What I find most interesting between Mel and Frank is they both want to befriend someone Mel being new to the Pitt and trying to form a connection with little anyone. Then thereâs Langdon who obviously has a pretty solid mentorship/ dynamic with Robby but he obviously wants more such as referring to him and Robby as âfriendsâ but Robby brushes it off saying Frankâs his best resident, and you can obviously notice the change in Frankâs demeanor both literally befriended each other without meaning too and both found exactly what they were looking for in each other.
frank being the one in the relationship trying to keep it professional at work meanwhile mel canât stop touching him or running her hands through his hair. sometimes sheâll sit at central, unaware sheâs biting the bottom of her lip because she thinks watching him put on size large gloves is the hottest anyone has ever looked.
frank canât stop blushing like teenager with a schoolgirl crush every time he notices it.
"The hitachiin twins are weird!!" "Me when i recommended somebody ouran but forget about the twins" "why are the twins like that" TELL ME YALL HAVE NO MEDIA COMPREHENSION SKILLS WHATSOEVER???
The twins mention MULTIPLE TIMES that the "brotherly love" act is just that. An ACT. Any scenes where the twins are simply interacting outside of their personas they dont act like that. Any time they're putting on that persona its to benefit themselves in one way or another. Drawing in customers at the host club, using it to win the room during the refreshing contest, its an ACT. They know it is, everybody knows it is.
The twins are very close, yes, but theres at least two episodes explaining how in their eyes all they have is each other. Complete Us vs. Them mentality. Nobody viewed them as individuals until the host club, and even then that was mostly Haruhi at first. They are codependent, and they may not be the healthiest depiction of brothers, but their "brotherly love" shtick isnt real and they know it. They didnt act like that before coming up with their role in the host club, and they dont act like that in their personal lives.
a long rant about the culture on the pitt twitter, the early season 2 discourse, and the state of the pitt fandom in general.
it genuinely saddens me that a show like the pitt, one that's so needed right now in a country that's currently quite literally systematically reversing course on every progressive reform that's been made for decades and decades, is being torn to shreds regularly on social media by people who ignore all of the things it's doing right. it's never woke enough, it never addresses everything perfectly, no one can sit down and watch more than one episode before jumping online to complain about all the ways they feel like the show has already fucked up, or complain about the ways they're so sure it will fuck up in the weeks to come.
part of the reason why twitter has become so unbearable to me lately is because there are a few accounts on there that absolutely hate this show. they hate it, they think everyone involved in making it is evil, they take every possible opportunity to speak critically about it, they only amplify negative press, and for some reason they continue watching the show.
whether that's to feel morally superior to the people that enjoy it, to hate "ethically" by having full knowledge of what's happening, or (most likely) because consuming it weekly it gives them additional fuel for their complaints, they keep watching. they insist they want nothing to do with this show and it's constantly disappointing them, but they remain some of the loudest people in the entire fandom.
i have no issue with media i enjoy being criticized, and i don't feel guilty for enjoying the work of quote-unquote problematic artists. the issue for me is when it crosses into the realm of what feels like a hate campaign. some of the accusations i've seen leveled at noah wyle, at john wells, at the writers of this show in general are deeply, incredibly over-the-top.
using tracy ifeachor's departure from the show (something we know absolutely nothing about the circumstances of) to accuse the people making the show of being racist and anti-black; alleging that this show was made so that the people at the top could continue years of abuse of their power (something that quite literally no one has claimed); claiming a behind-the-scenes conspiracy to use women of color in order to get people interested in the show and then systematically write them off...
i'm barely even scratching the surface.
to get into the amount of absolutely baseless and insane claims that have circulated would take weeks, and i've genuinely given up hope of ever being able to dismantle all of them. i saw a tweet yesterday that called noah wyle "the most racist man alive." i've seen quote-unquote "fans" of this show writing practical dissertations that read like they hope the women of color on this set are being mistreated so they have additional evidence for their twitter threads. i've seen people saying they "can't wait for the documentary about all of this to come out", and i read that and think... all of what?
the way the pitt was cast means so much amazing, young, diverse undiscovered talent got to be put in the spotlight (people who don't work in the industry may not realize, but it is unbelievably rare for a show to invest so much faith and time and material in new talent). the writer's room includes several women of color whose skill allow the show to feel like it's actually representative of the demographics of the people that make up the healthcare industry. the pitt was the first production to finalize a union contract with their production assistants, a historically underpaid and overworked on-set position. because of the show's format, it employees the same background actors across the entire season, giving background talent months of consistent paid work. so many people involved in the production have raved about the set feeling non-hierarchical, feeling like being part of a theatre troupe, feeling like a place where they're supported both personally and in the work.
and outside of any of that, there's the work of the show itself. i don't believe any art should be above critique even (and especially) if it's portraying current events and systemic issues, but the pitt has made a measurable impact outside of its viewership. healthcare workers say this show has made it easier for their families to understand the work that they do and the way that it stays with them. people have attested that it's opened up conversations for them about things like end-of-life planning and organ donation (a study by USC found individuals were 27% more likely to seek out information about becoming an organ donor after watching this show, and that the impact was particularly great among black audiences, who are historically overrepresented on transplant lists and underrepresented in terms of donors). noah wyle and his mother joined nurses to speak to congress this summer about mental health support for healthcare workers. some of the protocols that were portrayed during the mass-casualty event in season 1 are now being implemented in actual hospital emergency rooms.
at its heart, this is a show about imperfect people doing their best, made by imperfect people doing their best. i desperately, desperately wish for all of us to recognize that none of us are perfect either. none of us are without bias, none of us are free of mistakes, none of us have always acted in ways we're proud of. i see that reflected in the doctors and nurses and patients on this show, and i wish i could see it reflected more often in this fandom as well.
i've been dogpiled plenty on twitter in the past few months for expressing the above, and i'm not naive enough to think that that's not going to happen here as well. i've been called every name in the book, insulted in turns of phrase i've quite literally never heard before in my life, and sent actual death threats. i'm sure the people that have been harassing me relentlessly for months will have an absolute field day with this post as well, but i am at my core a lawyer's daughter who was raised to argue at the dinner table and i don't want to let the the loudest, meanest people control the experience of being a fan of this show.
i think the pitt is important. i think it's important for television and it's important for hollywood and it has the potential to be important for the country, and i would like to see it continue to succeed, and hopefully find an audience that's less obsessed with turning the entire fandom into a war zone & more open to understanding.
I just want a willxrichie fic where Mikey is not a jealousy asshole!! I want a fic where he gets happy that his friend found someone that loves him back, I want a fic where he and Richie may not get along but care for each other (specially if they are family)!!!
Imagine Mike and Richie spending the whole night up talking abt Will and what he likes bc Mike wants Will to have a good partner and Richie wants to be the good partner, then Mike does the same to Will and he becomes their cupid!!! đĽş
Summary: The Arabic language was truly beautifulâunless you trusted Google Translate
A/N: Damian is lowkey ooc but it's okay
also i was inspired to write this fic after i read this one by @honeybeemelon
credits to @strangergraphics-archive for the divider
When people found out you were Damian Wayneâs best friend, the general reaction was always the sameâshock. And honestly? You couldnât even blame them.
After all, Damian wasnât exactly known for his warm personality. His closest companionsâoutside of youâwere essentially curated: his fatherâs best friendâs son (a curated friendship, at best) and the army of animals he kept like a Disney princess with a superiority complex.
So, your friendship with him? It had come as a shockâeven to you.
You had first met Damian when you were paired together for a project in ninth grade. To be completely honest, he had intimidated the hell out of you. And how could he not? Damian Wayne was basically Gotham royalty. The heir to a billion-dollar empire, collected from school every day by an actual butler, while you were usually stuck elbow-to-elbow on the public bus, praying it wouldn't break down in Crime Alley.
You never wanted to play into the whole âpoor girl/rich guyâ tropeâit was clichĂŠ and unproductiveâbut in this case⌠it really was hard not to feel a little out of place. You werenât poor, by any means, but compared to Damian Wayne, everyone else looked like they belonged in the bargain bin.
He was fluent in more languages than you had taken classes, enrolled in every honors course the school offered, and still managed to outperform everyone without breaking a sweat. Meanwhile, you were practically bleeding caffeine to keep up.
And, of course, as if that wasnât enough, he was also a gifted artist.
While you were scraping together extra credit and clutching your GPA like a lifeline, Damian spent his free time in the art club, painting actual masterpieces. You werenât even exaggeratingâhis work was routinely auctioned off at school charity events for absurd amounts, snapped up by either his family or desperate socialites trying to earn favor with them.
To most people, he was the full package: rich, brilliant, talented, and emotionally unavailable. No wonder they called him Gothamâs Ice Prince.
It wasnât until you were invited to his house for the first timeâjust to work on your projectâthat your opinion of him began to shift.
You hadnât even realized how tense you were until you stepped inside Wayne Manor, your stomach twisting into actual knots. Everything was so grand and pristine, you were convinced that just existing in the space would get you slapped with a fine. You had no idea where to put your shoes. Should you bow? Curtsy? Sacrifice a limb? There was a chandelier bigger than your bedroom hanging above you. You were deeply concerned about accidentally knocking over a vase that probably cost more than your college tuition.
You clutched your backpack like a life raft and kept your head down as the butlerâAlfred, as he informed youâwelcomed you inside with a politeness that felt too elegant to be real. You tried not to gape at the chandeliers or the oil paintings that looked too good to just be dĂŠcor.
Then came the real surprise.
âAw, look. The bratâs got a friend over.â Someone teased.
You turned in time to see a tall man with a shock of white in his hair ruffle Damianâs meticulously gelled head.
âDonât touch me, Todd.â Damian hissed, swatting his hand away like an angry cat, leading you away from him and down the hallway.
You froze, unsure whether this was all in good fun or if his brother was genuinely terrorizing him. Though it didn't feel like it, the man before you was a walking double-doored refrigerator so who knows.
But then you caught a glance at Damian and despite being so unreadable all the time, you could tell from his shoulders that he was completely at ease. A sight that was unseen within the school walls. Damianâs expression when Jason teased him was⌠so normal. Like any other little brother being harassed by an annoying older sibling. Your stomach relaxed a little.
You both quickly got to work, each working silently on your parts individually. You were hunched over your textbooks in the Wayne Manor dining room, trying to make sense of a particularly confusing physics problem when you heard the sound of claws tapping against the polished hardwood floors.
You looked upâand promptly froze.
An enormous Great Dane was trotting toward you, ears perked and tail swaying like a metronome. His tongue lolled happily out of his mouth, and he had that look dogs get when theyâve just seen their favorite person⌠or someone new they were excited to investigate. Probably both.
You sat up straighter, unsure if you were supposed to run or stay still. Was he friendly? Would moving trigger some ancient predator instinct?
The dog sniffed the air, his giant paws making quiet thuds as he inched closer to you. His head was almost level with your shoulder even while standing on all fours, and you blinked at him like he was some mythological creature summoned from another realm.
âTitus, come.â Damianâs voice cut through the air, firm and low.
Immediatelyâimmediatelyâthe Great Dane turned on his heel and trotted obediently to Damianâs side, sitting neatly next to his leg like he hadnât just been about to introduce himself by licking your entire face.
Your eyes widened, âHeâs⌠so obedient.â
âI trained him.â Damian said simply, reaching down to scratch behind the dogâs ear.
Of course he did.
You almost scoffed, but managed to hold it back, hiding your exasperation behind a polite smile. Of course he trained him. Of course the dog that looked like it could wrestle a bear was gentle as a lamb because Damian had made it so. Add âdog whispererâ to his ever-growing list of talents.
Animals were supposed to be good judges of character, werenât they? And clearly, this one adored Damian. It made something twist a little in your chestânot in a bad way, just⌠surprised. There was so much about him that people didnât see. So much you hadnât seen, at first.
You werenât sure what you had expected, really. If Damian had said heâd hired some world-renowned professional dog trainer from Switzerland, you wouldâve nodded and accepted it. Because of course he could afford that. He could afford anything.
You werenât able to maintain eye contact with him for long. There was something about the way Damian looked at youâsharp but unreadable, like he was constantly trying to figure you out. So your eyes dropped, settling on Titus again, who was still leaning comfortably against Damianâs leg like a living statue.
âAre you afraid of dogs, (L/N)?â Damian asked suddenly.
You looked up, caught off guard by the questionâand by the fact that heâd used your last name, which he rarely did unless he was teasing you or⌠studying you.
âNo,â You said quickly, maybe a little too quickly, âJust⌠surprised, I guess. Heâs huge. Likeâgenuinely massive. Thatâs not a dog, Damian. Thatâs a small moose.â
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, brief but noticeable, âHeâs gentle.â
The corner of your lips quirked up, eyes still warily watching the massive dog, âIâm not quite sure I believe you.â
Damian didnât reply right away. Instead, he shifted slightly in his chair and glanced at Titus, who was still comfortably sprawled out beside him. Then he looked back at you, expression unreadableâbut there was something suspiciously mischievous in his eyes.
âJust hold your hand out.â He said casually.
You narrowed your eyes, âWhy? To make it easier for him to maul me?"
He rolled his eyes, âSo he can sniff you properly. Youâll survive.â
Damian rolled his eyes, then leaned slightly toward you, âJust hold your hand out, jaja.â
You tilted your head, âWhatâs that mean?â
He gave you the smallest smirk, âYou big chicken.â
Your jaw dropped in mock offense, âOh, I see how it is. Weâre resorting to slander now.â
âIâm just calling it like I see it.â He gestured toward Titus, âHeâs not going to hurt you. Just give him your hand.â
You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously, but slowlyâvery slowlyâextended your hand toward the dog.
âIf Titus bites my fingers off,â You warned, âI hope you know Iâm going to demand an exorbitant compensation.â
âNoted.â He said dryly.
You shot him a look but couldnât help the grin spreading across your face as you began to slowly pet Titusâs soft ears. He let out a satisfied huff, tail giving one happy thump on the hardwood.
âOkay,â You whispered, "I take it back. You're my new best friend and I love you."
It seemed, in hindsight, that Damian had mistaken your flippant claim of Titus being your new best friend for a claim on him as wellâbecause somehow, three years later, you were still very much a part of his life.
You saw each other every day. Whether it was at school, at the Manor, or simply walking home together in silence, there wasnât a version of your day that didnât include Damian Wayne. You werenât just acquaintances anymore, or two students who happened to work well together. You were one of the very few people outside his family who had been granted access to his carefully guarded inner circle.
He was still difficult sometimesâblunt, sharp-tongued, annoyingly perceptiveâbut he was your closest friend. And you were his.
And somewhere along the line⌠he stopped being just your friend.
He was still your closest friend, of course. Still the person who reminded you to drink water during all-nighters and walked you to the bus stop after late study sessions, muttering that he didnât âtrust Gotham at night,â even though he was Gotham at night.
But slowly, something shifted.
You started smiling unconsciously whenever his name lit up your phone screenâsometimes even before you opened the message. Youâd scroll through old pictures of the two of you in your galleryânot for nostalgia, but for clues. The way he looked at you in some of them, just slightly turned toward you when he thought you werenât looking. The rare smile tugging at his lips when you were doing something completely mundane, like trying to balance a milk carton on your head in the school cafeteria.
You started noticing the tiny, ridiculous details. What he wore that day. How close he stood. Whether his hand lingered on your shoulder just a second too long in that blurry group photo. Whether you were imagining it.
You spent so much time with him already, but it never felt like enough. You found yourself looking for him even when he was just in the other roomâcraning your neck in crowded hallways, catching yourself watching the door before he walked through it, heart skipping like you didnât already know heâd be there.
You were supposed to be used to him by nowâhis bluntness, his scowls, the way he always smelled faintly of expensive soap and something sharper, something dangerous. But instead, you found yourself more and more aware of him. Of how heâd rest his hand on the small of your back to guide you through a crowd. Of how heâd tilt his head when you were talking, like he was memorizing the sound of your voice.
It was infuriating.
And it was impossible to stop.
It had started months agoâDamian weaving his mother tongue into conversations like it was the most natural thing in the world.
At first, you didnât think much of it. He was just getting more comfortable around you, and by now, you understood his mannerisms well enough to piece together the meanings from context alone.
Heâd once mentioned wanting to teach you Arabic by immersion, and youâd joked about how cool it would be to just wake up one day speaking it fluently thanks to him.
But then⌠you noticed it.
A word. One he always called you. Always.
You told yourself not to read into itâmaybe it was just a phrase he used for everyone. But youâd never heard him say it to anyone else. Not Alfred. Not his brothers. Not even Titus.
So, of course, your brain decided to make it a thing.
The first time, it was so offhand you almost missed it. Youâd asked him to repeat himself, and heâd brushed it offââI said you should dress more warmly.â
The second time, it was in personâsoft and absentminded as he handed you a coffee during finals week. Your heart had fluttered.
By the fourth time, your cheeks were heating before he even finished saying it.
You didnât ask what it meant. You didnât need to. The way it rolled off his tongueâgentle, warmâmade you certain it was something affectionate. My dear. Sweetheart. Something private. Yours.
Until one afternoon.
You were curled up in bed, waiting for Damian to finish patrol so you could call him, when the curiosity finally won. You opened Google Translate.
K-a-l-b-e-e.
Did you mean: kalbi?
You clicked.
And instantly wished you hadnât.
Kalbi â Arabic: my dog.
You stared at your phone, the word dog burning into your retinas. Maybe it was an expression? Maybe this was like how people call each other âpuppyâ as a joke? You opened another tab, desperately typing: is my dog a term of endearment in Arabic?
