being a simp is a full time job

"Okay..." He set down his coffee mug carefully, running through every possible scenario. Had he forgotten an anniversary? Said something wrong on patrol? Was this about him leaving the toilet seat up again?

You took a deep breath, reached into your pocket, and pulled out a small velvet box.

Dick's brain short-circuited.

"I know this isn't traditional, and maybe you wanted to be the one to do this, but I love you, and I don't want to wait anymore, and..." you were rambling now, nervous, "...Richard John Grayson, will you marry me?"

He stared at you. Then at the box. Then back at you.

"No," he said.

Your face fell completely, devastation written across every feature, and he immediately realized his mistake.

"NO! No, wait..." He frantically reached into his own pocket, pulling out the ring box he'd been carrying around for weeks, too paranoid to leave it anywhere. "I meant no as in...you can't propose today because I'm proposing tomorrow and I've had this planned for three months and..."

You started laughing, that slightly hysterical laugh that meant you were either going to kiss him or kill him.

"Are you serious right now?"

"I have a whole thing planned! There's going to be a trapeze act and everything!" He opened his box, showing you the ring. "I was going to do it under the circus lights where we first met and... wait, is that a yes? To my proposal that I haven't actually done yet?"

"You said 'no' to my proposal!"

"Because I wanted to do mine first!"

You both stood there in the kitchen, each holding a ring box, staring at each other in complete disbelief.

"This is ridiculous," you finally said.

"Completely ridiculous," Dick agreed, that brilliant smile breaking across his face. "So... do you want to just propose to each other right now?"

"Your entire family is going to be so disappointed they missed this disaster."

"Oh, I'm still doing the trapeze proposal tomorrow. But maybe..." He took the ring from your box, getting down on one knee right there on the kitchen tile, "...we could do a practice run?"

You laughed, tears in your eyes, and pulled him up to kiss him instead. "Yes, you idiot. Yes to both proposals. All the proposals."

"Just so we're clear," Dick murmured against your lips, "I'm still doing the big romantic one tomorrow."

"I'm still putting my ring on your finger right now."

"Deal."

(The next day, when Dick proposed under the circus lights with his entire family watching, you waited until he finished his whole speech before pulling out your own ring and saying, "My turn."

Jason complained that he lost the betting pool because "of course you two nerds would do a double proposal.")

Jason Todd

Jason was not a planner. He didn't do big romantic gestures. He didn't do elaborate schemes. So when he decided he wanted to marry you, he figured he'd just... ask. Simple. Direct. That was more his style anyway.

He'd bought the ring on impulse three weeks ago, saw it in a pawn shop window in Crime Alley, got hit with the sudden crystal-clear thought of that's the one, and bought it before he could overthink it.

Since then, it had been burning a hole in his jacket pocket. He'd almost asked you seventeen different times: over burgers at your favorite dive, after patrol when you were patching up a cut on his shoulder, during a movie night when you fell asleep on his chest.

But something always stopped him. Not fear, exactly. More like... wanting the moment to be right.

Tonight felt right. You were on his couch, reading, legs draped over his lap, and he was pretending to clean his guns while actually just watching you. The safehouse was quiet. Gotham was, miraculously, having a slow night. It was perfect.

Jason put down the gun, reached for his jacket.

"Hey, so..." he started.

"I need to ask you something," you said at the exact same time, looking up from your book with an odd expression.

"You first," Jason said, settling back. The ring box felt heavy in his hand, still in his pocket.

You dog-eared your page (Jason mentally noted to buy you a bookmark for the thousandth time) and shifted to face him fully. You looked nervous, which was weird because you never got nervous. You'd stared down Killer Croc without flinching.

"Okay, so. I'm just going to say this because if I don't say it now, I'm going to lose my nerve." You took a breath. "Jason, I want to marry you. I know that's probably not... I mean, we've never really talked about it, and maybe you don't want that, but I love you and I love this life with you and..."

"No," Jason interrupted.

You stopped mid-ramble, and he watched your expression shutter, walls going up.

"No," he repeated, "you don't get to propose today."

"...what?"

He pulled out the ring box, opened it. "Because I'm doing this tomorrow. I had a whole thing planned. Well, not planned planned, but I was gonna take you to that place in Crime Alley, where we first met. Where you told that mugger to fuck off and then bought me coffee."

You stared at the ring, then at him, then started laughing... that surprised, delighted laugh he loved.

"You were going to propose tomorrow?"

"Yeah, except now you've ruined the surprise, so... " He pulled you into his lap properly, keeping the ring box between you. "... we're doing this now instead. And just so we're clear, I'm still saying no to your proposal because you don't have a ring and that's just poor planning."

"Poor planning?" You were grinning now, eyes bright. "Says the guy who's been carrying that ring around for three weeks too scared to ask."

"I wasn't scared..." He cut himself off at your knowing look. "Okay, maybe a little. But in my defense, you're terrifying."

"Jason Todd," you said softly, framing his face with your hands, "are you proposing to me right now?"

"Yeah," he said, suddenly serious. "Yeah, I am. I know I'm not easy, and this life isn't easy, and I can't promise you normal or safe or any of that bullshit. But I can promise you this... all of this, all of me, for as long as you'll have it."

"Yes," you whispered.

"You didn't let me finish..."

"Yes," you repeated, kissing him. "Yes to tomorrow's proposal, yes to today's proposal, yes to all of it."

Jason slipped the ring onto your finger, and it fit perfectly. Of course it did.

"So," he murmured against your lips, "about your proposal. You got a ring for me, or...?"

You pulled back just enough to smirk at him. "Actually, yes. It's in my jacket. I was planning to ask you tomorrow night."

Jason threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the safehouse walls. "We're a mess."

"Yeah," you agreed, reaching for your own jacket. "But we're engaged messes now."

(You both wore your rings on chains under your suits. When Bruce eventually noticed and asked when Jason was planning to mention his engagement, Jason just shrugged and said, "When it comes up naturally."

"It's been four months, Jason."

"And it just came up. Naturally.")

Tim Drake

Tim had a spreadsheet.

Actually, Tim had seventeen spreadsheets, a probability matrix, three backup plans, and a fully researched presentation on optimal proposal strategies based on your known preferences, past reactions to romantic gestures, and statistical data on successful proposals.

He'd been planning this for six months.

The ring was hidden in a false bottom in his desk drawer at Wayne Enterprises... the one place you'd never look because you respected his workspace. The reservation at the restaurant where you'd had your first date was booked for tomorrow night. He'd arranged for the string quartet. He'd even hacked the restaurant's system to ensure you'd get the exact table where you'd first sat three years ago.

Everything was accounted for. Every variable considered.

Tim Drake did not leave things to chance.

So of course, the universe decided to laugh at him.

You showed up at his office at Wayne Enterprises at 11 PM, which wasn't unusual... You often brought him dinner when he was working late. What was unusual was the look on your face: determined and nervous and excited all at once.

"Hey," you said, setting down the takeout bag. "Can we talk?"

Tim's fingers froze over his keyboard. Those words. He'd run approximately thirty-seven scenarios about what to do if you wanted to have a "talk" before the proposal, and none of them were good.

Had you figured it out? Did you find the ring? Was this about him spending too much time on cases? Not enough time at home? Had he missed something important?

"Of course," he said, voice calmer than he felt. "What's up?"

You sat on the edge of his desk, picked up his hand, and looked at him with those eyes that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.

"I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to just... let me finish before you answer, okay?"

"Okay," Tim agreed, mind racing through possibilities.

You took a breath. "Tim Drake, I love you. I love your brilliant, ridiculous brain. I love how you drink too much coffee and forget to sleep. I love how you care so deeply about everything and everyone. I love the life we've built together. And I know we've talked about the future in abstract terms, but I don't want abstract anymore. I want concrete. I want forever. So..." you pulled out a small box, "...will you marry me?"

Tim's brain... his genius, superhuman brain, completely blue-screened.

"No," he said automatically.

Your face fell so fast it was like watching someone pull a foundation out from under a building.

"Wait... NO. Not no, I just... " Tim was already yanking open his desk drawer, false bottom and all, pulling out his ring box. "You can't propose today because I'm proposing tomorrow! I have dinner reservations! There's going to be a string quartet! I have seventeen spreadsheets!"

You stared at him. "You have... seventeen spreadsheets?"

"For the proposal planning! And you just... You can't just propose at 11 PM in my office when I have seventeen spreadsheets!"

A smile started tugging at your lips. "You said no because of spreadsheets?"

"I said no because I wanted to propose first!" Tim ran his hand through his hair, completely flustered in a way that only you could make him. "I've been planning this for six months. Six months! I have backup plans for the backup plans!"

"Of course you do," you said fondly. Then you looked at the ring in his hand, and back at your own ring box. "So... we're both proposing?"

"Apparently." Tim looked at the two rings, at you, and felt a laugh bubble up. "This is not in any of my spreadsheets."

"Maybe that's okay," you suggested. "Maybe some things don't need seventeen spreadsheets."

"Absolutely not. I'm adding this to the data." But he was smiling now, that soft smile he only ever gave you. "Can we... can we just do both? Right now?"

"I think we kind of already did."

Tim stood, properly took your hand, and got down on one knee right there in his Wayne Enterprises office. "Let me do this right. I had a whole speech planned, but the basic version is: you make me better. You make everything better. You see me... not Red Robin, not the CEO, not Bruce's son... just me. And I want to spend the rest of my life being seen by you. Will you marry me?"

"Yes," you said, laughing and crying at the same time. "But I'm still proposing too."

"Competitive even in proposals. I love you."

"I love you too, you over-planning genius." You slid your ring onto his finger, and he slid his onto yours. "So what do we do about the reservation tomorrow?"

"We're still going," Tim said immediately. "It's non-refundable and I'm not wasting a string quartet."

"Fair enough."

(The next night, Tim still got down on one knee at the restaurant, presented the ring, and gave his full prepared speech. You listened patiently, said yes again, and then told the string quartet you'd like to make an announcement too.

"Two proposals?" the waiter asked, confused.

"We're competitive," you and Tim said in unison.

Later, when Tim added this to his proposal spreadsheets under "Unexpected Variables," he highlighted it and added a note: "Best possible outcome.")

Damian Wayne

Damian had been raised by assassins. He'd been trained in strategy, combat, and patience. He knew how to plan. He knew how to execute. He knew how to wait for the perfect moment to strike.

So when he decided he wanted to marry you, he approached it with the same precision he approached everything else.

The ring had been commissioned six months ago... a family heirloom emerald reset in a new band, because you deserved something with history but also something entirely yours. He'd arranged for a private tour of the Gotham Botanical Gardens after hours, your favorite place in the city. He'd even commissioned an artist to paint a portrait of Titus and Alfred the cat as a secondary gift, because he knew you'd cry over it.

Everything was prepared for tomorrow evening.

Damian did not fail. Damian did not leave things to chance.

Except, apparently, he'd failed to account for you.

You'd asked him to meet you at the Manor's gardens, which wasn't unusual. You often spent time there together, especially in the evening when Damian was tending to the plants. But when he arrived, you were pacing, and you only paced when you were nervous.

"Beloved?" Damian approached cautiously. "What's wrong?"

You turned to face him, squared your shoulders in that way you did when you were about to do something brave, and said, "Nothing's wrong. I just... I need to ask you something."

"Ask."

Instead of speaking, you closed the distance between you, took both his hands, and looked him directly in the eyes.

"Damian Wayne, I know you value tradition and precision and doing things the right way. I know you like having control. But I can't wait anymore. I've been carrying this ring around for two weeks trying to find the perfect moment, and I realized there is no perfect moment. There's just us, and this garden, and the fact that I love you more than I thought it was possible to love another person." You pulled out a simple black ring box. "Will you marry me?"

For the first time in his adult life, Damian Wayne was completely speechless.

"No," he said finally, voice rough.

Your hands trembled slightly, but you didn't step back. "No?"

"No, you cannot propose today." Damian reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his own ring box. "I am proposing tomorrow. I have made arrangements. There is a plan."

