He'd stand with his arms crossed when you coo at Lucy: “She isn't an infant, Beloved."  While she squeaks and chirps in something akin to laughter.  

Worst of all was when you'd mumble sleepily to Alfred as he dozed off next to you. Damian found this so shameful that he'd huff and roll over so he wouldn't have to witness it.

Of course, you noticed the conflict on his face, the tell-tale dark red tips of his ears and the way he’d hide his face from you.  

But you didn’t really realise what it all meant until he came home late one night after finishing a grueling shift at the hospital.  

You heard the door click open and closed again, and waited for him to find you on the couch instead of greeting him at the door. He likes to completely shed the day off, shower and change before he can properly relax, especially after such a long shift. 

But this time, he came right into the living room to stand at the edge of the couch. He'd only slipped his shoes and coat off, tired eyes gazing down at you. You wordlessly rolled onto your back and patted your chest.  

He easily fell into your arms, body going limp on the couch he was just a little too big for, sock clad feet hanging off the armrest.  

You rubbed a hand down his back as he let out a long breath that feels like he’d been waiting a while to let go. It warmed you that he could find comfort in you, especially since you couldn’t always find the right words to say.   

Alfred trotted over, climbing up on the couch, and looking irritated that his owner had taken his favourite spot, he curled up in the crook of your neck instead. It was perfect; your two stoic boys trusting you to soothe them to sleep.  

You lifted a hand from where your boyfriend’s head laid on your chest to gently stroke the cat’s head.  

"Awww, sleepy baby~"  

Alfred's eyes fell closed, nudging slightly into the touch. You didn't register how Damian's arms tightened around you or how his face grew hotter against your skin, your fingers mindlessly combing through his hair 

"Is my pretty boy tired?"  

You take your eyes off Alfred when your boyfriend nods his head. Just a little, enough that you pause your movements, only starting again when he grumbles. 

You think you must’ve imagined it. He's just nuzzling into you for warmth and it looks like he's answering or maybe he’s so tired he doesn’t even realise what you're saying. You bring your nails up from his nape to behind his ear and back down, a weak spot of his.  

"Aw, sweet baby~ Are you gonna have a nap?"  

He nods again, undeniable this time and you crack a wide smile that you're sure he would just hate to see if he could take his face out of your chest. You turn your head to Alfred as if you could share this glorious moment with him. He remains uninterested.  

You keep your tone very soft, just like you'd talk to Alfred.

"You don't wanna change first? Shower and eat something?"  

He shakes his head, legs shifting to lock yours in place more firmly.  

"Stay." 

The word was just barely a whisper, muffled against your skin. You pat his back reassuringly.  

"Alright, big guy. My strong, handsome, heavy man."  

You feel him huff and shake his head just barely, like he doesn’t want to reward you with a reaction. You place a kiss on his head.  

"Precious, hard working, smart, sexy, pretty baby- ” 

His hand slides up from your side to cover your mouth and you laugh and pinch his hot ears in retaliation, making him swipe your hand away. You both softly laugh and settle down again, matching the other's slow breaths.

His hair tickles when you lay another kiss on his head, arms surrounding him.

"I love you very much."  

"I luv y'too, m'luv." 

His muffled words are barely audible against your skin and you rest your head back on the plush pillow under you, thinking of all the fun things you can do with this new discovery when he wakes up.  

Damian—unsatisfied with the current state of the painting—stood up. Guided by the faint glow of the moonbeams, he avoided the many art supplies lining the studio’s floor.

To Damian, art was both the most calming and most frustrating thing he could do—depending on the day.

Today it was the latter.

He stared at the messy graphite thumbnail he had drafted before laying eyes on his painting once more. Your clothes were meant to be far richer than what he had painted, the flowers on the side were meant to be a rare blue—not white!

What in the name of Ra was he doing?

“Tt.”

Already over his amateur mistake, Damian took a seat on the floor searching for the correct hues to use in fixing his coloring mishaps. It didn’t help that the studio was pitch black save for the moonbeams seeping through the open windows and a singular desk lamp that he had to move quite often.

However, he just couldn’t bring himself to turn on the lights; it would risk waking you up.

