nica @uvadan - Tumblr Blog

rebel heart - d.w

starring; 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. except— your concept of “normal 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.

warning: ⚠️ suggestive themes, mentions of delicate themes (neglect, crimes, prison)

The first thing you need to understand about Damian Wayne is that he walks through the world like it personally offended him.

You’ve noticed it before, in the narrow halls of Gotham Academy, in the way he holds his shoulders, too straight, too rigid— like a soldier expecting an ambush. He doesn’t slouch. He doesn’t laugh at the wrong times. He doesn’t lean against lockers with that particular brand of careless ease that everyone else seems to have been born with. He’s 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. You’ve heard them all. You’ve contributed to exactly none of them, but you’ve also done nothing to stop them, because frankly, you’ve been busy being your own brand of problem.

So when he slides into the seat across from you in the cafeteria on Tuesday, you’re more amused than surprised. He doesn’t have a tray. He doesn’t 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. “The Wayne Heir. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His jaw tightens. You can practically see him counting to ten in his head. “I have a proposition.”

“Proposition,” you repeat, drawing the word out. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

“Neither.” He pauses. “I merely need... assistance.”

You let your feet drop from the table. Not because you’re taking him seriously, well, maybe a little— but because this is already more interesting than anything that’s happened to you in the last two months of school. “Assistance,” you echo. “From me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” 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 don’t quite match a rich boy’s lifestyle. “What kind of assistance, exactly?”

He exhales through his nose. “My father has expressed… concern. Regarding my ability to integrate with my peers.”

You blink. Then you laugh. A short, sharp bark of sound that earns you a few glances from nearby tables. “Your daddy thinks you don’t have any friends?”

“That is not—” He stops, visibly restraining himself. “He believes I should behave more like a normal teenager.”

The way he says it, like the words are foreign, like they taste bad in his mouth just makes your grin widen. “And you came to me.”

“You are,” he says, and now his jaw moves like he’s chewing glass, “widely considered to be a normal teenager.”

You actually snort at that. “Me?”

“By certain metrics.”

“What metrics?”

“The metrics my father uses.”

You stare at him for a long moment. The cafeteria noise hums around you; the clatter of trays, the distant sound of someone’s laugh, the thrum of two hundred teenagers pretending they’re not all looking at the Wayne heir sitting with the known delinquent. “So,” you say slowly. “Let 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 they’re library books, to teach him how to be normal.”

He doesn’t flinch. “That is an accurate summary.”

You lean forward, suddenly very, very interested. “You know what I think?”

“I imagine you’re going to tell me regardless.”

“I think,” you say, dropping your voice to something just above a whisper, “that you picked the right person. But probably not for the reasons you think.”

His eyes narrow. “Explain.”

You stand up, grabbing your tray. He doesn’t 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. “Meet me after school,” you say, already turning away. “Behind the gym.”

“I don’t follow orders.”

You look back over your shoulder, letting your grin sharpen into something a little dangerous. “Then consider it a suggestion. From your new normal-teacher.” You don’t 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. He’s going to show up. You’d bet your entire questionable reputation on it.

He’s already there when you arrive.

Leaning against the brick wall behind the gym, arms crossed, looking like he’s 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. “You came.”

“I’m here,” he says flatly. “What’s your plan?”

“Plan?” You lean against the wall next to him, close enough to be annoying, far enough to dodge if he swings. He’s got the look of someone who might. “There’s no plan. That’s the first lesson.”

His eyebrow twitches. “That’s not a lesson. That’s an absence of one.”

“Exactly.” You turn to face him fully, spreading your hands. “You want to be normal? You gotta stop planning everything. Stop calculating. Stop looking at people like they’re targets and start treating them like… I don’t know, like they’re mildly interesting and you’ve got nothing better to do.”

“That’s not how I do things.”

“It’s normal.” 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. “You think I’m lying,” you say.

“I think you’re presenting a simplified version of a complex social dynamic.”

“I think,” you say, and you push off the wall, stepping into his space just to see if he’ll move. He doesn’t, of course, he just holds his ground like a goddamn statue, “that you’re overthinking it. Normal teenagers don’t think about social dynamics. They show up late to class. They skip lunch to vape in the parking lot. They do stupid shit because it’s funny, not because it’s strategic.”