Your eyes widened as you saw the ring. "Damian... "

"I was going to ask you in the Botanical Gardens. I have arranged a private tour. There is a portrait of the animals being delivered. I was going to... " He stopped, jaw tightening. "You have ruined my carefully constructed plan."

A smile started spreading across your face. "You were going to propose tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"And I ruined it?"

"Yes."

"And you said no to my proposal because of that?"

"Yes." Damian looked at the two ring boxes between you. "This is... unacceptable."

"Completely unacceptable," you agreed, but you were grinning now.

Damian was quiet for a moment, clearly recalculating. Then he made a decision.

"We will do both proposals. Mine tomorrow, as planned. Yours now, because apparently you lack patience."

"Excuse me, I waited two weeks..."

"I waited six months, beloved."

You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet garden. "Okay, you win the waiting competition. But does that mean...?"

Damian took the ring from your box, examined it with a critical eye. "It is a good ring. Well chosen." Then he slid it onto his finger, the metal catching the moonlight. "Yes. I accept your proposal."

"Yeah?" You were smiling so wide it had to hurt.

"Yes. And tomorrow, you will accept mine."

"Pretty presumptuous..."

Damian cut you off with a kiss, rare and soft and perfect. When he pulled back, his hand came up to cup your face. "I love you. You are chaotic and impulsive and you disrupt all my plans. And I love you."

"Even though I ruined your proposal?"

"You did not ruin it. You simply... added an unexpected variable." His thumb brushed your cheek. "I am adaptable."

"The most adaptable," you teased. Then, more seriously, "So tomorrow? For real?"

"Tomorrow. For real. With the full plan, as intended."

"Can't wait."

(The next evening, Damian executed his proposal flawlessly. The gardens were perfect, the portrait made you cry exactly as predicted, and when he got down on one knee and offered his ring, you said yes like it was the first time.

Later, in bed, you traced the ring on his finger and whispered, "So technically, I proposed first."

"Technically," Damian agreed, "you proposed impulsively in a garden with no planning whatsoever."

"And you said no."

"And then I said yes. I am magnanimous like that."

You laughed into his shoulder. "I love you, you impossible man."

"Tt. I love you too, even if you lack patience and strategic planning."

"We balance each other out."

"Apparently."

And though neither of you would admit it, having two proposals was better than one anyway.)

Bruce Wayne

Bruce Wayne was a planner. Everything he did was calculated, considered from every angle, prepared for every possible contingency.

Proposing to you was no different.

He'd been planning it for eight months. The ring had been designed specifically for you, elegant, understated, because you'd never wanted anything flashy. He'd arranged for a private dinner at the Manor, had Alfred prepare your favorite meal, and had even asked his children for their blessing (which had devolved into forty-five minutes of them roasting his romantic skills, but they'd ultimately approved).

Everything was set for tomorrow night.

Bruce had contingency plans for his contingency plans. He'd accounted for everything.

Everything except you.

You'd asked him to meet you in the Cave, which wasn't unusual; you often helped with cases, and you were one of the few people allowed full access. But when he arrived, you weren't at the computers. You were standing in the center of the space, dressed not in tactical gear but in regular clothes, and you looked terrified.

That immediately set off alarm bells.

"What's wrong?" Bruce was already running through possibilities.... threats, injuries, compromised identities.

"Nothing's wrong," you said quickly. "I just... I need to tell you something. Ask you something. Before I lose my nerve."

Bruce approached cautiously, cowl down, searching your face for clues. "Alright."

You took a shaky breath. "I know you like to be in control. I know you like to plan everything. I know this probably isn't how you'd want this to happen, but I can't keep waiting for the right moment because I don't think there is a right moment. There's just us, and this insane life we've chosen, and the fact that I want to spend the rest of that life with you."

You pulled out a small box from your pocket, hands trembling slightly.

"Bruce Wayne, will you marry me?"

For a moment... just a moment... the Batman was completely frozen.

Then: "No."

Your face went carefully blank, the same expression you used in the field when you'd been injured but didn't want anyone to know. "No."

"Not no...." Bruce was already moving, pulling you closer. "No, you can't propose today."

"I... what?"

He reached into his utility belt, because of course he was carrying the ring even in uniform, and pulled out a small velvet box. "I'm proposing tomorrow. I have dinner planned. Alfred is making your favorite meal. I was going to..."

"You were going to propose tomorrow," you repeated slowly, looking between his face and the ring. "Tomorrow."

"Yes."

"And I just..."

"Yes."

A laugh bubbled out of you, slightly hysterical. "I proposed the day before you were going to propose."

"Yes."

"And you said no."

Bruce had the grace to wince. "Poor phrasing. I meant..."

"I know what you meant." You were smiling now, that beautiful smile that still made his heart stutter. "You said no because you wanted to do it first."

"I had a plan," Bruce said, a bit defensively.

"Of course you did. You always have a plan." You looked at the ring in his hand, then at your own box. "So what do we do now?"

Bruce considered. As Batman, he was used to adapting to changing circumstances. As Bruce Wayne, he was used to maintaining control. As himself, stripped of both mantles, standing in the Cave with the person he loved more than his mission, more than his city, more than the weight of all his responsibilities...

He got down on one knee.

"Bruce, you don't have to...."

"Let me do this," he said quietly. "Please."

You nodded, tears already gathering in your eyes.

"I had a speech prepared. Alfred helped me write it. It was... adequate." His lips quirked slightly. "But the truth is simpler. You know who I am. All of me...Bruce, Batman, everything in between. You've seen me at my worst, and you stayed. You've seen me at my best, and you challenged me to be better. You've taken this impossible life I lead and made it feel less lonely. I love you. Will you marry me?"

"Yes," you whispered. "But I'm still putting my ring on your finger first."

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

You both stayed there on the Cave floor, laughing and crying and exchanging rings like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bruce slipped his ring onto your finger with the same precision he used for everything, and you slid yours onto his with trembling hands.

"So," you said eventually, "about that dinner tomorrow..."

"We're still doing it."

"Even though we're already engaged?"

"I'm not wasting Alfred's cooking." Bruce pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. "And I want to propose properly. The way I planned."

"You're really attached to this plan."

"I've been working on it for eight months."

"Of course you have." You kissed him softly. "Okay. Tomorrow, you propose properly. And I'll act surprised."

"Don't act. Just... be there."

"Always."

(The next night, Bruce proposed exactly as planned. The dinner was perfect, the ring presentation flawless, his speech eloquent. You said yes like you hadn't already said yes in the Cave, and when his children inevitably crashed the dinner to "make sure he didn't mess it up," you all laughed together.

Later, in the quiet of his room, you touched the ring on his finger and whispered, "I'm glad I proposed first."

"Even though I said no?"

"Especially because you said no. It was very you."

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh. "I'm glad you proposed first too."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. It was very you.... impulsive, brave, perfect timing even when it's the worst timing."

"We're a mess."

"We're engaged," Bruce corrected.

"That too."

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.  

An hour passes. Maybe more.

Her eyes open suddenly and find his. The fogginess vanishes as she jolts upright. "What time is it?"

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand. "Quarter past eight."

"Shit." She scrambles out of bed. "I'm going to miss my bus."

She strips without thinking, tugging her shirt over her head and stepping out of her shorts. Damian turns toward the wall after the briefest, guilty glance.

"It's fine," he says. "I'll drive you."

"I can't ask you for any more favors."

"It's selfish, really." He drops back onto the mattress, folding his hands beneath his head. "Driving you means more time together."

She pulls a worn hoodie over her head. "You're not sick of me yet?"

He exhales softly and looks at her, hair mussed and eyes still puffy. "No such thing."

He drops her off ten minutes early. She thanks him twice. Damian waits, watching her disappear inside, lingering until her silhouette reappears behind the counter before finally pulling away.

The manor's already loud when he returns.

Rental staff weave through the foyer with tables and light fixtures. A massive Christmas tree lies horizontal across the marble floor. Duke directs a group toward the east hall, while Cassandra balances barefoot on the back of a chair, one foot planted, the other curving backwards as she strings lights along the wall.

"You know," Damian says, "most people can't balance on one toe like that."

She glances down, “You can.” 

He folds his arms, “Only further proving my point.” 

Bruce turns at the sound of his voice, a relieved look hardening, “Where were you last night?” 

Tim appears at Bruce's shoulder with a mug of coffee. “Isn’t it obvious? He spent the night with his girlfriend.” 

Bruce’s exhales. “Tell me you used protection.” 

“We didn’t have sex,” Damian snaps. “And I’ve learned better from you and Grayson than to behave like an idiot.” 

Duke snorts. “Not hearing a no about the spending the night with your girlfriend part.”

Bruce clears throat, “Did you invite her?”

“I did.” 

“And?” 

“She said ‘okay’.” 

Tim squints. “That’s it? No squealing? No fainting?” 

“She doesn't care for grandeur,” Damian says, wary of all their questions. “She hardly reacted when I told her my last name.”

“And you’re sure she’s not an international spy,” Tim adds, “or an assassin sent by your mom?” 

“I made certain of it,” Damian says flatly.

Duke grins. “I’m sure you did.” 

Bruce reaches into his pocket, then presses a small velvet box into Damian's palm. "The earrings you asked for."

Damian opens it, confirming they're exactly as he specified.

"I don't know," Duke peers over his shoulder. "Diamonds feel risky."

"Why?"

Cass hops down from the chair and studies them. "She'll think you're trying to buy her."

Bruce sighs. "I've never given earrings to a woman who didn't like them."

“Said every man who ever dated Selina Kyle,” Tim mutters. 

Damian pinches the bridge of his nose. “Moving on—she will be attending.” 

“Does she have a dress?” Cass asks.

“…No.” 

“Take some from my closet.” 

As he turns to leave, Cass calls out, “Shoes?” 

He stops.

Laughter follows him down the hall.

When he picks her up that evening, she's quiet.

Too quiet.

Her gaze stays fixed on the window, not with the usual curiosity.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asks.

"Yes."

The silence stretches anyway.

"There are dresses in the trunk," he adds. "In case you needed one."

"Okay."

He retrieves the velvet box from the glove compartment before he can overthink it. "I also got you these."

She opens it, smiles faintly. "I'll wear them tonight." Then she closes the lid and turns back to the glass.

His throat tightens.

At her apartment, steam fogs the bathroom mirror. She emerges wrapped in a towel, cheeks flushed, asking for the dresses.

They’re all black. Two don’t sit right. The third—satin, scooping low at the back—knocks the wind from Damian’s lungs.

“Is it too much?” she asks.

“Come here.”

He turns her gently, fingers tracing the line of her spine. She stiffens, then relaxes as his hands settle at her waist. He presses his lips to the small of her back, skin warm and smelling of soap, and kisses upward until he reaches her neck.

"Damian—" Her hand finds his face, steadying herself as his mouth brushes beneath her ear.

Forget the gala. Forget everything. Give me one more night at your side.

"I don't own high heels," she says suddenly, retreating toward her closet. "Will boots work?"

"Anything works."

She slips them on. "Don't you need to get dressed?"

He does, quickly, She straightens his tie without asking, fingers careful. "I like you in a suit."

He covers her hands with his own and kisses her shortly, urgently.

She wipes his mouth. "You're getting lipstick on yourself."

"I don't care."

Light is spilling from the hundred manor windows when they arrive, warm and golden against the snow. The strings of a chamber orchestra drift faintly from inside. She pauses at the steps, fingers curling into his sleeve.

"Stay with me," he says.

She laughs faintly. "Where else would I go?"

But inside, all hesitation leaves her body.

She charms Duke, thanks Cass for the dress, compliments the decor. She answers every question with ease, laughter spilling from her like it costs nothing.

And yet… 

Whenever her attention turns back to him, something dims. 

She's tired.

Tim appears with a coy smile, “Damian, you’re not going to introduce your favorite brother?”

"He's not here.” 

“Are you realizing Damian hates public events?” Tim says. 

She laughs. “Oh, I figured that out a long time ago.” 

Tim offers a hand, “Dance?”

Damian answers immediately, “No.” 

She blinks. “What?” 

“Possessive," Tim sighs.

“Absolutely not," Damian presses. 

"Damian," she whines.

“I said no.” 

