It's shamelessly shining into your eye, the ring around his finger and how he was rubbing against it so slowly.

Wow, I need some alone time right now—

"Focus." he murmured under his breath, blank expression written all over his face as he caught you staring.

You bit back a loud, exasperated groan from leaving your lips and threw your head back, feeling a tinge of anxiety and also partially exposed as soon as he caught you staring at his hands.

This couldn't get more embarrassing, right?

"Is everything alright, Mrs. Wayne?"

"O-Of course... Everything is fine."

Everything was fine. You tried to cover your own flinch the second Damian's hand rested on top of your thigh under the table, fingers tapping a soft rhythm before it slid further.

Stop playing you breathed out shakily, hand grasping his wrist.

Make me he chuckled at your weak grip.

II. — SHIRTLESS SPARRING ,

It was actually part of your life now after you spent so many years being together with Damian Wayne, or sometimes, in moments like these, you preferred to call him Damian Al Ghul instead.

Not to forget, you don't even understand when it started to bug you so much. Because the first time you watched him sparr without a shirt, you were only grinning and cheering him on. And now it was bugging you immensely.

Bug you in not a necessarily bad way.

You are staring once again, watching how his body moved with fluidity and flawlessly within the air, manoeuvring in the silence and without breaking the rhythm.

Every step is a careful and planned out approach.

Every skill is polished throughout day and night since his childhood days.

He does not hesitate to move like the wind, lets himself get carried and follows it like a lifeline.

It takes a while until he breaks into sweat, the first droplets of them forming on his neck — gliding down his collarbone before it reached his chest. And you noticed that the entirety of him is well built.

His body is not a symbol of beauty but rather one of dedication and hard work, reaching the extreme and fulfilling the best someone can.

Your gaze wander from his toned chest to his arms, seeing the muscles flexing through his movements. His golden brown skin started to glisten under the trail of sweat that accompanied his body like a true companion.

"—Careful now before your eyes end up at the wrong place." he paused his training, gaze set on you.

The heat immediately rushed up to your neck as you got caught another time. "Is that so..?" you trailed off awkwardly and threw a towel into his direction that he caught in ease.

"I would be more than happy if you sparred with me." he wiped off the excess sweat with the towel, "I figured you might want to join."

Wrong, wrong buddy. You don't want to join in his sparring at all.

"You are always free to leave if this bores you."

Very wrong.

III. — INTIMIDATING HEIGHT DIFFERENCE ,

You do remember the days when you were the same height as him. Or hell, when you were a few centimetres taller than you. You remember how you were teasing the shit out of him.

Truth to be told? It was fun, seeing how he narrowed his eyes ever so slightly in annoyance. It was adorable to see him inwardly fuming, while telling you that you will see in the future.

It was nice while it lasted. The moment he was taller than you by an inch? You knew it was over for you. And he grew taller than you both had anticipated, standing almost a head taller than you. You have to crane your neck to meet his gaze — crane your fucking neck. It's the biggest humiliation of your whole life, entire existence but it's a loss you will forever cheer for since it makes you feel certain things.

"Hayati, you seem lost." you don't seem lost, you are lost — lost in the way the endearing term rolled off his tongue so easily, lost how he stares down at you. "Shall we move out of the busy hall?"

"No wait—I'm right where I want to be."  you choked out, almost tripping over your words.

Even if the room was filled with socialites and high rich people. But they didn't matter as you stood in the very corner of the room, all noises and background sounds.

The proximity draws you in unbearably hot, the way he gazes at you is making you sweat, he makes you nervous — makes you feel sixteen again when your crush has first developed. It was unfair, it was killing you.

Your lips formed a thin line as you suppressed a groan from leaving your throat, head falling forward and your forehead leaned against his shoulder, your grip around the glass tight.

"It's unfair. You are unfair, I hate it."

It enticed a chuckle out of him, voice low and rich — god, it made your knees weak.

Actually, you do know he doesn't do it intentionally. He doesn't even know what effect he has on you and this makes you tweak. You are so sure that you could bet your life on it.

He doesn’t do it intentionally.

Right, keep telling yourself that.

Yet the way he eyes you tells a different tale. It’s not the possessive and selfish kind of eyeing — but the one that forces you to tell the truth, that makes your heart stutter and your breath hitch.

“Stop.” you avert your gaze from him, heat leisurely crawling up to your head.

“Hmm?” there’s this underlying smugness under that hum, breaking you. “With what?”

“Staring—obviously.” you hissed before covering your face with both of your hands. “It’s so unfair!”

“Pray tell, what makes anything so unfair? You’ve been mentioning it since the very start.” he titled his head slightly.

“You—! You, you…”

“Lost your words? Poor you." the mock sympathy.

Silence settled, your eyes set on his fingers for a while, then drifting to the shirt that barely covered anything (it covered him whole) before they landed on his eyes.

“I noticed.” he whispered.

“N-Noticed what?” you played dumb.

Damian grasped your wrist before you could make an attempt to flee, fingers curling around your wrist and raising your hand towards his lips — leans close to your hands and sharp breath fanning against your skin.

A shiver ran down your spine at the cooling sensation.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t smirk — nothing to feed your suspicions.

“Do not play coy now.” the gentle pressure of a touch, lips ghosting over your wrist.

“What…” you were looking everywhere but him.

“To be frank, I did not expect you to enjoy me in such an intimate way.”

“I do not..!”

“No need to be shy now.”

Suddenly — he pulled you close with one swift and steady movement, pressing your body close to his while his free hand snaked its way behind the small of your back, burying his face deep against your neck.

“Ack—!” you yelped out in surprise, hyperaware of every touch now.

The way he interlocked your fingers, the way he breathed down against your shoulder, the way he refused to let go.

“Shall we take it to secluded place, Habibti?”

© 2026 kumasakka — do not plagiarize , copy , modify , translate our work ⸝⸝

divider source — @cursed-carmine , @uzmacchiato ⸝⸝

author’s note — what if i open a taglist is someone interested erm or never mind haha also PLS i’ve been on a writing trip recently but only post short ass boring drabbles . yet lately? those damian wayne requests bring the longer fics out DAMN (sobs in i could never write a +5k wc fic) vro I wanna write about cass so bad she makes me giggle ⸝⸝

"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 passing trait of impatience among 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 barely got to explain anything 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 that came 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.

“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, as Damian doesn’t hesitate in heading for the door.

Dick catches Damian's arm 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, I will be there for her."

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 be at its end.

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

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 with growing excitement.

“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 lingering near you. After a moment, the inner workings of his mind battling between his logic and his emotions must've finally faltered, as his fingers delicately 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.

He is more affected than he seems with his tightly concealed expressions, now that you physically feel the effects on his body. There's the slight twitches of his fingers when he's still afraid, waiting for the noise in his head to calm down. You know Damian, that he needs time to process before he reveals his cards.

“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? You haven't got rid of me yet." 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. "I still have my reservations."

"Anything you need, Dami." You reassure.

"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, and 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.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

You're on your side, one hand curled under your chin, the other flung over the duvet like you'd reached for him in your sleep and found empty air. Your hair is a mess. There's a crease on your cheek from the pillowcase. Your lips are parted the tiniest bit, and your breath is so quiet he has to lean in to hear it.

He leans in. Presses his mouth to your temple, just barely, just enough for you to feel warmth if you were awake to feel it, and then he rolls out of bed.

The floorboards in the hallway are the enemy. He knows which ones creak: the third one from your bedroom door, the one at the top of the stairs near the linen closet, two consecutive ones outside Haneul's room. He's mapped them out over years of late nights and early mornings, and he navigates them now in his socks, stepping over the worst ones like he's walking through a minefield of sound.

Haneul's door is cracked open. He eases it wider and peeks in — his daughter is starfished across her toddler bed, one foot hanging off the edge, her stuffed rabbit crushed against her chest. She's three and sleeps like she's fighting a war. Jay crouches next to the bed and brushes her bangs off her forehead.

"Haneul-ah," he whispers. "Baby. Wake up."

She doesn't.

He tries again, this time with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Haneul. Come on, my little bear."

She makes a sound like a grumpy cat and swats at his hand without opening her eyes. He almost laughs, he can see where you get your morning disposition from, but he swallows it and tries once more, softer this time, his thumb rubbing her tiny shoulder through her pajamas.

"Mama's special day," he murmurs. "We gotta make breakfast, remember? You said you wanted to crack the eggs."

That gets her. One eye cracks open. Then the other. Her face does something magnificent, confusion, then remembrance, then pure, incandescent excitement, and she's sitting up so fast her rabbit falls off the bed.

"Eggs," she whispers, but it comes out like a scream that's been stepped on.

"Shh, shh, shh—" Jay claps a hand over her mouth, grinning. "Quiet. Mama's sleeping."

She nods against his palm, eyes huge, and he lifts her out of bed. She weighs almost nothing. She always wraps her arms around his neck when he picks her up, always tucks her face into his shoulder, and he's never once in his life gotten tired of it.

Down the hall, the nursery. Dohyun is standing up in his crib, hanging onto the railing, already awake — he always is at this hour, like his internal clock knows dawn is his territory. When he sees Jay and Haneul, he opens his mouth and Jay says, very calmly, "No," which makes Dohyun's face crumple in offense before it can even become a wail.

"I know," Jay says, lifting him one-armed while Haneul clings to the other side. "I know, buddy. But Mama's sleeping. Quiet voice, okay?"

Dohyun is twenty months old and does not have a quiet voice. But he seems to understand the gravity of the situation, or at least he's distracted by Haneul's pajama sleeve, because he reaches over and grabs a fistful of it and doesn't scream.

The kitchen is dark when they get there. 

Jay settles Dohyun into his high chair, the one with the faded dinosaur sticker on the tray that Haneul put there six months ago and nobody could bring themselves to peel off, and crouches down to look Haneul in the eye.

"Alright. You remember the plan?"

She nods, bouncing on her heels.

"What do we do first?"

"Flowers!" she says, too loud, and claps her hand over her own mouth this time. He can see you in her, the way she catches herself, the way her eyes go wide like oops — it's so exactly you that it knocks the breath out of him for a second.