“And you believe this constitutes a worthwhile existence?”

“I believe,” you say, and now you’re close enough to see his pupils contract “that it beats whatever you’ve been doing.”

Something flickers in his expression. Not anger, exactly. Something closer to… confusion. Like you’ve said something that doesn’t compute. You step back, giving him room to breathe. “Lesson one: we’re ditching first period on Friday.”

His eyes narrow. “Absolutely not.”

“Your dad said act like me. Problematic kids ditch class.”

“My father did not— we’re not ditching class.”

You shrug, already walking backward toward the parking lot. “Suit yourself. But if you want to learn how to be a normal teenager, you’re gonna have to do some abnormal things. That’s the secret.”

“That’s a contradiction.”

“That’s life, Wayne.” You turn, waving a hand over your shoulder. “Friday. Parking lot. Don’t be late.” You don’t hear him follow. But you also don’t hear him say no. And in your experience, silence is just a yes that hasn’t admitted itself yet.

Friday morning, you’re leaning against a car in the senior parking lot, tossing a lighter between your fingers and pretending you don’t 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.

“You’re early,” you say.

“You’re earlier.”

“I’m always early. Keeps people guessing.” You pocket the lighter, pushing off the car. “Ready to become a menace?”

His expression goes flat. “I agreed to ditch class. Not to become a… what did you call it?”

“A menace. A scourge. A public nuisance.” You spread your arms wide. “All the best things a teenager can be.”

“I don’t want to be a public nuisance.”

“Sure you don’t.” You’re already walking toward the street, not bothering to check if he’s following. He is. “But here’s the thing, Wayne. You came to me. And my brand of normal isn’t studying for SATs and joining the debate team. My brand of normal is doing exactly what everyone’s too scared to do and making it look easy.”

“Your brand of normal,” he says, catching up to you, “appears to consist primarily of violating school policy.”

“See? You’re learning already.” 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.

It’s 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. There’s a gap in the fence you discovered last year, just big enough to slip through, and you gesture for him to follow. He doesn’t move. “You brought me to a park.”

“I brought you to the good part of the park. The part where the groundskeeper gave up five years ago and now it’s just… ours.”

“Ours?”

“Mine,” you amend. “But you’re welcome to it. For today.” 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. There’s 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 he’s not sure whether to be disgusted or impressed.

“This is where you go,” he says slowly, “when you skip class.”

“This is where I go when I need to think.” You pull a pack of gum from your jacket, offer him a piece. He stares at it like it might explode. “Relax. It’s just gum.”

He takes it. Doesn’t unwrap it, just holds it between his fingers like a foreign object. “You don’t actually do anything.”

“I’m doing something right now.”

“You’re sitting.”

“I’m existing. That’s the second lesson.” You pop a piece of gum in your mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness. “Teenagers don’t need a reason to exist. They just do. They hang out. They waste time. They do nothing, and they’re fine with it.”

Damian’s jaw tightens. “I am fine.”

“You’re standing in the middle of an abandoned park like you’re waiting for a sniper to take a shot.”

He looks down at his feet, and for a moment you see something crack in that perfect facade. “I don’t know how to do nothing,” he says quietly. That's probably the most honest thing he has ever said.

You pat the bench next to you. “Then learn.”

He stares at the space beside you like it’s 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 he’s at a formal dinner. But he’s here. At least he’s trying. You lean back, looking up at the sky through the gaps in the shed roof, and let the silence stretch. “You know,” you say eventually, “when you came to me, I thought you’d want the full experience. Keying cars. Spray-painting the gym. Maybe a little light arson.”

“Arson?”

“Kidding. Mostly.” You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “But you really just want to be... normal?”

He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is different. “My father wants me to be normal. He thinks… he thinks if I can just act like everyone else, then maybe—” He cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut like he’s said too much.

“Maybe what?”

“Nothing.”

You don’t push. That’s 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, “Okay. Here’s the deal. I’ll teach you how to be a normal teenager. But we do it my way.”