“Relax, Dami. I won’t reveal any of your secrets.”

Before he can object further, Tim is already guiding her onto the floor. She's laughing too much. Never keeping still.

Cass appears at Damian's side. "Uncomfortable, but genuine."

“I didn’t ask you to read her”

"You didn't have to." She settles her back against the wall, glances at him. "You're afraid."

"I don't need you reading me either."

"We will protect her," she says.

The words settle somewhere deep.

Damian doesn't see the dance floor, so much as the course of decisions he's made in the past twenty-four hours.

Was I really going to end it then? he asks himself. Had she not broken down, would I have been brave enough to sacrifice our potential life together?

In that moment he sounds like a child again, “Thank you.” 

Across the floor, Tim spins her. She laughs—too much. 

Damian strides across the room. “Mind if I cut in, Drake?” 

Tim releases her easily, “Be my guest.” 

Damian feels the hardness in her hands soften into his. "What did he say to you?"

"He mentioned you have a dog and a cat... and a bird and a cow." She chuckles softly, before lowering her chin onto his shoulder. "He told me to be patient with you."

Damian's nape warms. "He had no right to say something like that."

"But isn't it true?" She draws back until their noses are aligned. Eyes studying his carefully. "Don't I have to be patient with you?"

Her gentle, even kind, words ring ominous in Damian's ears. Like she can sense the impending doom.

He opens his mouth, but a hand settles on Damian's shoulder. "Son."

He turns, unusually caught off guard. “Father.” 

Bruce’s gaze shifts to her. He smiles. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Damian feels her hands harden again. Sees her posture straighten. "It's nice to meet you too, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce is fine," he says. "Has Damian given you a tour yet?"

“…Not yet, no.”

“Well,” he gestures towards the hall, “you’re always welcome here.” 

Her eyes graze the floor, “Thank you.” 

They slip away. He braces her as she removes her shoes in relief.

The halls are long and candlelit. He shows her only what he finds worthwhile—mosty the art on the walls. Old pieces and newer acquisitions he credits himself for. Framed photographs filled with people she still hasn’t met. 

When they reach the terrace, winter air rushes in. Damian drapes his jacket over her shoulders.

The garden stretches out below them, dark and dormant, hedges dusted with frost. Beyond that, uptown, glittering and distant.

She steps out first, resting her forearms on the railing. The moonlight catches the earrings when she tucks her hair back.

“What do you think?” he asks.

"It's... a lot."

"Does it feel doable?"

Silence.

"I've been thinking about what you said before." Her shoulders sink. "How we should get to know each other better." 

He takes a step closer, considers reaching out then thinks better of it. “If this is about intimacy, I do—”

“No, it's not that." Her voice is calm. Solemn. "I mean you. I think there's parts of you that you're hiding from me."

His mouth has gone completely dry.

No, no, no. Too close to the truth. Too dangerous.

"All I'm asking is you to tell me I'm wrong," she says.

The swell of voices breaks into darkness. Guests flood the garden as the Christmas lights flicker to life in a single beat, gold threading through every branch and cobblestone wall. Carols drift through hidden speakers.

For a second, they both look out at all of it. Feel the radiating joy fizzle out just before it can reach them.

Then she turns back, voice sharper now, warning, “Damian. Tell me I’m wrong.” 

Cold fogs her shuddered breath. Her anger ebbs into something quieter, sadder. “Damian..?” 

Then his mind floods in an instant.

It's all been a mistake.

Chasing her the way he did when they first met.

Coming back every night for more.

Letting her know pieces of himself he hasn't shared with anyone. 

She didn't ask for this. To be burdened with this life. She's been through enough.

How could I be so selfish? 

She steps back, unbalanced. "I’m leaving.” 

He reacts without thinking—hand desperately closing around her wrist. “You’re right.” 

Cass’s words echo in his ears. We will protect her. 

“I am hiding something from you." His head is pounding, trying to overcome his heart. It fails. "And I didn’t want you to meet my family because all of it is a mess and you’re perfect. The closer you get… my family… we ruin perfect things.” 

He releases her wrist slowly, eyes downcast to the garden.

What have I done? 

"Please don't let me ruin you." 

She steps closer, fingers lifting his chin. His eyes press shut, absorbing the warmth of her hand.

"I feel that way too,” she says. 

His eyes open to the beautiful view of her face, up close, softened. Unafraid. 

“I mean look at all this,” she glances at the garden in all its exuberance. “It’s like I’m borrowing you from a world I don’t understand in the slightest.” 

He covers her hand with his, anchoring it before she’ll pull away forever.

Her other hand lifts to her brow, rubbing it as her mouth curves. She lets out a laugh of what sounds like disbelief. “I’m going to sound like an idiot when I say this.”

“I’m willing to be ruined. You just have to let me.” 

Damian's heart sinks down to the pit of his stomach. Not only has she abandoned her original resolve to leave. She’s accepting each and every consequence for staying. All with a smile on her face. 

His neck has stiffened beyond movement. No matter what he does, he simply cannot move, cannot speak. 

It’s as if his mind has slipped free of his body, floating several feet above the terrace. 

He nods. Once. 

Unsure whether he had possessed his body to do so. 

Her smile widens. The most gleeful she’s appeared in days. She leans into him, hugs his paralyzed body for warmth. 

The first time you casually drop something horrifying, you’re both sprawled on the couch after a long day. Wally has his legs tangled with yours, one arm thrown over your stomach, half-watching a documentary he absolutely swore he was interested in and is absolutely about to fall asleep during.

The narrator mentions urban legends.

You snort.

Wally cracks one eye open. “What?”

“Nothing. Just thinking about how Gotham urban legends are usually just, like, actual guys.”

He hums. “Define actual guys.”

“You know. Croc in the sewers. The Court of Owls. That guy who used to leave teeth in people’s mailboxes.”

Wally lifts his head. “The what?”

You wave a hand. “He wasn’t a big one.”

“A big one?”

“Yeah, not like Joker or Scarecrow or anything.”

Wally sits up so fast the blanket slides off him. “Hold on. Pause. Rewind. Circle back. You had villain tier lists growing up?”

You blink at him. “Everyone did.”

“No, babe. Everyone did not.”

And you say it so calmly. That’s the part that breaks his brain. You’re not trembling. You’re not telling him this with dramatic lighting and sad violin music. You’re reaching for popcorn like you didn’t just reveal your childhood had a recurring cast of themed nightmares.

Wally stares at you. You stare back.

“What?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

Finally, “I need you to understand that most people’s neighbourhood hazards are potholes. Maybe raccoons. Not sewer crocodile cryptids and clown terrorism.”

You frown thoughtfully. “We also had potholes.”

“Not the point!”

The second time is worse. Because it happens in public.

You’re both at a grocery store. Wally is pushing the cart with one foot on the bottom rail, letting himself glide like a menace until you tell him he is one loud crash away from being banned from produce.

He’s tossing snacks into the cart at speedster velocity.

You catch a box before it hits the bread. “Wally.”

“What? Snacks are essential infrastructure.”

“You got three kinds of cookies.”

“Exactly. Infrastructure.”

Then there’s a sudden loud bang from the back of the store. Someone dropped a pallet. Totally normal. Totally harmless.

But you go still.

Not dramatically. Not visibly to most people.

But Wally sees it.

Your eyes flick to the exits. Your shoulders lock. Your hand tightens around the cart handle.

It lasts maybe two seconds. Then you blink, exhale, and keep moving like nothing happened.

Wally doesn’t say anything until you’re outside.

He loads the bags into the car slower than usual. Which, for Wally, is basically a medical event.

Then he asks, gently, “You okay back there?”

You shrug. “Yeah. Just sounded like one of the old evacuation alarms.”

“Evacuation alarms?”

“At school.”

Wally pauses.

Your voice stays casual. “We had different ones. Fire, rogue attack, gas exposure, active shooter, Arkham escape within two blocks—”

“Within two blocks?”

“Yeah. If it was further than that, they just locked the outside doors.”

Wally stares at you over the trunk.

You blink. “What?”

He looks like someone just handed him a bomb. “Your school had an Arkham escape alarm?”

“Not officially.”

“That does not make it better.”

“It was more of a bell pattern.”

“Babe.”

“What?”

“That is so far from normal I can’t even see normal from here. Normal is in another zip code. Normal packed a bag and left.”

You almost laugh because Wally is doing that thing where he gets animated when he’s upset, hands moving too fast, words tripping over each other.

But then you notice his face.

He’s not joking. Not really. His eyes are too soft. Too bright. Like he’s trying to outrun how much it hurts to imagine you as a kid, sitting under a desk, learning the sound difference between fire danger and fear toxin danger.

You immediately backpedal. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Wally goes very quiet.

That’s rare. That’s how you know you’ve accidentally stepped into something serious.

He closes the trunk and walks around to your side of the car, not crowding you, just standing close enough that his warmth is there if you want it.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I love you. So I’m gonna say this very carefully.”

You swallow.

“It was that bad.”

And because it’s Wally, because he’s usually motion and laughter and bright lightning under skin, the stillness of him makes the words land harder.

You look away.

He doesn’t make you look back.

He just says, “You don’t have to convince me it didn’t hurt.”

That one gets under your ribs.

Because Gotham taught you that pain only counted if someone didn’t survive it. Anything else was just “lucky.”

You say, “Everyone had stories like that.”

Wally’s jaw tightens. “Then everyone deserved better.”

That shuts you up completely.

After that, Wally notices everything.

Not in a paranoid way. Not in a pitying way.

In a Wally way. Which means he notices at the speed of light and then tries extremely hard to act normal about it.

He notices how you don’t like sitting near windows in restaurants. He notices how you track every person who enters a room wearing heavy coats, even in warm weather. He notices how you hate carnivals but love fair food.

He notices how you never say “I’m scared.” You say, “This is probably fine.”

Which, he learns, means you are very much not fine.

He starts translating your Gotham-isms.

“Could be worse” means: I am uncomfortable but trying not to be inconvenient.

“Funny story” means: This is about to be deeply alarming.

“I had a weird childhood” means: A supervillain may be involved.

“It was fine” means: It was not fine, but I survived, so I filed it under fine.

Wally becomes so offended by the word “fine.”

You say it once after flinching at fireworks, and he points at you with a French fry.

“Nope.”

You blink. “Nope?”

“Not accepting ‘fine’ as a valid emotional status. Try again.”

“I’m okay?”

He squints.

“I’m… mostly okay?”

“Better.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but I’m cute and emotionally available, so it balances out.”

He makes you laugh even when you don’t want to. Especially then.

That’s one of Wally’s gifts: he doesn’t use humour to avoid feelings. He uses it like a lantern. Something warm enough to make the dark less humiliating.

The first real conversation happens after a nightmare.

You wake up with your heart sprinting faster than even Wally could manage, throat tight, fingers twisted in the sheets.

For a second, you don’t know where you are. The room is too dark. Too quiet.

No sirens. No shouting. No distant helicopters.

Just Wally’s apartment. Soft blankets. The low hum of the fridge. Rain whispering against the windows.

Wally wakes instantly.

He’s a speedster; his body is basically allergic to delayed reactions.

But he doesn’t grab you. Doesn’t shake you. Doesn’t flood the room with questions.

He just sits up slowly and says, “Hey. You’re here. You’re with me.”

You try to laugh it off. “Sorry. Stupid dream.”

Wally’s face does that thing again. The soft hurt. The careful patience. “Was it Gotham?”

You go still. That’s answer enough.

He nods once, like he’s accepting the shape of the thing without forcing you to name it. “Can I turn on the lamp?”

You nod.

He turns it on. Warm golden light fills the room, gentle as sunrise.

Then he asks, “Can I touch you?”

You nod again.

Only then does he reach for you.

And Wally West, who could move faster than thought, touches you like time is holy.

Slow hand on your shoulder. Gentle fingers around yours. A soft squeeze.

“There you are,” he murmurs.

You hate that your eyes burn. You hate that he sees it. You hate even more that he doesn’t look away.

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

Wally gives you a look.

You huff. “Mostly okay.”

“Thank you.”

You sit there in the lamplight for a while, your hand in his.