In the very corner of the room, the only place untouched by the scattered art supplies and splatters of paint, was you— his slumbering girlfriend.

Looking at you now, he wondered how you could sleep through his silent frustration that seemed to suffocate the room, yet there you were; completely undisturbed.

Suddenly, the search for the perfect blue felt entirely trivial.

Snatching a stray pencil, he headed to sit by the mattress you lay on.

Damian had insisted on buying this mattress—an absurdly expensive high end one— for the sole purpose of letting you—his beloved—rest whenever you were keeping him company in the studio.

You had the habit of being uneasy if he was not in your line of sight, to the point where you would stay up waiting for him to return from patrol, college, or a long mission.

You could get behind Damian not being beside you in bed, as long as you could look over and see him.

He simply could not bear the thought of you resting on the floor, or a random uncomfortable plastic chair.

As he quietly sunk onto the floor, he flipped the book onto a blank page and started sketching. Capturing his sleeping muse in quick strokes of his pencil.

Titus shifted in his place by your feet. The big dog had developed the habit of guarding you, even more so than Damian himself. He was proud, and slightly taken aback at the same time.

He adjusted the lamp, stopping the graphite on the page from reflecting a harsh glare.

With the drawing now finished, Damian wished to return to his half done painting resting in the middle of the studio.

However, he made no move to actually do so.

His eyes didn’t stray far from your back, rising and falling with soft breaths.

Perhaps, this could wait till my return from college tomorrow. He thought, already climbing onto the makeshift bed.

Sliding between the blankets, he was so careful not to jostle the warm weight of you, or Titus. The Great Dane merely let out a sleepy puff of air, acknowledging Damian’s presence before going back to sleep.

“Hayati…?” Came your soft, heavy with sleep voice. You turned slightly to look up at him.

Damian pulled your form closer, using a hand to guide your head to rest against his chest, right over his heart.

“Shhh, go back to sleep, Habibti.”

It didn’t take much convincing to have you close your eyes, already surrendering to the feeling of his fingers running through your hair, lulling you to sleep.

“You should really sleep more, Damian.” You scolded, referring to his habit of staying up late even on days with no patrol.

“Yes beloved, I should.” He agreed, feeling your body go slack on top of his.

Minutes later, after being reassured that you were completely out, Damian lowered his head, brushing his lips against your forehead in a soft barely there kiss.

“Good night, Titus.” He whispers to his beloved dog, before closing his own eyes.

“Good night, Habibti.”

That painting of you could definitely wait, especially since he had the real you in his arms.

a/n: hi moonbeams, first thank you for reading this one shot. I decided to practice writing something shorter, after all not everything can be a 20 something chapter story. Second, thank all of you who read and showed love to the first chapter of Ancient spells and fallen birds, chapter 2 is in its final phase and should be posted soon. If you wish to be tagged pls tell me in the comments. Once again thank you<3

The day had been normal enough, or at least as normal as it can be for a young witch returning to the middle of nowhere after running her errands.

You have been busy in the markets of faraway place by the edge of the sea, stocking up on certain items you could only find there, nodding along to small talk, bargaining with vendors over the price of their goods, and of course ignoring the hushed rumors that plagued the town regarding yourself—the witch.

While nobody knew what you look like—thanks to your tendency to avoid mingling and living faraway from civilization, they sure seem to love using you for gossip.

Much to the dismay of the people, you were no immortal being who dedicated all time to the world’s magical sources, or a crazy powerful individual with connection to the gods.

You merely learnt magic from your mentor and the ancient books just like all the women in your lineage had done before you and will continue to do after you.

It was that simple really.

What wasn’t simple was what happened a mere few hours after you had returned from the marketplace.

The journey to the town had your muscles screaming, you had to walk thanks to the limitations of the teleportation spell, so you decided to cook a fairly simple late lunch, then retire to bed. The atmosphere was calm and quiet, the only sounds to be heard were the rustling of wind outside, and the soft purring of your beloved cat companions cuddling in a spot of pooling sun.

Then it all came crashing down—or more precisely, he came crashing down.

Through your roof.

You sensed it, something passing through the protective ward you had casted over the area, traveling at a terrifyingly high speed.

