You screeched.
He raised one eyebrow, as if to say, Well? Are you going to let me in or not?
You glanced at your closed bedroom door. Your mom was watching TV in the living room. If she walked in right now and saw the Boy Wonder on her son's balcony, she would literally pass out. And then wake up and call the news.
You crossed to the window, slid it open, and hissed, "What are you doing here?"
He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, landing silently on your carpet. "Your building's security is inadequate. The fire escape access is poorly maintained, and the lock on the ground floor door is from the 1990s. I could have broken in three different ways."
"That's... not an answer to my question."
He was already moving, circling your room like a panther circling its victim. He picked up a framed photo of you and your friends from last year's homecoming. "You smile too much in photographs. It makes you look unserious."
"That's called being happy. You should try it sometime."
He set the photo down with a scoff, moving to your bookshelf. His fingers trailed over the spines; your textbooks, your collection of worn paperbacks, the stack of student council binders. "Your organizational system is chaotic. Alphabetical by author for fiction, but chronological by acquisition for nonfiction? Inconsistent."
You gaped at him. "You've been here for thirty seconds and you're already criticizing?"
"I'm observing."
"You're judging."
"Same thing."
He finished his circuit of the room and ended up at your desk, peering down at your calculus homework with an expression of mild disdain. "Derivatives. You're on chapter four?"
"We're on chapter four. The whole class is on chapter four. It's where the curriculum goes."
"I finished calculus when I was eleven."
"Good for you. Do you want a cookie? I have some, but they're in the kitchen, and if my mom sees you, she's going to have a lot of questions I don't know how to answer."
He ignored the cookie comment, which was probably for the best. Instead, he picked up your pencil âyour favorite pencil by the wayâ and started making notes in the margin of your homework.
"What are you doing?"
"Fixing your mistakes." He didn't look up. "Your approach to problem seven is inefficient. You're taking the long way around. Watch."
You watched, too stunned to stop him, as he rewrote your work in a tidy, precise script. It took him maybe thirty seconds. When he finished, he set the pencil down and looked at you like he'd just performed a simple parlor trick.
"There. Much cleaner."
You stared at the page. The work was... correct. More than correct. It was perfect. The kind of solution your teacher would probably frame.
"Thanks," you said, because you had manners, even when being terrorized in your own bedroom by a teen vigilante with a superiority complex.
He nodded, accepting your gratitude like it was his due.
A beat of silence.
"Seriously, though," you said. "Why are you here? On my balcony. In my room. Helping with calculus."
He was quiet for a moment, looking anywhere but you. Finally, he said, "I was in the area."
"It's midnight."
"Crime doesn't keep a schedule."
"And my bedroom is... what, a high-value crime location?"
Another pause. Longer this time. He picked up a random object from your deskâa stress ball from the school storeâand squeezed it experimentally. "You didn't tell anyone."
It wasn't a question, but you answered anyway. "No. I told you I wouldn't."
"You could have. It would have been profitable. Or you could have used it for social gain. Association with a vigilante carries certain... social currencies."
You leaned against your desk, crossing your arms. "First of all, my social currency is based on my ability to mediate between the drama club and the debate team, not on who I know in tights."
"Tactical armor weave."
"Whatever. Second of all, you're a kid. A weird, aggressive, balcony-breaking-and-entering kid, but still a kid. I'm not going to sell you out to the tabloids because you got stabbed near my shortcut home."
Something flickered in his eyes. You couldn't quite read it; Robin was about as emotionally transparent as a brick wallâbut it was there.
"I am not a child," he said flatly.
"You're literally fourteen."
"I'm sixteen."
"Even worse. You're an angsty teen."
He scowled, but there was no real heat in it. He tossed the stress ball back onto your desk and moved toward the window.
"Wait," you said.
He paused, one hand on the frame.
"If you're going to keep doing... whatever is this, you could at least be useful. Bring snacks next time. My mom gets the cheap brand of cookies and I'm honestly embarrassed about it."
He looked back at you, and for just a second, you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
"I'll consider it."
Then he was gone, slipping over the railing and disappearing into the night like he'd never been there at all.