Eventually, you say, “There was this thing when I was a kid.”

Wally stays still.

You tell him about being trapped in a subway station during a rogue attack. How the adults kept whispering, like quiet could save everyone. How you learned to breathe through your sleeve because someone said there might be gas. How the lights flickered for hours.

How afterwards, everyone called it lucky because Batman showed up before anyone died.

Wally listens.

No jokes. No interruptions. No “but you’re safe now” thrown like a blanket over a wound that still remembers the cold.

When you finish, he says, “How old were you?”

You answer.

His eyes close for half a second.

When he opens them, his voice is careful.

“I’m so sorry.”

You shrug automatically.

He catches your hand before the gesture can finish.

Not hard. Just enough to stop the reflex.

“You don’t have to do that with me,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Make it smaller.”

You look down at your joined hands. “It’s easier.”

“I know.”

That surprises you.

Wally rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “I do it too. Different stuff. Different flavour of messed up. But I know what it’s like to turn something awful into a joke because otherwise it just sits there taking up the whole room.”

Your throat tightens. “Does it work?”

He gives you a small smile. “Sometimes.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“The rest of the time, you let someone sit in the room with you.”

That becomes the foundation.

Wally doesn’t try to fix you. He’s not naïve enough for that. He wants to, obviously. This man loves with his whole chest and half the Speed Force. If he could run back through your timeline and carry kid-you out of every bad moment, he would do it in a heartbeat and probably break twelve cosmic laws in the process.

But he knows he can’t. So he does the next best thing.

He stays. He stays when you tell another story in the wrong tone. He stays when you go quiet. He stays when you laugh too sharply. He stays when peace makes you restless because your body keeps waiting for the next alarm.

And he makes safety feel less like a locked door and more like a living thing.

A hand in yours. A light left on. A text that says: made it home, no rogues, no drama, just one suspiciously judgmental cat outside.

He starts sending you little updates because he realises uncertainty is one of your triggers.

Not obsessive. Not controlling.

Just thoughtful.

Running late. Actual running. Be there in six.

Big storm tonight. I’ve got you.

Fireworks downtown at nine. Wanna watch a movie louder than capitalism?

He learns your nervous system like it’s a map.

Lovingly. Respectfully. With snacks.

So many snacks.

Wally’s love language is food, movement, and pretending he didn’t just sprint across town because you casually mentioned craving a specific pastry.

One night, you mention that you never really did normal fairs growing up because Gotham fairs were, quote, “villain bait.”

Wally looks personally wounded. “Villain bait?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, regularly?”

“I mean, it’s a lot of people gathered in one place. Very kidnappable energy.”

He stares at you.

You sip your drink.

He points at you. “Shoes. Now.”

“What?”

“We’re going to a fair.”

“It’s nine at night.”

“I know a place.”

“Wally.”

“Nope. You deserve fried dough and rigged games and one emotionally significant plush animal.”

That is how you end up at a small-town night fair two cities over, lights glowing warm against the dark, music drifting through the air, Wally practically vibrating with determination.

At first, you’re tense. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many bright colours. Your eyes keep catching on exits, dark corners, strangers with oversized bags.

Wally notices.

He doesn’t call attention to it. He just offers his hand. “Wanna start small?”

You nod.

So you start with food.

Then a quiet booth.

Then a game.

Wally deliberately loses three times before realising you’re better at the ring toss than he is.

You win him a plush turtle.

He gasps like you proposed. “For me?”

“You’re embarrassing.”

“I will treasure him forever.”

“You’re going to lose him in two days.”

“His name is Bartholomew, and he’s family now.”

By the end of the night, you’re laughing. Really laughing. Not Gotham laughing. Not sharp-edged, survive-the-bit laughter.

Just pure joy.

Wally sees it and almost short-circuits. Because there you are, under cheap carnival lights, holding a paper tray of fried dough, powdered sugar on your sleeve, face open in a way he doesn’t get to see often.

He looks at you like you’re faster than light.

You catch him staring. “What?”

He grins, softer than usual. “Nothing. Just like seeing you happy.”

You roll your eyes, but you lean into him.

And Wally, because he cannot help himself, kisses powdered sugar off your cheek.

“Gross,” you say.

“Romantic.”

“Sticky.”

“Also romantic.”

The fair becomes one of your safe memories.

That’s what Wally does. He doesn’t erase the old ones. He helps you grow new ones beside them. Carnivals become fried dough and Bartholomew the turtle. Storms become blanket forts and terrible movies. Sirens become Wally squeezing your hand and saying, “Ambulance, three blocks over, moving away.”

Crowds become escape plans and shared headphones. Quiet becomes less terrifying because Wally fills it with humming, breathing, life.

The first time you tell him that, he cries. You’re lying together in bed one morning, sunlight slipping through the curtains, and you mumble, “I like quiet with you.”

Wally goes still.

You glance up. His eyes are shiny.

“Oh my god,” you say. “Are you crying?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I have allergies.”

“To emotional intimacy?”

“Yes. Very serious condition.”

You laugh, and he buries his face in your shoulder.

But his arms tighten around you.

Because he understands what you actually said. You didn’t just say the room was quiet. You said your body trusted him enough to stop listening for disaster.

That is not small. That is cathedral-level trust. That is holy ground.

Wally treats it like it matters.

He also becomes your number one defender against your own minimising.

You: “It was just a mugging.” Wally: “You were nine.” You: “But it was only a knife.” Wally: “I need you to hear the sentence you just made.” You: “It wasn’t even one of the big gangs.” Wally: “Baby, I say this with love: your scale is broken.” You: “Gotham scale.” Wally: “Exactly. Broken.”

He starts using the phrase “Gotham scale” whenever you underreact to something insane.

You tell him your old dentist accepted protection money from Penguin?

“Gotham scale.”

You mention your neighbour had a bunker under their laundry room?

“Gotham scale.”

You say your elementary school had a “no riddles from strangers” assembly?

Wally has to lie down.

“Gotham scale, but also I’m suing the concept of childhood.”

Sometimes, though, the shock gives way to anger.

Real anger.

Not at you. Never at you. But at the city. At the adults who normalised it. At the way Gotham turns children into witnesses and then calls them resilient because it sounds better than abandoned.

Wally tries not to let you see the worst of that anger.

But you do.

You’re both visiting Gotham for a brief errand. You insisted you were fine. It was just a day trip. No big deal.

But Wally watches the city change you.

Your shoulders tighten before you even cross the bridge. Your voice goes flatter. Your eyes sharpen. You know which streets to avoid without checking a map. You know the sound of distant gunfire and don’t even flinch until you remember Wally is there.

That hurts him in a way he can’t joke around.

At one point, you pass your old school.

You mention, almost absently, “That’s where the Scarecrow lockdown happened.”

Wally stops walking.

You keep going for two steps before realising.

“Wally?”

He’s staring at the building.

There are kids outside. Laughing. Running around.

His jaw is tight.

You touch his arm. “Hey.”

He looks at you. For once, he doesn’t have something funny ready.

“You were just a kid,” he says.

You don’t know what to say.

He looks back at the school. “You were just a kid.”

The repetition cracks something open.

Because you know that. Obviously you know that. But hearing him say it like he’s grieving, like he’s angry on behalf of a version of you no one protected, makes it feel real in a way you have avoided for years.

You whisper, “So were a lot of people.”

Wally nods. “Yeah. And every single one of you deserved better.”

You have to leave after that.

Not because of danger. Because of kindness.

Which is somehow harder.

Wally gets you out of Gotham fast. Not because he thinks you’re weak. Because you asked, and he listened before your pride could interfere.

Back home, he doesn’t push. He orders your favourite food. Puts on a comfort show. Sits beside you close enough to touch but not close enough to trap.

Eventually, you lean into him.

He wraps an arm around you.

“I hate that place,” he admits.

You laugh weakly. “That place made me.”

“No,” Wally says, firm but gentle. “You made you. Gotham just made it harder.”

That line sits between you for a long time.

Then you whisper, “I don’t know who I am without it sometimes.”

Wally kisses the top of your head. “That’s okay. We’ve got time.”

Of course, because he’s Wally, “time” is a loaded word. He has outrun it, broken it, lost people to it, begged it for mercy. But with you, he means something simpler.

Mornings. Weeks. Years.

Slow things. Human things.

He is a speedster who chooses patience for you.

That’s how you know he loves you.

Wally helps you learn that healing doesn’t have to be dramatic.

Sometimes healing is him convincing you that not every unknown package is suspicious.

Sometimes it’s him labelling leftovers because you once mentioned food insecurity after city shutdowns.

Sometimes it’s him keeping extra batteries, water, and first-aid supplies in the apartment—not because he expects disaster, but because he knows preparedness helps your body unclench.

Sometimes it’s him making silly playlists for “non-traumatic cleaning day.”

Sometimes it’s him asking, “Do you want comfort, distraction, or solutions?” and actually listening to the answer.

Sometimes it’s him understanding that you may never love surprises.

So he stops surprising you in big ways.

Instead, he gives you small, predictable joys.

Your favourite drink appearing in the fridge. A blanket warmed in the dryer. A note on the counter: No emergencies. No mysteries. Just love you.

The first time he writes that, you stare at it for a full minute.

Then you stick it on the fridge.

Wally notices.

He does not make a big deal out of it.

He absolutely takes a picture when you’re not looking.

He is sentimental as hell. It’s terminal.

There’s also a funny side to all this, because Wally cannot exist without becoming at least a little ridiculous.

He starts rating your stories based on “how much they emotionally damage him.”

You: “One time Two-Face robbed the movie theatre I was in.” Wally: “Seven out of ten. Upsetting, but Gotham-coded.” You: “I still remember the smell of fear gas.” Wally: “Ten out of ten. I need to walk into the ocean.” You: “My old landlord was probably laundering money.” Wally: “Three out of ten. Honestly, that could happen anywhere.” You: “Through Black Mask.” Wally: “Eight out of ten. Why would you save that for the second sentence?”

It becomes a weird little ritual.

Not making light of it.

Making room around it.

Because with Wally, the wound is allowed to breathe. It doesn’t have to be hidden, but it also doesn’t get to swallow the whole sky.

He reminds you that joy can be defiant. That laughter can be a survival skill and a love language. That being soft after Gotham is not weakness.

It is rebellion.

And Wally loves your softness.

He loves when you get sleepy and clingy. He loves when you trust him enough to complain about tiny problems. He loves when your biggest issue of the day is that he ate the last of your cereal.

Which he did.

And he is sorry.

Mostly.

Okay, half sorry.

He replaces it at superspeed and adds two more boxes because he values his life.

Wally also gets emotional the first time you call his place “home.”

It slips out naturally.

You’re looking for your keys, distracted, and you say, “Did I leave them at home?”

Wally looks around. “Your place?”

You blink.

Then realise.

“No. I meant… here.”

Wally freezes.

You freeze too.

For a second, neither of you breathes.

Then he smiles. It starts small, then grows, bright and devastating.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You look away, embarrassed. “Don’t be weird.”

“I’m gonna be so weird.”

“Wally.”

“This is a historic moment.”

“Don’t.”

“I need a plaque.”

“I will take it back.”

“You can’t. Verbal contract. Speedster law.”

You groan, but he pulls you in, laughing softly into your hair.

He doesn’t tease you for long.

Just enough to make it feel normal.

Then he murmurs, “I like that this feels like home to you.”

You press your face into his chest. “Me too.”

And that’s the thing. Wally doesn’t make you feel like a tragedy. He makes you feel like a person with a future. Not just someone who escaped Gotham.

Someone who gets to build something after. A life with sunlight in it. A kitchen with too many snacks. A couch where nothing bad happens. A lover who can run faster than almost anyone alive but never rushes your healing.

When your past comes up, Wally is shocked every time. He can’t help it. The man is expressive. His face has no security system.

But beneath the shock is always the same steady truth: He believes you. He grieves what hurt you. He loves what survived.

And he is so, so proud of who you became.

One night, much later, you ask him, “Does it bother you?”

He looks up from where he’s fiddling with the TV remote. “What?”

“All of it. The Gotham stuff.”

Wally’s expression softens.