"Right. The flowers are already on the table. I got them yesterday, remember? After work." He tilts his head toward the dining table, where a bouquet of white peonies and soft blush ranunculus sits in your grandmother's old ceramic vase, wrapped in brown paper he hasn't untied yet because Haneul wanted to be the one to do it. "What's next?"

"Eggs."

"Eggs. And what else?"

"Pancakes with the—the—thingy, um—" She frowns, searching. "The faces."

"The faces, that's right." He grins. "Alright, let's do it."

He cracks two eggs into a bowl and lets Haneul whisk them with a fork. 

She's meticulous about it, her little tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth the same way yours does when you're reviewing case files, and she only splashes a tiny bit onto the counter. Jay wipes it up without comment.

The pancake batter is from the container in the fridge, he made it last night after you fell asleep, standing in the dark kitchen at midnight in his boxers, stirring and then washing every single dish and putting it back so you'd never know. 

He pours small circles onto the pan, and Haneul stands on her step stool next to him, watching with her chin on the counter, whispering "flip it, flip it, flip it, flip it, daddy," every time the bubbles appear.

Dohyun gets banana slices. He mashes them into the high chair tray with both fists, and Jay lets him. 

That's what the dog is for, Miso, their old golden retriever, who materializes under the high chair like she has a sixth sense for falling food and sits there thumping her tail against the floor.

When the pancakes are done, Jay lets Haneul arrange them on the plate. She puts two in the center, banana slices for eyes, a strawberry slice for the mouth, blueberries in a zigzag that she apparently says is hair. It looks like a happy monster. It looks like something you'd frame.

"Perfect," he says, and he means it.

He pours your coffee into the mug that says Attorney in gold lettering — the one your law partner got you as a joke when you made partner yourself, the one you use every single morning even though it's chipped on the rim and the gold is flaking off the R. 

He adds exactly one sugar and enough cream to turn it the color you like, the color you described once as "cloudy" and he described as "the exact shade of your skin in winter" and you threw a pillow at him for.

He plates everything. Pancakes. Eggs, scrambled the way you like, soft and wet. Fruit. Coffee. 

A single white peony, stem trimmed, laid across the napkin. And the envelope — the one Haneul drew on for forty minutes yesterday while you were on a call, the one she insisted on gluing glitter onto even though Jay said it would get everywhere, which it did; he's still finding glitter on his dress shirts.

Under the envelope, wrapped in tissue paper printed with tiny hearts: the earrings.

He found them three weeks ago. You'd been scrolling on your phone in bed, half-asleep, and you stopped on a photo and turned the screen to him. "Aren't these pretty?" you said, already half-distracted by something else. "The droopy kind. Teardrop shape. I've always wanted a pair in gold."

You forgot you showed him. He didn't.

They're fourteen-karat gold, delicate, teardrop-shaped drops on fine chains, the kind that caught light when you turned your head, the kind that moved when you laughed. 

He'd had them gift-wrapped at the store and then unwrapped them at home because the store's wrapping job wasn't good enough, and then wrapped them again himself with the heart tissue paper and a ribbon he had to watch a YouTube tutorial to tie properly.

He puts the wrapped box behind the plate, props the envelope against the coffee mug, and looks at the table. Haneul is vibrating with excitement. Dohyun has a few banana slices on his eyebrows.

"Ready?" Jay whispers.

Haneul nods so hard her whole body wiggles.

"Okay. Go get Mama."

You wake up to a small hand patting your cheek and a voice saying "Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama."

"M'awake," you mumble, and Haneul's face blooms into a smile so bright it could replace the sun. 

She grabs your hand and pulls, and you let yourself be dragged out of bed, through the hallway, past the family photos on the wall you keep meaning to reorder, down the stairs with Miso bounding ahead of you like this is the best day of her life too.

And there's Jay, standing in the kitchen in his socks and the grey henley you stole from him last week and he stole back, leaning against the counter with Dohyun on his hip and a smile on his face that is so soft, so unbearably fond, that you stop walking.

"Happy Mother's Day," he says.

The table. The flowers. The food. The envelope with glitter everywhere. The small wrapped box. The coffee in your chipped mug. The pancake monster with its blueberry hair. The morning light through the kitchen window catching the edges of everything like it knows this is supposed to be golden.

"Oh," you say, and your voice cracks on it.

Haneul tugs your hand. "I cracked the eggs, Mama. Both of them."

"You did?"

"Both. And I didn't splash. Only a tiny splash. Daddy wiped it."

"That's—wow—you did so good, baby." You crouch down, and she throws herself into your arms, and you hold her and look up at Jay, and his smile hasn't changed, not even a little — he's looking at you like you invented the concept of morning, like the sun came up because you walked into the room.

"Open it," Haneul says, squirming out of your arms and pointing at the envelope. "Open it open it open it."

The envelope with glitter everywhere. 

Inside, a card — construction paper, folded crookedly, with a drawing of three stick figures: one very tall, one medium, one very small, and a yellow blob that might be Miso. Above them, in Haneul's wobbly handwriting, the words MOMY I LUV YOO SO MATCH and below that, in Jay's handwriting, smaller: And I love you more than my vocabulary could ever be able to encapsulate. Every day. — J

You stare at it. Your eyes are burning.

"Open the box!" Haneul says.

You open the box. The tissue paper crinkles. The ribbon falls away. And there they are — gold teardrops on fine chains, delicate and warm and exactly what you pointed at on your phone screen three weeks ago and forgot about.

"Jay—"

"You showed me," he says, shrugging, like it's nothing, like remembering things you forget about yourself isn't the entire point. "I figured you'd forget you showed me. You always forget."

You're going to cry. You can feel it building, the heat behind your eyes, the shake in your chin. You haven't even had your coffee yet. This isn't fair.

He must see it, because he crosses the kitchen in two strides, shifts Dohyun to one arm, and cups your face with his free hand. His thumb brushes your cheek.

"No crying," he says, quiet, just for you. "It's too early for crying. We have a whole day."

"I'm not crying."

"You're about to cry."

"I'm not." You are. "These are—they're so, so perfect."

"I know." He kisses your forehead. "Come on. Eat your monster pancake before Dohyun decides to share his banana with it."

After breakfast, he doesn't let you touch the dishes.

"Jay, I can at least—"

"You can at least sit on the couch and drink your coffee."

"It's cold now."

"I'll make another one."

"No? I can still drink it, besides I can make my own—"

"Sit." He says it gently, with a kiss to the top of your head, and you sit, because sometimes the only thing to do with Jay in this mode is surrender.

He does the dishes. He does the dishes while Haneul sits on the counter "helping," which is basically just rinsing the same spoon over and over, and Dohyun plays with a plastic cup on the floor. He makes you another mug of coffee. He cuts up an apple for the kids. He wipes down the table. He puts the flowers in the vase properly, unties the brown paper, fluffs the peonies with his fingers like he watched a florist do once.

You sit on the couch with Miso's head on your lap and watch him move around your kitchen like he was built for it, like being a CEO is his job but this, this is what he actually is.

When the dishes are done and the kids are set up with crayons at the coffee table, he sits next to you. Close. His arm around your shoulders, your feet in his lap. He rubs your ankle with his thumb, absent and warm.

"What do you want to do today, sweetheart? Anything? Any plans?" he asks.

"I don't know actually. Anything, really. This is already—"

"No," he says. "Not 'anything.' What do you want? Specifically."

"I don't—Jay, you already got me the earrings, and breakfast, and the flowers—"

"That's the kids' side. That's for this morning. I'm asking about the rest of the day. Afternoon, evening, you name it."

You look at him. He looks back at you. His eyes are steady and certain, the way they are in boardrooms, contract negotiations, and every single time he's decided something is going to happen.

"Whatever I want?" 

"Whatever you want, sweetheart."

"Like—shopping?"

"Like anything. Shopping. Appliances store. The park. A different store. Four different stores. I don't care. Today you point at things and I get them, got it?"

"You're absolutely absurd, Jay."

"Hey! No, I'm consistent. There's a difference, you know?"

You laugh. You can't help it. He grins, and it's the same grin he gave you six years ago across a bar, when you were a second-year associate too tired to function and he was a stranger who bought your drink and then argued with you about tort law for an hour and a half.

"Okay," you say. "Shopping. But I'm not going crazy."

He doesn't say anything. He just smiles and kisses your temple.

He drops the kids at Yumi's at two. Haneul clings to his leg and he crouches down and promises three times that he'll pick her up before bedtime, that she can stay up late if she wants, that he and Mama are just going out for a little while. Dohyun doesn't care; Dohyun is already trying to eat Yumi's cat's tail. Miso stays home with the back door open to the yard.

In the car, you put your feet on the dashboard. He doesn't say anything about it. He never does. He reaches over and puts his hand on your knee instead, and drives.

The boutique you've been eyeing for months, the one with the silk blouses in the window you always slow down for, he pulls into the lot before you can say anything.

"I saw you looking," he says, turning off the engine. "Every time we drive past. You press your foot on the brake just a little, every single time."

"That's—what in the world, how do you even catch that? I don’t, end of the story."

"Yes, you totally do. You brake-check me for silk."

You get out of the car so he can't see you blush, but he catches up and laces his fingers through yours, and you go in together.

He sits in the armchair by the fitting room. Every time you come out in something new, he gives you a real answer, not it's fine or whatever you want but actual opinions, specific ones, the kind that mean he's paying attention. 

He tells you the sage green dress makes your shoulders look incredible. 

He tells you the black one is too stiff, you'll hate it by noon. 

He tells you the cream blouse with the tiny buttons is very you, and when you ask what that means, he says "it means you'd wear it to court and think about me when you button it."

You buy the cream blouse. You buy the sage dress. You buy a linen maxi-skirt you don't need and a pair of sunglasses he picks out, silver frames, slightly cat-eyed, because he says they match the new earrings, and you're already wearing them, the teardrops catching the store's warm light every time you turn.

He pays. You tell him you can pay. He pays anyway, card already out, already sliding it across the counter, already taking the bags before the cashier can offer.

"Jay—"

"It's Mother's Day."

"It's not—you don't have to—"

"What’s the harm in spoiling my queen? I know I don't have to. I want to." He says it lightly, but he's already steering you toward the door, bags in hand, one arm reaching for yours.