The first article:
No, the Arabic word for "dog," "Kalb" (ŮŮب), is generally not a term of endearment. In Arabic, "Kalb" (ŮŮب) is often used to insult someone's character or intelligence.
Your brain short-circuited. All those times youâd smiled like an idiot? All those moments youâd replayed, convinced they meant something? Heâd been calling you a dog.
You flopped onto your back, groaning into your pillow. âI am the worldâs biggest idiot.â You mumbled into the fabric.
Two years of friendship. Countless glances, shared coffees, lingering smilesâbuilt on a lie. Or, worse, a mistranslation.
When Damianâs name lit up your phone later that night, you didnât even get the usual flutter in your chest. Instead, you narrowed your eyes at the screen, turned it face-down, and rolled over.
But sleep didnât come.
Every instance of Damian calling you a dog replayed in vivid detail, cheeks burning as you tried to ignore the wobble in your bottom lip.
I thought he liked me.
The next day, you did your best to avoid him.
You ducked out of the cafeteria early, took longer routes between classes, and kept your head down whenever you spotted him in the hallway. You didnât even respond when he showed up to pick you up that morning, letting him wait outside your house for twenty minutes before texting him that youâd conveniently forgotten to mention an early club meeting and had to leave early.
He had hurt your feelings. You werenât about to let him off that easily.
But Damian Wayne was nothing if not relentless.
You stood at your locker, arms full of books and notes, desperately trying to keep your mind on the upcoming quiz when that familiar, low voice sliced through the noise behind you.
â(Y/N).â
You froze, your fingers tightening around a stack of notebooks. Without turning, you started shifting your things around, rearranging your books so you wouldnât have to look at him.
âWhatâs going on with you?â His voice was low and steady, but there was something under the surfaceâan edge of confusion, maybe frustration.
âWhatever do you mean?â You answered, trying to sound nonchalant.
âYou know exactly what Iâm talking about. Why are you avoiding me?â Damianâs tone sharpened, demanding the truth.
You shrugged, the words slipping out before you could stop them, âSorry, Damian. I just canât come running up to you with my tail wagging every time you call me.â
His brows furrowed. Since when have you called him Damian? He was always Dami to you.
âDid I do something to upset you?â He asked, stepping a little closer. The faint scent of his cologne drifted toward you. It made your breath hitch.
You finally looked at him, frowning and sizing him up. Then, with a perfectly deadpan expression, you said, âWoof.â
With that, you grabbed your books and turned on your heel, leaving Damian standing there, staring at your back with an incredulous expression.
âDid she get a lobotomy?â He muttered to himself, shaking his head.
Damian watched your retreating back for daysâeach time you pulled away, his frustration grew. Despite his best efforts to wrangle an explanation from you, you remained stubbornly distant. He could hear it in the sharp edge of your voice when you spoke to him, see it in the way your shoulders tensed as you turned and walked away. Something was wrong.
He didnât like being kept at armâs length. Especially not by you.
His mind replayed every conversation, every word heâd said or left unsaid, trying desperately to pinpoint the moment heâd crossed an invisible line. Had his sharp tongue cut too deep? Had he accidentally hurt you? The thought of causing you pain gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.
By the fourth day, his patience had run out.
He found you alone beneath the stairwell, where the hallways fell quiet while everyone was in class.
â(Y/N), come on.â He said quietly but firmly, stepping closer, his voice rough with urgency, âHow can I make up for what Iâve done if I donât even know why youâre mad at me?â
For a moment, you said nothing, the silence stretching between you like a chasm.
His normally impassive face betrayed a flicker of something rawâdistress, frustration, and maybe even a hint of fear. The crease between his brows deepened as he scrunched his nose, a small but telling sign of how much this affected him.
You almost caved.
He reached out, his hand brushing yours, âQalbiâŚâ
That single word snapped something inside you.
You jerked your hand away, voice sharp and furious, âWhat the fuck is wrong with you, Damian?â
His chest tightened, heart pounding painfully. Anxiety flickered across his eyes. Was this rejection? Did you feel uncomfortable with his feelings for him? Was that why you were avoiding him?
âIâIâm sorry, I didnât mean toââ
You cut him off with a bitter laugh, trying to keep your voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
âWhy do you keep calling me that? Are you trying to humiliate me? Is that what this is?â
The hurt in your words struck Damian harder than any blow. For a moment, he was speechlessâhis usual sharp confidence faltering under the weight of your doubt.
âNo,â He said softly, voice almost breaking, âI would never humiliate you.â
He looked so earnest, so genuine that it managed to crack through your certainty, making you question everything you had believed until now.
Damian was your best friend. You supposed you owed him a chance to explain himself.
âWhy do you keep calling me that?â You lowered your eyes, voice barely above a whisper, âI thought it was something sweet at first, but when I looked it up I⌠I dunno. I thought we meant more to each other.â
Damianâs face was stoic for a second, all the thoughts rushing through his brain trying to catch up. His eyes flickered over your face multiple times, trying to understand just what you were saying before the synapse connected and his world suddenly made sense.
His hands found their place on your waist, and you looked up at him in surprise, barely managing to voice out your confusion before he slanted his lips over yours.
Your gasp was muffled by his mouth, tilting your chin up as you kissed him back, eyes fluttering closed.
When Damian pulled away, his lips brushed lightly against yours again before he put barely an inch of distance between you, gazing into your eyes with a deep, passionate gaze that felt like it would light you ablaze.
âKalbi is a word pronounced from the front of your mouth,â He explained, lips brushing against yours to further emphasize his point, âI would never call you that.â
âQalbi,â He continued, leaning down to graze his lips along the curve of your throat, making your breath hitch as you clutched his arms to steady yourself, âComes from deeper in the throat.â
Through the blood thumping in your ears, making every part of your body heat up unbearably, you could tell the difference between the two words.
âIt means something entirely different.â
You tried to steady your breath, looking back up, finding yourself frozen when you met his green eyes, âWhat does it mean?â
He took a slow, careful breath and met your gaze with earnest intensity.
âQalbi⌠it means my heart. Itâs the most precious thing I could call you.â
You stared at him, stunned by the sincerity radiating from every word, your anger wavering as confusion and something warmer settled in.
Damianâs hand reached out again, tentative but hopeful.
âIâm sorry I didnât explain sooner. I just⌠I didnât know how.â
âI never meant to hurt you,â He whispered, âI was trying to tell you how much you mean to me.â
You looked up, searching his eyesâand found something honest, something vulnerable that made your breath catch.
Slowly, a genuine smile spread across your face.
âNext time,â You murmured, âmaybe just say it in English.â
Damianâs grin deepened as he leaned down to kiss you again.
âPerhaps next time youâll be better versed in Arabic,â He teased, âto tell the difference between two completely different letters.â
A/N: lol i put this at the end cuz i didn't wanna spoil anyways i wrote this fic cuz everytime i see a fic where damian refers to their s/o as qalbi i internally giggle because ik that ppl who are not really familiar with arabic will pronounce it differently and i just loved the idea of a misunderstanding arising from that
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I canât guarantee that I wonât accidentally miss it)
Summary: The Arabic language was truly beautifulâunless you trusted Google Translate
A/N: Damian is lowkey ooc but it's okay
also i was inspired to write this fic after i read this one by @honeybeemelon
credits to @strangergraphics-archive for the divider
When people found out you were Damian Wayneâs best friend, the general reaction was always the sameâshock. And honestly? You couldnât even blame them.
After all, Damian wasnât exactly known for his warm personality. His closest companionsâoutside of youâwere essentially curated: his fatherâs best friendâs son (a curated friendship, at best) and the army of animals he kept like a Disney princess with a superiority complex.
So, your friendship with him? It had come as a shockâeven to you.
You had first met Damian when you were paired together for a project in ninth grade. To be completely honest, he had intimidated the hell out of you. And how could he not? Damian Wayne was basically Gotham royalty. The heir to a billion-dollar empire, collected from school every day by an actual butler, while you were usually stuck elbow-to-elbow on the public bus, praying it wouldn't break down in Crime Alley.
You never wanted to play into the whole âpoor girl/rich guyâ tropeâit was clichĂŠ and unproductiveâbut in this case⌠it really was hard not to feel a little out of place. You werenât poor, by any means, but compared to Damian Wayne, everyone else looked like they belonged in the bargain bin.
He was fluent in more languages than you had taken classes, enrolled in every honors course the school offered, and still managed to outperform everyone without breaking a sweat. Meanwhile, you were practically bleeding caffeine to keep up.
And, of course, as if that wasnât enough, he was also a gifted artist.
While you were scraping together extra credit and clutching your GPA like a lifeline, Damian spent his free time in the art club, painting actual masterpieces. You werenât even exaggeratingâhis work was routinely auctioned off at school charity events for absurd amounts, snapped up by either his family or desperate socialites trying to earn favor with them.
To most people, he was the full package: rich, brilliant, talented, and emotionally unavailable. No wonder they called him Gothamâs Ice Prince.
It wasnât until you were invited to his house for the first timeâjust to work on your projectâthat your opinion of him began to shift.
You hadnât even realized how tense you were until you stepped inside Wayne Manor, your stomach twisting into actual knots. Everything was so grand and pristine, you were convinced that just existing in the space would get you slapped with a fine. You had no idea where to put your shoes. Should you bow? Curtsy? Sacrifice a limb? There was a chandelier bigger than your bedroom hanging above you. You were deeply concerned about accidentally knocking over a vase that probably cost more than your college tuition.
You clutched your backpack like a life raft and kept your head down as the butlerâAlfred, as he informed youâwelcomed you inside with a politeness that felt too elegant to be real. You tried not to gape at the chandeliers or the oil paintings that looked too good to just be dĂŠcor.
Then came the real surprise.
âAw, look. The bratâs got a friend over.â Someone teased.
You turned in time to see a tall man with a shock of white in his hair ruffle Damianâs meticulously gelled head.
âDonât touch me, Todd.â Damian hissed, swatting his hand away like an angry cat, leading you away from him and down the hallway.
You froze, unsure whether this was all in good fun or if his brother was genuinely terrorizing him. Though it didn't feel like it, the man before you was a walking double-doored refrigerator so who knows.
But then you caught a glance at Damian and despite being so unreadable all the time, you could tell from his shoulders that he was completely at ease. A sight that was unseen within the school walls. Damianâs expression when Jason teased him was⌠so normal. Like any other little brother being harassed by an annoying older sibling. Your stomach relaxed a little.
You both quickly got to work, each working silently on your parts individually. You were hunched over your textbooks in the Wayne Manor dining room, trying to make sense of a particularly confusing physics problem when you heard the sound of claws tapping against the polished hardwood floors.
You looked upâand promptly froze.
An enormous Great Dane was trotting toward you, ears perked and tail swaying like a metronome. His tongue lolled happily out of his mouth, and he had that look dogs get when theyâve just seen their favorite person⌠or someone new they were excited to investigate. Probably both.
You sat up straighter, unsure if you were supposed to run or stay still. Was he friendly? Would moving trigger some ancient predator instinct?
The dog sniffed the air, his giant paws making quiet thuds as he inched closer to you. His head was almost level with your shoulder even while standing on all fours, and you blinked at him like he was some mythological creature summoned from another realm.
âTitus, come.â Damianâs voice cut through the air, firm and low.
Immediatelyâimmediatelyâthe Great Dane turned on his heel and trotted obediently to Damianâs side, sitting neatly next to his leg like he hadnât just been about to introduce himself by licking your entire face.
Your eyes widened, âHeâs⌠so obedient.â
âI trained him.â Damian said simply, reaching down to scratch behind the dogâs ear.
Of course he did.
You almost scoffed, but managed to hold it back, hiding your exasperation behind a polite smile. Of course he trained him. Of course the dog that looked like it could wrestle a bear was gentle as a lamb because Damian had made it so. Add âdog whispererâ to his ever-growing list of talents.
Animals were supposed to be good judges of character, werenât they? And clearly, this one adored Damian. It made something twist a little in your chestânot in a bad way, just⌠surprised. There was so much about him that people didnât see. So much you hadnât seen, at first.
You werenât sure what you had expected, really. If Damian had said heâd hired some world-renowned professional dog trainer from Switzerland, you wouldâve nodded and accepted it. Because of course he could afford that. He could afford anything.
You werenât able to maintain eye contact with him for long. There was something about the way Damian looked at youâsharp but unreadable, like he was constantly trying to figure you out. So your eyes dropped, settling on Titus again, who was still leaning comfortably against Damianâs leg like a living statue.
âAre you afraid of dogs, (L/N)?â Damian asked suddenly.
You looked up, caught off guard by the questionâand by the fact that heâd used your last name, which he rarely did unless he was teasing you or⌠studying you.
âNo,â You said quickly, maybe a little too quickly, âJust⌠surprised, I guess. Heâs huge. Likeâgenuinely massive. Thatâs not a dog, Damian. Thatâs a small moose.â
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, brief but noticeable, âHeâs gentle.â
The corner of your lips quirked up, eyes still warily watching the massive dog, âIâm not quite sure I believe you.â
Damian didnât reply right away. Instead, he shifted slightly in his chair and glanced at Titus, who was still comfortably sprawled out beside him. Then he looked back at you, expression unreadableâbut there was something suspiciously mischievous in his eyes.
âJust hold your hand out.â He said casually.
You narrowed your eyes, âWhy? To make it easier for him to maul me?"
He rolled his eyes, âSo he can sniff you properly. Youâll survive.â
Damian rolled his eyes, then leaned slightly toward you, âJust hold your hand out, jaja.â
You tilted your head, âWhatâs that mean?â
He gave you the smallest smirk, âYou big chicken.â
Your jaw dropped in mock offense, âOh, I see how it is. Weâre resorting to slander now.â
âIâm just calling it like I see it.â He gestured toward Titus, âHeâs not going to hurt you. Just give him your hand.â
You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously, but slowlyâvery slowlyâextended your hand toward the dog.
âIf Titus bites my fingers off,â You warned, âI hope you know Iâm going to demand an exorbitant compensation.â
âNoted.â He said dryly.
You shot him a look but couldnât help the grin spreading across your face as you began to slowly pet Titusâs soft ears. He let out a satisfied huff, tail giving one happy thump on the hardwood.
âOkay,â You whispered, "I take it back. You're my new best friend and I love you."
It seemed, in hindsight, that Damian had mistaken your flippant claim of Titus being your new best friend for a claim on him as wellâbecause somehow, three years later, you were still very much a part of his life.
You saw each other every day. Whether it was at school, at the Manor, or simply walking home together in silence, there wasnât a version of your day that didnât include Damian Wayne. You werenât just acquaintances anymore, or two students who happened to work well together. You were one of the very few people outside his family who had been granted access to his carefully guarded inner circle.
He was still difficult sometimesâblunt, sharp-tongued, annoyingly perceptiveâbut he was your closest friend. And you were his.
And somewhere along the line⌠he stopped being just your friend.
He was still your closest friend, of course. Still the person who reminded you to drink water during all-nighters and walked you to the bus stop after late study sessions, muttering that he didnât âtrust Gotham at night,â even though he was Gotham at night.
But slowly, something shifted.
You started smiling unconsciously whenever his name lit up your phone screenâsometimes even before you opened the message. Youâd scroll through old pictures of the two of you in your galleryânot for nostalgia, but for clues. The way he looked at you in some of them, just slightly turned toward you when he thought you werenât looking. The rare smile tugging at his lips when you were doing something completely mundane, like trying to balance a milk carton on your head in the school cafeteria.
You started noticing the tiny, ridiculous details. What he wore that day. How close he stood. Whether his hand lingered on your shoulder just a second too long in that blurry group photo. Whether you were imagining it.
You spent so much time with him already, but it never felt like enough. You found yourself looking for him even when he was just in the other roomâcraning your neck in crowded hallways, catching yourself watching the door before he walked through it, heart skipping like you didnât already know heâd be there.
You were supposed to be used to him by nowâhis bluntness, his scowls, the way he always smelled faintly of expensive soap and something sharper, something dangerous. But instead, you found yourself more and more aware of him. Of how heâd rest his hand on the small of your back to guide you through a crowd. Of how heâd tilt his head when you were talking, like he was memorizing the sound of your voice.
It was infuriating.
And it was impossible to stop.
It had started months agoâDamian weaving his mother tongue into conversations like it was the most natural thing in the world.
At first, you didnât think much of it. He was just getting more comfortable around you, and by now, you understood his mannerisms well enough to piece together the meanings from context alone.
Heâd once mentioned wanting to teach you Arabic by immersion, and youâd joked about how cool it would be to just wake up one day speaking it fluently thanks to him.
But then⌠you noticed it.
A word. One he always called you. Always.
You told yourself not to read into itâmaybe it was just a phrase he used for everyone. But youâd never heard him say it to anyone else. Not Alfred. Not his brothers. Not even Titus.
So, of course, your brain decided to make it a thing.
The first time, it was so offhand you almost missed it. Youâd asked him to repeat himself, and heâd brushed it offââI said you should dress more warmly.â
The second time, it was in personâsoft and absentminded as he handed you a coffee during finals week. Your heart had fluttered.
By the fourth time, your cheeks were heating before he even finished saying it.
You didnât ask what it meant. You didnât need to. The way it rolled off his tongueâgentle, warmâmade you certain it was something affectionate. My dear. Sweetheart. Something private. Yours.
Until one afternoon.
You were curled up in bed, waiting for Damian to finish patrol so you could call him, when the curiosity finally won. You opened Google Translate.
K-a-l-b-e-e.
Did you mean: kalbi?
You clicked.
And instantly wished you hadnât.