In an instant, you lunged across the room, landing by the very confused cats and shouted a string of words in a language long dead. A glowing, spherical shield manifested form thin air just as the ceiling exploded.

The sound was deafening— splinters of old wood flying everywhere, clay pots shattering, and a massive downpour of what used to be your rooftop around your bubble of protection. Your cats dug their claws into your sling through the fabric of your top, seeking your protection, and you could do nothing but hold them tighter, and focus on maintaining the shield.

When the rain of debris finally settled you let the shield dissipate.

With a flick of your wrist, the thick curtain of dust began to part, funneling out of your home and into the cold air outside. Your cats were still clinging onto you—trembling, but you couldn’t help but focus on the pile of wood formerly known as your rooftop and floorboards.

“By the heavens, why do things like this always happen to me…”  you placed both cats on the floor, rubbing at your temples.

Usually, when you felt a disturbance in the barrier surrounding the area, it’s often a wayward spirit or a stray forest creature, never something that crash lands through your roof.

As the last remnants of dust finally let up, you realized that between the piles of wood and debris is a a lump of black fabric, seemingly attached to a human.

A boy. A masked boy.

You would have assumed his death certain, if it wasn’t for him shifting slightly to get a hold of the hilt of a sharp katana and pointing it at you.

“s-stay back…” he threatened, his voice feeble and not at all matching his hard expression.

Your felines jumped out of your embrace, leaving you free to take a step forward to get a better view of the masked stranger.

Before you could reassure him that he will be okay, or persuade him to drop his weapon—his breathing grew shallow, and his vision started to blur at the edges, then he went limp against the pile of wood.

You stared in utter disbelief, a masked boy just shot through a powerful protective ward, demolished both your first and second floor, ruined a perfectly seasoned lunch, and was somehow still alive to threaten you using a sword.

You sighed once, then you sighed again because just one didn’t seem to cover it.

°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °

Falling through the roof of an estranged witch was NOT on Damian’s bingo card for the day.

Certainly, he had been in stranger situations. He just hadn’t anticipated this outcome when Bruce said he would be sending him on ‘simple mission’.

Waking up, his brain immediately registered the cool press of silk against skin, and the unmistakable snug wrap of bandages around his aching muscles.

Last he remembered was wrestling an ancient artifact out of thief’s grasp, resulting in him being sucked into a haze of bright golden light, a dizzying portal that felt like it was breaking his body down on a molecular level before piecing it back together, only to spit him back out in an unknown location.

If he was correct, he maybe looking at a couple bruised ribs, a few gashes, cuts, bruises and—of course, a concussion.

It wasn’t looking too good for him.

The air smelled of crushed wood, a mix of herbs, and something sickeningly sweet, yet it still felt fresh in some way. Above him, was an off centered, open view of the darkening sky framed by the jagged, splintered edges of a hole in a roof.

He managed to pull himself into a seating position, widening his view of the room; an ebony vanity of a style he recognized, a small desk drowning in books, trinkets and what he assumed were various writings utensils, by him on the nightstand was half melted candle.

He spotted his katana resting on a nearby stool. Instinctively, he reached for it only for his muscles to protest in sharp echoes of pain.

“I wouldn’t try moving if I were you.” A dry, unimpressed voice sounded from the door to his right.

He made the mistake of snapping his neck to where the sound came from, immediate sharp echoes of throbbing pain sounding through his skull.

A few feet away, you stood.

Resting in your hands was a tray of what would appear to be tea and something edible on the side. You were dressed in dark fabrics—mainly blues and blacks. your eyes, kholed, were currently narrowed in annoyance at his stupid attempt at moving. By your feet were two cats one black with judgmental eyes and the other a tabby too busy grooming its fur.

“Unless, of course, you wish to tear your own flesh apart, in that case, struggle away.”  You continued, walking a few steps to place the tray on the bedside table, your waist chain chiming with every move.

Ignoring you, he tried his comm-link, fingers pressing against his ear, only to find it missing.

“Looking for this?” A hand dove into your pocket, fishing out a sleek, black earbud. “I doubt it works, your fall was rather harsh.”