His head turns, eyes sharp again. “What’s your way?”

“You don’t ask questions. You don’t plan. You will just follow my lead.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You want to learn or not?”

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, “I reserve the right to object if your methods are excessively dangerous.”

“Deal.” You hold out your hand. He looks at it like you’ve 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 don’t ask. That’s not part of the deal.

“One condition,” you say, letting go.

“I thought I was the one reserving rights.”

“This is a small condition. Very small. Tiny, even.” You grin, and you know it’s the grin that makes teachers nervous, the one that says I’m about to do something stupid and you’re not going to stop me. “You have to call me by my first name.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You heard me. You keep looking at me like I’m a suspect in an interrogation. If we’re gonna do this, we’re doing it as peers. Equals. People who ditch class together and don’t call each other by their last names like they’re in a period drama.”

His expression flickers between offense and something that might, possibly, be amusement. It’s hard to tell with him. “That’s your condition?”

“That’s my condition.”

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 that’s almost unfair. “Fine,” he says, and your name sounds strange in his mouth, like he’s tasting it, testing it, deciding whether it fits. “Then you call me Damian.”

“Damian,” you repeat, drawing it out. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He makes a sound that might be a scoff, might be something else. “Don’t push your luck.”

You lean back on the bench, arms behind your head, and let yourself grin at the ruined roof of the maintenance shed. “Oh, Damian,” you say, and you watch him tense at the casual use of his name, like he’s not sure how to feel about it. “Pushing my luck is the whole point.”

The thing about Damian Wayne is that he’s 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. He’s not scared. You’re pretty sure Damian Wayne doesn’t get scared. But he’s alert. And alert in this part of Gotham is smart.

“Where are you taking me?” he asks for the third time since you got off the train.

“Told you. A place.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.” He makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh. You’re starting to recognize that sound. It’s the one he makes when he’s deciding whether to argue or endure. Today, apparently, he’s choosing endurance. Smart boy. You lead him through streets that don’t 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 you’ve learned to read but never repeat. Damian notices them too. You catch him watching the tags, the symbols, the ones that look fresh.

“You come here often,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Often enough.”

“To do what?”

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 you’re the one who put it there. “To do this,” you say, crouching down and spinning the dial.

Damian stares at the grate. Then at you. Then back at the grate. “You’re taking me into the sewers.”

“The tunnels,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“One smells worse.” 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 can’t 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. “Coming?” you call up. A beat of silence. Then the scuff of shoes on concrete, and he’s 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. You’ve walked these tunnels enough times to map them in your sleep. “This way,” 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 shouldn’t know.

“How did you find this place?” he asks after a few minutes of walking.

“Explored.”

“You explored the Gotham sewer system.”

“I get bored.” You glance back at him, flashlight beam catching the sharp lines of his face. “What, you’ve never gone somewhere you weren’t supposed to?”

His expression does something complicated. “Not for recreational purposes.”

“What purposes, then?” He doesn’t answer. You let it drop. The tunnel opens up after another hundred feet, widening into a space that shouldn’t exist; an old maintenance hub, maybe, or a forgotten piece of the city’s bones. The ceiling is high enough to echo, the walls stretching up into darkness, and everywhere you look there’s 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. There’s a massive piece on the far wall; a woman’s 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 couldn’t sleep, stars connected by lines that don’t follow any real pattern. And everywhere, in between, smaller things. Hands reaching. A city skyline melting into water. Words in languages you don’t even speak.

Damian has gone very still beside you. You don’t look at him. You don’t want to see whatever expression he’s wearing right now, the judgment, the curiosity or the pity. You brought him here because it was the next lesson. That’s what you tell yourself. “You made this,” he says.

“Some of it.” You walk forward, letting your fingers brush against a dragon you painted last winter, its scales still holding their shine. “Other people added. It’s… a shared space. Sort of.”

“Sort of.”

“You don’t get to keep secrets in a place like this.” You turn to face him, flashlight beam at your feet now, casting strange shadows across your face. “People find it. People add to it. And eventually, people move on, and someone else finds it, and the cycle starts over.”