The second store is makeup. You don’t actually need anything, but the sight of glossy tubes lined up like candy makes you drift toward the lip section anyway.

He follows close behind, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie while you unscrew tester after tester, swiping colors onto the back of your hand until your skin looks like a paint palette.

“You’re running out of space,” he says.

“I’m conducting important research.”

“You’re smearing six shades of pink on yourself.”

“There are differences.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you for a second, then suddenly reaches over and flips your wrist gently to inspect the chaos of colors. His brows pinch together in exaggerated concentration.

“This one’s too orange.”

“You don’t know what orange undertones are.”

“I know when it makes you look like you ate spicy noodles.”

You snort. “Oh my gosh.”

Before you can grab another tester, he holds his hand out between you both, palm up.

“Use mine.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re out of skin.” He wiggles his fingers impatiently. “C’mon, makeup artist.”

“That’s literally not sanitary, Jay, I got this.”

“You just used three testers directly from the display.”

“…fair point.”

Trying not to smile too hard, you drag a mauve shade across the back of his hand. The color looks absurdly delicate against his knuckles, and he watches with the seriousness of someone signing legal documents.

“Hm,” he murmurs. “Not the one.”

“You can’t reject it after one swatch.”

“I absolutely can. Next!”

You laugh under your breath and swipe another color beside it, then another, until his hand is covered in glossy streaks of pinks, berries, roses. He studies every single one like he’s on a judging panel.

Finally, he taps one shade with his free hand — a soft warm rose.

“That one.”

“You picked the most normal color here.”

“Because it’ll look good on you.”

“You say that with a lot of confidence for a man who used to head out in baggy hoodies and skinny jeans twenty-four seven.”

“Hey! Sweetheart, they were the thing back then. Now? I’ve left them behind. Besides, I have no distractions. My judgment is pure.”

“You’re insane.”

He closes his fingers carefully so the swatches won’t smear and looks at you completely deadpan.

“Consistently insane. There’s a difference.”

You buy the lip color. And a new setting spray. And a tiny pot of highlighter he picks up and says "this one, you always run out of this one," and he's right, you do always run out of that one, and the fact that he knows that makes your chest hurt in the best way.

The third store is jewelry. Not because you need more, but because you both see a bracelet, a simple gold chain with a single tiny disc, and he picks it up and turns to you and says, "Haneul's birthday's in three months."

"She's three. She doesn't need jewelry yet."

"Not for her. For you, of course. So you have something of hers that you wear." He pauses. "I'll get her name engraved on the disc. Or—a star, or a heart, or something. Whatever you want, sweetheart."

You stare at him.

"What?" he says.

"You’re literally going to make me flood this whole jewelry store with my tears."

"You've cried in worse places, it’ll be fine."

"That was your fault too."

He buys the bracelet. 

He tells the sales associate he'll come back for the engraving. 

Outside, on the sidewalk, he hands you all the bags and cups your face with both hands and kisses you, slow, deliberate, right there in front of the store window and a woman walking her dog and two teenagers on skateboards, and when he pulls back, you're both flushed.

"Where next?" he asks.

You're smiling so hard your face hurts. "What about… oh my gosh, the park! The one with the big willow tree."

He doesn't ask why. He just takes your hand and walks you to the car.

The park with the willows is the one you found on your first year of dating, back when he was just a sharp-suited guy with a nice car and way too many opinions about your brief writing, and you were just a lawyer who couldn't believe he'd argued a motion and won and then texted you about it like a kid with five golden stars. You'd wandered here after dinner, both of you, still buzzy from wine, and sat under the biggest willow and talked until the streetlights came on.

Nothing's changed. The willow is bigger, maybe. The pond still has the same ducks. The bench by the water has been repainted but it's in the same spot, and Jay sits down and pulls you next to him, and the shopping bags go on the ground at your feet, and his arm goes around you, and it's so exactly like that first night that you feel time fold.

“You know,” you say, “you’re annoyingly good at this.”

“At what?”

“Making me feel loved without making it a big thing.”

He smiles a little. “That’s because it isn’t a big thing.” 

He's quiet for a second, looking at the water. Then he turns to you, and his face is different — not the easy grin, not the playful certainty. Something deeper. Something he doesn't bring out often, not because he's hiding it but because it's too real for small moments.

"I think about it sometimes," he says. "The way you move through the world."

You blink. "Huh?"

"The way you—" He stops, starts again. "You argue in court like you're building a house for someone. Brick by brick. You take cases that eat you alive and you carry them anyway because somebody has to, and you come home and you're so tired you can barely keep your eyes open, but you still read Haneul two stories instead of one, and you still rock Dohyun even though he's getting too heavy for it, and you still—you still find my shirts in the laundry and fold them the way I like, even though I've never once asked you to."

Your throat is closing. You can feel it.

"I think about what it would be like if you weren't here," he says, "and I can't. I can't think about it. It doesn't compute. You're the whole structure. You're the thing everything else hangs on. And I know—I know I'm not always good at saying it, absolutely terrible even, and I know I work too much, and I know sometimes I come home and my head is still in the office—but I notice. I notice everything you do. I notice every single thing, and I don't say it enough, and today—today is just me trying to make a dent in what I owe you."

He looks at you. His eyes are steady. His voice is steady. His hand on your shoulder is gentle enough to break something.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me," he says. "You and Haneul and Dohyun. The three of you. And I'm going to spend my whole life trying to be worth it."

You're crying. Full tears, silent, rolling down your cheeks, and you can't stop them, and you don't even want to. He sees it and his expression shifts — the deep thing tucks itself away, and the other Jay comes back, the one who makes you laugh, the one who knows exactly how to catch you before you fall too far.

"Okay, that's enough of that," he says softly, and thumbs the tears off your cheeks. "I wasn't trying to make you a mess. I was trying to be romantic."

"You were romantic. You are romantic, Jay. I'm just—"

"You're crying on Mother's Day. That's a violation."

"A violation of what exa—"

"Of the official Mother's Day rules. Section four, paragraph two: no tears allowed on the designated day of spoiling." He wipes another tear with the pad of his thumb. "I'm going to have to issue a citation."

You laugh. It comes out wet and messy, and he smiles, and the smile is so warm you can feel it in your bones.

"There she is," he says. "Come on. The ducks are judging you."

You look over. A duck is, in fact, looking at you from the pond with a sort of flat judgment.

"That duck has nothing to say about my emotional state."

"That duck is a living being. Therefore, that duck is capable of forming its own opinions, and he has some about you."

You lean into him, and he pulls you closer, and you sit there under the willow until the light goes amber, until the shopping bags have tipped over on the grass, until the duck loses interest and swims away.

Dinner is at the Italian place situated at the heart of the city. The one with the bad lighting and the incredible pasta and the owner who knows both of you by name because you've been coming here since before Haneul, since before the house, since before anything except the two of you and the feeling that this might be real, might be.

Jay orders your wine without asking. The carbonara. A chocolate mousse for dessert, two spoons. He eats half his rigatoni and then swaps plates with you like he always does because the carbonara is better and he knows you'll want it but won't order it for yourself.

You tell him about a case you're working on. He listens the way he always does, fully, completely, like what you're saying is the most important thing in the room, and asks questions that are smart and specific, because he's been listening to you talk about law for six years and he's learned enough to be dangerous.

He tells you about a deal that fell through. You tell him it's fine, it happens. He says it's not fine, he wanted it, and you tell him the next one will be better, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the answer to something.

The chocolate mousse comes. You eat it with two spoons. He gets cream on his lip and you wipe it off with your thumb and he catches your hand and kisses your knuckles, and the couple at the next table smiles at you both like you're something worth looking at.

The drive home is quiet.

The windows are down, just a crack, and the night air is cool on your face. 

His jacket is over your shoulders, he put it there when you got in the car, didn't ask, just draped it and adjusted the collar and turned back to the road. 

In the cup holder between you: two ice cream cups from the place you remembered your childhood friend dreamily talk about, the one that stays open late, the one you discovered when you were pregnant with Haneul and craved mint chocolate chip at eleven p.m. and he drove forty minutes to get it.

He'd driven forty minutes tonight, too. Without you asking. Because he remembers.

You lean your head against the window. The gold earrings shift against your neck. On your wrist, the new bracelet catches the streetlights as they pass, gold chain, tiny disc, blank for now but not for long. On your finger, your wedding ring. On the seat beside you, bags from four different stores. In the cup holder, ice cream. In the driver's seat, your whole entire life, one hand on the wheel and the other reaching over to rest on your knee like it belongs there.

Because it does.

"Hey," he says, not looking away from the road.

"Hey."

"Good day?"

You look at him, the line of his jaw, the henley sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the way his hair is falling after a full day of you running your hands through it, and you think about all of it. 

The eggs Haneul cracked. The pancake monster with its blueberry hair. The flowers. The earrings. The cream blouse and the sage dress and the lip color he chose for you. The bracelet with the empty disc. The bench under the willow. His voice, low and sure, saying you're the best thing that ever happened to me. The tears and the duck and the way he made you laugh exactly when you needed to. The chocolate mousse with two spoons. The jacket on your shoulders. The ice cream in the cup holder.

"Good day," you say.

He squeezes your knee. You close your eyes.

The road unspools ahead of him. The city blurs past. The car hums. And you are so full — of him, of the day, of the kind of love that doesn't just hold you up but builds the ground under your feet — that you don't think you could fit another single thing inside you.

Then he says, quiet, almost to himself, like he's checking: "More than Father's Day?"

You open your eyes. He's smiling. That smile — the one that's only for you, the one that makes you feel like you invented the sun.

"So much more than Father's Day," you say.

"Good." He looks at you, quick, then back at the road. "Because I've already got next year planned."

"You're impossible to deal with."

"A better way to word it is that I’m consistent, sweetheart, there's a—"

"Difference. I know."

He laughs. You laugh. 

Miso's going to lose her mind when you walk through the door, and Haneul is going to want to show you the crayon drawing she made at Yumi's, and Dohyun is going to reach for you the second he sees you, and tomorrow is Monday and there are briefs to file and deals to close and the whole ordinary machinery of your life waiting to start up again.

But right now, you are the most spoiled woman on the planet, and you're not even a little bit sorry about it.