He tried it regardless, but all it gave was static, so did the secondary channel, and the emergency line.

No surprise, the hardware didn’t survive the fall.

“Where am I?” He questioned, voice raspy but managing to hold onto its bite.

He wrapped his fingers around his the hilt, ignoring how the room tilted, and how he felt like throwing up. “Who are you? Are you affiliated with the league?”

You blinked at him, once then twice before letting out a long breath.

“Listen Mr…whoever you are, I don’t know what the ‘league’ is,” you sat down on the edge of your bed, far away enough from where he was resting “ you are currently in my bedroom, the least damaged place in my house—no thanks to you.”

You poured him a cup of warm herbal tea, which he took with narrowed eyes.

“You fell through my roof and second floor, ruined my day, and terrified my cats. So, the real question is who are you? And how are you going to fix my roof?”

He opened his mouth to bite back at your demand, but his body betrayed him, the room taking a sudden tilt, forcing him to lean on the pillow behind him.

“I don’t do carpentry.” He managed, trying to stay intimidating through the waves of nausea and pain.

For all his bravado, he was still a heavily injured man trapped underneath your handmade quilt, wrapped in a dozen bandages, and looking like a stray kitten.

Safe to say, you weren’t intimidated.

“Well, Mr. ‘I don’t do carpentry,’ you look like you can’t even stand without throwing up all over my precious rugs.”  You shrugged. “So all things considered, your options are limited.”

You stood up swirling your finger over the soft brownish liquid in his cup, small stars falling in, melting in its warmth.

“Drink this, it should alleviate the pain, somewhat.”

He looked up at you, the gears in his head turning to decipher what you just did.

“Also, do not move your torso around carelessly, you have a nasty gash and I would hate to be forced into stitching it again.”

Without waiting for a reply, you picked up one of your fluffy friends and left the room. The chime of your waist chain fading slowly with each step.

°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °

The last few days were horribly exhausting.

The first day consisted mostly of Damian attempting to escape, only to find out the hard way that his bruised ribs couldn’t handle a simple drop, and that his stitched torso was less fragile than a porcelain doll.

You found him minutes later sprawled across the garden’s ground with Sultana— the tabby cat— staring at him in amusement as if he was a court jester.

The following days weren’t much better, while he was finally convinced to curl up in bed and stop trying to assassinate himself via escape attempts, he was still trying to fix the comm link—which apparently it was your fault he couldn’t do it, because you didn’t have a micro soldering iron with a fine tip laying around your cabin.

At least, you finally exchanged names. An improvement over him calling you witch every time he wanted to address you.

By the morning of the first Sunday of the new month, your healing spells and homemade tonics began taking effect. The bruises have faded, the swelling in his shoulder had gone down, the concussion had cleared to a manageable, dull throb, and he was well enough to walk and move without you having to assist him.

Which brought you to now.

You walked into the destroyed living room, a basket of fresh laundry resting against your hip, only to find him standing beneath the gaping hole in your ceiling, still in one of your oversized sleeping shirt and his own pants. The afternoon sun shining down on the spot where the rubble once sat.

His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.

“No use, still static.” He muttered to himself, taking off the earpiece with more force than necessary. “Don’t you posses any means of communication? There are no digital signals.”

“That’s because you physically crushed my router when you fell, you also managed to cut my cables,” you stepped over a crack in the floor, placing the laundry basket down on a table by the door. “My satellite is currently flattened to the point where it serves me more as a mat.”

He snapped his gaze towards you, his expression souring further. You had spent hours explaining to him how your cabin is hidden deep into the mountain valleys, that you had a spell on it that stops anyone from stumbling on its location—intentionally or not.

His tech was useless, making him officially stranded.

He let out a sharp breath, pocketing the useless earpiece as he mauled over his surroundings. You had managed to clear away the rubble and debris on your own, no doubt using magic, but that barely made a difference with your ruined ceiling.

You followed his gaze, from the impact point on your floor to the hole above you, a small dry smile painted itself on your face.

“Well, Damian,” you took a few steps, coming to stop right beside him, crossing your arms over your chest. ”it seems like you have plenty of time to learn how to do carpentry after all.”