He sets the remote down.

“Bother me how?”

You shrug. “That I’m… like this.”

He moves closer, slow enough that you can move away if you need to.

You don’t.

He takes your hand.

“I hate that it happened,” he says. “I hate that you had to learn fear before you got to learn peace. I hate that you still flinch at things that should just be sounds.”

Your throat tightens.

“But you?” He squeezes your hand. “You don’t bother me. Not ever.”

You look down.

He ducks his head until you meet his eyes. “You’re not hard to love.”

And that one ruins you. Completely.

Because Gotham taught you to be useful. Alert. Tough. Prepared. Quiet when needed. Fast when necessary.

Wally teaches you something else.

You can be loved tired. Loved scared. Loved healing. Loved messy.

Loved on bad days. Loved when the past catches up. Loved when you don’t have a joke ready. Loved without having to earn it by being okay.

Wally West loves like lightning, yes—bright, wild, impossible to ignore—but with you, he also loves like morning.

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ALL WORKS :

And you didn't mention that you're devastated at the possibility you made him uncomfortable. That the whole situation has been eating you alive for four days.

None of that. Just:

Ok, take your time.

Solitude never bothered you before. You liked it, even. Spending most of your day in the company of books. A few interactions at the register. Maybe a phone call from one of your friends, if they had the time. A bad date once in a while. A conversation with a stranger on the bus.

It was enough.

But now? Now, none of it matters. Not when you know what it's like to be in Damian's company.

The next few hours of your shift pass slowly, miserably. You don't realize you've zoned out again until your boss, Lilly, is shaking your arm.

"Are you okay?" she says gently.

You try to speak, but the words won't come out. Your chest is tight, throat dry like you've swallowed sand.

You try again, but the words remain stuck.

Lilly's expression shifts. "Why don't you take the day? I'll close up."

Your eyes sting, and for the briefest moment panic flickers across Lilly's face. "It's okay," she says steadily. "You're okay. You just need some rest."

Leaving work might not have been the best decision, if it was even a choice. At least in the bookstore there was busywork, space to move. Here on the bus, you feel completely boxed in, unsure what to do with your hands.

It’s winter, but the air is thick, sweltering. The doors hiss open and shut again and again, trapping everyone together. Someone’s knee presses too close to yours. The windows are fogged, reflecting faces instead of the outside world. 

How could his attitude change so suddenly? 

You know why. 

Damian has always taken his time with intimacy and you pushed him too far. You should’ve known better. Stopped him. Stopped yourself. 

Or maybe it has nothing to do with any of that. 

Maybe he couldn’t handle how small your apartment was. How cramped. How obvious it is that you’re poor, stuck working in a bookstore while all your friends are off at college, pursuing careers, building futures. 

They probably meet new people everyday. Sit in lecture halls. Worry about grades and internships.

They aren't stuck in places like Park Row. 

He must be ashamed of you. 

That’s why he always takes you to secluded places. Why he's never offered for you to meet his friends or family.

That’s ridiculous…. right? 

Isn’t it?

Maybe he has other options—no, he definitely has other options. He’s smart, talented, sweet. A million girls must be lining up to be with him. Girls with plans. With something to offer.

He doesn’t need you. 

Your stomach drops at the thought, like stepping off one of the rooftops he used to take you.

No one needs you.

You don’t remember stepping off the bus. One moment you’re staring at the fogged glass, the next your face is hit with the cold air.

You stomach twists into a thick, painful knot. Heat floods up your chest and neck. You swallow hard, barely managing not to throw up on the sidewalk. 

Every inhale is shaky. Unsteady. Like trying to pick up water with a fork. Never quite enough, never staying for very long. 

This is how it always goes. 

People leave.

Your dad.

Your step-dad.

Your mom.

Friends who don’t call as much anymore. Friends who moved on.

Damian. 

It’s because you have nothing to give them. Nothing that makes staying worth it. You can’t fix anything. You’re useless, broken in a way everyone eventually sees. 

He saw it. 

That’s why he left.

The sidewalk moves beneath you, but you don’t feel your feet. There’s no ground, just something heavy, stinging at the heels.

You reach the lobby door, fingers closing around the metal handle. You don’t remember lifting your arm, and you can’t feel the cold so much as understand that it's seeping into your skin.

You pull. And again.

What’s wrong with this door? What’s happening to me? Where am I?

Your body feels like it's setting into plaster. Joints locking. Nerves going numb.

“Hey.” 

The word slips past you.

“Hey.” 

Closer now.

You must have turned somehow, because you see Damian standing at the curb. His car is parked behind him, lights off. Snow catches in his dark hair.

When did it start snowing?

“I tried to go to your work.” 

You hear the words, but they don't connect.

“But you were gone already.” 

Your mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

You try again. You want to tell him you were sent home. That you weren’t fired. Weren't avoiding him. 

But the plaster dries first around your throat. 

Damian’s eyes narrow, focusing harder as the world drowns in a blur. He gets closer until he’s blocking your view of the street.

It’s slight, but his brows furrow. “Let’s go inside.” 

Right… inside. You turn back to the door. But you couldn’t get inside. You don’t remember how. 

Your hands are shaking now, lungs burning. 

“Do you have your keys?” Damian asks.

You dip your chin in what might have been a nod. The bag you didn't realize you were carrying slips from your shoulder. A broken gasp escapes you.

Damian finds the keys buried in your purse and unlocks the door. Then you feel warmth around your elbow, his hand guiding you.

“Let’s go.” 

His tone is grounding. Final.

The hallway feels narrower than it should, shrinking with every step. Each footfall rattles through your bones like a drum.

He lets you into your apartment and locks the door behind you. The sound is decisive. Safe—well, safer at least.

Your legs give out immediately.

“Okay,” Damian crouches in front of you, “You’re inside. Do you want the couch?” 

His hands reach for yours, and you find yourself pushing him away, small helpless sounds leaving you.

“No couch. Okay,” he nods. “Do you want water?” 

You shake your head. The pressure in your skull is unbearable. How much longer until your brain spills out of your ears?

“Breathe with me,” he says.

You can’t.

“I know,” he says calmly, like he can hear your spiraling thoughts.

Oh God. Can he?

“It’s okay," he says, "Just try.” 

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn't count. Just breathes slowly enough for you to follow the rise and fall of his chest.

“In through your nose,” he says after a while, “Just a little.” 

Your breath stutters.

“That counts," he says.

Minutes pass, maybe hours.

The burning eases. The room comes back piece by piece—the couch, the shelf, the snow landing on your windowsill. 

Damian doesn’t move the entire time. 

When the shaking finally subsides, your body recalls sensation all at once. 

And it breaks you.

A sob rips out of you. Then another. And another.

The barrier dissolves, and Damian pulls you in. His fingers stroke soft lines into your back as you melt into his chest.

By the time the sobs taper, it’s dark outside. 

You find enough strength to crawl to your bed and collapse there, limbs like lead.

Damian smooths his hand across your back once, then drapes a blanket over you. Then he quietly busies himself in the kitchen to give you space.

"I made some tea," he says eventually, setting a cup on the nightstand. “It’ll help with your throat.” 

Your arms tremble as you lift yourself upright.

He places the cup in your hands. The faint scent of citrus rises—the lone orange in your fridge mixed with some abandoned basil leaves.

You manage your first word in hours, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." He adjusts the blanket, then sits beside you, leaving deliberate space. "Does this happen often?"

Shame creeps in. The humiliation of being seen like this.

Worst of all, you've turned yourself into a burden.

How often are you like this? How often would I have to deal with this if we stayed together?

"You're thinking too much," he says, once again convincing you he really can hear your thoughts, "I'm just curious."

You watch the steam curl from your tea. "When my parents were sick, it used to happen all the time."

"What brings it on?"

You stare at the basil wilting in the cup, floating alone. "I just...I get ahead of myself sometimes. Start connecting things like money, and work, and school when I'm not supposed to."

You sip the tea, more for something to do than because you want it. The warmth barely registers.

"It's stupid."

"No, it's not," he says.

Your thumb traces the rim of the mug, over and over, giving you something, anything, to look at besides him.

"My mom didn't have to go, you know?" you say quietly. "She stopped eating after we lost my step-dad. That's why she died."

You'd never said any of this out loud.

"I kind of hate her for that. Like, you of all people understood what it's like to be lonely, and you still chose to leave me alone. To let me get sick too and die in an apartment nobody's going to check on."

Damian's silent for a moment.

"But you're not blaming your mom for this time, right?"

You sink a little further into your seat.

"This is my fault," he says, firmer now. "I caused this."

You stay quiet, fingers curling tighter around the mug until your knuckles pale. You can feel his eyes, watching, studying you.

"I shouldn't have left like that," he says finally, "And I shouldn't have assumed you'd be angry or that you also wanted space."

It feels cruel almost. "That you also wanted space."

"It's fine," you set the cup back down, suddenly averse to any more of his favors. "You can't read my mind. And it's not your responsibility to keep me sane. That's ridiculous to ask of anyone."

"It's not ridiculous," he says, so quickly that it makes you flinch.

There's so much to be said. Pathetic pleas to make him stay. Angry jabs to hurt him the way you feel you've been hurt. Even deeper confessions that will probably only burden him more.

"Okay," you say simply.

Silence stretches between you. The apartment hums uncomfortably—leaking pipes, violent traffic, the radiator clicking in its last breath.

You don't even know the time. "Don't you have to go to work?"

Whatever graveyard shift he does at his dad's company every night. Data analysis from the day's work or something like that, he told you once when you tried to ask. Maybe it's just another excuse to get away from you.

"I'm not leaving you," he says.

"Damian, really, it's not your responsibility to look after me."

"You're exhausted, you haven't eaten, and your body just went through a severe episode of panic," he lists, "It wouldn't be right to leave you alone."

"Yes, but I'm saying it's not up to you to—"

"You're afraid no one will check up on you, but when I say I want to be that person, you fight me," he says, patience finally lost.

You open your mouth to argue, but can't. Not without lying.

Your shoulders sag. "I feel bad you're skipping work."

"I know you do."

You stare at the floor for a moment, then finally nod. Small. Tired. "Okay."

He softens again. "I'll be on the couch."

It hurts all over again. This need for distance from the person you want closest.

But you won't make the same mistake twice. Even the gentlest of pushes are too much.

"Alright."

You get ready for bed on autopilot and turn the lights off once he settles on the couch. Despite how tired you are, you lie staring at the ceiling, mind racing.

Then, you hear him call your name in the dark.

"Yes?"

"I'm so sorry." He sounds different. Wounded, even. "I never wanted to make you feel like this. I just... I really did need time to think."

You don't answer right away, holding perfectly still. Maybe he'll think you've already fallen asleep.

Carefully, you ask, "About breaking up with me?"

He takes his time to answer too.

"About how this is getting really serious, and that scares me."

The breath you'd been holding floods out, "Why didn't you just say that, you idiot?"

"Because I don't feel things immediately the way you do," he fires back. "I need to think it through fully. To be certain before I risk hurting you."

"This hurt me, Damian," you say, angry almost. "The distance hurts."

There's a beat. Then quietly, "I'm sorry."

You think the conversation's finished. Finally, close your eyes and accept the exhaustion.

Then Damian's voice reaches you in the dark again, "The springs of this couch are stabbing my back."

For a second, you pretend you didn't even hear him. That if you stay still enough, the moment won't tip into something still fragile.

"You don't have to stay on it." You keep your eyes closed. Neutral. "You chose the couch."

"I did," he agrees.

The couch creaks beneath him. Once. Twice.

"And I underestimated its integrity," he adds. "Completely my fault."

Silence.

You turn on your side, refusing to offer.

"There's also no warmth in this couch."

Your jaw tightens, "Are you finished?"

"I'm just stating a fact," Damian argues. "This couch is very cold."

You take a deep breath, not even bothering to entertain him.

But you hear him mutter, "It's probably because of the springs—"

"Damian, I don't want the facts," you say firmly, "If you want something, just say it outright."

"Fine," you can picture the little pout on his lips, "I want to be next to you before this couch breaks my spine and then lets my corpse freeze."