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

标签 : @wonscapes @simsimluver @maishee @grdientlips @yejisair777 @kristynaaah @heesroses @vmpiricou @seungiesdoll @malibluess @stwryun @hooniluhv @rikisn @hazeheart12 @exclipszz @melancholatte @bluepains @gojopolo @jasmineeeee1009 @ming1luvr @ni-k1ttie @enzsstuff01 @ixnotmee @emvss @simjaeyunslut @luvlyjaemin @kikizzz0 @ilovhoonie @starboyhee @prettygirlthings-world @jaesim @luv4dani @perristar @bkatarina | send an ask if you’d like to be added ˙𐃷˙

💿 ࿐ . . every summertime by niki

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

Classic Tim behaviour.

He knows the basics from Titans files, Justice League records, and whatever information exists about Kori.

Tamaraneans absorb solar energy. They have enhanced strength, durability, speed, endurance, and flight. Some can project starbolts. They experience emotions intensely. They can survive under conditions that would absolutely kill a human. They age differently. They can learn languages through physical contact.

That last detail sits in his brain like a blinking red light.

Because Tim has read the files. He knows how Kori traditionally learned languages.

So when he meets you, he is very determined to be normal.

Painfully normal. Tragically normal.

He introduces himself with a polite little nod and says, “Tim Drake. Welcome to Earth.”

You smile, warm and bright.

Then you gently take his hand.

Tim’s entire nervous system leaves the chat.

You tilt your head, eyes glowing faintly for half a second, and then say, in perfectly understandable English, “Thank you, Timothy Drake. Your language has many sharp edges.”

Tim stares.

Not because he’s offended. Because his brain just watched a theory become reality in under five seconds.

“You can speak English now?”

“Yes.”

“From touching my hand?”

“Yes.”

“Just skin contact?”

You look amused. “Was there another method you expected?”

Tim’s ears go red so fast that Jason nearly chokes laughing from across the room.

Tim, fighting for his life: “No. Nope. That’s—scientifically fascinating. Completely normal. Great. Cool.”

You decide immediately that Timothy Drake is interesting. Tim decides immediately that he needs to ask you approximately four hundred questions and also maybe lie down.

He is fascinated by you, but in a very Tim way. Which means he tries to be respectful while vibrating with curiosity at a molecular level.

He keeps saying things like, “You don’t have to answer this if it’s invasive,” and then asks the most carefully worded alien biology question you’ve ever heard.

You appreciate that. A lot.

Because Tim doesn’t treat you like a specimen. He treats you like a person with knowledge he’s honoured to receive.

That distinction matters.

So you start answering.

At first, cautiously. Then more openly. Then, with genuine delight, because Tim listens.

He really listens. He writes things down, but only after asking permission. He checks if certain topics are private. He asks whether Tamaranean cultural knowledge should be treated as personal, communal, sacred, or diplomatic.

You beam at him. “You ask questions like a scholar and a warrior.”

Tim blinks. “Is that a compliment?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Then thank you.”

He thinks about it for three days.

You tell him about Tamaranean physiology, about the way your body stores and uses solar radiation, about the way emotions and energy can feel connected in ways humans don’t always understand.

Tim is obsessed. Respectfully obsessed.

He wants to understand enhanced physiology and self-sustenance in particular.

The first time you casually mention that Tamaraneans can go extended periods without food or rest, Tim freezes mid-sip of coffee. “Define extended.”

You do.

Tim slowly lowers the mug. “That’s deeply unfair.”

You laugh. “You say this as a human who avoids sleep as if it were an enemy.”

“Sleep is inefficient.”

“Sleep is healing.”

“Okay, rude.”

“Accurate.”

Tim cannot argue.

He is also fascinated by decelerated ageing.

Not in a creepy way. More in a “this has massive biological, social, psychological, and cultural implications” way.

He asks how Tamaraneans experience time. Whether friendships feel different when lifespans stretch longer. Whether grief changes when ageing is slower. Whether childhood lasts the same number of years or is measured differently by development, training, emotional maturity, or solar cycles.

You answer what you can.

Some things are easy. Some things make you quiet.

Tim notices immediately when a question touches something tender.

He closes his notebook. “We can stop.”

You study him. “You do not wish to know?”

“I do,” he says honestly. “But not more than I want you comfortable.”

That is when you start trusting him more.

Because Tim’s curiosity has teeth, but he keeps it leashed.

You also love returning the favour.

The first time you ask him about Earth species, Tim lights up as if someone plugged him into WayneTech’s mainframe.

You expected a simple answer. You do not get one.

You ask why humans have so many different skin tones, hair textures, eye colours, and body shapes. Tim gives you an anthropology-adjacent explanation involving genetics, geography, melanin, adaptation, migration, and environmental pressures.

You are delighted.

You ask why humans blush. Tim begins explaining blood vessels and emotional stimuli, then realises halfway through that he is currently blushing.

You smile. “Your body reveals you, even when your mouth attempts secrecy.”

Tim shuts his laptop. “I think that’s enough biology for today.”

You ask about birds. Tim gives you birds.

You ask about cats. Tim gives you domestication history, predator behaviour, and why Alfred the Cat is “not representative of the whole species, because he is personally evil.”

You ask about octopuses. Tim disappears and returns with three documentaries, two papers, and what Jason calls “the haunted nerd gleam.”

You love it.

You start trading knowledge like gifts.

You tell him about Tamaranean customs, body language, star navigation, court etiquette, battle training, food, childhood games, mourning rituals, and the ways your people express affection. Tim tells you about Earth animals, human social evolution, urban legends, vigilante ethics, detective work, caffeine, memes, and why Gotham is “statistically insane.”

You are fascinated by Earth.

He is fascinated by you.

It becomes your thing. 

Late-night knowledge exchanges. You sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Batcave while Tim pulls up holographic diagrams. Tim listening, chin in hand, as you describe the way Tamaraneans can sense heat and light differently.

Neither of you noticing how close you’re sitting.

Everyone else notices. Obviously.

Dick notices first and looks smug. Steph notices second and immediately starts a betting pool. Jason looks at Tim staring at you like you personally invented gravity and mutters, “Baby bird is cooked.”

Tim is especially interested in your unique physiology.

The way your strength does not map cleanly onto human muscle density. The way your body processes solar energy. The way your endurance works. The way your immune system responds to Earth pathogens. The way your senses differ from human baselines.

He is very careful with medical data, though.

He never assumes access. He never tries to run scans without asking.

Bruce respects that. Alfred approves.

You notice too.

Once, after a training session, Tim asks if he can compare your recovery rate to human data.

You agree.

He gives you three consent forms.

You stare at them.

He winces. “Too much?”

You smile. “No. It is strange. But kind.”

Tim blushes again.

You learn quickly that Tim’s version of care often arrives disguised as preparation.

He asks about your allergy to metallic chromium and immediately updates every relevant file.

Not just Batcomputer files.

Everything. Safehouse inventories. Medical alerts. Emergency field kits. Armour compatibility notes. Known enemy weapon materials. Gotham industrial maps where chromium exposure could be a risk.

He goes full Tim Drake about it. Within forty-eight hours, every Bat knows that chromium is a problem for you.

Jason says, “Did Drake make a whole chromium threat matrix?”

Tim says, “It’s a vulnerability profile.”

Jason says, “That’s a yes.”

You are touched.

Tim tries to downplay it. “It’s just basic risk management.”

“You mapped an entire city for my safety.”

“That’s what I said. Risk management.”

You touch his hand gently.

His heartbeat spikes. You pretend not to notice. 

He knows you notice.

This becomes a problem.

For him.

You are physically affectionate in a way Tim is not used to, and because touch can carry language and emotional nuance for Tamaraneans, it feels meaningful every time.

A hand over his. Fingers at his wrist to get his attention. A palm to his shoulder after patrol. A gentle press of your forehead to his when you’re grateful.

Tim handles this with all the elegance of a laptop overheating during a system update.

He doesn’t dislike it. That is the issue.

He likes it. A lot.

But he keeps telling himself it is cultural. You are Tamaranean. You’re affectionate. You’re expressive. You touch people. This is normal.

Normal, normal, normal.

He is being normal. His pulse is just… academically elevated.

Totally fine.

Then one day, he starts asking about Tamaranean romance.

It begins innocently. Or at least that is what Tim tells himself.

You mention that some Tamaranean gestures are romantic rather than platonic, and Tim’s brain immediately goes, Research opportunity.

Terrible idea. Beautiful disaster.

He asks, “How do Tamaraneans distinguish between friendship affection and romantic affection?”

You answer.

He nods, taking notes. “Is courtship usually direct?”

“Yes.”

“Do Tamaraneans date casually, or is romance typically more formal?”

“It depends on the person, the region, and the bond.”

“Interesting. Are gifts common?”

“Yes, though not always objects. Sometimes shared experience. Sometimes battle-oaths. Sometimes food, sunlight, stories, touch.”

Tim writes that down very seriously.

He does not realise he is basically collecting instructions. You do not realise he is asking because he wants to know how to love you correctly.

Because Tim phrases every question like he is preparing a diplomatic report.

“What would be considered disrespectful in a romantic context?” “What signals romantic interest?” “How does one avoid misinterpreting affection?” “Are declarations preferred early, or only after mutual emotional certainty?”

You answer all of it because you think he is simply being thorough.

This is Tim. Tim once made a spreadsheet about everyone’s preferred comm settings. Of course he would ask forty-seven questions about alien courtship etiquette.

Meanwhile, Tim is sitting there thinking, This is useful in case someone on the team needs to know.

Someone. The team. Definitely not him. Definitely not because he wants to take you somewhere quiet and show you the city lights and maybe give you a book about Earth constellations annotated with Tamaranean comparisons.

Nope. That would be absurd.

Steph catches him later staring at a list titled “Tamaranean Romantic Customs — Working Notes.”

She reads over his shoulder.

Then looks at him.

Then looks back at the screen.

“Tim.”

“What?”

“Timothy.”

“What?”

“You are building a dating manual.”

“It’s cultural research.”

“It has a section called ‘Potential Gift Ideas.’”

“For diplomacy.”

“One of them says rooftop picnic.”

Tim closes the laptop.

Steph’s grin becomes lethal. “Oh my god. You like them.”