Kalbi â Arabic: my dog.
You stared at your phone, the word dog burning into your retinas. Maybe it was an expression? Maybe this was like how people call each other âpuppyâ as a joke? You opened another tab, desperately typing: is my dog a term of endearment in Arabic?
The first article:
No, the Arabic word for "dog," "Kalb" (ŮŮب), is generally not a term of endearment. In Arabic, "Kalb" (ŮŮب) is often used to insult someone's character or intelligence.
Your brain short-circuited. All those times youâd smiled like an idiot? All those moments youâd replayed, convinced they meant something? Heâd been calling you a dog.
You flopped onto your back, groaning into your pillow. âI am the worldâs biggest idiot.â You mumbled into the fabric.
Two years of friendship. Countless glances, shared coffees, lingering smilesâbuilt on a lie. Or, worse, a mistranslation.
When Damianâs name lit up your phone later that night, you didnât even get the usual flutter in your chest. Instead, you narrowed your eyes at the screen, turned it face-down, and rolled over.
But sleep didnât come.
Every instance of Damian calling you a dog replayed in vivid detail, cheeks burning as you tried to ignore the wobble in your bottom lip.
I thought he liked me.
The next day, you did your best to avoid him.
You ducked out of the cafeteria early, took longer routes between classes, and kept your head down whenever you spotted him in the hallway. You didnât even respond when he showed up to pick you up that morning, letting him wait outside your house for twenty minutes before texting him that youâd conveniently forgotten to mention an early club meeting and had to leave early.
He had hurt your feelings. You werenât about to let him off that easily.
But Damian Wayne was nothing if not relentless.
You stood at your locker, arms full of books and notes, desperately trying to keep your mind on the upcoming quiz when that familiar, low voice sliced through the noise behind you.
â(Y/N).â
You froze, your fingers tightening around a stack of notebooks. Without turning, you started shifting your things around, rearranging your books so you wouldnât have to look at him.
âWhatâs going on with you?â His voice was low and steady, but there was something under the surfaceâan edge of confusion, maybe frustration.
âWhatever do you mean?â You answered, trying to sound nonchalant.
âYou know exactly what Iâm talking about. Why are you avoiding me?â Damianâs tone sharpened, demanding the truth.
You shrugged, the words slipping out before you could stop them, âSorry, Damian. I just canât come running up to you with my tail wagging every time you call me.â
His brows furrowed. Since when have you called him Damian? He was always Dami to you.
âDid I do something to upset you?â He asked, stepping a little closer. The faint scent of his cologne drifted toward you. It made your breath hitch.
You finally looked at him, frowning and sizing him up. Then, with a perfectly deadpan expression, you said, âWoof.â
With that, you grabbed your books and turned on your heel, leaving Damian standing there, staring at your back with an incredulous expression.
âDid she get a lobotomy?â He muttered to himself, shaking his head.
Damian watched your retreating back for daysâeach time you pulled away, his frustration grew. Despite his best efforts to wrangle an explanation from you, you remained stubbornly distant. He could hear it in the sharp edge of your voice when you spoke to him, see it in the way your shoulders tensed as you turned and walked away. Something was wrong.
He didnât like being kept at armâs length. Especially not by you.
His mind replayed every conversation, every word heâd said or left unsaid, trying desperately to pinpoint the moment heâd crossed an invisible line. Had his sharp tongue cut too deep? Had he accidentally hurt you? The thought of causing you pain gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.
By the fourth day, his patience had run out.
He found you alone beneath the stairwell, where the hallways fell quiet while everyone was in class.
â(Y/N), come on.â He said quietly but firmly, stepping closer, his voice rough with urgency, âHow can I make up for what Iâve done if I donât even know why youâre mad at me?â
For a moment, you said nothing, the silence stretching between you like a chasm.
His normally impassive face betrayed a flicker of something rawâdistress, frustration, and maybe even a hint of fear. The crease between his brows deepened as he scrunched his nose, a small but telling sign of how much this affected him.
You almost caved.
He reached out, his hand brushing yours, âQalbiâŚâ
That single word snapped something inside you.
You jerked your hand away, voice sharp and furious, âWhat the fuck is wrong with you, Damian?â
His chest tightened, heart pounding painfully. Anxiety flickered across his eyes. Was this rejection? Did you feel uncomfortable with his feelings for him? Was that why you were avoiding him?
âIâIâm sorry, I didnât mean toââ
You cut him off with a bitter laugh, trying to keep your voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
âWhy do you keep calling me that? Are you trying to humiliate me? Is that what this is?â
The hurt in your words struck Damian harder than any blow. For a moment, he was speechlessâhis usual sharp confidence faltering under the weight of your doubt.
âNo,â He said softly, voice almost breaking, âI would never humiliate you.â
He looked so earnest, so genuine that it managed to crack through your certainty, making you question everything you had believed until now.
Damian was your best friend. You supposed you owed him a chance to explain himself.
âWhy do you keep calling me that?â You lowered your eyes, voice barely above a whisper, âI thought it was something sweet at first, but when I looked it up I⌠I dunno. I thought we meant more to each other.â
Damianâs face was stoic for a second, all the thoughts rushing through his brain trying to catch up. His eyes flickered over your face multiple times, trying to understand just what you were saying before the synapse connected and his world suddenly made sense.
His hands found their place on your waist, and you looked up at him in surprise, barely managing to voice out your confusion before he slanted his lips over yours.
Your gasp was muffled by his mouth, tilting your chin up as you kissed him back, eyes fluttering closed.
When Damian pulled away, his lips brushed lightly against yours again before he put barely an inch of distance between you, gazing into your eyes with a deep, passionate gaze that felt like it would light you ablaze.
âKalbi is a word pronounced from the front of your mouth,â He explained, lips brushing against yours to further emphasize his point, âI would never call you that.â
âQalbi,â He continued, leaning down to graze his lips along the curve of your throat, making your breath hitch as you clutched his arms to steady yourself, âComes from deeper in the throat.â
Through the blood thumping in your ears, making every part of your body heat up unbearably, you could tell the difference between the two words.
âIt means something entirely different.â
You tried to steady your breath, looking back up, finding yourself frozen when you met his green eyes, âWhat does it mean?â
He took a slow, careful breath and met your gaze with earnest intensity.
âQalbi⌠it means my heart. Itâs the most precious thing I could call you.â
You stared at him, stunned by the sincerity radiating from every word, your anger wavering as confusion and something warmer settled in.
Damianâs hand reached out again, tentative but hopeful.
âIâm sorry I didnât explain sooner. I just⌠I didnât know how.â
âI never meant to hurt you,â He whispered, âI was trying to tell you how much you mean to me.â
You looked up, searching his eyesâand found something honest, something vulnerable that made your breath catch.
Slowly, a genuine smile spread across your face.
âNext time,â You murmured, âmaybe just say it in English.â
Damianâs grin deepened as he leaned down to kiss you again.
âPerhaps next time youâll be better versed in Arabic,â He teased, âto tell the difference between two completely different letters.â
A/N: lol i put this at the end cuz i didn't wanna spoil anyways i wrote this fic cuz everytime i see a fic where damian refers to their s/o as qalbi i internally giggle because ik that ppl who are not really familiar with arabic will pronounce it differently and i just loved the idea of a misunderstanding arising from that
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I canât guarantee that I wonât accidentally miss it)
áŻâ¤ did I mention Iâm robin .ᣠę°á´ĘĘ ę°ÉŞá´
â Ęá´á´á´.⎠âdamian wayne â readerâ .á .á
⤡ summary ⎠You donât know your boyfriendâbeloved as he likes to call himselfâis Robin. Then, one night you think you hear a stray cat behind a dumpster.
Turns out itâs the vigilante Robin who collapses into you since heâs so beat up andâwait, why does Robin smell like Damian .ᣠword cnt. 10.2k
Thereâs a persistent misconception about Damianâthat he refuses to admit when heâs hurt because it would bruise his ego. Maybe that was true once. Maybe when he was small, when he was ten and still soft in places the League tried to carve out of him, when the only time he cried into someoneâs shoulder was in dreams he woke from with shame burning his throat. Back then, admitting pain meant inviting more of it. Back then, vulnerability was another word for weakness, and weakness was something punished, not soothed.
But thatâs not the boy he is now. Now, admitting hurt feels less like pride and more like treasonâlike every flinch, every moment of doubt is an insult hurled at his mother, at his grandfather, at every merciless lesson etched into his bones. To even confess inwardly, Iâm hurting, feels like reaching into his own chest and dismantling the armor they forced him to wear.
So he doesnât. Even now, coughing in the cold shadows of Crime Alley, ribs screaming, blood painting the inside of his mouth metallic and warm, he wonât say it. Not to himself. Not even here.
Domain keeps repeating the same line in his head, steady and practiced: I will not blame myself for this.
Damian says it again and again, as if repetition could make it true.
The truth lies beside him in the dust.
She couldnât have been more than ten. A child.
A child swallowed by Scarecrowâs toxin so completely that terror seemed to pour from her skin. Her eyes were blown wide, glassy, unfocusedâstaring not at him but through him, as if she were trapped in a nightmare with no way out. Every breath she took came out as a sob, sharp and shallow, like her lungs were too small to carry the fear inside her.
The knife in her hand trembled violently, its metal catching the dim emergency lights in jittery flashes. She swung at him in clumsy, frantic arcsânothing calculated, nothing trainedâjust primal, poisoned terror. The air around them was thick with dust, with heat, with the stench of the toxin leaking from the vents. It felt like breathing through wet cloth.
Damian kept his palms open as he approached, voice low, feet steady even as the floor groaned beneath them. The building was dying around themâwalls cracking, ceiling shedding plaster in soft, deadly driftsâand every sound felt too loud, too sharp, swallowed too quickly by the narrow hallway.
Damian disarmed her. Of course he did.
Even shaking, even barely able to see through the haze, muscle memory guided him. He caught her wrist, twisted gently, felt the blade slip from her fingers.
But she didnât stop screaming.
Her hands clawed at him, tiny nails scraping at his suit, her body thrashing with the strength that only terror gives. And her voiceâGod, her voiceâwasnât a childâs voice anymore. It was raw, hoarse, pleading in a way that hollowed him out from the inside.
She screamed that she didnât want to be here.
She screamed that she didnât want to die.
She screamed like he had screamed in the few seconds before the Lazarus Pit swallowed him whole.
He didnât decide to let her go.
Damianâs fingers simply opened, an old instinct rising through him like cold water.
It took less than seven seconds.
He counted them later, each one a knife to the ribs.
A groan rippled through the ceilingâdeep, metallic, sickeningâand then the world tore open. A huge industrial fan, rusted through and hanging on by its last bolts, snapped free with a shriek that split the air. Damian saw it fall in slow motion, though he knew it was fast, too fast, impossibly fast.
The impact hit like the building itself exhaled.
Dust exploded outward in a suffocating cloud, swallowing the girl instantly. The shockwave rattled his bones. Debris peppered his boots. The air turned thick, gritty, nearly unbreathable.
And thenâsilence.
Not real silence, but that awful hollow space where sound should be. Where a child should be crying. Where something living should still be moving.
Damian didnât scream. His throat locked, muscles tightening until it felt like he was being strangled. His body refused to move, refused to look away, refused to accept the outline half-visible through the settling dust. Something small. Something still.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears so loudly it drowned out the continuing collapse around him.
For a moment, he couldnât tell if he was breathing at all.
He stayed frozen like thatâknees bent, muscles trembling, pupils blownâuntil hands grabbed him from behind. Strong hands. Familiar hands.
Dickâs voice was somewhere above him, muffled, frantic, breaking.
But Damian didnât hear the words.
Only the ringing silence.
Only the ghost of her scream.
Only the sound of metal tearing itself loose replaying over and over inside his skull.
Dick dragged him backward, boots scraping through rubble, air thick with dust so dense it felt like drowning upright. The collapsing hallway dimmed behind them, swallowed by smoke and shadows, and Damian still couldnât breathe. It was like his breathing was admitting she could no longer.
Dick was shouting his name, voice thick with fear, but all Damian heard was the echo of the girlâs last terrified cryâ
And the quiet, echoing lie in his own head.
I will not blame myself for this.
He tried to believe it.
Tried.
But the weight in his chest said otherwise, heavy and collapsing inward just like the ceiling above them.
Damian spits into the gritty Gotham dirt, the metallic tang of blood stubborn on his tongue. It clings to the back of his throat like rust, refuses to leave no matter how violently he tries to purge it. The only part of his suit still intact is his maskâeverything else is shredded, scorched, torn open by brick, metal, and failure.
Shockingly, his bones are mostly where they should be.
Shockingly, heâs still walking.
Shockingly, heâs alive.
He ran the second he saw his fatherâs silhouette appear behind Jasonâdidnât hesitate, didnât wait to hear a single word. Instinct. Shame. Horror. Something primal and ugly in his chest pushing him forward until he vaulted through smoke and sirens and kept going.
Heâd ripped out every tracker, smashed every comm against rusted metal, even crushed his phone under his heel until it snapped like a bone. Oracle is unmatchedâbut if Damian Wayne doesnât want to be found, he wonât be.
And Bruce⌠Bruce wouldnât blame him.
That makes it worse.
Because for the first time in a long time, Damian doesnât know if he deserves that mercy.
Pain crawls up his ribs, sharp and electric. At least four are broken, maybe five. His hands are bleedingâraw, split open, scraped down to something tender beneath the skin. He canât tell which fingers are sprained or simply refusing to bend after clawing uselessly at the collapsed ceiling fan, trying to lift it, trying to reach her.
His knee throbs with every uneven step; thereâs a gash along his temple where dried blood mats his hair to his face. He smells of mud and dust and the stagnant water that poured from burst pipes. He looks like a ghost someone dragged through a warzone.
With what strength remains, Damian drags himself behind a row of dumpsters. The alley swallows him wholeâdark, damp, reeking of rot. He folds in on himself, knees pressed tight to his chest, forehead pressed to the space between them. His arms lock around his legs, holding himself small, silent, contained.
His breath shakes.
He bites down on his lower lip hard, so hard, desperate to smother any sound before it escapes.
He feels ridiculous. Weak. Behaving like the kind of frightened child he would have sneered at years ago. A version of himself he vowed heâd killed long before Gotham ever got the chance.
âHey, babyâŚâ
Your voice floats through his headâsoft, sweet, familiar.
Damian freezes.
Oh god.
Heâs hallucinating you.
Your voice is so clear he almost looks up, almost answers, almost reaches out for hands that arenât here. His breath stutters as he presses his face harder into his knees, burying himself deeper into the mud and trash below. Anything to ground himself.
âHey, itâs okayâŚâ
Your voice againâgentle, coaxing, the same tone you use when you cradle a stray cat to your chest.
His lip splits under his teeth from how hard heâs biting down. The fresh sting distracts him for half a secondâand then he tastes new blood. Not from his gums. Not from a cut inside his cheek.
From the force of trying not to cry.
âBaby, look, I got foodâhm? Donât you want some?â
Yes.
Yes, he wants your butter cookies, the chai you brew just for him, the blueberry cupcakes he pretends he doesnât crave but always eats first. He wants the warmth of your kitchen, the way you hum under your breath, the stupid heart-shaped plate you refuse to throw away.
He wants all of it.
A sound escapes himâsmall, broken, humiliating. A whimper so soft it shouldnât have made it past his teeth.
He stiffens immediately, shoulders snapping rigid, breath catching sharply in his throat as if he can choke the sound back in.
He gasps around nothing, around air too cold and too thin, trying desperatelyâpatheticallyâto claw his way back to control.
Trying to silence the part of himself thatâs still ten years old, terrified, alone in a world that never cared if he lived or died.
Trying to silence the echo of a childâs scream still ringing in his skull.
Thenâ
It isnât silent.
Your voice cuts through the alley like a flare in smoke, sharp with shock and disbelief.
ââŚRobin?â
Damianâs head snaps up so fast his vision blurs. His breath hitches. Your outline wavers at the edge of the dumpsterâs shadowâthe warm glow of a streetlamp catching your hair, your face, your startled expression.
Youâre holding an opened packet of cat food in one hand, clearly midâstray-feeding session, frozen now as you stare at the wrecked boy crouched in the dirt.
âHeyâare you cosplaying,â you ask, voice tripping over itself, âor are you actually Robin? Waitânever mindâyouâre hurt, I shouldââ
You donât finish the sentence.
Because Damianâs body moves before thought can catch up, driven by instinct, by exhaustion, by the brutal longing of a boy pushed far past his limits. His knees give out, his ribs seize, his vision flashes whiteâ
âand he collapses into you.
Just folds.
Just falls.
Like a dying star dropping into orbit with the only gravity it trusts.
Your arms are around him before you can think, reflexive, frantic, steady. His mask presses into your shoulder, and his whole frame shakes as he clings to youâreally clings, fingers digging into your jacket like heâs terrified youâll dissolve if he doesnât hold tight enough.
He smells like mud. Like smoke. Like blood.
But beneath it allâ
He smells like your Damian.
âHeyâhey, hey, hey,â you whisper, your mouth close to his ear, your breath brushing his skin in a way that makes his whole body shudder. Your voice is so soft it almost hurts himâsoft in that way you only ever use for Damian, the tone you slip into when heâs had a nightmare or when he gets overwhelmed and tries to pretend he isnât.
You donât know why youâre using it now.
Your mind doesnât know.
But your body does.
Some instinct older than logic recognizes himârecognizes the trembling, the shape of him, the warmth, the way his weight fits against you like it belongs there.