You stood in your room, calculus homework slightly improved, stress ball slightly squeezed, trying to process what had just happened.
A shadow moved on the balcony again.
You jumped. "What nowâ"
But it was just your neighbor's cat, a fat orange tabby named Marmalade, who had apparently decided to investigate the commotion. He sat on the railing, blinked at you slowly, and began grooming his paw.
You let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding.
"Right," you muttered, closing the window. "Just a normal Thursday."
You looked at your homework. The elegant solution in precise, unfamiliar handwriting stared back at you.
Robin, you thought. Of course he was good at calculus. Of course he was. Because your life was apparently a rom-com written by someone with a very specific sense of humor.
You sat back down at your desk, picked up your pencil, and tried very hard not to think about green eyes and billowing capes.
Spoiler: you failed.
The next night, you found a small, neatly wrapped package on your balcony.
Inside: a box of expensive European cookies, the kind your mom could never buy, and a handwritten note on cream stationery.
âThese are acceptable. Your mother's cookies are an insult to baked goods everywhere.
summary; after moving out of gotham, you've forgotten your best friend. but he hasn't. and now that you've returned, you have a hard time recognising that, that hot guy in your class is the same little boy you once knew.
wc; 5k
ramblings; first tumblr fic kinda nervy. i genuinely do not understand how to write here i'm doing whatever lmao. my first language is not english so, my apologies for any mistakes.
How could you.
Damian's knuckles connected to the punching bag with rapid succession, each strike sharper than the last. He's been at it for two hours. Two hours of punishing himself because sleep had been impossible. Again.
How could you forget about him?
Four years since you've moved away, four years since he'd walked into Gotham Academy to find your desk empty, your locker cleared out, and not so much as a goodbye note waiting for him. Four years of telling himself it didn't matter, that he didn't care. That you were just some kid from his past. A fleeting chapter in the book of life of Damian Wayne, son of Batman, heir to Wayne Enterprises, trained by the League of Assassins since birth.
You were none of those things. You were not even remarkable in the way he would proclaim. You were just⌠you.
Warm. Annoyingly persistent. Stubborn in your kindness. The only person in that entire damned school who hadn't flinched when he'd snapped at you. The only one who'd kept coming back, day after day, asking questions he didn't want to answer, sharing lunches he didn't ask for, laughing at jokes he hadn't meant to be funny.
His first friend.
And yet, apparently, for you he was nothing but another friend you had. Another stranger you shared class with. Another anyone.
Because after four years of being away, you came back to the same halls you left behind, the Gotham Academy, and you didn't remember him.
Oh but he does remember the day you came back.
The courtyard buzzed with the usual first-day energy. Students reuniting after summer break, comparing tans and sharing exaggerated stories of their expensive vacations. Damian moved through the crowd with practiced ease, his expression carefully neutral, his posture radiating a clear message: Do not approach.
Most didn't. They'd learned years ago.
A few nodded in his direction. He acknowledged them with the barest tilt of his head. These were the ones who'd become⌠well, not friends exactly. Acquaintances. People he could tolerate. People he'd learned to coexist with because you'd shown him it was possible.
He'd never told them that, of course. He'd never told anyone anything unless necessary.
His eyes swept the courtyard automatically, a habit born of years as Robin. Assess threats. Identify exits. Note unusual behavior. It was second nature, as natural as breathing.
And then he stopped breathing entirely.
You were standing by the old oak tree near the science building. Damian's feet locked to the pavement. His heart, that traitorous organ he'd trained to remain steady under sniper fire and explosive decompression, stuttered violently in his chest.
It was you.
Older now, obviously. Taller. Your features had sharpened and softened in all the right places, the awkwardness of childhood burned away by adolescence. But it was unmistakably you. The way you tilted your head when listening. The easy, open posture that invited people in. The laugh that carried across the courtyard now, warm and bright as sunlight.
You were surrounded, just like old times. A cluster of students had gathered around you, their faces alight with recognition and delight. Hands touched your shoulder, your arm. Voices overlapped with questions and exclamations.