You let out a tired breath. Not quite a laugh or a sigh. "You're being dramatic."

"I was being honest," he defends.

"Tell me what you want plainly," you say, "Without insulting my furniture."

Another beat passes.

Then, quieter now, he says, "I want to sleep next to you."

Your breath picks up, corners of your mouth shifting, almost forming a smile. "Then, sleep next to me."

You hear the couch creak, then feel the mattress dip carefully behind you.

When he lies down, there's space. You can sense it in the muted cold against your back.

For a while, that's all you feel. Bated breath in the dark.

Then you feel it—the warmth grow against your back, the subtle shift. You jolt when his fingers brush your waist.

"Too much?"

Wordlessly, you shift back and close the last of the space yourself. His arm slips around you. A deep exhale blows into your neck, like he'd been holding it in all night.

The city empties. The pipes quiet. The radiator clicks on again, finally catching.

You're nearly asleep when he whispers your name again.

"Hm?"

This may not be the best time, but the Christmas Wayne Gala is supposed to be tomorrow night."

"Yeah, so?"

"I actually came here to ask if you'd come with me."

Your brows furrow. "Not to apologize?"

His arm presses into your waist, like he's scared you'll try to run. "It was sort of built into the apology."

A million questions and concerns flood through your mind, but none important enough to overpower your want for sleep. "Okay, Damian."

It's faint. You can't be sure it even happened in your semi-asleep state. But Damian's lips press into your ear, "You can't leave me either."

"They despise each other." Tim reminds for the fifth time.

"I am aware.” Dick mutters, thumb scrolling through his contacts list. "What did I say about hacking my contacts list, Best Robin?"

"You didn't say anything about that specifically." Tim's foot taps impatiently against the tiles. “And why'd you think that contact name was meant for the demon spawn—never mind, that's besides the point right now. She's clearly disoriented.”

“I just have a gut feeling.” Pressing the phone against his ear, Dick runs a habitual tug over his locks whenever another situation pops up that he has to solve. Being in this line of work is bound to give him early greys.

"A gut feeling." Tim huffs, shaking his head in disagreement. “We better hope this doesn’t start another scuffle. Wouldn't want to toss another bone to the press. 'Blood son of Bruce Wayne attacks hospital patient'. I can already smell the print.”

Dick's frown sticks as he eyes you through the open door frame, laying in a hospital bed—unconscious ever since your first waking. The dots aren't connecting, not when the soot from the explosion still singes the edges of his jacket and his mind is all fuzzed up from a lack of sleep and endless documents. Still, the world had a knack for surprising him whenever he least expects it.

The ringing on the other side stops after two seconds.

"Damian." Dick addresses, re-running his fingers habitually through his hair. "There's been a situation at the hospital..."

Here's the thing, Dick knows Damian. He understands the trait of impatience passed along their family, which is why he's already summarised the facts down to twenty seconds. The call abruptly ends at ten.

"Huh." Dick mutters, brows pressed together as he looks back to Tim. "He hung up."

Dick had barely made it beyond the mention of your name and their current location. Your voice echoes in reminder as he stares at his screen, the duration of the call staring back at him. It's him you have to worry about.

Damian's anything but subtle. Of his frigid attitude—his blatant dislike towards you. Putting the two of you in the same room, it was guaranteed disaster. Yet, Damian was the first name out of your mouth.

"Told you it doesn't make sense." Tim shrugs. "Logically, he's the last person we should've called."

"We'll see." Dick answers, head leaning back to rest against the wall. "He's surprised us both plenty of times."

"Yeah, by attempting murder on us both. Your point being?"

Dick restrains a much-needed sigh.

Barely fifteen minutes later, Dick stirs at a loud commotion beyond the walls of the waiting room. His neck is cramping from this unergonomic chair, and his feet are nerved with pins-and-needles. Tim's ears are plugged in with wired earphones, jammed high with Green Day as he concentrates on his tablet, opting to work through his insomnia instead.

There’s a slamming of doors, rapid footsteps thundering against the tiles, coming closer and closer. Dick barely has time to nudge Tim’s shoulder before the hallway door slams open.

Damian comes through like a storm, movements overly controlled in the way a person would seize up before a fight. As if he's expected the worst, and is prepared to battle whatever he might encounter—in a hospital.

“Where is she?” Damian commands, voice echoing off the tiles.

Staring back at Dick are frantic, darkened eyes pinpointed on locked targets—searching for his answer. It's so abruptly intense, almost inhuman, that his mind stutters in regaining its grasp on reality. He hasn't seen that look in a long time, not since their first meeting where one wrong answer would make Damian your enemy.

“She’s asleep.” Tim answers for him, one side of his earphones still plugged in throughout this entire mess. “She needs the rest.”

Damian disregards his words, brushing past him. “I have to see her.”

Dick must’ve subconsciously shifted his glance to your room, towards the shine of the metal carvings of 78 placed in the centre. Damian's gaze follows, and he doesn’t spare a second of hesitation in heading towards the door.

Dick catches Damian's forearm right before he enters, and the glare he receives? Murderous. As if everything in his way of getting to you has become mere obstacles he has to overcome.

"Grayson." Damian's voice is all wrong, shortened and taut, syllables used to convey only what was needed. "Unhand. Me."

"Dames." Dick tries to make sense of this adverse reaction, but nothing from that brief phone call provided him any clues. "She's still unconscious, and I don't think it's a good idea for you to be in there—in this state."

Damian's chest heaves once, but the storm in his gaze has only darkened. "She called for me, didn't she?"

Dick blinks once. "Well, yes but—"

“Then you’re in my way.”

Damian disarms his grip with an alarming quickness, and Dick doesn't even have time to recalibrate his mistake before he's slipped through.

Dick's palm splays onto the door right before it closes, pushing it fully open with a warning ready on his lips to not disturb your recovery, only to find that—Damian hadn’t moved from his spot since he entered. Dick feels Tim pressing into his side, curious eyes flickering at the situation, but Dick is too busy watching to care about how they're practically hanging onto the doorframe.

When Damian catches sight of you, his entire frame freezes into place. He's watching you, and Dick's watching him—and he sees it then, and realises what an idiot he's been.

Damian's entire expression immediately shifts. Loosening in relief at the sight of you mostly unharmed, at the sound of a calm beeping from the heart monitor. It's frighteningly out of place, the tenderness softening his wrath-like panic mere seconds ago. He moves almost mindlessly towards your side, forgetting the presence of his two brothers gawking at him from outside the doorframe, peering into what must be a fever dream.

"Idiot." Damian mutters, but it sounds more like a prayer answered.

"We've got it all wrong, didn't we?" Tim mutters, staring at the sight in awe.

"Told you." Dick whispers, his lips tilting upwards into a smile. "Gut feeling."

You stir not long after Damian’s arrival, as if your body is already attuned to his presence. Lids peering half-open, you squint at the shadow towering over you. For a moment, there was nothing but held breaths and a long pause as you familiarise yourself with forest green.

Then, the most miraculous thing happens. You smile, completely unaware of the turmoil and confusion you've caused.

“Dami.”

Dick decides today is an absolute possibility for the world to end.

“You're an idiot.” Damian hurls the practiced insult out like he’s been running it off in his mind for the past couple of minutes, but his weakened voice holds no bite in comparison to his overwhelming relief.

Under the sheets, Dick swears he sees his brother’s fingers intertwining with yours.

“I told them to tell you not to rush.” You mutter hazily, still readjusting to reality. “At least—I think I did.”

Damian sucks in a breath, low, undistinguishable mutters whispered. Your lip twitches up slightly, which could only mean another insult you're brushing off.

“Yet, you’re still here.” You tease. “Fretting.”

The thin line of his lips creases deeper. “I do not fret.”

“Arguing with the patient?” Your body shifts, tilting closer to Damian.

“I prefer arguing with you unharmed.” Damian mocks lowly. Dick sees the stiffness bleed out of Damian’s expression the longer his gaze is locked onto you, as if materialising your talkative state in his mind.

"I am unharmed."

"A mild concussion, a hospital bed." Damian's frown deepens. "At least attempt at a reasonable lie."

Damian’s body tilts just slightly, lowering to match yours, and the light catches your features once more. Your lips tilt downward for a single second, the sting of the fluorescent lights irritating your vision.

In a sudden movement without words exchanged, Damian adjusts. His shoulders block the light over your face once more, covering you with his shadow.

You can't help the grin that escapes. "That is what I was thinking about, before I passed out again."

Damian's expression contorts, as if his mind can't decide on hyper-focusing on the details of you falling unconscious again or on what you were imagining about him. You decide for him.

"The lights were all in my face and—" You suck in a breath. "I kept trying to remember your name. I tried so hard to find it, this person who knows that I hate hospital lights without me needing to say it. Then, your name just slipped out."

“Oh.” Tim murmurs from afar.

“Oh.” Dick agrees.

“Don’t do that again.” Damian mutters in the quiet buzzing of the machines.

“Save people?” You tease.

“Put yourself in harm’s way.” Damian pushes back.

"Hey, what about the two of us?" Tim calls out, and Dick's quick to shove his elbow into the idiot's stomach. "Ow—what? We never got this treatment and all the fretting."

Damian's gaze shifts at the disruption, the softness creased into the corners of his eyes fading into annoyance. "Leave us."

"Woah." Tim holds a hand to his abdomen, still feigning hurt. "That's just cold."

Damian's eyes narrow further, and Dick's reminded instantly of how the press is probably waiting outside the hospital for any hints of a scuffle. It's already news enough for not two, but three members now of the Wayne family rushing to the emergency ward. Grabbing Tim by his hoodie, Dick tugs roughly. "We'll leave you two be to—catch up. No attempted murders, if the reminder's still needed."

It had slipped out so easily, the old warning, but it feels strangely out of place with this tender atmosphere. Dick's most definitely intruding on something he's not meant to see, but questions can be reserved for later.

Eyeing Damian one last time, he sees the way his brother's vision is trained on you—and he knows his job is done here.

You snort, a sheepish expression caught between your teeth, watching for confirmation as the door shuts with a click. When you have a shred of confidence that they're at least out of hearing range, you turn your attention back to Damian, unable to hide your grin.

“You know they’re probably freaking out right now?” You mutter conspiratorially. "They'll never buy into us hating each other anymore."

“That is not my concern.” Damian frowns. “You are.”

“That might be the sweetest thing you've ever told me.” You coo. "I matter enough for you to deal with family dinner interrogations now."

Damian's stare remains unimpressed. “I will smother you with pillows.”

“That’s unhygienic—and cruel.”

His tongue clicks softly as his hand comes up behind the pillow, instinctively propping them up higher as you adjust your neck, an action completely unrelated to his threat. “Only you would be concerned of bacteria before attempted murder.”

“Yeah, I’m a piece of work." You murmur distractedly, choosing to gaze intently at him instead. His hair's fallen into different directions, all un-Damian-like. "That’s why you rushed all the way here, didn’t you?”

He stiffens, hand shifting away from the pillow, but still hovering near you. He's been holding back from the moment he's entered this damned institution, and his mind is ticking, battling between his habit to be the steady one, and the crushing need to hold you.

“Dami..” It’s a delicate art, softening your tone just enough to reach him—one you’ve learnt in secret. “Come here.”

Your voice slips past his defences, and it hits. The inner workings of his mind switching between his logic and his emotions finally falter, and his fingers move on command, a delicate twist to cup the back of your head. He doesn't move you towards him, choosing to come over to you instead, his body hovering halfway over yours before finally letting his weight topple gently over you.

His arms wrap around you gently as his comforting weight falls over you, and the first thing you feel is how quickly his heart is racing. He needs this, you realise, as he settles with his arms wrapped protectively around you. To be physically present as your shield, even when there is no danger present.

Damian is affected. More than he seems from his tightly concealed expressions, obvious now that you can physically feel the effects on his body. Slight twitches of his fingers that appear when he's still afraid, waiting for the noise in his head to calm down.

“I didn't want you to worry.” You mumble into his embrace.

“Impossible.” Damian huffs softly, tracing his other hand over your wrist, feeling the soft thudding of your pulse. “You're my problem to handle."