Damian’s 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 he’s resisting the urge to reach out and touch. “Why did you bring me here?” he asks.

“Next lesson.” 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. “Normal teenagers do graffiti.”

He winces, looks at the can in his hand. “Graffiti is vandalism.”

“Graffiti is art.”

“It’s illegal.”

“So is ditching class. So is trespassing. So is—” you gesture vaguely at the tunnels around you, “—probably half the things you’ve done to get those calluses on your hands.”

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. “Not asking. Deal’s a deal.”

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. “You just carry these around.”

“In my jacket. Yeah.”

“In case you spontaneously decide to vandalize property.”

“In case inspiration strikes.” You shake your own can, the rattle of the mixing ball loud in the enclosed space. “Come on. There’s a blank wall in the back. I’ve been saving it.”

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 else’s: 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. “Go on.”

Damian doesn’t move. “I don’t know how.”

“Nobody knows how the first time. That’s the point.”

“You expect me to just... paint.”

“I expect you to try.” You lean against the wall beside the blank space, arms crossed. “No one’s watching. No one’s judging. Whatever you make, it stays here. Or someone paints over it next week. Either way, it doesn’t matter.”

“If it doesn’t matter, why do it?” 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.

“If we're going to die,” you say. “why do we live?” 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 don’t watch him at first. You turn away, busying yourself with your own can, picking a spot on the opposite wall that’s been bothering you for months. You shake the can, pop the cap, and start painting.

The hiss of spray paint fills the space. It’s 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 that’s been wrong since winter. You’re so focused that you almost don’t notice when the sound behind you changes. Almost. You turn slowly, not wanting to spook him, and— Damian Wayne is painting. And he’s 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 shouldn’t work but do. He’s 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 he’s solving a problem in class, but softer somehow. Less like he’s preparing for battle.

“You’ve done this before,” you say.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away from the wall. “I’ve taken art classes.”

“Art classes don’t teach you to paint with spray cans.”

A pause. His hand lowers slightly. “My family believes in a well-rounded education.” 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 they’ve held more than a spray can a hundred times before? But you made a deal. You don’t ask. So instead, you walk up beside him and look at what he’s making.

It’s a bird. It’s 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 there’s something in that eye, something fierce, something defiant, something that looks like it’s daring the world to look away. It’s beautiful. It’s also, you realize, the same bird you painted on the far wall. The one made of fire. “It’s not finished,” he says, and there’s something almost defensive in his voice.

“It’s incredible,” you say. He looks at you then, and for a moment you see something behind those green eyes that you’ve never seen before. Not arrogance. Not calculation. Something that looks almost like hope. Then it’s gone, and he’s Damian Wayne again, shoulders back, chin up, the mask sliding back into place.

“It’s adequate,” he says.

You laugh, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. “Adequate. Right.”

He frowns at you. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.” You shake your head, still grinning. “Just— you. You’re something else, Damian.”

His frown deepens, but there’s something in his eyes now that wasn’t there before. Something lighter. Something almost like warmth. “You’re one to talk,” he says. “You brought me to the Gotham sewers to teach me how to vandalize.”

“Normal teenagers do graffiti.”

“Normal teenagers don’t have secret underground art galleries.”

You glance around at the painted walls, the stacked crates, the hidden space you’ve been building for longer than you care to admit. “It’s not a gallery.”

“What is it, then?”

You think about it. About the nights you’ve spent here, alone with your thoughts and your paint. About the people who’ve come and gone, leaving pieces of themselves on the walls. About the way it feels to create something that doesn’t have to be good or bad or anything at all, just yours. “A place.” 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. It’s comfortable in a way you didn’t expect. When you finally step back to look at your work, you’ve 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 it’s stunning. Wings spread wide, feathers sharp, that fierce eye fixed on the horizon. It’s the kind of piece that makes you want to look away and stare forever, all at once.

“Well?” he says, and there’s something almost nervous in his voice. Almost.

“You’re good,” you say. “Really good.”

He doesn’t preen. Doesn’t boast. Just looks at the wall with an expression you can’t quite read.

His head turns toward you. In the low light, his eyes are almost luminous, green and sharp and something else underneath. “You think so?”