"You're back!"
"Oh my god, I can't believe it!"
"How long are you staying?"
"Did you really move to Metropolis? What was it like?"
You answered each one with that same patience Damian remembered, that same genuine interest in every person who spoke to you.
Something cracked inside him. Something he'd carefully preserved for four years.
He straightened his spine. Smoothed his expression into one of cool indifference. This was fine. This was good, even. You were back. He could simply... approach. Casually. As if four years of wondering where you were, if you were safe, if you ever thought of him, meant nothing.
As if he hadn't replayed every conversation you'd ever had a thousand times.
As if he hadn't kept the stupid origami crane you'd folded for him during a boring lecture, pressed between the pages of a book you recommended but he'd never admit to reading.
He started walking toward you.
Each step felt deliberate, calculated. He rehearsed the words in his mind; a perfectly calibrated greeting. Casual, aloof, something that would convey that he'd noted your return without suggesting he'd given it any particular thought.
"You're back. How... unexpected." No, too cold.
"I see you've returned. The courtyard hasn't been the same." Absolutely not. Too warm. Too revealing.
"Tt. You." Perfect. Simple. Ambiguous. He could work with that.
He reached the edge of your group, close enough now to hear the individual voices, to see the way the morning light caught in your hair. You were mid-laugh at something someone had said, your head thrown back, utterly at ease.
Damian waited.
One beat. Two.
You finished laughing, your gaze sweeping naturally across the faces around you. It passed over him. Skimmed right past his face like he was no more remarkable than the tree behind him. You turned back to the girl on your left, picking up the thread of conversation without missing a beat.
Damian stood there. For one second. Two. Three.
You hadn't looked at him. You hadn't stopped. You hadn't even registered his existence.
He turned and walked away.
His face betrayed nothing. His posture remained impeccable. But inside, something was burning. Something hot and humiliating and utterly foreign to someone who'd been trained since birth to control his emotions.
How. Dare. You.
The words hammered through his skull with every step toward the main building. Four years. Four years of wondering. Four years of you occupying space in his mind without permission, without warning, without any goddamn reason except that you'd been kind to him when no one else was.
And you didn't even recognised him.
But after that, he started planning. If you didn't remember, he'd make you remember. He didn't know how yet, but he would. You'd look at him and you'd see. You'd remember the scrawny, angry boy who'd snapped at you for asking about his weekend. The boy you'd kept talking to anyway. The boy who'd eventually, reluctantly, started saving you a seat at lunch.
The boy who'd never forgotten you. Not for one single damn day.
The corner table in the north end of the cafeteria had been yours since forever. You even carved Damian's name on it. It was an unspoken agreement; It had belonged to the two of you since you were ten. You'd claimed it first, dragging him there when he'd tried to eat alone in the library. After that, it became a habit. Your spot, his spot.
Eleven-year-old Damian had pretended to hate it. Sixteen-year-old Damian had never forgotten the exact angle of the sunlight through that particular window.
He arrived at that same table four minutes before lunch time. Of course, it was empty. He sat in his old place and waited. His lunch sat untouched in front of him; He wasn't hungry.
Students filtered in, the cafeteria filled with noise and movement. Damian's eyes never left the doorway. You appeared seven minutes later, laughing at something, surrounded by your group of friends.
You scanned the room for a place to sit. Your eyes passed over the corner table. Over him.
And then you turned to your left, joining a table near the windows with your friends, your back turned to him.
Damian's jaw tightened.
Fine. He could try another method to catch your attention.
The next day, Damian positioned himself outside your third-period classroom before the bell. He leaned against the wall, expression bored, holding loosely a copy of The Hobbit.
It wasn't a random choice.
In sixth grade, you'd done a project on fantasy literature. You'd been obsessed with Tolkien for an entire semester, forcing Damian to listen to detailed summaries of every chapter whether he wanted to or not. You'd lent him your copy of The Hobbit, with your name written on the inside cover in gel pen, and made him promise to read it.
He had. Four times. But he never told you. And now, he was holding that exact same copy, waiting for a reaction.