Tim, instantly: “No.”

“Tim.”

“I respect them.”

“Uh-huh.”

“As a person.”

“Sure.”

“And a cultural knowledge source.”

“Gross. Never phrase it like that again.”

Tim spirals after that.

Because once Steph says it, the thought becomes impossible to unthink.

He does like you. Romantically. Not just as a fascinating alien diplomat-warrior-scholar. Not just as a friend. Not just as someone whose smile makes the Cave feel less like a tomb with Wi-Fi.

He likes you.

He likes the way you say his name. He likes the way you call him out when he mistreats his body. He likes the way you trade knowledge like intimacy. He likes that you don’t laugh when he overexplains. He likes that you ask questions back.

He likes that when you touch him, it feels like being chosen.

Cue Tim panicking in the most Tim way possible.

He makes another spreadsheet. This one is titled something boring like “Interpersonal Variables.”

Jason sees it and immediately says, “Is this about your alien crush?”

Tim nearly throws the laptop at him.

Dick, unfortunately, also finds out.

Dick is gentle about it, which somehow makes it worse. He tells Tim that if he likes you, he should talk to you honestly.

Tim says, “I don’t want to misread cultural affection.”

Dick says, “That’s fair.”

Tim says, “I don’t want to make them uncomfortable.”

Dick says, “Also fair.”

Tim says, “I don’t want to compromise our friendship, battlefield synergy, knowledge exchange, or interplanetary trust framework.”

Dick pauses. “Okay, that last one sounds like you swallowed a Wayne Enterprises HR memo.”

Tim groans.

The funny thing is, you are equally oblivious.

You know Tim cares. Of course you do. He makes sure your safehouses don’t contain chromium. He remembers which Earth foods you like. He explains jokes when you look confused. He brings you articles about animals because you once said Earth creatures are “small miracles with teeth.” He stays up late translating scientific terms into simpler English when the language transfer doesn’t cover technical nuance.

But romance? You don’t assume.

Because Tim never says, “I am interested in you.”

He says, “For comparative purposes, what would a Tamaranean consider a meaningful shared activity?”

That is not flirting. That is a research question wearing glasses.

So you answer sincerely while Tim slowly dies inside.

The breakthrough happens during another knowledge exchange.

You ask Tim about Earth's courtship.

He starts explaining dating apps, flowers, dinner dates, movie nights, flirting, labels, exclusivity, and the extremely cursed concept of “situationships.”

You look horrified. “Humans have created a word for romantic uncertainty?”

Tim sighs. “Unfortunately.”

“That is bleak.”

“Very.”

Then you ask, “How do you show romantic interest, Timothy?”

Tim’s brain goes blank.

Absolutely nothing. No thoughts. Just dial-up tone.

He says, “Me personally?”

“Yes.”

“I… don’t usually.”

You soften. “Why?”

And because it’s late, and because you’re looking at him like truth is safe, Tim answers honestly.

“Because I overthink. Because I don’t want to pressure someone. Because I’m good at information and terrible at timing. Because sometimes I don’t realise what I’m feeling until I’ve already made three contingency plans about it.”

You are quiet for a moment.

Then you say, “Have you done this recently?”

Tim stares at you. You stare back. Somewhere in the Manor, Steph’s matchmaking senses start tingling.

Tim could lie. He really could.

But you have always given him honesty.

So he exhales and says, “Yes.”

Your expression changes.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Softness. Realisation. Wonder.

“With me?”

Tim nods once. “Yeah.” And then, because he is still Tim, he adds, “But I don’t want you to feel obligated to respond immediately, or positively, or at all. I know Tamaranean affection can be broader than human romantic signals, and I don’t want to confuse gratitude or friendship for—”

You take his hand.

He shuts up instantly. Very effective.

You smile. “Timothy. I have answered many questions about Tamaranean romance.”

“I know.”

“But you have not asked the most important one.”

His voice goes quiet. “What’s that?”

“Whether I wish to share it with you.”

Tim’s heart goes absolutely feral. “And do you?”

You squeeze his hand. “Yes.”

After you get together, Tim becomes both the most attentive boyfriend alive and still, somehow, a complete nerd about it.

He asks what romantic gestures you prefer. He learns Tamaranean terms of endearment and practices the pronunciation until you laugh yourself breathless. He plans dates around sunlight because he knows it makes you feel energised and homesick in a gentler way.

He gives you Earth knowledge as gifts.

A private museum tour. A night at the observatory. A folder of Earth animals labelled “creatures you may enjoy.” A book of poetry with notes in the margins explaining idioms that might not translate.

You treasure every bit of it. And he treasures your knowledge in return.

Not because it is useful. Because it is yours.

The two of you become the couple everyone regrets asking questions around.

Someone mentions birds, and suddenly you and Tim are explaining migration, wing structure, Tamaranean aerial combat, and whether flight changes how cultures conceptualise borders.

Jason leaves halfway through. Dick is charmed. Bruce is quietly impressed.

Steph says, “You two are flirting in academic conference.”

She is correct.

Tim still gets flustered when you touch him.

Even after you’re together. Especially after you’re together. Because now he knows what it means when your hand lingers.

He knows which touches are affectionate. Which are grounding. Which are romantic. Which are very specifically for him.

You once brush your fingers along his wrist and murmur a Tamaranean phrase he recognises as deeply romantic.

Tim drops his phone.

You smile. “Your body reveals you.”

He groans. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“No.”

“Yeah, I deserve that.”

Tim Drake falls in love the same way he solves a case.

Slowly. Carefully. All the clues there from the beginning, obvious to everyone except him.

But once he sees the truth, he holds onto it with both hands.

And with you, love becomes one more language he wants to learn properly.

Not to master it. Not to dissect it.

But to speak it back to you, clearly and honestly, beneath whatever stars Earth has to offer.

damian wayne

aged-up damian (20), teen titans/starfire/kori mention, soft/protective damian wayne, tamaranean animals, animal bonding, slow burn, friends to lovers, mild emotional repression, emotional honesty, canon-typical violence, misunderstandings due to cultural differences

Damian meets you when Koriand’r introduces you. Not dramatically. Not in the middle of battle or a diplomatic disaster or some grand cosmic omen. Just a quiet meeting at Titans Tower, sunlight spilling through the windows, Kori smiling warmly as she gestures between you.

“This is Damian Wayne,” she says. “He is very disciplined. Very intense. But his heart is noble.”

Damian’s expression does not change.

“Koriand’r,” he says, “your praise is both excessive and strategically unhelpful.”

Kori only laughs.

You look at him with immediate interest.

He is twenty now. Older. Sharper in different ways. Less explosive than he once was, though still unmistakably Damian: straight-backed, controlled, observant, and speaking like every sentence has been edited by a medieval prince with a law degree.

He no longer lashes out just to prove he has teeth.

But the teeth are still there. He simply chooses when to show them.

At first, Damian is polite to you in the formal, slightly intimidating way he uses with diplomats, instructors, and animals he respects.

“You are newly arrived from Tamaran?”

“Yes.”

“Then Earth will likely prove inefficient, contradictory, and loud.”

You pause. Kori sighs.

Damian adds, “But not without merit.”

You smile. “That is comforting. I think.”

“It was intended to be.”

Kori pats his shoulder like she is proud of him for attempting warmth.

Damian looks deeply offended.

Kori has been something like a mentor to him for years. Not in the obvious sense. Not in the way Dick or Bruce or even Raven have shaped him. But Kori has always been there: bright, powerful, emotionally direct, impossible to intimidate.

They have clashed before, absolutely. Damian used to find her openness excessive. Her optimism is suspicious. Her affection undisciplined. Kori found him arrogant, guarded, and far too young to be carrying himself like a weapon with a pulse.

They argued. Often.

But she also taught him things he did not realise he was learning.

How strength can be warm. How honesty does not have to be cruelty. How pride and tenderness can live in the same body.

So when Kori introduces you, Damian takes it seriously.

If Kori trusts you, that matters.

He does not say this. Obviously, that would be far too emotionally efficient.

Instead, he says, “If you require assistance navigating Earth’s customs, I can provide instruction.”

Kori raises an eyebrow.

You beam. “I would be grateful.”

Damian nods once, as if accepting a solemn oath.

And that is how Damian Wayne becomes your extremely intense Earth tutor.

Unfortunately, he mostly teaches you to speak like him.

This is not intentional at first. Probably.

You ask how to address someone who is being rude.

Damian says, “You may say, ‘Your conduct is unbecoming.’”

You repeat it perfectly. He looks pleased.

You ask what to say when someone is wasting your time. 

“Your inefficiency is becoming burdensome.”

You repeat that too. He looks even more pleased.

Dick overhears you telling Jason, “Your inefficiency is becoming burdensome,” and nearly walks into a wall laughing.

Jason points at Damian. “You teaching the alien to talk like a tiny Victorian assassin?”

Damian, twenty years old and still somehow radiating offended youngest-child energy, says, “I am teaching them precision.”

You start picking up his phrases.

“Unacceptable.” “Do not be absurd.” “Your logic is insufficient.” “This is a poor use of resources.”

Bruce hears you say, “Father, your self-sacrificial tendencies remain strategically unsound,” and just closes his eyes.

Damian looks almost proud.

Almost.

The thing that truly captures his attention, though, is when you mention Tamaranean animals.

It happens casually. You are describing home, and you mention a creature from Tamaran—a winged predator with jeweled scales, heat-sensing whiskers, and a hunting call that can shatter thin stone.

Damian goes utterly still.

Not bored-still. Not Bat-still.

Interested-still.

His eyes sharpen. “Explain.”

You blink. “The animal?”

“Yes. It's anatomy, habitat, temperament, social structure, and whether it can be domesticated.”

You light up. Because finally, someone is asking about the creatures of your home with the proper level of reverence.

Damian is hooked immediately.

Tamaranean animals become the first thing you bond over.

You tell him about sun-serpents that coil around warm cliffs. About small nocturnal creatures with translucent ears that sing in groups during eclipses. About massive horned beasts used in old ceremonial processions. About bright-feathered scavengers clever enough to steal jewelry and tools.

Damian listens like you are handing him classified intelligence from heaven.

He asks detailed questions. Very detailed.