âYouâre gonna be okay, yeah?â you murmur, supporting his head, brushing mud and blood away from his cheek with your thumb. âYouâre not beat upâwell, not that badlyâah, fuck, should I call a hospitalâ?â
âNo.â
The word cracks out of him like a snapped bone.
Robinâs voiceâstrained, hoarse, but absolute.
âNoâno hospital.â
He can already feel it: the way his father would then find out right away. He imagines Bruceâs voice, low and sad, telling him that its going to be okayâ
He canât.
He canât let himself be found yet.
âOkay,â you breathe, adjusting your grip so his head doesnât loll. âOkayâalrightâthen not a hospital. Iâm a med student but I could tryâif you just let me seeââ
You donât finish.
Because Damianâs weight suddenly shiftsâhis body folding, sagging against you as if his bones just⌠give up. Not unconscious, not fully, but close enough that panic hits your chest like a hammer.
His breath is still thereâragged, shallowâbut there.
âHeyâhey, no, stay with me,â you say quickly, feeling his mask press into the crook of your neck, the heat of his breath dampening your collar. âDonât do that, donâtâyou canât justâRobinâlook at me, come onââ
But he slumps further, his forehead sliding down to your shoulder, fingers twitching weakly at the fabric of your jacketânot gripping anymore, just⌠searching.
Still conscious, yes.
Still breathing, yes.
But his body is past its limit.
You tighten your arms around him, your chest pressed to his, holding him upright with more strength than you thought you had. His weight is staggering, but you refuse to let him fall.
You maneuver Robin the best you canâone of your arms braced tight around his waist, the other hauling his limp, deadweight arm over your shoulders. Heâs heavier than he looks, all coiled muscle and soaked Kevlar, and every time you shift, something inside him makes a sickening crack that turns your stomach.
You donât ask what part of him that was.
You donât want to know.
He breathes through his teethâsharp, controlled, like every inhale is a blade he wonât let touch you.
It hits you then, too vividly: Damian doing the exact same thing when youâd accidentally splashed acid onto the exposed skin of his wrist in chemistry. Heâd had gloves on, but a sliver of skin blistered instantly, and he had grit his teeth like this, refusing to let you see the pain.
Maybe thatâs why youâre brave enoughâstupid enoughâto tighten your grip on this boy dressed like Robin and start walking toward your dorm.
You barely get half a block.
âFuckââ Robin rasps as you turn the corner. His body jerks in your arms. âNoâno dormââ
You freeze, letting him brace himself against the cold brick wall. His mask tips forward, his breath fogging the air between you.
âHowâhow did you know I wasâ?â
âYou said medical student,â he snaps back through clenched teeth, like the words themselves hurt. âDoes that matterâfuckâahââ
He crumples a little, one bloodied hand flying to his knee as if heâs trying to hold the joint in place. The other hand trembles as he points to the back pocket of his suit pants.
âMy walletâahâgrab my walletâthereâs a motel near hereânext to a convenience storeââ
You blink at him.
Then your hand slides down his side, firm on his hip, and moves lower.
Damian would have blushed at any other moment. Hell, even half-conscious and drowning in pain, he manages a strangled noiseâsomewhere between indignation and disbeliefâas your palm pats your way across his ass in search of the wallet.
Damianâs not going to say anything to you now.
But God, when heâs out of costume?
Heâs going to have a conversation with you about boundaries with strangers.
A very serious one.
Preferably one that doesn't encourage you patting down vigilantes in alleys while theyâre bleeding out.
Your fingers brush leather.
âGot it,â you mutter, tugging the wallet free and slipping an arm under his again. âOkay, câmon, Iâve got you.â
His weight folds into you again, heavier this time, his forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second too long before he forces himself upright with a shaky grunt.
You donât see his eyes under the mask.
Not really.
But you feel them on youâlike heâs memorizing each second youâre holding him up, like something in him recognizes you long before heâll let himself admit it.
âLetâs go,â you whisper.
And he does.
Because he doesnât have a choice, youâre the only thing keeping him standing.
Because your voiceâyour hands around himâhave become the only stable thing left in the world thatâs collapsing around him twice in one night.
You make it to the motel with Robin huffing out directions in broken fragments, each one puffed through clenched teeth:
âLeft.â
âTwo blocks straight.â
âRight.â
ââŚthe other right!â
By the time you reach the place, your shoulder is numb from supporting his weight, and your arm around his waist is shaking. You donât know what you expectedâa flickering neon sign, the smell of mold, carpets older than Gotham itselfâbut the motel is⌠surprisingly warm. Soft lighting, muted gold against burgundy walls. A little worn, maybe, but clean.
Cozy. Safe, even.
You pause on the threshold, staring at the front desk like itâs an obstacle you never trained for.
âHow am I supposed to get us in without someone pointing out a vigilante in a stupid costumeââ
âJust go.â Robinâs voice scrapes out of him, roughened by injury and exhaustion. âHeâs fourteen. Doesnât look up from his phone. Kidâll hand you the key card, and if he doesnâtââ he breaks off in a jagged cough that shakes his whole frame, âwe can justâahâuse what you said earlier. Cosplaying. Yeah?â
You stare at him.
Robin sounds like heâs making it up as he goes, but something in his toneâsome weary certainty, like heâs done this dance in worse shapeâtells you heâs not wrong.
So you tighten your arm around his waist, feeling the heat radiating through his suit, the tremor in his muscles as he tries to stand straighter for your sake. His breath stutters against your neck. Heâs so close itâs impossible not to feel every ragged exhale.
And you step inside.
The lobby is quiet, humming faintly with the low buzz of an old heater. A cheap and outdated Christmas garland droops along the front desk, its tinsel reflecting warm yellow light. The receptionistâa teenager with curly hair, hoodie pulled over his headâdoes not, in fact, look up from his phone.
Robin sags into you a little more, like the warmth is melting whatever fight he had left.
You approach the desk.
âUmâhi. Can Iââ
âKeys are on the counter,â the kid mutters without looking up, thumb tapping across the screen. âCash or card?â
Robin wheezes something at your expression that might be a laugh, or a dying breath. Hard to tell.
You grab the wallet from earlier, sliding a wad of cash forward with your free hand. Your other hand stays locked around Robinâs waist, like youâre afraid heâll slide to the floor if you loosen your grip even a fraction.
The teen finally glances up.
Sees Robin half-collapsed on you.
Sees the blood on his gloves.
Sees the cracked, battered armor.
Sees you trying to hold up someone clearly too heavy and too hurt.
âHuh. We donât get a lot of cosplayersâthey usually go to the one closer to the convention centerâ the kid says flatly.
âYeah,â you answer instantly, praying your voice doesnât shake. âWeâuhâwe got a little lost and this was closer.â
The kid blinks once.
Then shrugs. âThatâs cool. Dope costume. Nice commit to the bit.â
He hands you the key card and goes right back to his phone.
Youâre not sure if relief or disbelief hits you harder.
You adjust him against your side, guiding him toward the hallway. His steps are uneven, heavy, every movement radiating pain he refuses to voice.
The moment the lobby door swings shut behind you, the motelâs warmth settles over you bothâthick, quiet, almost grounding.
âSee?â he murmurs, voice slurred at the edges. âTold youâmy costume is cool.â
His head tilts toward you, just slightly, like the warmth and exhaustion are pulling him in your direction.
And you try not to think about how he smells like smoke and cold rain.
How he feels like someone familiar when he leans into you like that.
How your heart stutters, traitorously, as you whisperâ
âLetâs get you somewhere you can lie down.â
Robin nods weakly.
And lets you lead him deeper into the motelâs soft, golden safetyâcompletely trusting you to keep him upright, keep him hidden, keep him alive.
Just like someone else you know would.
You swipe the key card, hear the soft click of the lock, and shoulder the door open. The room is smallâqueen bed, tiny table, muted brown carpetâbut the lights are gentle, not the harsh fluorescent kind, and the air smells faintly of old lavender cleaner. Safe enough. Warm enough.
You drop your bag and guide him inside, your arm still locked firmly around his waist. His steps are clumsy, uneven, and his breath shivers against your shoulder every time he shifts his weight. You get him to the bed and try to ease him down onto the edgeâ
But he just falls from your grip like he thinks your work here is done.
The mattress dips violently as he flops onto it with all the grace of a sack of bricks. For a single second he tries to force himself upright againâstubborn, one that could rival Damians you thinkâmuscles trembling with the effort.
âNoâwaitâwaitâjustââ You place both hands on his shoulders and press gently.
Robin collapses backward instantly, like the moment someone told him he didnât have to fight gravity, he let go of the idea entirely. His body sinks into the thin motel comforter, armor scraping faintly against the sheets.
He goes very still.
Too still.
His chest rises, fallsâshallow, controlled. And he stares straight up, not dazed, not disoriented, not spaced-out.
But fixed.
Eyes locked on the ceiling.
On the ceiling fan.
The cheap metal blades rotate slowly above him, humming with a soft mechanical wobble. A perfectly harmless fan.
But Robinâs gaze is razor-sharp, unblinking, pupils blown wide with something that isnât shock but something deeper, colder. His breath stutters in a way you donât like. His fingers clamp just slightly at his sides, the motion so tiny most people wouldnât have seen it.
You do.
And it hits youâthe expression on his face is not blank.
Itâs haunted.
You follow his line of sight up to the fan.
âOff?â you ask quietlyâmoving near the nightstand, thumb hovering near the fan switchâas if even offering the choice might jolt him.
ââŚdoesnât matter,â he mutters, eyes flicking away from the fan and then back to you, like heâs forcing himself to anchor on anything else. Something kinder.
Silence settles between you for a beatâthick, strained, fragile in a way that makes you feel like moving too suddenly might crack him straight open.
âIsâŚâ you begin, swallowing, âIs there anyone you want to call? I shouldâve asked soonerââ
âNoââ His voice slices through yours, too sharp for how wrecked it sounds. The word is followed by a jagged cough that forces him to scrunch one eye shut. When he looks back up at you, the edges of his mask tilt with the furrow of his brows. âIâm not going to ask you to patch me up. Itâs late. Go home. Thank you for bringing me hereââ
He stops suddenly.
Like he stepped off a ledge he didnât mean to.
Thereâs something tight in the silence that followsâlike heâs biting back a word, choking on it.Â
Beloved, Damian wants to say. âThank you for bringing me here beloved.â
And even through the mask, you can feel the weight of the stare he pins you with. Like heâs trying to memorize your silhouette in this crappy motel room, the curve of your shoulders in the lamplight, the steadiness you havenât once offered to anyone but him.Â
ââŚYou will be rewarded,â he says finally, voice softening in this strange way. His chin tilts toward the nightstand where his wallet sits. âIâll send some money to yourââ
âCan I use your wallet to buy some gauze and disinfectant from the convenience store?â you cut in, tone annoyed and completely ignoring everything he just said.
For a moment he justâŚstares. Then he lets out a breath that sounds like a sigh of annoyance or might be relief, letting his head fall back against the pillow. The white sheets are already blotched with dull streaks of dried blood and new ones blooming beneath him. He must feel it soaking uncomfortably into the fabric, but he doesnât flinch.
Mentally, however, your boyfriend behind the mask is smiling. Youâre not stubborn, he always insists. Youâre adamant. The only force heâs never once been ableâor wantedâto fight.
Itâs about twenty minutes later when you step back into the room, pushing the door shut with your heel as you kick off your shoes. The motelâs dim yellow light hits you first, then the sight of Robinâstill lying exactly where you left him, stiff and watchful in that strange, exhausted way.
âI bought myself hot chocolate with your card,â you announce, voice low but steady, setting the cup on the nightstand. The steam curls upward, sweet and warm, completely out of place beside the blood drying on the gauntlets he seems to have thrown off. You ease onto the corner of the bed near the nightstand, the plastic bag rustling as you place it on the pillow beside you.
Robin huffsâjust barelyâbut itâs enough to sound like him.
âGive me a sip later.â
âNo.â You donât even look at him. âIâm not getting blood on it.â
If Damian were capable of smiling without everything hurting, he wouldâve.
Because you always share your drinks with him.
Even when he bites his lip thinking too hard, even when thereâs a smear of red on the rimâ you never care. No matter how disgusting he jokes that it is, you never care.Not with him.
The warmth in his chest flares sharp and fast, pressing painfully against his bruised ribs. A traitorous little flutter he canât stop.
You slide closer and slip your arms beneath his armpits, bracing your body as you drag him up the bed so his legs arenât hanging uselessly off the edge.
âGod, what do you eat?â you grunt, struggling under his weight.
âJustice,â Robin mutters, and youâre pretty sure it was meant to be a joke.
âHas anyone ever told you youâre not funny?â you ask, already reaching for a pillow.
He feels your hand slide behind his neckâgentle, so gentlyâas you lift his head and place it down on the pillow like heâs breakable porcelain. Your touch sends a sting of heat through his skull, unbearable only because he wants more of it.
âMy girlfriend,â Damian hears himself say, the words slipping out before he can lock his jaw around them, âShe thinks Iâm funny.â
You pause, blink, then mumble under your breath, ââŚsome women are just being nice.â
âSpeaking from experience?â he shoots back, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might grin if he werenât bleeding internally.
âHell no.â You say it with this stupid, proud lilt that makes his ribs ache in a new way. You rummage through the plastic bag, pulling out gauze and alcohol wipes. âMy boyfriend is hilarious. Very funny.â
âYeah?â Robin mutters, his voice thick around pain and exhaustion as he watches you tear open a packet of disinfectant wipes. âName a joke then. I could use a laugh.â
âSomething tells me your ribs couldnât,â you shoot back, focused on the supplies, fingers steady in a way your pulse isnât. You're giving him a look now, one that he's only seen you direct at the men who hit on you when the two of you go out together. âGo ask your girlfriend.â
He goes still. Not the physical kindâheâs already barely movingâbut the kind that feels like a nerve being struck. A soft, invisible jolt running through him.
Robin shifts, the faintest tensing under your hands.
âLookââ he says, a little too fast, a little too defensive, âI am not hitting on you.â
You donât look up.
You donât have to.
You can feel the way the words hit him, like heâs been caught doing something wrong.
You just sigh, not unkindly, not even annoyedâjust tired. Focused. Like you always are with everyone you patch up in the hospital you both volunteer in. Even if the only patients you both receive are little kids who get bruises from running around in the halls. He admires it about you, how you focus on them like they are going through heart surgery.
âYouâre half-dead on a motel bed,â you say, brushing debris off whatâs left of his tunic. âYou couldnât hit on me if you tried.â
He exhales sharplyâhalf an offended huff, half a sound of pain mixed with laughterâbecause thatâs not the point.
Because you donât know that heâs yours.
Damian doesnât know what to say nowânot when youâre this close, not when your hands are already on him, not when every shallow breath sends a tremor through his fractured ribs. His body keeps betraying himâloosening, sinking into the mattress, warming under your touch as if youâd flipped some instinct older than language.
Itâs humiliating.
Itâs grounding.
Itâs a suffocating comfort.
You pull the small scissors from the first-aid kit and murmur, âDonât move,â as you cut away the torn, mud-streaked Kevlar shirt. You work carefully with a bit of struggle, sliding the blade under each stubborn seam. Each snip sounds loud in the quiet room, mixing with the rhythmic whir of the ceiling fan he still refuses to look at.
His shoulder pulls tight when you peel back the fabricâhis dislocated left side stiffens, trembling slightly. He hates it. Hates needing help. Hates how your fingers graze his skin and his whole body shivers like heâs been rewired.
âWhy are you helping me?â Robin asks, voice raw. Damian already knows the answer but part of him needs to hear it anywayâneeds the reassurance like a coward.
ââŚLetâs just say I like Batman,â you mumble, focused, trying to free a stubborn strip of fabric stuck to dried blood at his temple.
Robinâs mouth twitches into the faintest grin he can muster. âMore than me?â
You hum as you finally remove the last piece of his top, exposing mottled bruises blooming across his ribs. âUnfortunately his costume is cooler.â
He rolls his eyes even though the motion makes pain crack through his skull. In his head, Damian mirrors itâof course youâd say that. You already told him once that Batmanâs silhouette was âpeak aesthetic.â
âYou like the trunks? My costume is way cooler.â
âI like the cape.â You say it while reaching for the wipes, already cleaning the blood from along his jaw. âIt was easy to find a black blanket as a kid and run around pretending I was him.â
Damian has heard that story so many timesâyour shy laugh, the way you mimed swooping down hallways. Hearing you tell it to Robinâeven though it is himâburns in a new way.
âHeâd like to hear that,â Robin says, voice softer than he intends.
Youâre already sliding your hand behind his shoulder blades, guiding him up the pillow just enough so you can work. His breath stutters at the movement; he clenches his teeth as agony arcs down his side. You catch itâof course you doâand murmur: âSorry. Iâve got you.â
And he hates how much those words undo him.
âI wanted to dress up as him for Halloween this year too,â you continue, talking more to distract him than anything else. You set an ice pack against his ribs with careful pressure. âBut then I canât force my boyfriend to do a couples costume.â
Thatâs new. His pulse jumps. Why didnât you tell him?
Robin starts slowly, ââŚCouples costume?â
âMhmâŚâ You pull off one of his glovesâgently, so gentlyâand begin disinfecting his knuckles one by one. His fingers twitch involuntarily as the antiseptic stings. âI just need an excuse to play dress up with him.â
Damianâs heart drops, catches, and tries to restart all at once.
âWhat is he, a doll?â Robin asksânot teasing. Real worry threads through his voice, betraying him. God your going to either make the costume practically two threads of fabric or dress him up in the most ridiculous thing possible.