“I know so.” You walk up beside him, close enough to see the individual layers of paint, the way he’s built the feathers from dark to light, the tiny flecks of silver he’s added to the edges. “This is passion. Type of thing you do because you can not.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he looks at you again, this time the mask doesn’t come back. You see him for the first time. The boy who walks through school like he’s waiting for an attack. The boy who asked you, of all people, to teach him how to be normal. “Why are you helping me?” he asks. “You don’t know me. You have no reason to trust me.”

You think about the question. About all the reasons you shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have brought him here, shouldn’t be standing in a sewer tunnel looking at a piece of art that makes your chest ache. “Because you asked,” you say. “And because nobody ever asks me for help with anything.”

He blinks. Something in his expression shifts, softens, becomes something you don’t have a name for. “Thank you,” he says. It’s quiet. Earnest. Nothing like the sharp-edged boy who sat across from you in the cafeteria.

You shrug, looking away. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m supposed to be teaching you how to be a menace, remember? Painting in sewers is step one. Step two is actual vandalism.”

“I’m not committing vandalism.”

“You literally just did.”

He looks at the bird on the wall. Then back at you. And for the first time since you met him, Damian Wayne smiles. It’s small. Barely there. A twitch at the corner of his mouth that’s gone almost as soon as it appears. But you see it.“One piece of graffiti,” he says, “does not make me a criminal.”

“Give it time.” You pick up your paint cans, start gathering your things. “We’ve got all semester.”

He doesn’t argue. He just picks up his own can, checks the cap, and looks at the wall again. “Next time,” he says, “I want to paint something bigger.”

You stop what you’re doing. Look at him. He’s still looking at the wall, but his profile is sharp in the low light, jaw set, eyes bright. He looks like he’s planning something. Like he’s already thinking about the next piece, the next wall, the next thing he can make.

You grin. “Bigger,” you repeat. “Now we're talking.”

He glances at you, and there’s that almost-smile again, hiding in the corner of his mouth. “Don’t look so pleased. I’m still not committing actual vandalism.”

“Sure you’re not.”

“I’m not.”

“Whatever you say, Dames.”

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 they’re not just paint on concrete. Like they’re something alive.

Behind you, Damian walks a little closer than he did on the way in. At the ladder, he stops. You’re already halfway up when he says your name, quiet in the dark. You look down. He’s standing at the bottom, face tilted up, the flashlight from above catching his features in strange ways. “This place,” he says. “You shouldn’t show it to anyone else.”

It’s not a threat, nor a warning. It’s something else. Something that sounds almost like concern.

“Why not?”

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. “Because it’s yours,” he says as he passes, voice close to your ear. “And some things should stay that way.” He’s 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. It’s five in the morning. Five. In the morning. The sun hasn’t even started thinking about rising, the city is still doing its best impression of a corpse, and you’re pretty sure you’ve been asleep for approximately forty-five minutes after spending the night finishing a guitar piece that’s 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, it’ll go away. It doesn’t. 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. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black hoodie, hood down, hair sticking up slightly like he ran his hands through it and didn’t bother to fix it. His eyes are bright in the low light, alert, like he hasn’t slept at all or maybe like he’s running on something else entirely. Probably drugs, you think.

You stare at him. He stares at you. “What,” you say, your voice still half-gravel from sleep, “is this? A rom-com from the 2000s? Who the heck climbs someone’s fire escape?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t apologize. Just looks at you with that steady, unreadable expression and says, “Put your shoes on.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Shoes. Now.”

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. It’s such a simple gesture. Such a quiet one. But there’s 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 doesn’t move to fix it.

“You’re insane,” you say. But you’re already reaching for your shoes. He doesn’t smile. But something in his posture eases, just slightly, and you pretend not to notice.

The streets are empty. That’s 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 he’s 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. You’re not trying to be quiet. You’re not trying to do anything except figure out what the hell is going on.

“Where are we going?” you hiss when you hit the alley. He doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking, hands in his pockets, shoulders cutting through the pre-dawn dark like he owns it.

You follow. Because apparently that’s 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 don’t, 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 you’ve never been this far north before, not at this hour, not with anyone.