“What is their bite strength?” “Do they form pair bonds?” “What is the average clutch size?” “Are they venomous, poisonous, or merely unpleasant?” “Could one survive in Earth’s atmosphere?” “Could one defeat a crocodile?”

You answer as best you can.

Sometimes you laugh.

He pretends not to enjoy that.

He absolutely enjoys that.

The first real crack in his composure comes when you describe a Tamaranean animal that bonds for life and brings its chosen companion polished stones as offerings.

Damian goes quiet.

Then says, very seriously, “A respectable creature.”

You smile. “I thought you would like that one.”

He looks away. “You assumed correctly.”

That is basically a sonnet from him.

You become friends slowly, though you do not always realise it is happening.

Damian is not like Dick, who opens doors with smiles. He is not like Jason, who hides softness under sarcasm. He is not like Tim, who turns affection into research.

Damian’s care is quieter, sharper, more hidden in action than expression. He walks beside you on unfamiliar streets without saying he is guarding your flank. He corrects people who speak down to you before you can even decide whether you are offended. He remembers which Earth foods you dislike and silently moves them away from your plate. He learns which lights in the Manor make you feel closest to Tamaran and chooses those rooms when you visit.

You never think Damian cares all that much. Even after you become friends.

Because he does not gush, he does not cling. 

He does not say, “I enjoy your company.” He says, “You may accompany me if you have no more pressing obligations.”

He does not say, “I missed you.” He says, “Your absence was noted.”

He does not say, “I was worried.” He says, “Your recklessness created unnecessary variables.”

You think he is simply being Damian.

Which he is.

But that is also the problem. Damian cares deeply. He just makes it sound like a military report filed by a judgmental cat.

And he covets information about you.

Not in a possessive, invasive way.

In a careful way. Like each fact is a rare thing he has been trusted to hold.

He remembers your favourite Tamaranean fruit. He remembers the first Earth song you said sounded like “rain with a heartbeat.” He remembers that you dislike being called “exotic.”

He remembers that certain shades of orange make you homesick. He remembers the Tamaranean word you use for grief that does not have a perfect English translation.

He remembers your battle preferences, your sleep patterns, your expressions, and your silences.

Not just Tamaranean culture.

You.

That is what matters. He does not collect facts because you are alien.

He collects them because they are yours.

And Damian Wayne, despite all his sharp edges and inherited damage, is very good at devotion once he decides something is worth protecting.

You only notice by accident.

One day, someone offers you a drink with an ingredient you once mentioned, which makes your throat burn strangely.

You have not spoken of it in weeks.

Damian intercepts it before it reaches your hand. “No.”

The server freezes.

Damian’s tone is flat. “They cannot consume that.”

You stare at him. “You remembered?”

He looks at you as if the question itself is offensive. “Of course.”

Of course.

Like it was obvious. Like remembering you is the simplest thing in the world.

After that, you start seeing the pattern.

The way he angles conversations away from painful topics when he senses your mood shift. The way he corrects your English only when he knows you want help, never to embarrass you. The way he makes sure you understand sarcasm before Jason can accidentally hurt your feelings. The way he gives you books about Earth animals, not because you asked, but because you once wondered if every planet had creatures that loved warmth.

The way he asks about Tamaran less like a student studying a subject and more like someone trying to understand the shape of your heart.

And still, Damian never makes it easy.

You tell him, “You are kinder than you wish to appear.”

He frowns. “That is an inaccurate assessment.”

“It is not.”

“I am appropriately considerate.”

“You are kind.”

“I am disciplined.”

“You are both.”

He looks away first.

A victory.

Kori notices the friendship before either of you speaks of it.

Of course she does. She sees the way Damian listens to you. The way you brighten when he enters the room, even when he immediately says something like, “Your posture indicates poor sleep.”

She also sees the way Damian becomes calmer around you.

Not softer, exactly. Damian’s softness is not a melting thing.

It is a blade lowered by choice.

Kori is pleased. Deeply pleased.

She tells him so once.

“You are good for each other.”

Damian stiffens. “That is an oversimplification.”

“It is also true.”

He does not argue. Which, for Damian, is basically a confession written in fireworks.

As your bond deepens, he becomes very particular about teaching you Earth customs correctly.

Because once he realises Steph has been teaching you nonsense, he is outraged.

“Brown is not a reliable cultural source.”

You blink. “She said that throwing bread is courtship.”

Damian goes very still.

Then turns slowly toward the hallway.

“Stephanie.”

Somewhere in the Manor, Steph starts running.

Damian teaches you formal dining etiquette, gala etiquette, combat etiquette, museum etiquette, art etiquette, animal shelter etiquette, and—unfortunately—insult etiquette.

Especially insult etiquette.

He insists there is “value in precision.”

You become terrifying at polite verbal takedowns.

At one gala, a socialite says something condescending about how “difficult” Earth customs must be for you.

You smile and reply, “Your concern is unnecessary, though I acknowledge your attempt at relevance.”

Damian’s mouth twitches.

Jason whispers, “Oh my god, Demon Spawn taught them murder.”

Damian says, “I taught them clarity.”

You also teach him Tamaranean phrases.

He pretends this is purely practical.

It is not.

His pronunciation is very good because Damian refuses to be bad at things.

But he is oddly careful with your language.

He asks which words are sacred. Which words should not be spoken casually. Which names should be offered only with trust.

You appreciate that more than you can say.

So you teach him a Tamaranean phrase used between close companions.

Not romantic. Not familial exactly.

Something between “trusted blade,” “chosen shelter,” and “one whose presence steadies the heart.”

Damian repeats it quietly. Perfectly. Then says nothing for a long time.

Later, you hear him use it under his breath before a dangerous mission.

For you.

You almost miss it.

Almost.

On the battlefield, your friendship becomes undeniable.

Damian trusts you with his back. That is no small thing.

He gives commands and expects you to understand them.

You do.

You call warnings in Tamaranean and he learns those too.

He adjusts his fighting style around your flight patterns. You adjust yours around his speed and precision.

Together, you are brutal and elegant. Sunfire and shadow.

After one mission, when you take a hit that knocks you out of the sky, Damian reaches you before anyone else.

He is calm. Controlled. Efficient.

Terrifyingly so.

But his hands shake when he checks your pulse.

You wake to him scolding you.

“You were reckless.”

You groan. “I was saving you.”

“I did not request saving.”

“You required it.”

His jaw tightens.

Then, quieter, “That is irrelevant.”

You realise then that he is angry because he was afraid.

So you touch his wrist gently. “I returned.”

He does not pull away.

“Yes,” he says, voice low. “See that you continue to do so.”

It is the closest he comes to begging.

You understand anyway.

Damian’s affection is not loud. It is not easy. It does not arrive wrapped in obvious tenderness.

It arrives as remembered details. As corrected translations. As sharpened blades. As a seat saved near the window. As a hand steadying your elbow in a crowd.

As a young man who once used arrogance as armour now choosing, carefully and deliberately, to let someone bright stand near him.

And he does choose you. Again and again. Even before he knows what name to give it. Even before you understand how much he cares.

He chooses you in the small ways.

The Damian ways. The ways that look like discipline to everyone else but feel, to you, like trust.

And maybe one day, when you ask him if you matter to him, he will look genuinely offended.

“Your importance to me should be self-evident.”

You will smile.

“Damian.”

He will sigh, because apparently honesty is something everyone insists upon eventually.

Then he will say, very quietly, “Yes. You matter.”

And because he is still Damian, he will add:

“Immensely.”

Like the word costs him something.

Like the truth is a blade he has finally decided to lay at your feet.

duke thomas

homesickness, soft, slow burn, confessions, soft angst, mentions of patrol/combat, canon-typical-violence, misunderstandings due to cultural differences

Duke is one of the easiest members of the Batfamily for you to adjust to.

Not because he understands everything immediately.

He doesn’t. The first time you casually lift a motorcycle out of the way with one hand, Duke just stares for a second and says, “Okay. Cool. We’re doing casual god-tier strength before lunch.”

But Duke has a gift for making strange things feel normal.

He doesn’t make you feel like a diplomatic incident. He doesn’t treat you like a science project. He doesn’t act like your confusion about Earth customs is a personal failing.

He just accepts that Earth is weird, Gotham is worse, and you’re doing your best.

Honestly, that puts you ahead of half the city.

Duke meets you after you’ve already spent time with some of the others, which means he has heard stories.

Many stories. Stories about you accidentally taking sarcasm literally. Stories about you terrifying rude gala guests with sincere compliments and terrifyingly accurate observations.

Stories about you asking Bruce why humans call emotional repression “being fine.” Stories about you picking up Damian’s vocabulary and telling a mugger, “Your tactical choices are disgraceful.”

Duke is prepared to be amused.

He is not prepared to like you so quickly.

But then you smile at him like sunlight breaking through Gotham smog and say, “You carry daylight differently than the others.”

Duke blinks. “That’s… actually kind of accurate.”

You tilt your head. “Is it improper to say?”

“No. Just unexpectedly poetic before coffee.”

You and Duke click because he understands what it’s like to be the one whose powers don’t fit neatly into everyone else’s expectations.

He isn’t an alien, obviously. But he knows what it means to have abilities people misunderstand.

He knows what it means to be watched a little too closely. He knows what it means to be connected to light in a family built around shadows.

That matters.

With the others, you sometimes feel like you are learning Earth from people who have forgotten what normal Earth is.

Bruce teaches you Gotham survival like every grocery trip may involve a hostage situation. Damian teaches you how to insult someone with aristocratic precision. Jason teaches you which diners are safe and which alleys are definitely cursed. Tim teaches you twelve layers of context when you ask one question. Dick teaches you emotional survival, which is lovely but occasionally overwhelming.

Duke teaches you how to exist. How to walk through a farmer’s market. How to order food without accidentally sounding like you’re challenging the cashier to ritual combat.

How to ride the subway. How to understand street performers, small talk, neighbourhood gossip, and why people in Gotham will complain about the city for twenty straight minutes but still threaten anyone who insults it.

You ask him if this is loyalty.

Duke considers it. “Yeah. Kind of. Gothamites hate Gotham like it’s family.”

You brighten. “Ah. Like Jason.”

Duke laughs so hard he has to sit down.