Students spilled from the classroom. You emerged mid-conversation with a girl Damian vaguely recognised.
He shifted position slightly, making sure the book's cover was visible. Hold it at the perfect angle.
You walked past him, glanced at the book.
Then looked away and kept walking.
Damian stared at your retreating back, something hot and indignant rising in his chest. The Hobbit. Your favourite book. The one you'd pressed into his hands with genuine excitement, telling him he had to read it.
And yet, nothing. No reaction whatsoever.
âTt.â The sound escaped him before he could stop it.
Day three. Damian refined his approach.
Subtlety wasn't working; You were either willfully ignoring him or genuinely oblivious, and Damian's pride wouldn't allow him to consider the former without definitive proof.
He needed something more direct. Something that would reach you without requiring to actually see him.
âŚYour locker. Of course.
You always stopped there between fourth and fifth period, usually alone for a minute or two while your friends rushed ahead to claim seats in their next class. A small window opportunity.
The gum was a long shot. A specific brand that you'd always had in the past. You'd offered him on every day for three months before he finally accepted. He pretended to hate them, but secretly, he started buying his own.
On day three, he left a single tin on the top shelf of your locker, positioned so it would be the first thing you saw when you opened the door.
He watched from the end of the hallway as you approached. Watched you spin the combination. Watched you pull open the door.
You saw the tin. Frowned at it.
Looked around the hallway with a puzzled expression.
Your eyes swept past him without stopping. Then you shrugged, dropped the tin in your bag, and continued to your next class.
Damian didn't know whether to feel triumphant or murderous. You'd taken it. That was⌠something. But you hadn't made the connection. Hadn't stopped to wonder why someone would leave mints in your locker. Hadn't thought of him at all.
Unacceptable.
By day four, Damian had abandoned all pretense of subtlety.
He positioned himself outside your shared first-period class before the bell, waiting. When you approached, he stepped directly into your path.
You stopped. Looked up at him. Your expression shifted from surprise to polite confusion to⌠was that wariness?
"Can I... help you?" you asked.
Damian looked down at you. Four years. Four years and you were standing right here, close enough to touch, close enough that he could see the exact shade of your eyes in the morning light. And you still didn't know him.
He opened his mouth.
"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."
You frowned. "Excuse me?"
Damian waited. The quote hung in the air between you; Bilbo Baggins, The Fellowship of the Ring, the line you'd recited to him once when he'd complained about yet another school field trip.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
"...Okay," you said slowly. "That's... a quote. From a book. Cool." You stepped around him carefully, as if he might be unstable. "Nice talking to you?"
You disappeared into the classroom. Damian stood in the hallway, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
You thought he was weird. You thought he was some random classmate reciting Tolkien at you for no reason. You didn't see him. You didn't remember.
He wanted to throw himself to the sun. Maybe Jon could help with that.
He took a breath. Then another. Control. He was in control. He would simply have to try harder.
From your point of view, the first week back at Gotham Academy had been mostly wonderful and slightly bizarre.
Wonderful because your old friends had welcomed you back like you'd never left, because the teachers remembered you, because the city felt like coming home after years away.
Bizarre because of him.
You didn't know his name. You'd checked the class rosterâ his name started with D, but that was all you had. Dark hair. Green eyes. Incredibly good-looking in a way that made you slightly annoyed at yourself for noticing.
And weird.
He sat in your old spot at lunch. The corner table where you used to eat with your friendâwhat was his name? David? Daniel? Something with a D. You hadn't thought about him in years, but the corner table brought back memories. You'd have sat there yourself, but some intense-looking boy had already claimed it.
Then there was the book thing. You'd seen him holding The Hobbit outside your classroom, and for just a second, something had flickered in your mind. A memory. A feeling. But then it was gone, and you'd dismissed it as nothing.
The mints were the strangest part.
Someone had left a tin of your favourite gum in your locker. The same brand you'd carried everywhere in fifth grade, offering them to anyone who'd take one, especially that angry boy you'd been so determined to befriend.
You'd kept the gum, obviously. Free gum was free gum. But you couldn't figure out who'd left them or why.