âMight as well be.â You laugh quietly as you check for fractures along his hand. âMy Damian is so handsome.â
The room tilts.
His ribs donât ache for a moment.
It feels dangerously good.
âBet Iâm hotter,â Robin huffs, letting Dickâs bravado slip out because itâs safer than sounding like himselfâsafer than letting the truth spill and ruin everything.
âHm⌠yeah bruised and bloody, just how I like my men.â You roll your eyes and reach for his other glove.
He winces when you lift his left arm to remove it, the dislocated shoulder grinding sharply. You catch the breath he sucks in and immediately soften your touch, guiding his arm down again, supporting the joint with your palm.
âOh?â Robin asks, staring at the ceiling because looking at you feels impossible and too much. âSadist?â
âFor everyone except him? Yeah.â
And you say it like itâs nothing.
But Damian feels the words slide under his ribs, settle into something tender and too fragile to name.
You brace a hand at the small of his back.
âYou need to sit up again.â
He grits his teeth. You help him slowly, carefully, letting him lean against you while you wrap bandages around his ribsâyour arms circling him, your breath warm near his ear, your pulse steady against his shoulder.
Too much.
Not enough.
Too much.
Your fingertips brush the edge of the bruise blooming across his sternum. He swallows a sound he refuses to make.
You let him rest against the headboard once heâs secured, then move to his kneeâexamining the swollen joint, pressing lightly to check if he reacts. He does. You soften again.
Hand on his shin.
Hand at the back of his neck.
Hand steadying his jaw while you clean the last cut.
Your touch is everywhere.
And DamianâRobinâwhoever he is right nowâcannot breathe around the question pounding in his skull:
How can you care this gently for a stranger when you love him so fiercely?Â
But when you whisper, âTilt your head a little moreâyeah, just like that,â
he obeys instantly.
Because itâs you.
And because his body has always, always known how to answer to your voiceâŚlong before his heart admitted it.
You shift your weight on the mattress, bunchingthe motelâs thin blanket under his ruined knee for a little cushioning before you touch anything. Robin keeps his eyes on the ceiling fanâlike heâs daring it to fallâwhile you cut around the torn fabric of his pants. The knee is already swelling, skin angry and hot beneath your fingers.
âOkay,â you whisper like youâre soothing a spooked animal, âthis is gonna hurt. Justâbreathe. In and out.â
Damian isnât breathing at all.
His throat feels clamped shut, like each inhale might betray the way your hands unravel every tight coil inside him.
You press your thumbs lightly around the joint, mapping out whatâs broken, whatâs salvageable.
Robinâs jaw tightens. A sharp hiss slips out of himâhumiliating, involuntary, and it makes him then let out a small curse.
âDamian did the same thing,â you murmur, almost without thinking, focusing on the rhythm of working rather than the vigilante in your hands. âWhen he sprained his knee last winter. Pretended it didnât hurt but started swearing in Arabic under his breath.â
His stomach twists.
He remembers.
You carried him to the couch and iced it yourself. He pretended to fall asleep so you wouldnât see him melt.
âThat must be annoyingâ Robin croaksâbecause when it comes to him thereâs not many other words he can think to use at this moment.
You give a soft laugh at the question, one he didnât expect you to answer so easily.
âHeâs⌠stubborn. Smart. More dramatic than he thinks he is. You should see the pout he does when I donât kiss him goodnight.â
Damian wants the ceiling fan to fall on him.
âAnd heâs soft,â you add, quieter. âNot in the way he thinks weak. Justâsoft where it matters.â
His chest aches. Not from broken ribs. Something else, something worse.
You place both your hands gently around his kneecap. âOkay, three, twoââ
You donât even reach one.
You shift it back into place with a clean, practiced motion. Robin chokes on a grunt, fists clenching in the sheets until his knuckles bloom fresh red.
âGood,â you whisper, brushing his shin soothingly. âGood job. That was the worst of it.â
He doesnât deserve your praise.
But he swallows it down anyway like starving.
You move next to his hands.
Thereâs dried blood in the lines of his palms, mud caked into the nail beds. His fingers are torn from clawing concrete, little slices across the knuckles where skin split from force.
âGive me your hand,â you say gently.
He hesitatesânot for pain, but because letting you touch him feels like sacrilege, like heâs breaking some unspoken rule of who Robin is allowed to be with you.
But he gives it.
You hold his hand like itâs not stained with a childâs blood and a collapsing ceiling.
You clean each finger carefully, wiping dark streaks from the creases, murmuring tiny apologies every time he winces. You wrap the deeper cuts with practiced precision, one slow deliberate motion at a time.
Robin watches youâreally watches youâfor the first time since the alley.
âYou knowâŚâ he starts, voice rough, âmy girlfriend is probably going to kill me.â
Your hands still just for a second.
ââŚOh?â
âShe worries too much,â Robin continues, forcing a half-grin he doesnât feel.
You huff softly, âIf Damian came to me like this Iâd kill him before I can even think about how to help him.â
âSheâs kind,â he says quieter now. âToo kind for me. She pretends sheâs annoyed, but sheâs⌠sheâs gentle. And loyal. And smarter than I am.â
You laugh at that, still cleaning his fingers, probably thinking heâs hallucinating. âWellâat least you realize it.â
âShe tells me Iâm handsome sometimes,â he adds faintly, like testing water he already knows the depth of.
Your groan. âGod she must be blind.â
Damian stares at you like youâve stabbed him, his fingers twitch weakly in your hold, like a cat bristling with its last bit of pride.
âSheâs not blind,â Robin rasps before he can stop himself.
Your brows lift, just slightly, but you keep cleaning the smear of blood along his ring finger.
âOh?â you murmur, tone soft but teasing. âShe has bad taste then?â
Damian almost chokes.
Robin swallows, tries to keep his voice level. âShe says I look⌠dignified.â
You blink. That is absolutely not the word you expected to describe the mess of the boy in front of you.
ââŚDignified?â
âShe says I have nice eyes,â he forces out, because if he doesnât keep talking, he might confess everythingârip the mask off and tell you he needs you more than air. âThat they⌠settle her.â
Your hands pause again.
Not frozen. Not startled.
Just⌠warm.
The way they always get when someone says something earnest. You stare at his face like you're trying to see his eyes through his mask.
âThatâs sweet,â you whisper.
No.
Damian thinks viciously.
It is not sweet. It is humiliating. He sounds like an idiot. A weak, beaten-up idiot bleeding like an idiot.
But your faceâGod, your face is soft and bright and fond. And it hurts him more than the broken ribs.
You stroke another wipe carefully over the cut on his thumb.
âI tell Damian that,â you mumble, half-distracted by focusing on not hurting him. âAbout his eyes. Dunno if he believes me, though.â
Robinâs breath stutters.
You continue, unaware of the way heâs gripping the sheets, knuckles trembling.
âHe has⌠pretty eyes,â you admit quietly, because you also have the full capability of screaming this fact from a rooftop. âWhen he lets me see them.â
Damian feels something in him collapse worse than any ceiling.
âAnd he gets all shy,â you add, smiling at the bandage youâre smoothing down. âPretends he isnât but he does this little inhaleâbarely thereâlike heâs holding his breath.â
Robinâs lungs seize because he knows exactly the inhale you mean. The one he's now is trying to bite back.
You move to the next finger.
The room smells like antiseptic and motel detergent and himâblood, sweat, concrete dust. Everything about him is ruined and raw, except the way you touch him, like heâs still something human.
âShe tells me I make her feel safe,â Robin says suddenly, voice so low it almost cracks. âEven when Iâm a mess.â
Your eyes flick up, meeting the edge of the mask, like youâre searching for something in the shadows behind it.Â
You want to tell him âno shit your RobinâIâd hope she'd feel safe with youâ butâŚdecide against it.
âThatâs important,â you whisper. âSomeone who makes you feel safe is⌠everything.â
Robin closes his eyes, because he canât bear the expression on your face when you say that.
Because he wants to give you safety.
Because he wants to give you everything.
You shift closerâslowly, carefullyâbracing one knee on the mattress. The bed dips under your weight, and Robinâs breath stutters like even that tiny movement unsettles him.
Your hand hovers over his collarbone before you touch him, as if giving him a silent warning, as if asking permission even though he already gave it.
âOkay,â you murmurâyour voice quieter than the lamp buzz filling the roomââthis is going to sting. Iâm sorry.â
Robin tenses.
Not at the warningânot at the pain he knows is comingâbut at the softness. At the way your voice dips into that low, careful register you only use on Damian when heâs pretending bruises arenât bruises and fractures arenât fractures.
Your fingers slip beneath the edge of his torn tunic.
The fabric cracks away from dried blood as you lift it, sticking to him with a wet, sickening tear. Beneath it, his skin is fever-hot. Sweaty. The copper-and-iron smell of blood rises in a thick, metallic wave.
He tries not to hiss.
He fails.
More of his shoulder comes into viewâugly shades of purple and sick yellow blooming across bone and tendon. Scrapes. Punctures. Swollen skin stretched too tight over muscle. He looks⌠hollowed out. Starved in a way that says heâs been pushing too hard for too long.
You suck in a breath.
âOh⌠gods.â
The sound is tiny, strangled, horrified.
Robinâs jaw clenches.
Damian feels something in his chest rupture that has nothing to do with broken ribs.
You tug the tunic lower and reveal the wound.
A diagonal slash, deep and ragged, carved with intention. The edges are swollen, angry, still weeping slow, diluted blood. Dried flakes cling to his skin like rust. A constellation of bruises spread out around it from the impact that caused it.
You freeze for only half a second.
Then your expression steels over.
You grab a disinfectant pad, fingers steady in a way your breathing isnât.
âGodsâŚâ you mutter, voice tight with emotion and frustration and something painfully close to affection, ââŚShe really is going to kill you. I don't know what I'd do if I found Damian like this.â
Robin bites the inside of his cheek hardâhard enough to taste iron.
Because he knows exactly what youâd do.
How youâd cradle Damianâs face in your hands.
How your voice would crack.
How your eyes would soften.
How your warmth would spread across his skin like a balm.
The antiseptic hits the wound.
It sizzles faintly.
Blood thins under the liquid.
His flesh twitches.
Robin jerks, gasping through clenched teeth, the sound raw and involuntary. His fingers dig into the bedsheets hard enough to leave bloody crescents even through the freshly bandaged fingers.
âOhâshit, sorryââ
Your apology spills out instantly, warm and breathy.
Your thumb skims the intact edge of his skin, an instinctive, soothing gesture.
âYouâre doing so well. Just⌠breathe. Please? Iâm right here.â
He hates the way that unravels him.
Hates how badly he wants to lean into your touch.
You work slowly, delicately, swiping away blood the color of wine left out too long. Each stroke of the pad uncovers more skin, more damage. More truth.
You shift the tunic again, lifting it higher to get a better angleâ
And then you go still.
The pad slips a fraction between your fingers.
Your breath stumbles.
Your eyes are locked on something just below the wound.
A tiny beauty mark.
Half-hidden under smeared blood.
A dark little star on the upper swell of his chest.
Robinâs heart convulses against his ribs, too focused on how close you are.
âOh,â you breatheâbarely, barely audible.
A sound more like a gasp than a word.
Itâs the beauty mark youâve kissed a hundred times.
The one your lips find without looking when you curl against Damianâs chest.
The one you once joked was your ânavigation point.â
The color drains from your face, then flushes back too fast.
You inhale sharply through your nose, then again, then againâlike your body canât decide if itâs freezing or boiling.
Robin goes rigid beneath youâ
not out of fear,
not out of panic,
but because youâre staring at him like heâs naked in a way far deeper than skin.
Your gaze shifts to his shoulder.
Compact muscle, cut too clean for it to be any other boy you've seen.
The exact silhouette you see when Damian stretches and his shirt rides up.
Your eyes flick to his hand.
Split knuckles.
A thin scar along the base of his thumb.
The one you saw on Damian when he handed you a desert a few days agoâyour favorite meringue from a local bakery.Â
Your chest rises with a sharp, trembling inhale.
He breathes againâtoo shallow on the left, each inhale a contained wince.
Damian breathes like that when heâs sore.
When heâs lying.
When heâs hiding something.
Your pulse hammers so hard the room blurs at the corners.
He shiftsâtrying to tug his torn tunic back over his chest, as if hiding skin could hide identity. His cheeks blaze under the dark mask, his breaths short and frustrated.
âTt,â he mutters, voice tight, humiliated, flustered out of his mind. âStop staring.â
Your blood goes cold.
The soundâ
that sharp irritated Ttâ
is Damian.
Itâs him.
Itâs him, itâs him, itâsâ
Your hand is still hovering above his chest, suspended like you touched a live wire.
The room feels suffocating nowâhumid with blood, thick with truth, the small space closing around you like a fist. You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. You feel dizzy.
He wouldnât lie like this.
He couldnât.
Heâ
Except he could.
He has.
He would.
He did.
And godânow that youâre seeing himâ
really seeing himâ
you recognize every inch.
Your fingers shake.
He misreads the tremor immediately.
Of course he does.
His jaw clenches hard.
Shoulders curl in.
He twists his face away like he canât stand the look in your eyes.
âCould you quit staring?â he snaps, voice cracking at the edges. âI get itâIâm bruised to hell and back. Stop looking at me likeââ
Damian tries to pull himself together, though every attempt at composure slips through his fingers the way blood keeps slipping down the slope of his ribs. He looks everywhere except at you â at the cracked ceiling tile above him, at the frayed hem of his glove, at the discarded disinfectant pads turning pink on the sheets. Anywhere his eyes can land that isnât your face.
Because your face, right now, is too much.
âI should haveââ he begins, stopping immediately when the words snag on something sharp in his throat. He swallows, tries again, falters again. âI intended, eventually, to⌠tell you. Properly. Under different circumstances. Not like this.â
His voice comes uneven, like heâs reciting from a script that dissolved the moment your fingers brushed his chest.
You donât respond. You donât even move. You sit there between his knees on the bed, your hands still hovering over the wound, your breath warm on his skin, your eyes fixed on him with a focus that borders on reverence.
And you think â God, you think so much all at once it nearly knocks the air out of you.
You think about how much pain heâs in and how little Damian lets it show, how the tremor in his exhale betrays what his stoic expression refuses to.
You think about the sheer brutality carved across his bodyâthe gash at his collarbone, the bruising blooming like ink over his ribs, the sharp outlines of muscle beneath skin thatâs been pushed far past exhaustionâand yet the only thing you feel when you look at him is awe.
He is injured, bloodied, trembling, and somehow still fighting for dignity like itâs a weapon he refuses to set down.
You admire the stubborn courage in that.
You admire the discipline, the resilience, the reckless loyalty that got him into this state in the first place.
Damian is extraordinary in ways no one should be asked to be, and it hits you with a strange, painful clarity: youâve been falling in love with a boy who carries the world like a shield strapped too tightly to his chest.
And now youâre staring at the chest in question â the familiar shape of it, the beauty mark youâve seen a hundred times, the rise and fall of a breath youâve fallen asleep to â and you realize how blind you were not to see him before.
His voice cracks, barely audible. âIt was not because I doubted you. You must understand that beloved. The secret is not mine alone. My familyââ
He stops, jaw tight, brows screwed together in frustration, as if the explanation refuses to take shape no matter how he tries to force it into one.
And while he flounders for words he has always been terrible at choosing, you canât look away from him.
Not from the way his mask is smudged with dust and blood.
Not from the split on his lower lip, still slightly purpling, marked by violence he accepted without hesitation because someone needed saving.
Not from the way he trembles when your knee accidentally brushes his thigh, because for all his training, he is still a person who has never learned what to do when someone touches him gently.
You watch him, and your thoughts turn over and over, slow and stunned:
He is so strong.
He is so brilliant.
He is so painfully, catastrophically brave.
And youâre not sure how you ever thought you loved him enough.
He keeps talking, though his voice gets softer, like each sentence tires him more than the last.
âIt was never deceit for the sake of deception. I was trying to protect them. Protect you. If anyone learned who I was, who you were connected toââ
His breath hitches. He shakes his head, frustrated, angry with himself. âThis is coming out poorly. I never wanted you to feelââ
You donât let him finish.
Not because youâre angry.
Not because you need more explanation.
But because every word he says is straining him, draining him, unraveling him at the seams, and you can see in the tension of his jaw how badly heâs bracing for your rejection.
And you canât let him brace for something that isnât coming.
So you lean down, slow and deliberate, one hand rising to cradle his cheek, the other resting feather-light against his sternum, careful not to jostle the wound.
His eyes widen beneath the mask â a flash of shock, panic, longing, all tangled together so tightly you canât tell them apart.
You press your mouth to his split lip, soft enough not to hurt him, sure enough that he feels every ounce of what you canât yet say aloud.
Itâs not a hungry kiss or a desperate one.
Itâs a promise. A recognition. A quiet, steady I know you and Iâm not leaving.
Damianâs breath breaks against your mouth.
Your thumb sweeps the edge of his jaw. His fingers curl weakly into the sheets. His entire body, rigid with dread moments before, sinks under your touch like the truth was a weight he finally no longer has to carry alone.
And when you pull back, just far enough to see him, he looks at you like youâve undone something inside him he didnât realize was bound so tightly.
He tries to speak. Fails. Tries again.
Your hands rise slowly, almost reverently, thumbs brushing along the lower edge of his mask as though youâre touching something sacred rather than something made of Kevlar and secrets. You try to be graceful, but the damn thing almost refuses to cooperate; you end up fumbling with it longer than any romantic reveal should allow.
Itâs embarrassing.