“Damian,” you say, and your voice comes out louder than you meant it, echoing off the empty storefronts. “Seriously. Where are we—”

He stops. Turns. And for a moment, he seems... nervous. “Trust me,” he says. You should say no. You should turn around, go back to your apartment, crawl into your bed, and pretend this never happened. That’s what a reasonable person would do. That’s what a person with any sense of self-preservation would do. But you’ve never been reasonable. And you’ve 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 it’s 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 you’re following.

He doesn’t need to. You’re following. Of course you’re 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 you’re 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.

It’s flat, mostly, with the kind of gravel surface that crunches under your shoes. There’s an old water tower at one end, dark against the sky, and a few vents and pipes that look like they haven’t 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.

“Careful,” Damian says, and you realize he’s right beside you, closer than you thought. “The railing isn’t stable.”

You look at the railing. It’s 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 he’s 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.

“What are we doing here?” you ask, and this time your voice is quieter. The city feels closer here, somehow. More present.

Damian doesn’t 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.

“I used to come here,” he says finally. “When I first moved to Gotham.”

You glance at him. His eyes are fixed on the horizon “To this roof?”

“To roofs. Any roof.” He shrugs, a small movement, almost self-conscious. “It was… easier. Being above everything. Watching from a distance.”

You think about that. About Damian Wayne, fresh from somewhere you don’t ask about, standing on rooftops alone because it was easier than standing anywhere else.

“And now?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer. But he shifts, just slightly, and his arm brushes yours. Whether it’s on purpose or not, you can’t tell. You don’t 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. It’s not just the view. It’s 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.

Damian’s voice, when it comes, is quiet. “I wanted you to see this.”

You look at him. His profile is sharp against the growing light, but there’s something soft in the way he’s standing now, shoulders less rigid, hands relaxed at his sides. He looks like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s not sure what you’ll say.

“Damn,” you say, and you can’t help the grin that’s spreading across your face. “You really do believe that this is a rom-com, huh?”

His head turns toward you so fast you almost miss the flicker of embarrassment in his eyes before it’s replaced by something harder.

“I don’t— that’s not—”

“Climbing my fire escape at five in the morning,” you count off on your fingers. “Taking me to a secret rooftop. Making me watch the sunrise.” You raise an eyebrow. “Next you’re gonna tell me you’ve got a boombox waiting somewhere.”

“I don’t even know what a boombox is.”

“Oh my God.” You put a hand over your heart. “You’re worse than I thought.”

He glares at you, but there’s no heat in it. If anything, he looks almost relieved. Like your teasing is permission to breathe.

“I was trying to—” He stops, jaw working. “I thought you would appreciate it. The sunrise. From here. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” you repeat.

“Yes.”

“You climbed my fire escape. At five in the morning. To show me a sunrise. Because you thought I’d appreciate it.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, very quietly: “You showed me your place. I wanted to show you mine.”

Your grin fades. Not because you’re not amused (you are, more than you should be, probably) but because there’s 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. It’s beautiful. More beautiful than you expected from Gotham, which has never been known for its sunrises.

“It’s a good roof,” you say.

He makes a sound that might be a laugh. Might be. “It’s a mediocre roof.”

“It’s your mediocre roof.” You bump your shoulder against his, just enough to feel him shift. “That makes it the best.”

He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t 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 he’s 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. He’s not wearing his usual expression, he’s just looking. Just watching. Just letting the sun rise without planning for what comes after.

“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it.

He glances at you, and for a moment his composure slips. But then it’s gone, and he’s Damian again, chin up, expression cool. “Don’t get used to it,” he says. “I’m not climbing your fire escape every morning.”

“Good. Because I was about to say, if this becomes a regular thing, you’re bringing coffee.”

“Coffee.”

“And pastries. I’m not watching sunrises on an empty stomach.”

He scoffs, but there’s no bite to it. “You’re crazy.”

“You climbed my fire escape at five in the morning. You don’t get to call me crazy.”

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 doesn’t care about sunrises or rooftops or the strange boy who stands at the edge of it all like he’s still not sure if he belongs.