And then this morning, the same boy of the cafeteria cornered you in the hallway and recited Tolkien at you. Tolkien. Your favorite. The obsession that had consumed you for an entire year when you were eleven.
It was starting to feel less like coincidence and more like... something.
You mentioned it to your friends at lunch.
"There's this guy in my first period," you said, picking at your salad. "He keeps... I don't know. Being weird around me."
"Weird how?" your friend Isabella asked, intrigued.
"Like, he stares at me a lot. And he was holding The Hobbit outside my class yesterday, which, okay, maybe a coincidence. But then someone left gum in my locker and this morning he quoted Fellowship of the Ring at me like it was supposed to mean something."
Isabellaâs eyebrows shot up. "He quoted Tolkien at you? As a pick-up line?"
"Is that what this is? A pick-up line?"
"It has to be." Another friend, Jess, leaned in. "Hot guy does weird things to get your attention? Classic move. What's he look like?"
You described him. Dark hair, green eyes, always looks slightly annoyed, incredibly toned, speaks like he's delivering a royal proclamation.
Isabella and Jess exchanged a look.
"That's Damian Wayne," Isabella said.
"Damian Wayne?" The name meant nothing to you.
"Bruce Wayne's son? The billionaire's kid? He's been here since like... fifth grade or something. Super intense. Never talks to anyone. Total loner vibe but in a hot way."
Something stirred in your memory. Bruce Wayne's son. Fifth grade. A boy with a perpetual scowl and an attitude problem who'd glared at you for weeks before finally, reluctantly, accepting your friendship.
Damian. That Damian.
Your friend in fifth grade. Your only real friend that year, if you were honest. The one who'd stopped scowling at you eventually, who'd started saving you a seat, who'd once smiled at something you said before catching himself and going back to glaring at the world.
Damian.
You looked across the cafeteria toward the corner table. He was already looking at you.
Your eyes met. His expression didn't change; still that same intense stare, still that same set to his jaw, but something in his posture shifted. Like he'd been waiting for you to notice him.
Oh shit.
The thought hit you with uncomfortable clarity. Oh no, he's hot.
You looked away quickly, face warming.
"Wait," Isabella said, watching your reaction with amusement. "You like him?"
"I don't even know him."
"You just said he's been here since fifth grade. Didn't you go here in fifth grade?"
"Yes, butâ" You stopped. Fifth grade. Your friend. The one you'd left behind without a proper goodbye because your parents had sprung the move on you with three days' notice and you'd been too overwhelmed to think straight.
The one you'd always wondered about. Wondered if he'd missed you. Wondered if he'd made other friends. Wondered if he'd forgotten you completely.
You looked toward the corner table again.
He was still watching you. This time, when your eyes met, he didn't look away. Neither did you.
Then someone dropped a tray nearby, the crash breaking the moment, and you both startled. Damian's gaze snapped away, fixing on some point across the room with deliberate intensity. You turned back to your friends, your heart beating faster than it should.
Damian.
The name echoed in your mind. The pieces were starting to click together. The corner table. The Hobbit. The gum. The quote.
He wasn't being weird because he liked you. He was being weird because he knew you.
And you hadn't recognized him at all.
Damian Wayne had faced down armed assassins. He'd traded blows with villains who could level buildings. He'd stared into the cold eyes of his own grandfather and refused to flinch.
None of that prepared him for walking toward your lunch table.
His footsteps felt too loud. His posture felt too stiff. His hands felt strangely useless at his sides. He'd considered bringing a book. Something to hold. Something to make this look casual. But that would require carrying a book to lunch, which he never did, and you'd notice, and then you'd know...
Know what? That he was trying? That he'd spent four years not forgetting you? That he'd constructed an entire multi-phase operation just to make you look at him?
Pathetic. And true.
You were sitting with the same group from before. Maya, Jess, and two others he recognized from various classes. Your tray held the remnants of lunch; a half-eaten sandwich, an apple with one bite missing, a carton of chocolate milk.
Your chocolate milk. You'd always drunk chocolate milk.
Damian remembered that information away for no reason at all.