You feel a soft, imperceptible kiss pressed onto your temple, and your eyes flutter shut. This is the side of Damian only you get to have, the proof of its existence ghosting your skin. You have to force your eyes open, the lure of sleep already trying to dig its claws into you—and that's something you absolutely refuse. You don't want to miss this rare side to Damian, all soft and disarmed.

"You scared me." Damian admits after a long pause, barely audible.

You blink, surprised. "You're never scared."

"For you, I am." Damian confesses, his grip tightening slightly. "You tend to render me painfully exposed to weakness."

"Weakness, huh? Still haven't got rid of me though." You hum lightly.

"No." His tone is decisive, stern. "If I haven't decided that I've had enough of you, the world doesn't get to."

"I'm starting to think threats are your love language, Dami." Your hand lifts, struggling twice before you manage to run your fingers through his hair, resting its weight over the nape of his neck.

His body shudders slightly, and his nose buries itself deeper into the crook of your neck. If anyone were to look into hospital room 78, they'll encounter the strange sight of Damian Wayne embracing you as if you were his lifeline. No one would believe them, but the truth remains.

He was yours. Completely yours.

He was also definitely sentenced to a long interrogation the moment he steps out of this room.

"Who was the perpetrator?" He mutters after a moment.

"Damian." You're stuck deciding between a snort and a sigh. "It was an accident."

"You don't know that." He huffs. "I sincerely doubt in your ability to detect an attempted murder while you're unconscious."

Your grip tugs at his hair playfully, a pretty effective way of shutting him up. "Argue with me later."

You feel his lashes flutter against your skin, processing. "...Fine."

He breathes you in, his heart rate finally starting to calm the longer he hears your voice so close to his eardrums, your touch grounding his senses.

"It was torture." His voice is too still, stating the facts without the emotion that's driven behind them. "The drive here. I kept envisioning the worst, that you had called out for me—and if I didn't make it in time—"

His grip tightens with his words, and you're pressed into his chest, feeling what his words refuse to convey, starting to thud again below his ribcage.

"Damian." Your hand traces reassuringly over his neck. "I'm right here."

He listens, his rampant thoughts slowing in pace at the reminder. "I had never been so terrified." His voice remains level, his attempt at reinforcing his reality over his fears. "To receive a call from Grayson, hearing your name—I couldn't let myself think of anything else other than finding you."

"You did." You mutter reassuringly. "You found me. I'm safe."

He lets out a low breath, a slow exhale at the sound of those two words he'd been needing to hear. "Sometimes, I think you've ruined me." He murmurs in truth.

You think he's unused to this. Letting down his walls, experiencing the blatant terror for another person's life that is completely out of his control—that he's left with nothing but pieces to readjust, to compromise. By letting you into his life and allowing you to be his person, he has abandoned his need to preserve himself, to be above fear.

"You're not escaping the argument." He notes down distractedly, trying to regain his ground despite being wrapped into you. "I still have my reservations."

"Anything you need, Dami." You reassure softly.

"Anything?" He murmurs, head shifting out of the crook of your neck to face you fully.

His green eyes are narrowed with intent now, gazing at you with unhidden intensity.

You swallow, nodding slightly.

When he leans in, the palm of his hand slips from the back of your head to over your jaw. His thumb traces over your lips softly as he leans in, replacing the ghost of his touch with his own mouth. It's tender, a separate language to convey the emotions he hasn't learnt to spell out, on what you do to him. Yet, with the way he's handling you, nose brushing against yours, in a way so precious it makes your heart ache—you think that impending argument's worth it.

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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

Back on your feet. Circling the room, sniffing like a dog.

Into the kitchen. You crack open the fridge.

Big mistake.

The air in the fridge is warm. What little fruits and leftover lunches inside have completely rotted.

You plug your nose. Look up to the sky. Address a deity you don't really believe in, "You've got to be kidding me."

Utter disgust as you pull everything into the trash, send it down the chute. Trying to scrub the smell out of the fridge with an old rag and dish soap when Damian's key unlocks the door.

He steps in. "It smells."

Body halfway into the fridge, voice echoing from inside, "Shut up."

"Something wrong with the fridge?"

"Something wrong with the apartment," you mutter, angrily wiping the back wall of the fridge. "Nothing that holds temperature works."

"Did you tell your landlord?"

"Yes" you douse the top shelf in soap, hoping it can mask the sour stench. "And now I'm waiting for him to take up more space in my inbox saying he can't fix it."

Damian hums. You can feel his eyes on your back. Then suddenly, "The portrait sold this morning for 1.7 million."

"WHAT?!"

Lifting your head.

Instantly colliding with the top of the fridge.

You fall out, cupping your skull. "Ow."

He rushes over, hands on top of yours. "Are you okay?"

"Forget about me," you wince. "That's incredible, Damian. Do you know who bought it?"

"Roger Sterling."

"From the insurance company?"

He looks displeased by your recognition.

One hand still cupping your head, the other reaching for his cheek. "I'm so proud of you."

He leans into your touch, softens against your skin. "It wouldn't be possible if not for you."

"I didn't do anything," you say. "Unless you want to credit me for sitting at the park."

"If not for you, I would have never considered selling the painting," he says. "I would have never considered doing anything at all."

Eyes locked. Watching one another as you feel the heat from his palms sink into yours. Thin layer of sweat between your skin.

Your phone chimes on the floor nearby. Email from the landlord

New fridge ordered. Won't be here until next month. Sorry.

You'd throw the phone if it weren't so new. Head throbbing. Blood and body boiling in the heat.

"I'm sorry." You try to take a deep breath, only able to notice how warm the air you dispel feels. "You've just told me incredible news and I'm ruining it."

"You're not ruining anything." Standing you up. Hands wrapped around your head like a helmet. He glances at your phone—the very one he bought for you. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Which part?" you scoff. "The radiator that's been broken for more than a year? The AC? Or the fact that I can't even ice my head because my fridge is ruined?

He thinks, eyes shifting.

"Actually..." Eyes shifting. Hesitating, unlike himself. "I came here to talk to you about that."

"I thought you came to tell me about the portrait."

"Yes, but it's what I want to do with the money."

Your stomach drops.

Steady. Words clearer than you'd like them to be. Hands shifting against your head. Touch loosening. "I want to use it to get you a new place—"

"Absolutely not."

"You haven't even heard me out yet," he argues.

"I don't need to, Damian." Heart pounding. Humiliated. "I already feel awful enough about the phone. I can't ask you for this."

"You're not asking."

"Think of how it will look to your family."

"Their opinions on this are irrelevant."

Sweat beading down your spine. Behind your ears. "Not to me."

"If our positions were switched, would you not try to do everything you could?"

Your lips part. Unable to come up with the answer you'd prefer.

"I want to help you," he says. "I have the means to help you."

Damian's right. He has the money to solve nearly every problem in your life, and is more than willing to do so. But it's you—your pride. His family and your friends' voices in the back of your head, whispering about how you're using him. Taking advantage of his love. Like a parasite. A leech.

You can't even stand the thought of it. "Please don't put me in this position," you beg quietly.

He's clearly upset. Almost two million dollars richer, but unable to persuade his girlfriend. Forced to abandon the hundred arguments he probably rehearsed beforehand.

"Let me take a look at the fridge," he says.

You help him pull it forward. Watch him for some time as he observes the back.

"It's the insulators inside. I can't fix that."

He runs a hand through his hair. Slick with sweat. "You'll stay in the manor until the new one arrives."

Not a suggestion or a request. An order. Him reaching his limits after not getting what he wants.

"Dami, you can't just—"

"You can't store food and you're going to die of heatstroke if you stay here."

It's too hot to come up with more counterarguments. Too frustrating to live in this box for the next month.

"Fine."

Living at the manor spoiled you.

Two hour commute shortened down to twenty minutes. Food always available. Cold air in every room.

Spacious. A room just for reading and a garden to lay on the grass. Damian holding you in a king sized bed.

Quieter. Not as many police sirens. No distant screams and gunshots from the alleys below.

Never lonely. Duke, Tim, and Cass constantly shuffling in and out. Steph on the weekends. Titus at your heels while you read in the garden. More time with Damian in the mornings and before he heads out on patrol.

Full transparency—you're disappointed when the landlord calls to say the new fridge arrived. Postpone telling Damian for a few hours. Enjoy his body beneath king sized sheets a while longer.

When you finally tell him, he doesn't seem pleased. Legs tensing against yours. Lips pursed as he stares up at the ceiling.

"I found a place in midtown, not far from here."

You roll onto your side. Feel the warm indent your body has formed in the mattress "I thought we already talked about this."

"We did," he says. "This place is for me."

"You..." trailing off, confused, "you're moving out?"

"Next week."

"And just to be clear," you prop yourself up on your elbow, the sheet slipping. Damian's gaze betrays him, shifting sideways briefly. "You're not doing this because of me?"

"No, I figure it's time to live on my own." Hands sliding beneath his head, arms wide and stretching at the muscle. "Besides, you already said you're staying."

Something off about all of it. His forced casualness.

Falling flat onto your back, "Then it sounds like everything has worked out."

He scoffs.

You roll your eyes. "Problem?"

Silent. Ankles crossing and uncrossing beneath the sheets. "You won't ask more about the place?"

"I'm sorry." You roll over, onto his chest. Chin sinking down into his collar. Looking up at the V of his chin, eyes wide. Taking in every detail of him. "What's the place like?"

Gratification flickers across his face briefly. Pleased with himself as he says, "Open layout. Three bed, two bath. Plank floors and big windows for light."

Finger tracing his jaw. "Sounds very practical."

"It is," he gloats.

"It also sounds like a lot of space for just one guy."

His eyes are closed. You wonder what hundred calculations are floating through his mind.

"I'd need a work room," he says. "A proper studio for full sized portraits."

"Of course," you nod.

"And I'd like to keep this size of a bed."

"Naturally."

He goes on, "The place should be able to accomodate guests."

"Like if Jon wanted to visit."

His eyes open. Glances down at you. "Yes."

Finger slipping from his jaw now, along his throat, down to the shoulder. "So, a big bedroom, art studio, and a guest room for Jon."

He hums shortly.

You exhale. "I can't wait to see it."

Quiet again. Your palm flat against his heart.

"Though the guest room could also double as a library."

"Oh?"

"There's an absurd amount of closet space," he adds. "And Titus might be lonely when I'm away."

"Titus?"

"Yes."

Shifting now until you're on top of him. Holding yourself up. He stares down at your nude body. Breasts hanging. Inside of your thighs still damp.

He swallows, lips parted.

"I'm over the banter," you say seriously.

It seems harder for him to conceal the truth now. Faltering beneath you, "It's for two people."

You nod knowingly. Still patient. "I thought so."

"It would make sense." He swallows again. "We lose time together due to travel."

"Ah, so this is an efficiency thing?"

His breath seems to pick up. "Yes."

Hard now. Prodding the inside of your leg. You take advantage.

"A practical, emotional 'I want to live with my girlfriend' decision, right?" You drag your center over the tip. He shudders, eyes pressing shut. "Not some Robin strategy to coerce me out of my shitty apartment?"

"I want you out of that apartment," he confesses, gasping when you sink down barely an inch. "But I do want to live with you."

You still. He tries not to squirm. Firm when you say, "I'm paying half the rent."

Sweat forming on his brow. Eyes still shut. He shakes his head. "You can't."

You frown. "One-third."

"Done."

"Good," you sink down the rest of the way. Hear him sigh in relief, hands finding your waist.

Tender now as you rock against his hips. Timid even. "You really want to live with me?"

Utter bliss across his face. "I want to do everything with you," he says.

"What's everything?" you ask. Realizing he's never let you be on top before. Eyes closed as you move faster. Feeling your body has re-molded itself just to fit him.

"Living together." He lifts himself. Chin on your shoulder, holding you. "Doing this on every inch of that place."

You breath a laugh.

His lips are on the shell of your ear. Breath heavy, "I'm going to marry you... A family... I—everything."

Pace steady. But you're glad he can't see the way your eyes have widened. Stammering at first, "Okay."

His hands press down on your back. Like he's scared you'll run. "That was too much."