“We should go,” Damian says, but he doesn’t move. Neither do you.

“Probably,” 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.

“Hey,” you say, not looking at him. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you showed me.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, so soft you almost miss it: “I’m glad you came.” You don’t say anything to that. You don’t tease him, don’t make another joke about rom-coms, don’t 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 don’t comment on it. He doesn’t 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. “I can walk you back,” he says. It’s not quite an offer. It’s something else. Something that sounds almost like he’s not ready for this to be over.

You shake your head. “I know the way.” He nods. His hands are in his pockets again, shoulders back, mask firmly in place. But you’ve seen him without it now. You’ve seen him at sunrise.

“Next time,” you say, and his eyes flick to yours, “you bring coffee.”

“Next time,” he repeats.

You’re already walking backward, hands in your own pockets now, grinning at him across the empty street. “And pastries. I’m serious about the pastries.”

He watches you for a moment. Then, slowly, that almost-smile appears at the corner of his mouth. The one you’ve only seen twice before. “Fine,” he says. “Pastries.”

“Good.” You turn, finally, heading toward your street, toward your apartment, toward the bed you should have never left. “See you at school, Wayne.”

You don’t look back. But you hear him; a soft scoff, carried away by the morning wind. And you’re 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. It’s 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 who’s standing outside. You’ve 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 he’s 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 there’s something about the way he’s moving that suggests he had to argue with someone to get out the door.

You push off the wall, spreading your arms wide. “Well? I’m here. I braved the dragon’s den. You owe me.”

He stops on the other side of the gate, eyes narrowing. “It’s a gate. Not a dragon’s den.”

“There are cameras everywhere. I counted six.”

“There are seventeen.”

You stare at him. He stares back, serious. “Seventeen,” you repeat slowly. “Your house has seventeen cameras pointed at the front gate.”

“The manor has extensive security.”

“I can’t climb your window, Damian. Your house has more security than Alcatraz.”

Something flickers in his expression, not quite a smile, but close. “Alcatraz hasn’t been operational for decades.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The point,” you say, gesturing at the gate, the cameras, the sprawling estate behind him, “is 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.”

He considers this for a moment. Then he pulls a key card from his pocket, swipes it against a panel you hadn’t even noticed, and the gates swing open with a soft mechanical hum. Swipes it again, and the gates close automatically. “You’re not a peasant,” he says as he walks through. “You’re just inconvenient.”

“Wow. Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’m choosing to take it as one.”

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 he’s not sleeping as much as he should. You don’t mention it. You’ve learned that Damian Wayne doesn’t like being observed too closely.

“Where are we going?” he asks as you lead him away from the manor, down the long drive, toward the street where your car is parked.

“You’ll see.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“You climbed my fire escape at five in the morning to show me a sunrise. You don’t get to complain about surprises.”

“You are never letting that go, are you?”

“Never, 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.”

“That's a terrible reference.” he whispered, almost against his will.

“Oh, so you do know what happens in rom-coms, huh?” 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 Gotham’s particular brand of failure, with empty windows and blank concrete, surrounded by a chain-link fence that’s been cut open so many times the city stopped fixing it. Damian looks at it. Looks at you. Looks back at the building. “This is your place,” he says.

“It’s not my place. It’s just... a place.”

“A condemned building.”

“It’s not condemned. It’s—” You wave a hand vaguely. “—in limbo. The company that owned it went under, someone bought the debt, someone else is arguing about zoning permits. It’s been like this for three years.”

“And you found it.”

“I find a lot of things.”

He doesn’t respond to that. He’s looking at the building with an expression you can’t quite read. “There’s a security guard,” he says, and you’re not surprised he spotted the car in the lot, the light in the ground-floor window. “How do you usually get in?”

“There’s a blind spot in the east stairwell. He does rounds every forty-five minutes. We have about twenty until he circles back.”

Damian’s eyebrow rises. “You’ve done this before.”

“Some, yeah.”

“How many times are actually 'some’?”

You ignore that question, you’re 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 that’s 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 doesn’t 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 don’t 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 it’s 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.