Duke becomes your unofficial “normal Earth” guide. Which is hilarious, because his normal includes vigilante work, metahuman senses, cursed city politics, and Batman as a mentor.

But compared to the rest of the family? He is practically the brochure.

He takes you to places that aren’t galas or rooftops or training rooms.

Parks in the daytime. Food trucks. Libraries. Community centres. Basketball courts. Thrift shops. Street fairs. Tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants where the owner knows him by name and absolutely clocks that he is bringing someone important around.

You love all of it.

You love Earth most when Duke shows it to you.

Not the polished version. Not the suspiciously expensive Wayne version.

The living version. Messy. Loud. Warm. Human.

You try street food for the first time with him, and Duke watches you experience a loaded falafel wrap like it is a religious event.

You close your eyes and say, “This food has many arguments within it, and yet they are all correct.”

Duke points at you. “That is the best food review I’ve ever heard.”

He starts keeping a list of foods you describe dramatically.

Pizza: “bread carrying molten joy.”

Ice cream: “sweet cold that should not be trusted but must be loved.”

Hot chocolate: “a warm apology from the universe.”

French fries: “small golden spears of comfort.”

Gotham bodega sandwich: “chaos folded into bread.”

Duke sends that one to Jason, who immediately replies, “They get it.”

Because you’re Tamaranean, sunlight matters to you.

Duke understands that better than most. His own relationship with light is complicated, powerful, instinctive.

So he notices when you linger in patches of sun. He notices when grey Gotham weather makes you quieter. He notices when the Cave starts to feel too much like stone and secrets.

He doesn’t make a big deal out of it.

He just says, “Come on. Day patrol.”

You ask, “Is there such a thing?”

“There is when I do it.”

Duke takes you across Gotham in daylight, and it changes how you see the city.

At night, Gotham is teeth and sirens and old grief.

In daylight, it is still wounded, but you can see the people patching the wounds.

Kids walking to school. Shopkeepers sweeping glass from sidewalks and reopening anyway. Murals painted over old crime scenes. A woman feeding stray cats behind a laundromat. A teen helping his little brother tie his shoe at a bus stop.

You go quiet.

Duke doesn’t rush you.

Eventually, you say, “This city survives loudly.”

Duke smiles a little. “Yeah. That’s Gotham.”

That is when Duke starts mattering to you differently.

Because he doesn’t only teach you Earth customs.

He teaches you why Earth is worth the effort. Why people keep choosing each other in places that make tenderness difficult. Why Gotham’s darkness does not get to be the whole story.

Duke also has the best patience when you misunderstand things.

You once ask him why humans ask, “How are you?” when they do not want a complete emotional inventory.

Duke says, “Sometimes it’s a greeting. Sometimes it’s real. Context matters.”

You frown. “That is inefficient.”

“Deeply.”

“How do I know which kind it is?”

“If it’s a stranger walking past you, greeting. If it’s Alfred, real. If it’s Bruce, trap.”

“A trap?”

“He’ll use your answer to determine whether you need medical attention, sleep, or a lecture.”

You nod gravely. “He weaponises concern.”

“Exactly.”

Duke teaches you slang more responsibly than Dick and Steph, but not completely responsibly.

He does teach you useful phrases.

He also teaches you “that’s above my pay grade,” mostly because he thinks it is hilarious when you say it to Bruce.

Bruce asks why there is a scorch mark on the training room ceiling.

You say, “That is above my pay grade.”

Duke has to leave the room.

Duke is very good at helping you separate “Earth customs” from “Batfamily dysfunction.”

This is essential. Because you keep assuming the Bats are representative of humanity.

They are not. Not even a little.

You see Tim drink coffee instead of sleeping and ask if humans require stimulants to survive.

Duke says, “No, that’s a Tim problem.”

You see Bruce disappear from a conversation instead of expressing discomfort.

Duke says, “No, that’s a Bruce problem.”

You see Damian feed a stray cat while insulting its bloodline.

Duke pauses. “That one might just be a Damian thing. Honestly, don’t worry about it.”

You appreciate Duke’s honesty because he never makes you feel foolish for asking.

Even when the questions are strange. Especially when the questions are strange.

You ask why humans keep plants indoors if they cannot speak to them.

Duke says, “They make the room feel alive.”

You understand that.

You ask why people watch horror movies if they do not enjoy fear.

Duke says, “Some people like controlled fear.”

You say, “Like patrol?”

He pauses. “That is either very wrong or too correct.”

You ask why Earth has so many songs about heartbreak.

Duke goes quiet for a second, then says, “Because sometimes people need somewhere to put pain where it won’t hurt anyone.”

You remember that.

Duke is funny, but he’s not shallow. That surprises you a little.

Not because you underestimated him. Because he carries himself with such ease compared to the others that it takes time to realise his warmth has depth.

Duke has seen loss. He has lived through chaos. He has had his world rewritten, too.

He just refuses to let darkness be the only language he speaks.

That is something you admire.

You tell him once, “You are gentle without being weak.”

Duke looks away, smiling like he doesn’t know what to do with that. “Yeah, okay. That’s going in the emotional damage folder.”

“The what?”

“Nothing.”

Your friendship with Duke becomes one of steady comfort.

He is the person you go to when you want Earth to make sense without becoming a lecture.

He is the person who explains why people say “bless you” after sneezing.

He is the person who tells you which social rules are important and which ones humans made up because they enjoy being complicated.

He is the person who sits with you on rooftops in the morning when Gotham is still soft and blue around the edges.

He is also the person who notices when homesickness hits you before anyone else does.

You try to hide it at first.

You smile brighter. Ask more questions. Make more jokes. Offer more affection.

But Duke sees light. He knows when something is dimming.

One afternoon, he finds you standing in a patch of sun by the Manor windows, very still.

You are staring up at the sky.

Not crying. Just aching in a way that has no easy shape.

Duke doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows better.

Instead, he stands beside you and says, “Tell me about the sky back home.”

You look at him.

His voice is gentle. “Only if you want.”

So you tell him.

About Tamaran’s colours. About heat like a living thing. About skies that seem close enough to touch. About the way sunlight felt different there, not better exactly, but familiar.

Duke listens.

No fixing. No interrupting. No trying to compare griefs.

Just listening.

When you finish, he says, “I’m sorry Earth feels cold sometimes.”

And that breaks something open in you. Because he understands it is not just about temperature.

After that, Duke starts creating small pieces of warmth for you.

He finds the best sunny rooftops in Gotham. He sends you pictures of beautiful skies when he’s out during the day. He brings you bright fabrics from street vendors because he noticed you like colours that feel alive.

He introduces you to Earth music that sounds warm.

He even makes a playlist called “For When Gotham Is Doing Too Much.”

You treasure it.

He pretends not to be shy about that.

He is shy about that.

Duke’s powers fascinate you, too.

Not in the same way Tim studies you.

With Tim, curiosity becomes data. With Duke, curiosity becomes wonder.

You ask what light feels like to him.

He has to think about it. “No one really asks that.”

“I am asking.”

So he tries to explain.

How light is information. How shadows have shape. How movement leaves traces. How sometimes the world feels layered, like he can see the echo of what just happened and the suggestion of what might happen next.

You listen, entranced.

Then you say, “Your eyes speak a language of light.”

Duke goes quiet.

He tells you things about his abilities he hasn’t fully put into words before.

Not because you ask perfectly. Because you ask like the answer matters.

The two of you begin comparing how you experience light.

For you, sunlight is fuel, memory, warmth, power. For Duke, light is pattern, perception, warning, truth.

You tell him that on Tamaran, light is often associated with vitality and emotional openness. He tells you that in Gotham, light feels like resistance.

You love that.

“Then you are resistance,” you say.

Duke exhales a laugh, but it’s softer than usual. “Guess so.”

On patrol, you and Duke work beautifully together.

He is steady. You are radiant.

He sees things before others do. You move fast enough to act on them. He calls directions, you trust him. You draw attention, he finds openings.

He can read the motion of a fight like light bending through glass, and you learn to follow his instincts without needing long explanations.

There’s a moment during a warehouse fight where he says, “Left, now,” and you move before you even see the threat.

A hidden shooter fires exactly where you had been standing.

You turn, starbolt bright in your hand, and take the shooter down.

Afterwards, Duke looks at you. “You trusted me.”

You look confused. “Of course.”

Like it was obvious. Like trust came easily.

Duke has to look away for a second.

Because trust does not always come easily in this family. And yet with you, sometimes it does.

That trust is mutual. When you overextend yourself, Duke is the one who talks you down without making it feel like criticism.

“You don’t have to prove you belong here every night.”

You stiffen. “I was not—”

He gives you a look.

A very calm, very knowing look.

You sigh.

Duke says, “Yeah. Thought so.”

He doesn’t shame you for it.

He gets it. He knows what it’s like to want to justify your place on a team full of legends, monsters, geniuses, and walking trauma responses in capes. He knows what it’s like to wonder if being different means you have to be useful every second.

So when he says, “You’re allowed to just be here,” you believe him more than you expect to.

Duke’s care is practical but warm. He brings you sunglasses when Gotham’s winter light hits weird off the snow. He keeps snacks around even though you can go longer without food, because he thinks eating together matters. He explains when jokes are affectionate instead of insulting. He checks in after crowded events because he knows too many people asking questions can feel like being surrounded.

He texts you photos of weird Earth animals with captions like, “Explain this design choice.”

You reply with increasingly serious analyses.

He sends you a possum.

You respond, “This creature has the soul of a weary monarch.”

Duke wheezes.

Your bond edges into romance so naturally that neither of you notices at first.

It doesn’t feel like falling. It feels like walking into sunlight and realizing you’ve been cold.

Duke starts saving stories to tell you. You start looking for him first when something about Earth confuses you.

He notices which colours you wear when you’re happy. You notice that his smile changes when he’s tired versus when he’s actually amused.

He starts taking the long way back from patrol because he likes hearing you talk. You start timing your visits to catch him after day patrol.

Everyone else notices.

Dick smiles knowingly. Steph makes kissy faces behind Duke’s back. Tim quietly updates an internal mental chart.

Jason says, “Signal, you and sunshine gonna figure that out, or do we need to send a memo?”