Itâs also exactly enough time for Damian to process the fact that youâre the one taking it offânot his father, not Alfred, not even himselfâyou, kneeling over him in a cheap motel room with your hands trembling on his skin.
When the mask finally comes free, you hold it between two fingers for a moment before lowering it to the mattress, your eyes lifting to meet him without anything between you for the first time tonight.
Those green eyesâthe ones you could never quite put a shade to, the ones that never seemed to exist in any color wheel you checked because of course he's one of a kindâwiden just slightly, the pupils blown from exhaustion and adrenaline and something softer he never lets anyone else see.
He looks at you like heâs memorizing the moment one breath at a time.
ââŚYou got my blood on your lip,â he says quietly, voice cracked at the edges. It isnât judgment or disgust he shows when you calmly drink a shared drink that still had the reminisce of blood from a bitten lip; itâs something closer to awe, as though he finally believes you will never flinch from his blood. From him.
âYeah,â you murmur, brushing your thumb across the corner of your mouth as if confirming the obvious. âComes with having a superhero boyfriend.â
His mouth parts, not in arrogance or smugness or that sharp little smirk he pretends is confidence, but in a stunned, reverent wonder that makes his breath hitch. Damianâs brows draw together in a way that looks almost painful â like someone seeing a holy thing up close and being overwhelmed by the fact theyâre allowed to touch it.
And then Damian is kissing you.
Not with the careful restraint he usually hides behind, not with the skittish hesitation of earlier, but with a deep, unguarded certainty that pulls you down against the bruised plane of his chest.Â
Damianâs arms wrap around you with a fierceness that startles you, not because itâs rough, but because itâs desperate â as though heâs afraid you might disappear the moment he loosens his grip.
The kiss isnât starving, but it isnât gentle either; itâs the compressed weight of every moment heâs lied to you, every time heâs wanted to tell you the truth, every time heâs held back because he knew he was protecting you. Your lips move against his with a kind of instinctive urgency, your breath mingling with the copper taste of his blood, your bodies pressed so close thereâs no room for anything except the fact that he is here, that he is yours, that he is alive.
When Damian finally pulls back, itâs only far enough that the air you get is the air from his mouth, the breath he exhales into yours. His forehead rests against yours, warm and damp, and his hands linger at your waist like heâs not convinced the world wonât tilt without his hold.
âBeloved,â you whisper, the word slipping out of you like a thought made sound, tentative and soft and full of too many questions.
Damianâs eyes drift from your gaze to your lips and back again, as though he canât decide which one feels safer to look at. âMhm?â he hums, voice so quiet it trembles.
ââŚdoes this mean my future father-in-law is Batman?â you ask, the question falling into the small space between you like a pebble into still water.
Damian releases an exhale that sounds like a soul leaving a body.
Then, without warning, he presses a hand against your sternum â not harsh, just firm â and pushes you gently back until your shoulders meet the headboard. He flops onto his side beside you with all the resignation of a dying Victorian heroine, one arm draped across his eyes as if shielding himself from the absolute catastrophe youâve just unleashed.
You swear the ceiling fan above the two of you groans in sympathy.
ââŚam IâŚallowed to ask you something?â Your voice breaks the quiet, soft enough that Damian almost forgets how tense his muscles still are, your fingers curling around his now-bandaged hand and lifting it to rest against the curve of your chest. The warmth of your skin seeps through the gauze and his gloves, a quiet tether that somehow anchors him to a world thatâs been spinning too fast and too violently.
ââŚI owe you that much.â His voice is low, rough with fatigue and residue of pain, eyes fixed on the fan above like heâs calculating its every movement while ignoring the heat of you against his hand.
âIâŚdonât want you to answer because you owe me,â you murmur, voice faltering slightly, âI want you to answer becauseââ
âI want to.â His words are barely above a whisper, but thereâs no hesitation, no deflection, no walls. He turns his head, letting the tiniest flicker of vulnerability show, though every fiber of his body screams that he shouldnât. âI want to tell you everything.â
ââŚwhat happened?â You ask softly, tilting your face toward him, letting concern and the ghost of fear you felt when you first found him color every line of your features. The gentleness in your voice is almost a physical presence, something tangible Damian can lean into as he exhales slowly through his teeth.
He starts telling you, carefully choosing each word so that the horror doesnât spill over into your world. Not the gory details of what he held, not the fragmented cries of someone too young to survive the fear toxinâs grasp, not the irrevocable weight of destruction that still clings to him like smoke. Instead, he tells the story in measured breaths, the pain and the failure coiling tightly beneath the surface, all of it framed in the cold logic of necessity, the mental calculus that saved him from breaking completely.
Through it all, he watches your face. He watches how your brows knit just slightly, how your lips press together to keep the words you donât speak from slipping out, and how the concern in your eyes softens into something gentler, almost tender, almost mournful. You lean in just a fraction, as if proximity alone could absorb the worst of it.
Every emotion Damian has ever bottled, every fragment of fear, guilt, and self-loathing he thought only existed in the shadows of his own chest, seems to unravel quietly in your presence, like alcohol soaking into dry wood. He can feel it being drunk up by the way your eyes soften, by the subtle tilt of your head, by the way your body radiates safety even in this cramped, fluorescent-lit motel room.
When he finishes, he doesnât say anything. He just watches as you shift in the sheets, a deliberate, gentle movement that carries no weight but still bridges the distance between you. Your head settles on his good shoulder, the faintest pressure, not leaning into him, just letting him know youâre there. He feels it like a promise.
âDonât blame yourself for this,â you whisper against his skin, your lips brushing over the slope of his collarbone, warm and soft and steady. The words float there like a shield.
Damian glances down, noticing how a smear of his own blood still clings to your lips, pressing faintly against his chest, a surreal tether to his body and to you at once. âNot my fault,â he says, voice barely audible but firm.
âIt never is.â you respond softly.
He closes his eyes, letting the tension in his shoulders and hips dissolve, letting his bloodied fingers curl against the sheets without thought, letting his toes relax.Â
The taut, defensive lines of his body soften, not because the pain has gone, but because he believes you, because your presence allows him to let go in a way no one else ever could.Â
Damian feels the steadiness of your heartbeat that he was searching for in that little girl, and everything feels like its going to be okay.
⤡ series masterlist
authors note á°.á this will most likely be the final addition of this series if you can even call it that. It's just one shots with references to each-other and you can probably tell it was poorly planned so I just want to get it out of the way. Please forgive the plot holes because of the fact and I hope you guys might enjoy other things I write in the future more.
taglist (wont be used after this post): @the-earth-wonders, @neera500, @itzmeme, @brianna-merlim, @gothamshunter, @smiithys, @fanficboysarebae, @thetruecardinalsinner,@shifttoksucks, @sourstrawburry, @erika-simps, @soshirohoshinalover, @augurythirteen, @pantone-12-1310, @jaydennicole, @lucycarlisleswife, @dyanasaur, @fayewebluv, @champagnelovers101, @shun-nie
Šzhaosuni đşđ đ rights reserved , đ˝đ đđđ đđđžđşđ /đźđđđ đđ đźđ đşđđ đđ đşđ đđđđ đđđ. đđđ đşđđž đđđ đşđ đ đđđžđ˝ đđ đđđ đşđ/đźđđşđđđđ đđ đźđđşđđđž đđ. Any oc's/ original ideas are not permitted to be put into other works unless dm'd, discussed, and agreed upon.
''You're so blind sweetheart''
''I was just playing along,habibati''
feat. d.wayne x f.reader
wc: 946 words
âśâMasterlist
Your hands were still warm when the artist finally finished the last swirl of henna.
Deep brown paste curled along your palms, weaving across your fingers, wrapping your wrists like delicate vines. The design was intricate, traditional, and stunning â little flowers, drops, constellations of dots, and fine-lined details that looked like they were drawn by a goddess herself.
Diana had insisted you get your henna done for the embassy gala.
You had insisted on hiding one very specific letter in it.
The Arabic ŘŻ â dÄl. Damianâs initial.
Hidden where skin met pulse.
A secret stitched into your bloodstream.
Your mom had only smiled knowingly.
âSheâs in love,â she told the henna artist, who nodded as if she could see it in the way you kept giggling and kicking your feet.
By the time you made it back to the Manor, the paste on your hands had dried into rich dark shapes that clung to your skin like lace. You kept staring at your palms, smiling like a girl with a crush and a secret.
You didnât even hear Damian enter your room.
He appeared silently â like usual â his presence slipping in like shadow, like smoke, like breath.
His voice was low, soft, teasing:
âHabibti.â
You jumped so hard you almost hit the ceiling.
Damian sighed. âYou must grow accustomed to my footsteps. I am not trying to assassinate you.â
âYou move like you are!â you snapped, pressing a hand to your chest. âMy soul left my bodyââ
Your hand froze.
Damian saw.
And his brows knit.
âYou got henna.â
You brightened immediately. âDo you like it?â
He reached for your wrist â carefully, reverently â turning your hand over in his own. His gaze traced every curve and swirl with serious, almost analytical focus.
âIt is beautiful,â he murmured. âIt suits you.â
You tried not to smile too hard.
He kept looking, eyes sharp.
Studying.
Scanning.
Searching.
Oh no.
You swallowed.
Donât find it. Donât find it yet. Youâll combustâ
âThere is somethingâŚâ Damian muttered.
He lifted your palm closer to his face.
His frown deepened.
His eyes narrowed.
He tilted your hand toward the light.
You held your breath.
ââŚwrong with this section,â he said finally, tapping his thumb on the patch of patterns above your pulse. âThe symmetry is off. Perhaps the artistââ
âNO!â you yelped, way too fast, way too high-pitched. âNothing is wrong! Itâs perfect! Amazing! Gorgeous! Donât you have to, like, go sharpen a sword or glare at someone?!â
Damian stared at you.
Suspicious.
Very suspicious.
ââŚHabibti.â
Your face burned.
âYouâre hiding something.â
You squeaked.
He stepped closer, the tip of his nose nearly brushing your cheek as he angled your wrist again. This time, his tone dropped, soft and dangerous in that way only Damian could manage:
âDo you truly think you can hide anything from me?â
Your heartbeat could probably be heard from space.
He traced the inside of your palm with his thumb â slow, deliberate, warm. Goosebumps erupted up your arm.
He found it.
He froze.
Thenâ
Very slowlyâ
Damian whispered:
âŘŻ.â
You squeezed your eyes shut.
âI can explainââ
But you didnât get the chance.
Because he lifted your hand.
And pressed his lips to the letter.
It wasnât quick.
It wasnât shy.
It was deliberate.
Slow.
A kiss meant to be felt.
Your knees nearly buckled.
Damian didnât look up. His lips brushed the dried henna again, softer this time, a whisper of devotion.
âMine,â he murmured against your skin.
âWritten on you.â
Your breath caught.
âAnd me?â you whispered. âAre you⌠are you going to pretend you didnât spend five minutes pretending you couldnât see it?â
His ears went red instantly.
âI was giving you time to confess,â he snapped.
You giggled.
âYou couldnât find it,â you said.
âThat is false.â
âYou were squinting.â
âI was analyzing the geometry of the designââ
âYou put my hand under the lamp!â
âThat is called thoroughness, habibtiââ
You threw your arms around his neck, laughing as you pressed your forehead to his.
He grumbled, but his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer.
âHabibti,â he muttered, annoyed but soft, âstop laughing at me.â
âI canât!â you gasped. âYou kissed the hennaâ!â
âThat is what you wanted.â
You froze.
ââŚwhat?â
His voice lowered, becoming something warm, something serious, something that could melt bone:
âYou wanted people to know you belonged with me.â
A pause.
âAnd I wanted to honor that.â
Your breath shook.
âYou like it?â you whispered.
Damian didnât answer with words.
He lifted your hand again and kissed the letter a third time â slower, lingering, like a vow.
âYou carved my name into your skin,â he said quietly. âOf course I like it.â
Your heart felt too big for your body.
Thenâ
He suddenly stepped back, looking at you with the most serious expression in the world.
âWe are going to take a photo.â
âWhatââ
âI want you to put your hand on my chest so the henna is visible.â
âDamianââ
âI am updating my lockscreen.â
You blinked.
âYour⌠lockscreen?â
âYes,â he said, as if this were obvious. âPeople must know.â
âKnow what?â
He kissed your wrist again.
âThat you are mine,â he said softly. âAnd I am yours.â
Your whole face melted.
You lifted your other hand â the one without henna â and cupped his cheek.
âI love you,â you murmured.
He didnât blink, didnât hesitate, didnât shy away.
âI love you more,â Damian Wayne said, and meant every syllable.
And when you took that picture â your hand on his chest, the ŘŻ glowing dark over his heart â he stared at it like a treasure heâd kill for.
Which, knowing Damian, he would.
A/N:WE CAN TELL I FINISHED EXAMSSS
đ đâ.Ë:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @beanxiv , @animegamerfox , (if you want to be added comment down below!!)
Uuuuhh... can I get a fic with Damian high on meds after having a surgery.... with extra drama in the form of him having a secret relationship, and asking for her(reader) while drugged.... uhh with a side of fluff hold the angst .... that's all thank you
â︾ pairing đ đ đ damian wayne x fem!reader
ę° đŚ ęą synopsis đ đ đ damian gets knocked out during a mission and wakes up post-surgery with enough pain meds in his system to dissolve every wall heâs ever built. youâre supposed to be secret, but he exposes your relationship, obliterated by narcotics and his complete inability to hide how deeply heâs attached to you.
WAYNE MEDICAL WING LIGHTS WERE TOO BRIGHT for someone whoâd just stopped being technically unconscious, but damian surfaced like someone annoyed at being dragged from a nap he didnât consent to, an insult so personal his eyelids twitched before they even opened. the brightness pressed through his skull like it was trying to etch itself directly into his brain. sterile white, the kind that had never once existed in a place he trusted. he cracked his eyes open anyway.
bad choice.
the ceiling came into focus in pieces: harsh tiles, vents humming cold air downward, a hairline crack near the corner heâd catalogued months ago during someone elseâs medical emergency. except this time it wasnât someone else lying flat on their back in a bed built for recovery and compliance. it was him. which meant something had already gone terribly wrong.
the sheets were tucked too tightly, pinning him with all the subtlety of a net trap. the IV line tugged whenever he moved his fingers. his throat tasted dry, surgical dryness, not dehydration, and every breath carried that over-sterile antiseptic scent that hospitals diffused like perfume. it stung in a way memory recognized before consciousness did.
he hated it. he hated it viscerally, instinctively, the way you hate an enemy youâve fought before.
a chair creaked. dick. of course. no one else sat that way, half-slouched, half-alert, like a golden retriever trying to look responsible. âhey, baby bat,â dick welcomed softly, which was exactly the wrong volume. âback with us?â
damian squinted at him as if being spoken to was rude. his voice, when it came, sounded like someone had replaced his mouth with cement. âwhy,â he croaked, blinking slowly, âare you here.â
âyou had surgery.â
damian paused like the word needed to be decoded. then his eyebrows knit together, slow, offended, gradually outraged. âi didnât agree to that.â
dick huffed a tired laugh. âyeah, well⌠it was kind of an emergency. and you were unconscious. and also? you literally signed the consent form before the anesthesia.â
damian stared at him, long and unimpressed. âforged.â
âit wasnât forged.â
âi do not sign things.â
âyou sign things all the time.â
damian shut his eyes briefly, like acknowledging that was beneath him. then he opened them again, narrower, sharper, but the effect was ruined by how unfocused the pupils were, drifting like his thoughts kept hitting walls before reaching their destination. the air was too clean. the lights too white. the smell coiled into his chest and pulled memories heâd rather leave buried, metal tools, cold hands, the way the world looked when he was small and helpless and expected to endure instead of resist. nothing specific, just impressions. sensations. hospitals always woke old ghosts.
his jaw tightened. he wasnât supposed to be the one in this bed. he didnât get hurt. not enough to be downed like this. the last patrol replayed in flashes â a blade catching him off-balance, the impact hot, surprising. he remembered the pain, but not falling. not blacking out. that made his stomach twist.
failure. vulnerability. unacceptable.
dick watched him with that older-brother sensitivity that always made damian bristle, like being perceived was an attack. âbefore you say anything,â dick added, âyou did not lose the fight. you didnât mess up. you got blindsided by a meta with a strength boost and you still managed to take him down. you just⌠didnât stay upright afterward.â
damian glared. âi donât recall being horizontal.â
âbecause you passed out.â
another glare. this one personal. dick raised his hands. âdonât look at me like that. i didnât make you lose consciousness.â
damianâs fingers twitched against the sheets. the fabric felt wrong, stiff, overwashed, hospital-issue. the kind meant for patients who stayed still. he hated being still. he shifted slightly, and something tugged sharply at the back of his hand. his gaze snapped downward.
an IV. taped in place. tubing snaked up to a bag overhead, dripping fluid into his bloodstream without permission. his entire expression went cold. âremove it.â
dick inhaled sharply. âdamianââ
âremove it.â
âdonâtâ okay, donâtââ dick took two hurried steps forward as damianâs fingers curled around the line. âdonât you dare pull that out. i mean it. donât.â
âi am not a lab specimen.â
âyouâre not,â dick agreed. âyouâre someone who needs fluids and pain meds because you wereâ whatâs the wordâ oh yeahâ stabbed.â
âit was minor.â
âit was internal.â
damian blinked at him, insulted. âi donât want it.â
âtoo bad.â
there was tension in damianâs shoulders. that hyper-focused alertness from childhood, when beds were places you recovered because you werenât allowed to move, not because someone cared. his muscles remembered even when he didnât think about it. his back never fully pressed to the mattress, his hands never fully relaxed. his breath always came measured, as if steadying itself for violence. the medical wing amplified that tension. the smell. the lights. the machines. everything too reminiscent of control.