He reached the edge of your table. You were mid-conversation, gesturing animatedly about something. No one had noticed him yet.
He cleared his throat.
Isabella looked up first. Her eyes widened slightly in recognition, surprise, the particular look people got when Damian Wayne voluntarily approached them. Then Jess looked up. Then the others.
Then you.
You turned, and your eyes met his, and for one suspended moment, everything else fell away.
"May I sit here?"
The words came out more formal than he'd intended. More stiff.
You blinked. "Uh. Sure?"
Isabella made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. Jess's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. The other two exchanged glances loaded with meaning Damian couldn't decipher and didn't care about.
He sat.
The bench was too close. He'd calculated the distance poorly, or maybe you'd shifted without noticing, but whatever the reason, his knee was approximately three inches from yours and the space between you felt charged with something electric and deeply inconvenient.
No one spoke.
Damian became acutely aware that he had not brought any food. He had nothing to look at, nothing to do with his hands, nothing to explain his presence here except the truth, which he absolutely could not reveal.
"So," you said finally. "Damian, right?"
His head snapped toward you. You knew his name. You'd learned his name. That was... something. Progress.
"Yes."
"I'mâ" You started to introduce yourself, then stopped, a faint flush coloring your cheeks. "Right. You probably know my name. From class. Never mind."
"I know your name."
The words came out too fast. Too intense. Damian cursed internally.
You looked at him oddly. "Okay. Cool."
Another silence. Isabella and Jess were watching this interaction like a tennis match, their heads swiveling between you with barely concealed fascination.
Damian needed a subject change. Something neutral. Something that wouldn't reveal how much he knew about you, how many details he'd stored away over the years, how often he'd thought about you when he should have been focusing on patrol or training or literally anything else.
"The weather," he said. Everyone stared at him. "Has been... agreeable. Lately." He wanted to die. He wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole.
You stared at him for another beat. Then the corner of your mouth twitched. Then you were giggling. Not at him, exactly, but at the situation, at the absurdity of this intense, gorgeous boy sitting at your table and talking about the weather.
"Yeah," you said, still smiling. "The weather's been great. Really sunny. Very... weather-y."
"Indeed."
Isabella made a choking sound.
Damian's jaw tightened. He was failing. Spectacularly. This was worse than the mints, worse than the quotes, worse than any of it. At least when you'd ignored him, he hadn't had to sit here and witness his own social destruction in real time.
But then you did something unexpected.
You turned toward him fully, your smile softening into something almost familiar. "It's good to meet you, Damian. For real, I mean. We've been in class together all week and I don't think we've actually talked."
We have talked, he wanted to say. We talked for an two entire years. You taught me that not everyone wants something from me. You made me laugh when I didn't think I could. You were my first friend and I never forgot you not for one single day.
Instead, he said: "Likewise."
Your smile widened. "So. Damian. What's your deal?"
"My... deal?"
"Yeah. You know." You gestured vaguely. "You're kind of intense. Always sitting alone. Quoting Tolkien at people in hallways." A pause. "That was you, right? With the Bilbo quote?"
Something shifted in Damian's chest. You'd remembered the quote. Not the context, not the connection to your shared past, but you'd remembered the quote. It was progress. Small, infinitesimal progress.
"Yes. That was me."
"Why?"
The question caught him off guard. Why. Such a simple word, such a complicated answer.
Because you loved Tolkien. Because you made me read The Hobbit and I pretended to hate it but I didn't. Because it's the only thing I could think of that might make you remember.
"I thought you might appreciate it," he said carefully. "The reference."
Something flickered in your eyes. A thought. A question. But before you could voice it, Jess interrupted.
"Oh my god, you two are so weird. Just kiss already."
Damian's entire body went rigid. You choked on your chocolate milk.
"Jess!" you sputtered, wiping your mouth. "What the hell?"
"What? He's been staring at you all week. You've been talking about him nonstop. The tension is literally suffocating the rest of us.
"I have not been talking about him nonstop!"
"You absolutely have. 'He quoted Tolkien at me. He left gum in my locker. He was holding The Hobbit. He looked at me today. He looked at me yesterday.'" Jess's imitation was spot-on, complete with dreamy inflection.