It’s beautiful. Damian steps past you into the space, and for once he doesn’t look like he’s 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. “It was supposed to be a penthouse,” you say, walking toward the pool’s edge. “Luxury condos. The top floor was going to have a pool that looked out over the skyline.”

“What happened?”

“Same thing that always happens. Money ran out. Someone got greedy. Someone else got sued.” You crouch at the edge of the pool, trailing your fingers through the water. It’s cold, but not much— the building’s maintenance includes the pool, apparently, because someone in some office somewhere hasn’t gotten around to shutting it down yet.

Damian comes to stand beside you. His reflection is distorted in the dark water, fragmented, almost unrecognizable. “How did you find this place?” he asks.

“Followed a guy I knew. He was tagging the stairwell. I came back later.”

“Alone?”

“Usually.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. But something in his expression shifts, a tightening around his jaw, a flicker in his eyes that you can’t quite name. You stand up, brushing off your jeans. The cold is starting to seep through your shoes, and you’re suddenly very aware of how still the water is, how dark, how it would feel to break that surface. Damian is watching you. He’s always watching you, you’ve noticed. But there’s something different about the way he’s looking at you now— like he knows what you’re thinking before you do.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re about to do.”

You look at the pool. Look at him. Look back at the pool. “I didn’t plan it,” you say, and you’re already unzipping your jacket. “But now that you mention it…”

“No.”

“Dami.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s a pool. We’re here. The water’s not even that cold.”

“It’s February.”

“It’s almost March.”

“That’s not— you’re not— don’t you even dare—”

You drop your jacket. Your shoes are next, kicked off with more enthusiasm than coordination. Damian is staring at you like you’ve lost your mind, which, fair. You probably have. But there’s something about this place, about the dark water and the empty building and the way Damian is looking at you like you’re the most reckless person he’s ever met— It makes you want to prove him right.

“You’re insane,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that might be admiration or might be horror. Possibly both.

“You keep saying that like it’s an insult.” You toe off your socks, then your shirt. Your jeans are next, and you’re aware, distantly, that you’re standing in an abandoned building in your underwear while Damian Wayne watches with an expression that’s become very, very still.

“If you get hypothermia,” he says, “I’m not carrying you out.”

“Liar.” 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.

“Oh my God,” you say, treading water. “Oh my God, it’s cold as hell.”

“I told you.” Damian is standing at the edge, arms crossed, looking down at you with an expression that’s trying very hard to be disapproving and failing entirely. “You’re an idiot.”

“Get in.”

“No.”

“Dames.”

“No.”

“The water’s fine.”

“You just said it was freezing.”

“I was being dramatic.” 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.

“You’re going to pay for that.”

“Get in and make me.” There’s a long, charged moment where neither of you moves. The water laps against the edges, against your skin, against the silence between you. Damian’s 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 you’ve always suspected was hiding under those expensive sweaters.

You fail. You stare. He catches you. “Enjoying the view?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice that’s almost teasing, almost smug.

“Get in the water, Wayne.” 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 he’s 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.

“Happy?” he asks.

“Ecstatic.” He splashes you. Full force, a wave of cold water that hits you square in the face and has you sputtering. “You—” You wipe water from your eyes. “Oh, you’re dead.”

You lunge for him, and for a moment the pool is chaos, splashing and laughing and the kind of wild, reckless play that you haven’t 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 you’re not trying to win. You’re 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 you’re 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.

“You caught me,” 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.

“I always catch you,” you say, and you’re not sure what you mean. Neither is he, apparently, because his eyes search your face for a long moment, looking for something you’re 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 don’t involve standing in an abandoned pool at midnight with Damian Wayne’s pulse under your fingers and his breath warm against your cheek. You don’t move. Neither does he. “You’re shivering,” he says.

“So are you.” 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.

“This is—” he starts, and then stops. You wait. The water laps against the edges, against your skin, against the silence that stretches between you. “This is insane,” he finishes, but he doesn’t pull away.

“The best things usually are.”

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 you’ve 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 happen—

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-five—"

"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 west—"

"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 you—" 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: "Hey—!"

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 to—

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 property—"

"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 out—"

"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

- uvadan

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