heâd been so busy cataloguing exits and shadows and the exact height of the IV stand that he hadnât even noticed how his own body felt untilâ
oh.
there it was.
the meds hit him. that soft, warm fog rolling in, blurring everything he tried to focus on. his thoughts glitched, trying to line up in formation and instead tripping over themselves. âgrayson,â he said, voice suspicious, âdid you put something in my blood?â
dick, whoâd been leaning on the side of the bed like a worried parent pretending not to be one, blinked back. âuhâno, bud. you were asleep during the operation, remember? anesthesia? pain meds?â
damian stared at him like dick had just recited a riddle in an unfamiliar dialect. âi was⌠asleep,â damian repeated. âyou let them do that.â
âyou needed them to do that.â dick corrected.
damianâs eyes narrowed, though the effect was ruined by how glazed they looked. âi do not need unconsciousness to survive.â
âyou do when your insides are trying to become your outsides.â dick muttered.
damian ignored him entirely, still watching him with a narrowing-bandwidth intensity. âyou allowed it.â
âyou signed the form.â
âforged,â damian said, again, instantly, with the complete confidence of someone who barely remembered what a pen was. âi would not voluntarily be medically compromised.â
âit wasnât forged,â dick sighed. âyou filled it out. you even wrote your full name at the bottomâvery neatly, might i add.â
damian frowned like he was conspiring against him. he opened his mouth to deny it⌠but then a wave of dizziness rolled through him, like someone had tipped the room on its axis. he went still. his eyes went a little wide. âi feel⌠peculiar.â
âthatâs the painkillers.â
âi dislike them.â
âi can tell.â
damian shifted, which was a mistake, his brain lagged behind the movement by a full second, like his consciousness had to sprint to catch up with his body. âmy head isââ he paused, searching the ceiling as if the correct vocabulary word was written there. ââfloat-adjacent.â
âyouâre high, dami.â
âi am notââ damian began, then stopped mid-denial, staring at the wall with deep betrayal. âi am.â
âyep.â
âi dislike this.â
âweâve got that part,â dick said gently. âbut youâre safe. and youâre okay. and itâs temporary.â
damianâs eyes tracked dickâs face like it was the only stable object in a shifting landscape. his brow furrowed with an almost childlike confusion. âi⌠donât remember agreeing,â he murmured. âor anything. i was⌠focused. then pain.â he paused, blinked. ââŚthen nothing.â
âthatâs normal.â
ââŚwhereâsââ
but the name got lost on damianâs tongue.
not forgotten, more like the conveyor belt of his brain jammed halfway through delivering it. he blinked, confused, mouth still slightly open like the word might tumble out if he waited long enough. dick straightened, alert. âwhereâs who, bud?â
damian stared back at him, unfocused. something flickered behind his eyes, something searching, reaching. but whatever it was refused to surface. his brows knit, annoyed at his own mind for failing him. ââŚi donâtââ he frowned, as if the thought had slipped between his fingers. âi knew it. i know it. i just⌠canât⌠hold it.â
dick softened. âhey. itâs okay. youâre still coming out of anesthesia.â
damian frowned. the door opened before dick could say anything else, tim walking in first, rubbing his eyes, followed by cass. tim raised his coffee cup. âlook whoâs conscious.â
cass tipped her head.
damianâs eyes snapped to themâwell, halfway. they snapped, stalled, then drifted into their direction like his neurons were buffering. âyou are loud,â damian announced.
tim blinked. âwe⌠didnât say anything.â
âyour face is loud.â
tim nodded solemnly. âmakes sense.â
cass stepped closer, tracking damianâs micro-movements with an ease that came from years of knowing how to read bodies better than minds. damian triedâtriedâto push himself up. his arm trembled. his shoulder lifted a fraction. cass reached out with one finger and pressed it lightly to his sternum. damian went down like gravity had increased selectively on his body alone. his eyes went wide. âthat is unfair.â
cass offered a tiny smile. âdoctorâs orders.â
âi do not listen to orders.â
âyou listened to hers.â tim added dryly.
damian glared at him. or tried to. the effect was softened by the fact his eyelids kept drooping like they were too heavy. âshe cheated,â damian muttered.
cass watched the way damianâs eyes refused to work with him and smiled shyly. âyouâre high.â
âi am notââ damian started, then hesitated, as if realizing halfway through the lie that he didnât have the cognitive precision to pull it off. âi am⌠moderately under the influence.â
âthatâs one way to put it.â tim mumbled.
damianâs head tilted back toward dick like his mind was circling back to unfinished business. âi was asking.â
âabout who?â dick asked.
damian stared at him again. long, slow, pondering with the full force of a malfunctioning operating system. he opened his mouth, then closed it. frustration etched across his face. ââŚgone,â he said finally. âi lost it.â
âitâll come back.â
âi hate this,â damian declared. âi hate hospitals. i hate beds. i hate drugs. i hate this room. i hateââ
âoh boy,â tim breathed. âhere we go.â
damian lifted one hand. studied it. flexed his fingersâdelayed, clumsy. he stared like his own hand had betrayed him. âmy reaction speed is compromised. this is humiliating.â
âdonât worry,â tim said cheerfully. âweâre taking mental notes.â
damian shot him a bleary glare. âi will end you.â
âin your current state?â tim asked. âyou couldnât even end a game of tic-tac-toe.â
âi could,â damian insisted, leaning forward as if to intimidate him, except his torso only made it two inches up before cassâs finger sent him right back down again. damian let out a low, affronted noise. âstop that.â he told her.
she shook her head.
damianâs eyes narrowed, then drifted, then narrowed again as if the glare needed to be reinstalled every few seconds. he sighed, long and dramatic. âi should not be in this bed.â
âyou were stabbed,â dick said gently.
âeveryone gets stabbed.â
ânot in the liver.â tim said, absolutely delighted to be here, absolutely delighted that damian wasnât at full power to stop him.
damian blinked. âmy liver?â
âyes.â
he frowned, deeply betrayed. âi use that.â
ânot today you donât.â
damian ignored him, attention wandering again, circling back toward the hole in his memory like a bee drawn repeatedly to the same window. tim rocked back on his heels, arms crossed, grin already sharpening. âso,â he began casually, âspeaking of things you âuse,â want to talk about the stuff you were saying while you were unconscious?â
dickâs head snapped toward him. âtim. no.â
tim ignored him completely. âbecause wow. i didnât know you had a romantic side. likeâit was actually kind of sweet? a little embarrassing? honestly extremely embarrassing.â
damianâs face twisted. âwhat are youââ
âyou kept saying,â tim continued, pitching his voice into a dreamy falsetto, ââmy beloved⌠come back⌠come here⌠where are youâŚââ he clutched his chest dramatically.
âI did not say that,â damian barked, though it came out slightly slurred, tragically soft, devastatingly unthreatening. âdrake is lying.â damian announced to the ceiling, as if the ceiling could issue a rebuttal.
except â- then damian froze, not visibly, internally, like someone had pulled the emergency brake on his thoughts. the hazy warmth in his veins pulsed, rising like heat behind his ears. something in his chest tightened, memory stirring sluggishly but insistently. the drugs softened everything except that. that memory. that wanting.
the warmth in his bloodstream pulsed again, stronger, like a tide he couldnât fight. he blinked slowly, vision blooming and fading at the edges, and in the middle of that blur, something clear rose to the surface. you.
your face. your voice. your hands brushing the hair off his forehead last week. your breath against his neck in the quiet hours. your laugh that he pretended didnât undo him. he inhaled sharply, like the thought of you punched through the haze. tim, seeing the shift, took a step back. he knew this was no longer teasing territory, this was damianâs guard dissolving in real time. dick moved a little closer. âdamian?â
damian blinked again. confusion, longing, frustration, and beneath all of it, a tenderness so raw it seemed to surprise even him. âwhereâsâŚâ his voice wobbled, more breath than sound. â(y/n)?â
timâs eyebrows shot up to his hairline. cassâs head tilted, studying him. damian didnât notice their reactionsâdidnât even register that heâd slipped. the meds made the truth feel natural, inevitable, impossible to contain.
âi want her here.â
dick blinked rapidly. âher?â
âyes, her,â damian muttered like they were stupid for being confused, tone clipped but dreamy, like he was trying to be irritated through marshmallow fog. âshe should be here.â
dick tried gently, âwhoââ
â(y/n).â damian snapped. âthe one iâ the one whoââ he cut himself off, annoyed at how hard the words suddenly were. his tongue felt slow. his brain fuzzed.
everything except the wanting.
âiâd much rather be with her than you guys.â
damian pushed on, voice dipping into something warm and unrestrained and utterly unlike him. âshe doesnât talk so loudly,â he mumbled, glaring at tim for existing. âand she doesnât hover.â a pointed look at dick. âand sheâs gentle.â he added, a little dreamily, glancing at cass.
cassâs eyes softened. dickâs heart did a little somersault. tim opened and closed his mouth like a stunned goldfish. damian continued, because the drugs had him rambling, pouring out affection heâd buried so deep even he forgot it was there. âand she smells nice,â he said, brows furrowing like this was deeply important. âand she holds my hand when iâm hurt. why isnât she here.â
âd,â dick said softly, âwe⌠didnât know she existed.â
âthatâs not my problem.â damian glared at the wall. âshe should be here.â he shifted, trying to sit up, but cass stopped him again. he slumped back instantly, blinking up at her like sheâd just used dark magic. âi need to talk to her,â damian insisted. âsheâs probably worried.â
damianâs face, already soft from the medication, creased in a way none of them had ever seen. not anger, not annoyance, something else. something gentler. unguarded. dangerously unguarded.
he frowned. a slow, heartbreakingly earnest frown. ââŚshe should be here,â he murmured again, more wounded this time, as if the roomâs failure to produce you was a insult.
tim whispered, âweâre in uncharted territory,â like a man narrating a nature documentary about a dangerous, delicate creature.
dick pulled a chair closer. âweâre not keeping her from you,â he said. âno one knew you wanted her here.â
damian scowled. âi always want her here.â
tim choked on a laugh. cass elbowed him. but damian wasnât doneâif anything the words were pouring out faster now, because every thought of you made the meds tug him deeper into that warm, floaty honesty. âshe knows how to touch my hair the right way,â he admitted, cheeks flushing faintly. âyou donât justâ you have to go with the grain, not against theââ he gestured vaguely at his head, missing by several inches. âshe knows. why isnât she here.â
âshe doesnât know youâre awake.â
âyou should have told her,â damian argued, scandalized. âyou should haveâ obviously you should haveââ his breath stuttered, foggy frustration ripping through him. âi want her.â he repeated, smaller.
âokay,â dick said. âokay. weâll get her. just⌠try to relax.â
damian tried to glare, but it melted halfway into a woozy pout. âi wonât relax until sheâs here.â
dick exhaled, long-suffering but soft. âiâll call her. justâstay in the bed. stay horizontal. stay⌠not ripping out your IV.â
damian made a grumpy sound that was supposed to be dignified and was absolutely not.
you arrived like someone who had run every red light between your apartment and the wayne medical wing. you hadnât even finished tying your shoes when the call cameâan unfamiliar number flashing on your screen, a clipped voice saying, âhi, uh, this is dick graysonâdamianâs brotherâplease donât panic, heâs okay, but heâs asking for you and we⌠think you should come.â
you barely remembered hanging up. or grabbing keys. or the elevator door almost closing on your shoulder. ten minutes, maybe eleven, but it felt like one long breath held in your chest. in those ten minutes, everything in your head spun: damian doesnât get hurt. damian doesnât call for anyone. damian doesnât need.
so what couldâve happened for dick to sound like that? what couldâve happened for damian to ask for you?
the security staff let you through without questionâdick mustâve put your name on some list, because no wayne employee is normally that chill about strangers sprinting through sterile hallways with fear in their eyes.
your boots echoed off polished floors. the medical wing always had that cold, expensive, unnecessarily white lookâa place built to fix bodies, not calm nerves. you followed the signs, heart hammering, palms damp.
room 3B.
your hand hovered on the handle for half a secondâhalf a breathâbecause you had no idea what version of damian youâd find on the other side of the door. injured damian? angry damian? scared damian?
you pushed the door open.
damian had not relaxed. if anything, he had stewed, curled miserably in a hospital bed that looked like it was offending his entire lineage by existing. his hair was a mess. his eyes were half-lidded and glassy. a deep, irritable crease sat between his brows.
when you stepped in, the room shifted. dick straightened in his chair, relief flooding him. tim blinked like he couldnât believe you were a real person. cass smiled at you like sheâd expected this all along. but damianâ
damianâs eyes snapped open like someone had turned the sun directly toward him. the transformation was instant. his whole face softened and brightened all at once, surprise flickering into recognition, recognition melting into something warm and wreckingly tender. âbeloved,â he breathed.
and it was so quiet.
then he triedâimmediately, stupidly, disastrouslyâto sit up. ânoâno, no,â dick sputtered, grabbing his shoulder, flattening him instantly.
damian blinked up at him, betrayed for the thirtieth time today.
but then his gaze dragged back to you, heavy, warm, intoxicatedânot just by meds but by relief. âyouâre here. finally.â
your heart dropped somewhere into your stomach. âof course i came,â you started, glancing wearily at everyone in the room but stepping closer. âyou called for me.â
âi needed you,â he said, so matter-of-factly it felt like the room stopped breathing. âi told them. repeatedly. they were slow.â
âheyââ
dick shot tim a glare.
damian reached for you without hesitation, fingers outstretched, messy and uncoordinated but desperate. cass gently caught his wrist to keep him from yanking at his IV. âcome here,â damian insisted, eyes locked on yours. âi hate this place. i hate all of them.â he gestured vaguely at his siblings. âi want you.â
your lungs forgot how to work. âdami,â you murmured, stepping to his bedside, taking his free hand carefullyâcareful because he was loopy, careful because he was fragile, careful because he was looking at you like you were the only real thing in a world made of fog.
he exhaled, shoulders sinking in relief the moment your skin touched his. âyes. that. stay.â
and suddenly youâre the idiot standing in a hospital room surrounded by the waynes. you donât look at any of them. you canât. eye contact feels like a trapdoor.
because this is the exact scenario damian spent months avoiding. the one he insisted would âcomplicate mattersâ or âinvite unnecessary scrutinyâ or âdestroy our operational advantage,â which was his very dramatic way of saying he didnât want his family to know he had feelings like a human being.
and now heâs clinging to your wrist like a toddler afraid youâll evaporate. your voice tries to work but it comes out small. âuh⌠okay. iâm here. not going anywhere.â
dick makes a soft, amazed sound, like heâs watching a wild animal eat out of someoneâs hand for the first time. tim is frozen in place, eyes narrowed like heâs trying to run a facial-recognition scan on the situation. cass just looks deeply entertained. damian doesnât notice any of it. heâs too busy hauling your hand into his chest like he needs the pressure to stay anchored.
he nudges closer to you on the pillowâwell, he attempts to, but heâs so high that the movement is less âsmooth shiftâ and more âgentle toppling.â you catch him before he face-plants, hands awkward around his shoulders, and he⌠softens. actually softens. melts into your touch like heâs never heard of pride in his life. âdonât leave,â he mutters. âtheyâre awful. youâre the only tolerable one.â
his siblings watch this happen with the energy of people witnessing a natural disaster in slow motion. your heart does something inconvenient. âiâm not going anywhere,â you say again, softer.
heâs going to regret every single word of this when the pain meds wear off. damian relaxes immediately, head tipping toward you, completely unconcerned that half his family is witnessing this emotional striptease heâll definitely deny later. then his hand paws clumsily at the air until it finds yours again. he drags it to his chest, then up toward his jaw, nudging, nudging, nudging like a disgruntled cat demanding to be held exactly the right way. you blink down at him. âwhat are you doing.â
âyou know what iâm doing,â he mutters, pushing your palm against his cheek like heâs molding clay. âcloser.â
âi am close.â
ânot enough.â a pout forms soft lower lip pushed forward in wounded royalty. âyouâre supposed toâŚâ he gestures with his other hand, fingers fluttering like heâs trying to summon the word. âkiss me.â
your body goes rigid. âdamian. your entire family is three feet away.â
tim chokes on spit. dick makes a strangled noise. cass is already covering her smile with her hand. dick, bless him, claps his hands together. âalright! great time to take a break. weâre gonna⌠uh⌠give you two some space.â
âa lot of space,â tim adds, sprinting for the door like the room is on fire.
cass pauses beside the doorway, gives you a thumbs-up, then closes the door behind them. immediately, muffled bickering erupts.