Your face had progressed from pink to crimson. "I hate you. I hate you so much."
Damian sat frozen, processing. You'd been talking about him. To your friends. You'd noticed the gums, the book, the quotes. You'd noticed him looking at you.
You'd noticed him.
"I should go," he said abruptly, standing.
The movement was too fast. His knee bumped the table, rattling trays and sending your chocolate milk carton tipping sideways. You caught it instinctively, but not before a small arc of brown liquid splashed onto his sleeve.
"Shitâ I'm sorryâ" You were already reaching for napkins, your expression mortified.
Damian looked down at the stain spreading across his cuff. Then back at you, flustered and apologizing and so familiar it made his chest ache.
"It's fine," he heard himself say. "It's only a shirt."
You paused, napkin halfway to his arm. Something in your expression shifted. "That's... that's exactly what you would say."
"What?"
You blinked, seeming to come back to yourself. "What? No one. Never mind. Here, let meâ" You dabbed at his sleeve, your fingers brushing his wrist, and Damian forgot how to breathe.
The touch lasted two seconds. Maybe three. It felt like an eternity.
"There," you said, stepping back. "It'll probably stain, but at least it's not dripping."
"Thank you."
You looked up at him. Your faces were closer than they should be. When had that happened? When had the space between you collapsed to nothing?
For a momentâjust a momentâhe saw something in your eyes. Recognition. The real kind, the kind that went beyond knowing a name or remembering a face. The kind that said I know you. I remember you. I see you.
Then it was gone, replaced by the polite stranger-look you'd worn all week.
"I should go," Damian repeated. "I have... a thing. A meeting. I'm late for it."
"There are still twenty minutes left of lunch." Maya pointed out.
Damian ignored her. He was already moving, already retreating, already cursing himself for a coward. But he couldn't stay. Couldn't sit there across from you, pretending to be a stranger, when every fiber of his being wanted to grab your shoulders and shake you and make you remember.
He made it halfway across the cafeteria before your voice stopped him.
"Damian!"
He turned.
You were standing now, slightly flushed, looking like you weren't quite sure why you'd called out. Behind you, your friends watched with varying degrees of amusement and confusion.
"Um." You shifted your weight. "Same time tomorrow? If you want. To sit with us, I mean. If you don't have any other... meeting... during lunch."
Damian's heart did something complicated.
"I'll consider it," he said, which was the most Damian Wayne way possible of saying yes, absolutely, I'll be here so early I'll have to wait for you to arrive.
You smiled. Not the polite stranger-smile. Something warmer. Something that made his chest feel too full.
"Cool. See you tomorrow, Damian."
He nodded once and walked away, his pulse hammering, his stained sleeve forgotten, his carefully constructed composure in tatters.
Progress, he told himself. That was progress.
The next day, Damian arrived at lunch seventeen minutes early.
He told himself it was strategy. Better positioning. He wanted to secure a seat that would allow optimal visibility. It had nothing to do with the way you'd smiled at him, or the way his name had sounded in your voice, or the fact that he'd lain awake half the night replaying those two seconds of contact when your fingers brushed his wrist.
Nothing at all.
He sat at the edge of your usual table, facing the door, and waited.
You arrived six minutes later, alone for once. Your eyes found him immediately, and your face did something complicatedâsurprise, pleasure, and something else he couldn't quite read.
"You're early."
"I'm punctual."
You laughed and slid onto the bench across from him. "Fair enough. Thanks for, you know. Yesterday. Jess is an idiot but she means well."
"She's... forthright."
"That's one word for it." You pulled out your lunch. "So. Damian. Tell me something about yourself."
"What would you like to know?"
"I don't know. Anything. Where you grew up? What you do for fun? Why you quoted Tolkien at me like it was a secret code?"
Damian's stomach tightened. "The Tolkien quote was... an experiment."
"An experiment." You raised an eyebrow. "What kind of experiment?"
He could lie. Should lie. Should come up with something plausible and mundane and entirely unlike the truth.