"No," you say. Hips slowing. Legs beginning to tire. You connect your forehead to his. "Give me everything."

You want to voice your concern but it's difficult. He's a trained killer since birth, he doesn't need your concern. He knows what he needs and you would have left it there if not for the scar you spot on his shoulder blade that wasn’t there a week ago.

“When did you get this?”

Your fingers trace the wound. It’s not serious but it’ll still scar his skin for months, maybe years. Damian’s eyes flutter open and he touches the scar, as if trying to recall the moment he got it.

“I don't remember.”

You take your hand away from his hair, clearly not very satisfied by that answer. He sighs, propping himself up on his arms to look at you.

“You worry too much, Beloved.”

“Why shouldn't I?”

Your eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion and Damian’s fingers fiddle a little at your sides, trying to figure out how to word his next sentence.

“Because I can handle it.”

He can tell that answer doesn’t satisfy you either, he didn't really expect it would. You push his chest to sit up on the couch, looking him in the eyes when you say,

“I love you,” He bites the inside of his lip a little and you know it's him trying to hide a smile. “Which means I'm always going to worry about you, even if I don't have to. Get used to it.”

He huffs a laugh, you can tell he wants to argue further but doesn't exactly know how. You take the opportunity to ask him, while stroking a thumb along his the sullen skin under his eyes.

“Are you tired?”

He sinks further into your palm and flutters his eyes closed, finally giving in.

“It’s busy at the hospital, Father has been unrelenting since Croc broke out of Arkham. I had a run in with him a few days ago.”

You glance back at the scar.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You are helping.”

You both can’t seem to hide the quirk in your lips as Damian brings you closer to straddle his thighs. He wants to tell you how safe you make him feel, how your concern makes him feel cared for, but he just doesn’t think he can yet. He tries anyway.

“I love you too”

You give him a confused look, getting comfortable on his lap.

“You said you loved me earlier. I love you too.”

He says this with his patent flavour of sincerity that makes you smile. You bring his face closer to kiss him, a short one at first which turns into a few more which then turns into making out on the couch, a not uncommon past time recently.

Your hands float mindlessly from his shoulders to his biceps and back up again, tracing the hard-earned muscles. His hands trail carefully up your shirt to explore your bare waist, keeping you close as he leaves your lips to place slow kisses down your jaw and neck.

“You’re so good to me, beloved.” He pulls you in even closer so you’re chest to chest, with just your shirt and bra keeping your skin from touching. “Let me take care of you too.”

You want to argue that he already does but your brain short-circuits when you feel his hand on your ass, pulling your lower body closer to his, only then do you understand his meaning.

“You mean…”

You look him in the eyes and he looks back. He nods his head, somehow looking unsure but resolute at the same time.

“Have- have you ever…?”

You’re not necessarily surprised and maybe a little more relieved than you should be when he shakes his head. After a deep breath, you breath out an, “Okay.” before kissing him again with some renewed enthusiasm.

Now, you’re both adults, you know what to expect and you’re sure he does too but that doesn’t stop it from being a little intimidating. As you feel the almost reverent way he touches you, the way he sinks into the couch letting your love wash over him, there’s no one you’d rather float into uncharted waters with.

You clumsily shuffle off your shirt and try not look as scared as you are. You can tell he’s trying not to stare too intensely, which is a nice thought but also completely unnecessary because you love it when he stares. You place your hand over his and slide it up your back until he gets to your bra. You give him an encouraging nod and he unclips the garment, letting it fall from your shoulders.

He stares openly now, at the way your tits move with your breaths, the way the nipples harden in the exposed air. He keeps eye contact with you as he leans in to gently place kisses in the valley between your breasts. He slowly travels along the swell until he reaches a nipple and takes it into his mouth, licking the bud gently as he takes your other breast into his warm hand to gently feel it.

You release a long hum in response, sinking further into his touch. Your hips slowly begin to grind down, unable to stay still. Damian doesn’t seem to mind at all as his other hand stays on your ass, encouraging your hips forward. You vaguely wonder where he learnt this or if he’d thought about it before.

You can feel yourself getting embarrassingly wet and it gets much worse when you feel his hardness against your clothed pussy. A throaty moan escapes from you and Damian gives you a groan in response, mouth still busy with your breast.

You lean down and whisper into his hair, “Damian, please.”

He lifts his head up immediately, gazing dazedly into your eyes, making sure you’re asking for what he hopes you're asking for. The look in your eyes is all the confirmation he needs.

He nods his head again, seemingly at a loss for words and slips his hand under the waist band of both your shorts and underwear. You shift to help him rid you of your remaining clothes and then help him shuffle out of his shorts.

You both take a long moment to stare down at your naked bodies. Both of you also seem to realise their might be a problem, staring down at the size of his hard cock. Damian’s hands travel down to your thighs, spreading your legs a little wider. You try not to move when his thumb brushes your entrance, testing the waters.

He curses in his mother tongue when he feels how wet you are for him already and he very gently eases a finger inside you. You both groan as he slowly stretches you out, the slick sound of your wetness filling the room before he eases in another finger.

He uses his middle and ring fingers to stroke your insides, somehow brushing just the right places to make you clench down and moan into his neck. His palm against your mound gives you some delicious friction as you grind against his fingers, getting more and more worked up by the second.

You feel your orgasm building and you make the difficult choice to pull Damian’s fingers from you before either of you get too carried away with your pleasure. You look him in his gorgeous, dazed eyes.

“I can take it.”

Damian screws his eyes shut and tips his head to the ceiling, your words seemingly having an affect on the poor man. You take his cock in your hand, actually feeling it for the first time. Lining up his tip with your entrance, you lower yourself down, using his shoulders for support.

You both moan as he enters you, Damian grips the couch cushion, head tipping back as your warm walls envelope him. The stretch is a divine mix of pleasure and pain, you feel every inch of him, reaching places no one else has.

You both groan when you bottom out and you lean against his chest for support as he tries to even out his breaths. His hands lazily stroke up and down your back and you feel so full. You kiss up his exposed neck and catch his lips in a deep kiss, you both stay like that for a long moment, closer than you’ve ever been before, as close as two lovers can be.

Slowly you start to grind against him, unable to keep down your sounds of pleasure as his cock brushes newly discovered sweet spots deep inside you. You lift your hips just to bring them down again, Damian’s grip on your hips helping you keep rhythm. Your thrusts only get more frantic, as his soft pubes brush against your sensitive clit.

Just when you’re building up to your orgasm you feel your legs lock and you fall against your boyfriends chest with a whine, legs shaking as your pussy clenches around him.

“What’s wrong?”

His voice is hoarse and breathy, squeezing your waist to keep himself grounded. You whine again, nuzzling into his neck to hide your hot face.

“I can’t move my legs.”

Damian lets out a breathless laugh and you lightly smack his shoulder.

“Shut up. They just stopped working, I think I got too excited."

He holds you to his chest and rolls you onto your back, resting your head on the couch cushions.

“Is this better?”

He eases into you so you take all of him again and you groan, nodding up at him. His first thrust knocks all the air out of you as he sets a slow pace. His hips rock against yours as he slowly builds up pace, his cock reaching so deep inside you in this new position it has you seeing stars.

You can barely keep yourself together, lifting your hips from the couch to meet his thrusts, your moans and the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through your living room. Damian’s thrusts grow faster and more frantic, clutching your waist for dear life while resting his head against your shoulder. You let out a loud moan when he slinks a hand down to lightly stroke your clit.

You bring his face away from your neck and bring him into an open mouthed kiss. You moan into each others mouths as you both reach your climax with a few more perfectly timed thrusts.

You wrap your arms around his neck while your legs lock around his waist to keep him as close as possible. He rests against your chest, catching his breath, listening to your rapidly beating heart. It’s quiet for a good few minutes while you both come down from your highs. Eventually, Damian mumbles into your chest.

“I should’ve warn a condom.”

You snort, “We’ll get a plan B or something. Don’t ruin the moment.”

Damian huffs and brings himself up, his biceps flexing with the strain as he slowly pulls out of your sensitive pussy. He sighs and kisses your knee, staring down at you with half-lidded eyes.

“You look gorgeous, beloved.”

You grin at him, lift an eyebrow and say,

”Well, I just took your virginity so I’d hope so.”

He rolls his eyes, unable to wipe the grin off his face. He scoops you up into his arms and carries you down the hall to your bathroom.

“I don’t appreciate that phrasing.”

“Oh, okay then, what about popped your cherry?”

“Shut up.” He grumbles while testing the hot water in the shower.

“Deflowered you?”

He refuses to answer as he lathers himself and you with soap.

“Stole your V card?”

...

Later that night, you’re both lying in bed, while he applies lotion to the little love bites he gave your tits and neck. You ask him your burning question,

“Which of your brothers gave you sex advice?”

“Beloved.” He warns with absolutely no heat behind it.

“You definitely got advice from one of them. Oh my god, was it Bruce?”

“I’m going to sleep.”

“Please just say it wasn’t Alfred.”

“Goodnight.”

“Well, maybe I want to hear you try and explain it.“

You try to roll over to look him in the face but a dull pain thrums through your body. You wince and he lifts himself off the bed, resting his weight on his elbow. You grown at the loss of his body heat while he slowly pulls the blanket down your body, his eyes scanning over the various love bites and bruises littering your skin.

“How much does it hurt?”

You shrug, watching his face with an easy air.

"Beloved."

He sighs wearily, giving your lower back a gentle rub, the movement like heaven for your tender muscles. You hum in appreciation.

“It hurts but it reminds me of how good you made me feel… I like it.”

He barely gets to register that confession before you continue.

“Could use a bath though.”

He hums and his eyes flicker down to your chest once more before he shuffles out of bed.

“Me too”

He strolls off to the bathroom to run you both a bath, you watch from your place in bed with a little jealousy. How come he can just walk around like he didn't completely rock your shit just a few hours earlier, meanwhile your limbs feel like jelly?

You take your sweet time getting out of bed, dawdling over to the bathroom, trying your hardest to hide the little shake in your legs, you don’t want to freak him out further.

He watches you sit down on the edge of the bathtub with a huff. You know he wants to ask if you’re okay but feels like he can’t because he already did and he doesn’t want to prod. So you shuffle closer to where he kneels next to the bathtub and place your hand on his cheek, leaning his face up to look at you.

“You still need to explain yourself.”

You keep a light-hearted smile, but you are genuinely very curious. Especially when he tries to look away, clearly embarrassed that he could possibly have been affected by Ivy’s toxins like that. You bring his face back to look at you.

“Should I expect you coming home like that regularly?”

You tease a little further and he shakes his head lightly.

“No, it was an accident. Though if you feel that deprived you need only ask, beloved”

He says this with all the smugness of a man who knows exactly how to please his lover, his hand trailing up your knee, head resting against your palm.

You scoff and push his pretty face away, using his shoulder to lift yourself up and step into the hot, bubbly bath. You shift forward, leaving enough space for him to step in as well. It’s a bit of a squeeze but you both manage to fit inside, snuggled up as the steam rises from your skin in captivating furls.

You sigh and rest back against his chest as his hands run down the length of your arms, making a lazy attempt to wash off all the dried sweat and dirt from the day before. His hands travel to your waist, caressing down from your hips up your torso, right under your breasts. You let out a breathy laugh at his ministrations.

“Are you sure you got all that stuff out of your system?”

He breaths in deeply, lips tracing your shoulder over the love bites laid there.

“Yes.”

You feel him mumble, but his hands still tell a different story. The moment is perfect but you can't help the worry build up inside you. Ivy's toxins aren't to be taken lightly.

“Are you sure?”

You ask again, less playful this time. His hands slow and he shifts to see you better.

“I'm sure, beloved. My oxygen mask was cracked in the fight, I only breathed in a little. I won’t make a mistake like that again.”

You nod along to his sincere assurance. Although the image of a ragingly horny Damian running through the streets to get to your apartment is certainly an entertaining one, you’ll wait till later to force him to tell you the whole story.

Right now, you’re both still a bit dazed, basking in the quiet closeness of your bodies as the hot water soothes your muscles and the smell of soap drifts through the steamy air.