âyou didnât record that?â
âiâm not filming our brother in the hospital!â
âcoward.â
âguys, shut upââ
âi canât believe he said kiss meââ
âcass stop laughingââ
âOH my godââ
you drag a hand down your face. âthis is mortifying.â
damian doesnât care. damian cares zero percent. damian is busy guiding your hand back to his cheek and pressing into it like itâs a heat source keeping him alive. âtheyâre idiots,â he announces, voice thick with anesthesia and indignation. âloud. insufferable. invasive.â he blinks heavily, lashes brushing your wrist. âiâm glad theyâre gone.â
âtheyâre right outside the door still arguing.â
âtheyâre always arguing,â he says, sleepy venom coating every syllable. âthey argue about toast.â
you try not to smile. âand you donât?â
âi argue with purpose.â he says this with the gravitas of a dying king. âthey argue because theyâre incompetent.â his fingers curl around your wrist and he tries to tug you closer again. âcome here,â he murmurs, cheeks pink from more than medication. âyouâre being difficult.â
âiâm being respectful.â you correct.
he frowns. actually frowns, like youâve just informed him gravity is optional now. âdisgusting.â he sighs like a martyr. âjust kiss me.â
his fingers skate clumsily up your wrist, slipping twice before finally hooking behind your hand, dragging it back to his cheek with the determination of a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. his pulse flutters beneath your palm, fluttery in that way that tells you the meds are hitting harder. âi need one,â he murmurs, barely audible. âjustâone.â
âdamianââ
âplease,â he whispers. he looks at you like youâre the single point of focus in a world thatâs tilting. pupils blown, cheeks flushed with medication and emotion he canât register enough to restrain. heâs trying so hard to keep his eyes open, to hold onto you, to stay with you in the haze.
the battle between logic and instinct lasts all of four seconds. maybe less. you lean in, careful, so he can pull back if he wants. he doesnât. he meets you halfway, or at least tries to, except he misjudges the distance and bumps your chin first, blinking like the world betrayed him again. you soften. cup the side of his face, steady him, then you kiss him.
itâs gentle. warm. barely there at first, just the press of your mouth against his, letting him feel it, understand it. his breath catches, a soft inhale against your lips like he canât believe he got what he asked for. then the tension melts out of him all at once. his shoulders sag. his hand slides up to clutch weakly at your shirt. he makes this tiny, involuntary soundâhalf sigh, half reliefâlike the kiss untied some knot inside him he didnât know was choking him. he kisses you back clumsily, lazily, chasing the contact with unfocused devotion. the kind of kiss that says iâm not fully here, but what i feel for you is.
when you finally pull backâbecause heâs still recoveringâhis eyes remain closed for a moment, like reality hasnât quite caught up. they open, glazed and adoring in a way he will absolutely deny to the grave. âthat,â he murmurs, voice dropping like heâs drifting toward sleep. âbetter.â
you smooth his hair back gently. âyeah?â
he nods against your hand, eyelids lowering again. âyou fixed the⌠everything.â his lips twitch like he wants to smile but doesnât have the energy. âkiss me again later.â
you canât help it. you laugh. âweâll see.â
he humsâhums, like heâs some exhausted, medicated cat settling into sun-warm sheets instead of a post-surgery assassin with a reputation to maintain. for a few minutes, everything is strangely easy. soft. he drifts in and out, eyes half-lidded, expression mellow in a way that would terrify gothamâs criminal underground. he asks you three questions in a row (âwhat time is it⌠why does the ceiling breathe⌠can you make the bed stop tilting?â), only for his attention to wander halfway through the third answer.
you stroke his hair and he melts like warm wax, that stiffness he always carries dissolving like youâre seeing a piece of him that only exists under anesthesia and around you. âyou should rest,â you observe.
âi am resting.â he sounds offended youâd suggest otherwise. âiâm the picture ofââ he yawns without warning. ââdiscipline.â
âsure,â you say, hand smoothing down his cheek. âvery disciplined.â
he narrows his eyes, but the effect is ruined by how heavy his eyelids are. âmockery is unbecoming.â he drifts again, fingers twitching once like he wants to pull you even closer but canât muster the energy. ten more seconds pass before he murmurs, barely audible, âdonât be gone long.â
your chest folds in on itself. âi wonât.â
but you still have to go. he needs his siblings updated. you need to breathe something other than recycled medical-wing air. andâletâs be honestâyou need to apologize for walking in and accidentally detonating a family-secret bomb.
you pry his hand gently off your shirt, not easy, because he makes a soft, grumpy noise at the loss, and settle it over his blanket. âiâll be right back,â you whisper.
he scowls, soft and half-asleep. âyou better.â
you slip out. the door clicks shut behind you, and immediately, the hallway noise stops. immediately. like a switch. one second thereâs muffled arguing, sharp whispers, annoyed sighs, something that sounds suspiciously like tim saying âthatâs not fair, cass, you canât hit people in a debateââ
and the next? dead silent.
you step fully into the corridor. three faces turn to you at once, frozen mid-conflict like you just walked in on a crime scene. dick stands with his arms out like he was physically separating people. tim looks defensive, hands half-raised, mouth half-open. cass is calmly holding what looks like timâs hoodie string, like sheâs been yanking him back into line.
they all stare. you blink. ââŚhi,â you say. it comes out small. painfully polite. the kind of greeting you use when youâve just barged into the batfamilyâs private meltdown because your secret boyfriend couldnât keep quiet on morphine.
dick straightens so fast you actually hear the click of his spine. âhi! hey! um. hi. wow. okay. youâyou came out.â
tim elbows him. âof course she came out, she used the doorââ
cass smacks the back of his head without looking.
âow???â
you exhale slowly. âso⌠um. i guess i should sayâsorry? for all of that? heâs⌠not usually like this.â
three pairs of eyes give you the exact same expression:
oh we know.
you swallow, fingers twisting together because suddenly youâre seventeen again and meeting someoneâs parents in a too-small living room where everyone is staring. âright,â you say. âum. so. iâmââ the word lodges in your throat. girlfriend.
technically true. emotionally true. secretly true. publicly, though⌠this was supposed to come out months from now. carefully. intentionally. maybe after damian finished having a internal breakdown about letting anyone know he had feelings at all. definitely not in a fluorescent hallway with him high on enough pain meds to take down a rhinoceros.
you clear your throat. âiâm⌠hisââ
they all lean in a fraction. like wolves scenting vulnerability.
ââgirlfriend.â
silence. not the casual kind. not the âoh okayâ kind. no. this is the thick, suffocating, batfamily kind of silence, where shock ricochets between them. you want to die.
âwow,â dick finally says, voice high and bright and absolutely panicked. âso youâreâuhâwow. okay.â
tim takes a step back from you like youâre a rare cryptid. âwait, wait. damianâour damianâhas a secret girlfriend and he didnât tell anyone?â
âit wasnâtââ you rub your face. âit wasnât my idea to keep it secret.â
every head turns toward the door behind you. the door damian is behind. three simultaneous: âof course it wasnât.â
you sigh. âhe didnât⌠want the attention. or the questions. or theââ you gesture vaguely at the cluster of energy in front of you ââthis.â
dick nods so hard youâre briefly concerned for him. âyeah. okay. right.â
tim crosses his arms. âhe trusts none of us with his personal life. unbelievable.â
cass tilts her head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. âhe likes her,â she says simply.
everyone turns to her, startled by the rare verbal input. she shrugs. âi watch him.â
youâre still mortified.âiâm sorry,â you say again, because apologizing feels easier than existing in this moment.
âno, no,â dick insists. âdonât apologize. weâre justâprocessing.â
âpoorly.â tim adds.
âyes, poorly.â
you glance at the door, then back to them. âhe⌠didnât mean to tell you. heâs just⌠really high.
tim snorts. âyeah, we noticed.â
but thenâdick softens. visibly. his whole posture loosens. âweâre⌠glad youâre here. really.â
cass nods once. tim looks like he wants to be annoyed, but deep down, heâs already building a spreadsheet called damianâs girlfriend: things to investigate. you inhale, steadying yourself. this is fine. youâre here. damianâs safe. theyâre⌠intimidating, but also weirdly welcoming in a way. dick takes a half-step toward the door. âheâs probably freaking out that youâre gone.â
you grimace. ââŚyeah. heâs not subtle right now.â
tim snorts. âunderstatement of the century.â
you all slip back into the roomâwell, you walk in, and the batfamily kind of fans in behind you like an unnecessarily dramatic processionâand immediately youâre met with a very specific sound: damian huffing.
heâs upright again, God knows how he managed it with stitches and sedation, blanket bunched around his waist, hair a complete disaster, eyes sharp but unfocused and dark with irritation. he looks like someone whoâs been abandoned in a desert for hours, not eight minutes. the second he sees you, everything in him unclenches. the frown softens. the shoulders drop. the tension behind his eyes dissolves like sugar in tea. âfinally.â
you take a slow breath. âi was gone for like ten minutes.â
âten minutes,â he repeats, scandalized. âi could have died.â
dick, behind you, mouths jesus christ into his hands.
you step closer and damian instantly reaches for you, hands out, grabby, zero dignity, all instinct. he looks like heâs two seconds from climbing out of bed and onto you. âi told you,â he mutters, leaning toward you with the gravity of someone confessing state secrets, âi canât sleep without you.â
your brain stalls. his siblings collectively short-circuit behind you. âyouâve⌠never said that.â
âiâm saying it now.â he tries to sit up even straighter, immediately winces, then stubbornly ignores the pain. âi hate it when you disappear. itâsââ he squints, trying to find the word in the fog of anesthetic swimming through him, ââunacceptable.â
âunacceptable,â tim echoes under his breath, shaking his head like this is the best day of his life.
damian hears it and snapsânot very effectively, because itâs slurred and soft and deeply non-threateningââshut up, drake.â then he turns back to you, expression going gentle again so fast itâs whiplash. âcome here,â he says, voice lower, sleepy, warm. âplease.â
you move without thinking. âbetter,â he mumbles, leaning into your palm. Leaning. âi hate hospitals.â
âi know you do.â
âthey smell like fear and bleach. drake smells like bleach too. itâs suspicious.â
tim throws both hands up. âwhatâwhyâwhat did i even do?!â
damian doesnât answer, mostly because something else catches his attention. his gaze drifts back toward the IV taped to his hand like heâs just spotted an enemy combatant. ââŚitâs still there,â he mutters darkly.
you can practically hear dickâs soul leave his body. âdamianââ
too late.
damianâs fingers curl, determined and clumsy, reaching for the line like heâs about to solve all his problems via self-sabotage ânope,â you say quickly, sliding your hand over his before he can yank. âdonât start with that.â
he blinks at you, startled. âbut itâs in me.â
âyes,â you say calmly, âand itâs supposed to be. if you pull it out, itâs going to hurt, youâll bleed everywhere, and dr. thompson will throw a fit.â
damian glowers at the IV like it personally betrayed him. âi do not consent to its presence.â
âtough,â you say softly. âleave it.â
and something miraculous happens.
he listens.
he actually stops. his fingers relax under yours, he gives one final deeply offended exhale, then slumps back against the pillow, letting you guide his hand away from the tubing entirely. dick stares at the exchange like he just watched a unicorn descend from the ceiling. âyouâve gotta be kidding me.â
tim narrows his eyes. âyeah, no, I want that in writing. he listened? willingly?â
damian doesnât even look at them. his attention is fully back on you, as if heâs forgotten anyone else exists. âyouâre better at giving orders,â he mumbles, voice slurred and honest.
your eyebrows shoot up. âi didnât give an order.â
âyes you did,â he insists, even poutier now. âand i liked it.â
tim chokes. you press a hand over damianâs, trying not to laugh. âokay. well. thank you for listening.â
âi listen to you,â he says, like itâs obvious. âyou make sense.â
and thenâinevitablyâdamianâs gaze drifts, catches something on the wall-mounted TV across from the bed, and brightens in a way that is actually alarming. âtch. finally,â he mutters. âsomething decent.â itâs⌠an anime. some shonen fight scene paused on a commercial break. âthey always have commercials on. americans have no discipline.â
âdo youâwatch that one?â
âi watch everything,â he says, as if this is another well-known fact. âi have criteria.â
âcriteria,â tim echoes. âoh this I gotta hear.â
damian lifts a finger dramatically, like heâs addressing a senate hearing. âstrong character arcs. accurate sword technique. no filler episodes.â he narrows his eyes like the concept personally offended him. âmost of them⌠disgraceful.â
and thenâgod help youâhe turns his head toward you and says, in a tone so earnest it almost knocks you over: âif i recommended shows to you, you would watch them. properly.â
tim inhales sharply. âare you ASKING her to watch anime with you? publicly? in front of witnesses?â
damian blinks once. twice. âyes?â he says, baffled that this is even a question. âwhy wouldnât i? she listens.â
dick puts a hand over his heart. âthis is the most emotion heâs displayed since he was born.â
damian ignores him completely because a new thought has struck him, and he must share it immediately or die.
âand she likes animals,â he says. âthis matters.â
you look around. ââŚdoes it?â
âyes.â he nods, solemn. âpeople who donât like animals are not to be trusted. it is⌠foundational.â
âi meanâtrue,â you mumble, trying not to laugh.
âshe,â he says, pointing at you again, âlets titi sleep on her jacket. on purpose.â
tim freezes. âwait. the demon cat? on their clothes? andâno blood?â
you shrug awkwardly. âsheâs actually very sweetââ
âHA,â damian cuts in, triumphant. âi told you.â then, with no transition at all: âtiti likes her more than she likes you.â
this is addressed to the entire batfamily.
gasps. outrage. betrayal. you pat damianâs arm, trying to settle him down. he looks up at you instantlyâimmediate, instinctive. âdonât go again,â he says, like you abandoned him for years instead of stepping outside to apologize to his siblings.
âiâm right here,â you soothe.
he exhales, satisfied. âgood. if you leave, they talk. they always talk.â his voice drops to a whisper, conspiratorial. âthey gossip.â
âWE DO NOT.â
damian waves a dismissive hand. âyes you do. you gossip like⌠hens.â
âhens??â
âLOUD hens,â damian corrects, settling further into your side. âand idiotic.â
you choke on a laugh as all three brothers erupt in overlapping offended noises. and youâre just sitting there thinkingâ
yeah. he is absolutely, utterly, painfully doomed when he sobers up.
Damian showers his girlfriend with gifts because he doesn't know any other way to express affection.
Damian never quite grasped the concept of a âdiscreet gift.â
When you reached your six-month anniversary, he appeared one morning in the penthouse kitchen with a small black velvet box. Inside was an American Express Centurion card (the black one, of course) with your name embossed in gold.
You blinked.
âThis⌠is a card?â
âItâs yours,â he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, while pouring coffee. âNo limit. Use it whenever you want.â
You twirled it between your fingers, laughing.
âDamian, I spend a maximum of two hundred dollars a month on makeup and Shein dressesâŚâ
âNow you can spend two hundred thousand if you want,â he replied, shrugging. âOr two million. I donât care.â
It wasnât an exaggeration. Two weeks later, when you casually mentioned that a lavender Zimmermann dress seemed like âa dream,â you found it hanging in your closet that very night, along with fifteen other floral dresses by designers whose names you couldnât even pronounce. All in pastel shades that looked like theyâd been plucked from your secret Pinterest board.
Then came the house.
One Sunday morning, Damian blindfolded you, put you in the Aston Martin, and drove for forty minutes. When he removed the blindfold, you were standing in front of a French-style villa in the Bristol Hills, surrounded by gardens of lavender and climbing roses.
âWelcome home,â he said simply.
You were speechless.
âWhat do you mean, âwelcome homeâ? We live in the penthouse in Gotham!â
âNow we have two homes,â he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets. âThis oneâs in your name. Yours alone. If you ever get tired of me, you have somewhere to go.â
You looked at him, your eyes brimming with tears, and hugged him so tightly you almost knocked him to the ground.
"I'll never get tired of you, you idiot."
He smiled against your hair.
"Even better. Because I've already bought the one next door too, in case we want to expand the garden."
You currently live together in the 800-square-meter penthouse that occupies the top two floors of Damian's own house. But on long weekends, you escape to the villa in Bristol. There, you have your own walk-in closet the size of a normal apartment, filled exclusively with floral dresses, pleated skirts, angora cardigans, pearl handbags, and kitten heels in every color of the rainbow. Damian hired a personal stylist who comes every season just to make sure you have "everything cute a sunshine deserves."
He also gave you:
- A pink diamond necklace in the shape of tiny flowers, engraved inside with âMy only sunshineâ (you wear it all the time, even to sleep).
- A pink Mini Cooper convertible with floral interior to match your dresses (he calls it âBarbieâs carâ and pretends to hate it, but he takes you ice cream in it on Sundays).
- An additional credit card (this time a Mastercard Black) that he reloads himself every month with a ridiculously small amount âfor your silly whims,â as he puts it. You mostly use it to buy him flowers and leave him little notes in his office.
- A white Pomeranian puppy named Marshmallow, who always wears pastel bows to match yours.
This morning, for example, you woke up and found a Cartier box on your pillow. Inside: pearl and diamond daisy earrings.
You, still with sleep in your eyes and your hair a mess, murmured. âDamian⌠I already have like seven pairs of daisy earrings.â
âThese are 3 carats each,â he replied from the bathroom, shaving. âThe others were too small. They didnât do your face justice.â
You laughed, got out of bed in your strawberry-print cotton nightgown, and threw your arms around his back.
âYou know I could still love you even if you didnât buy me anything, right?â
Damian put down the razor, turned, and pulled you into his arms. He still had shaving cream on one cheek.
âI know,â he said, kissing your nose. âBut I like to see you shine. And if that means buying half a Cartier, Iâll do it.â
You wiped his cheek with your thumb and smiled at him in a whisper.
âWell, today my treat is for you to stay home with me all day, without a suit, without meetings, and without saving the world.â Just you, me, and Marshmallow watching Studio Ghibli movies.
Damian sighed as if you were asking him for the greatest sacrifice in the universe, and then smiled that smile only you know.
"Deal, habibti. But only if you let me choose the pajamas."
He chose the pink cotton onesie with bunnies that you jokingly gave him for his birthday. And he spent the whole day in it, cuddling you on the sofa while you, of course, wore a matching onesie, and Marshmallow slept between you.
Because yes, Damian Wayne is capable of buying you the whole world⌠but what he really wants is for you to never stop being his ray of sunshine.