He opened his mouth to do exactly that.
"I knew you. Before. Years ago. We were... friends."
The words hung in the air between you.
You stared at him for a long moment. Then you laughed; not the warm laugh from before, but something higher, more disbelieving. "Oh my God. I've been here for a week. A week. And I didn'tâ you're so differentâyou were so smallâ"
"I grew."
"Obviously, butâ" You pressed your hands to your face. "I knew you were him. My Damian, I mean, but- no, wait, I didn't meant it like that- fuck. I just didn't recognised you."
Something warm kindled in Damian's chest. You said he was your Damian. You'd just said it. Out loud. To his face.
"It's understandable," he said, striving for nonchalance. "I've changed."
"Understatement." You dropped your hands, your expression shifting to something more serious. "Damian, I'm so sorry. I didn'tâwhen I left, it was so fast, and I wanted to say goodbye but there wasn't time, and then I thought about you for years but I figured you'd forgotten me or hated me or bothâ"
"Why would I hate you?"
"Because I left without telling you? Because everyone else had given up on you and I kept saying I wouldn't, and then I did? Because you were my best friend and I justâ" You stopped, swallowing hard. "The last time we saw each other we were like, what, twelve? I didn't know how to handle it. And by the time I was old enough to realize I should have tried harder to find you, it felt too late."
Damian absorbed this. Turned it over in his mind. Compared it to the narrative he'd constructed; the one where you'd forgotten him completely, where you'd moved on without a backward glance, where the friendship that meant everything to him had meant nothing to you.
"That's not what happened," he said slowly.
"What do you mean?"
"I thought... I believed you had forgotten me. Entirely. When you didn't recognize me on the first day, I assumed our friendship meant nothing to you. That I meant nothing."
Your expression crumpled. "Damianâ"
"I was angry. Hurt. I created an entire operation to make you remember me, convinced you were willfully ignoring our shared history." He paused. "It seems I was mistaken."
"An operation?"
"The gum. The book. The quote. All calculated memory triggers."
You stared at him for a beat. Then you started laughing again. He really loved that laugh.
"That'sâ holyâ you're insaneâ"
"I prefer 'dedicated.'"
"You left gum in my locker because you thought I'd forgotten you." You wiped your eyes, still grinning. "Damian, I've thought about you for years. I just... you were this scrawny, angry kid who always looked like he wanted to bite someone. And now you're..." You gestured vaguely at him.
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm what?"
"That." Your gesture encompassed his shoulders, his jaw, his entire person. "Tall. And... you know. Built. And your face is different. Better. I mean, not better, justâ different in a good way. You were cute before, but now you'reâ" You stopped abruptly, face flooding with color. "Anyway. The point is. I didn't recognize you because you're hot now. That's the whole reason."
Damian's brain short-circuited.
You'd just called him hot. You were sitting across from him, blushing furiously, clearly mortified by your own honesty, and you'd just called him hot.
"I..." He had no idea how to finish that sentence.
"Can we pretend I didn't say that?"
"No."
"Please?"
"Absolutely not."
You groaned, dropping your head to the table. "I hate everything."
"I don't."
The words escaped before he could stop them. You lifted your head, looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"You don't... what?"
"Hate everything. Or this conversation. Or..." He trailed off, suddenly aware of how exposed he felt. How much he'd already revealed. How little armor he had left.
You were still looking at him. Still waiting.
"I didn't forget you either," he said quietly. "Not for one day."
Something shifted in your expression. Softened. Became something he didn't have a name for but wanted to see again.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You smiledânot the stranger-smile, not the laugh-smile, something new and warm and just for him.
"Good," you said. "That's... good."
Around you, the cafeteria continued its noise and chaos. Isabella and Jess would arrive any minute, full of questions and teasing. The bell would ring eventually, dragging you both to separate classes. The world would keep turning.
But for this moment, just this moment, Damian let himself sit in the warmth of your smile and the knowledge that you hadn't forgotten him after all.
You'd just thought he was too hot to be the same person.
It was, he decided, the most ridiculous and wonderful thing anyone had ever thought about him.