Duke says, “I’m ignoring you.”

Jason says, “That’s not a no.”

You ask Duke later, “What did Jason mean?”

Duke nearly trips over absolutely nothing. “Nothing. Jason talks for sport.”

You accept this because it is true.

But the question stays with him. Because Duke has been so focused on helping you feel at home, he hasn’t let himself consider what you have become to him.

Home, maybe.

Not in a heavy, frightening way.

In a morning-light way. In a “save this joke for them” way. In a “the day feels better when they’re in it” way.

The realisation comes during something ordinary.

You are both at a community garden Duke sometimes helps with during the day.

Nothing dramatic.

No villains. No rooftops. No emergency comms.

Just soil, sun, laughter, and you kneeling carefully beside a tray of seedlings.

You are listening to an elderly woman explain tomatoes with the solemn focus of someone receiving ancient wisdom.

Duke watches you ask whether the plants enjoy music.

The woman says yes, absolutely, and starts telling you about her favourite jazz records.

You nod with complete seriousness.

Sunlight catches in your hair. Your smile is soft. Human and alien and entirely yours.

Duke feels something in his chest settle.

Oh.

Oh, okay.

He likes you.

Not just as a friend. Not just as someone he wants to protect. Not just as a fellow light-bearing oddity in a city addicted to darkness.

He likes you. Romantically.

Duke handles this better than most of the Batfamily, because the bar is buried underground.

He does not make a spreadsheet. He does not vanish for three days. He does not pick a fight with a punching bag. He does, however, go very quiet and accidentally overwater a basil plant.

You notice. “Duke Thomas, are you distressed?”

He blinks. “You used my full name. That’s terrifying.”

“Your emotional light shifted.”

“Yeah, that’s also terrifying.”

He doesn’t confess immediately.

He takes time. Because he cares about you, and because you are still learning Earth relationships, he wants to be clear.

Not vague. Not flirty enough to confuse. Not joking enough to hide.

When he does tell you, it is gentle and honest.

He takes you to one of your favourite sunny rooftops, the one with the view of the river, where Gotham almost looks peaceful if you squint and believe in miracles.

He says, “I need to say something, and there’s no pressure attached to it.”

You turn toward him.

He continues, “I like you. Romantically. Not because you’re new here, not because you need help, not because I want to be your guide. I just… like who you are. How you see things. How you care. How you make the world feel bigger.”

You are very still.

Duke lets the silence breathe.

Then adds, softly, “You don’t owe me the same feeling. I just didn’t want to hide it from you.”

You study him for a long moment.

Then your smile blooms.

“You have been showing me Earth,” you say.

“Yeah.”

“But I think I began caring for Earth because you are in it.”

Duke’s face does something complicated and beautiful. “Oh.”

You step closer. “Is this a moment where I may offer touch?”

He laughs, breathless. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Your first kiss is warm and careful and sunlit.

Duke smiles into it like he can’t help himself.

After you get together, Duke is still your guide, but now the teaching becomes tender in a new way.

He takes you on real dates.

Not “accidentally romantic outings that everyone else clocks immediately.”

Actual dates.

He explains what a date is, and then immediately gets embarrassed because explaining dating while asking someone on a date is peak awkward.

You find it charming.

Your first official date is a daytime walk through Gotham. Murals, food trucks, a bookstore, a park, and a tiny bakery where Duke knows the owner.

You ask whether all dates involve this much walking.

Duke says, “Only the good ones.”

You take his hand. He pretends to be normal about it.

He is not normal about it.

Duke loves introducing you to Earth’s small joys.

Not because he wants to make you less Tamaranean. Never that. He loves you as you are: bright, direct, affectionate, fierce, strange by Earth standards and completely yourself.

He just wants to share his planet with you the way you share memories of yours with him.

He shows you rainstorms. You show him Tamaranean storm songs.

He shows you fireflies. You tell him about glowing sky-creatures from home.

He shows you old Earth cartoons. You laugh too loudly at the slapstick and become emotionally invested in every animal sidekick.

He shows you community basketball. You accidentally dunk from a height that is definitely not regulation.

Duke says, “Okay, so we’re not doing that again unless we want to start a religion.”

You also become extremely popular in Duke’s daytime Gotham circles.

The kids at the community centre adore you.

Partly because you are kind. Partly because you can fly. Mostly because you once lifted Duke one-handed after he teased you, and now they consider you a legend.

Duke learns more about Tamaranean customs from you, but he never treats them like trivia.

He asks about your home because he wants to know what shaped you. He learns greetings, holidays, mourning practices, romantic gestures, food traditions, and the emotional weight of certain words.

He mispronounces things sometimes.

You correct him.

He practices.

Not obsessively like Tim. Not competitively like Damian.

Just earnestly.

The first time he calls you by a Tamaranean endearment correctly, your entire expression softens.

Duke almost combusts.

Worth it.

He becomes especially careful with your homesickness.

Some days are harder than others. A smell, a colour, a sound, a memory of a creature from Tamaran, a holiday Earth does not share.

Duke does not try to replace your home. He knows better.

He simply makes room for the grief.

He says, “Tell me what you miss today.”

And you do.

Sometimes he holds your hand. Sometimes he just sits nearby. Sometimes he brings you outside to sit in the sun. Sometimes he asks if there is a Tamaranean custom for the feeling, and if there is, he does his best to honour it with you.

You once tell him that on Tamaran, when someone misses home, loved ones gather around them and speak memories aloud until the loneliness becomes communal instead of solitary.

Duke says, “We can do that.”

So he does. He listens to your memories. Then he adds his own memories of Earth.

Not to compete. To meet you halfway.

You speak of Tamaran’s skies. He speaks of Gotham sunrises after impossible nights.

You speak of alien flowers. He speaks of weeds growing through cracked pavement.

You speak of your people. He speaks of community.

The loneliness does not vanish. But it becomes held.

That is Duke’s gift. He does not always fix the dark. He makes sure you are not in it alone.

In the Batfamily, Duke becomes your soft landing place.

Not soft as in weak. Soft as in safe.

As in warm hands and clear explanations. As in laughter in the middle of impossible things. As in daylight with a backbone.

He will absolutely tease you. He will absolutely teach you memes. He will absolutely tell you when you are about to accidentally insult someone’s grandmother by misunderstanding a phrase.

But he will also stand beside you with quiet, unshakable loyalty.

If someone treats you like you are too much, Duke says, “They’re not too much. You’re just under-equipped.”

If someone calls you strange, Duke says, “Strange is not an insult in this city. Try harder.”

If someone assumes he is your handler, Duke’s smile disappears. “They don’t need a handler. They have a name.”

You love him for that.

And he loves you in the way light moves through a room.

Steady. Revealing. Warm without demanding attention.

He does not ask you to become more human. You do not ask him to become less shadow-touched.

You meet somewhere in the middle: two people shaped by light, learning that brightness can be a home, not just a power.

With Duke, Earth becomes less confusing. With you, Duke remembers that Gotham is not only a city of grief.

     He would burn Gotham to ash for you if you asked sweet enough. And unfortunately for him, this was not a well-kept secret.

     The manor buzzed with idle chatter, silverware clinking against porcelain as another suffocating family dinner dragged onward. Bruce spoke of patrol routes. Dick laughed too loudly at something Jason muttered beneath his breath. Tim looked half dead over a cup of tea, carefully brewed to his liking. 

     Damian, however, heard none of it.

     His pencil glided across paper with the precision of a surgeon’s blade. Every line deliberate. Every curve memorized. You lived inside his mind so vividly he no longer needed reference photos. He knew the exact shape of your smile, the way your eyelashes kissed your cheeks when you slept, the slight tilt of your head whenever you teased him.

     “Damian.”

      Nothing.

     “Damian.”

      Still nothing.

      “DAMIAN.”

     His head snapped upward, emerald eyes narrowed sharply toward Dick.

     “Holy shit,” Dick laughed, leaning back in his chair. “You’re gone gone. I called your name like five times. What are you drawing?”

     Damian’s expression flattened instantly. “Nothing that concerns you.”

     Jason, ever invasive, leaned over his shoulder before Damian could shut the sketchbook.

     “No fucking way.”

     Damian’s jaw clenched as Jason snatched the book fully from beneath his hand. Pages flipped one after another, each sheet revealing you in different forms. Smiling. Sleeping. Reading. Just existing.

     Entire pages dedicated to the slope of your lips alone.

     “You’re drawing them?” Jason asked, somewhere between amused and disturbed.

     “I draw many things,” Damian answered coolly, though the slight twitch in his brow betrayed him. “They simply occupy my thoughts at the moment.”

     Jason barked out another laugh, flipping faster now. “Dude. This whole sketchbook is about them.”

     Damian finally looked irritated. “They are my muse. I fail to understand why this conversation persists.”

     A dangerous pause.

     “Can I have that back now?”

     The table fell quiet as Jason slowly returned the sketchbook. Damian placed the sketchbook carefully before himself once more, fingertips brushing over the page like it contained something holy.

     The manor frightened you the first few times you stayed over. It groaned at night like something ancient lived beneath the floorboards. Endless hallways stretched into darkness, swallowing light whole. Portraits watched from the walls with unmoving eyes, and every creak sounded like the beginning of a horror film.

     Yet none of it seemed to matter once Damian wrapped himself around you. His chest pressed firmly against your back, warmth seeping through the cold air of the room. One arm draped over your waist possessively while his breathing ghosted against the nape of your neck.

     Safe. That was the word you associated with him most. Safe enough to fall asleep to the sound of rain striking the windows. Safe enough to melt entirely into his hold.

     Unfortunately, your bladder did not care about romance.

     You shifted slightly, grimacing as Damian’s grip instinctively tightened around your waist.

     “Dami,” you whispered hoarsely. “Damian, I have to pee.”

     A low grumble vibrated against your spine. Half asleep and deeply offended by your attempt to leave him.

     “Beloved,” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion, “ignore it.”

    “I physically cannot.”

     Another irritated sound escaped him before his hold finally loosened. Though not without one last squeeze, as if reminding you he expected, wanted, your return immediately.

      You slipped quietly from the bed and padded toward the bedroom door. Yet, The second it creaked open, regret settled into your bones. 

     Darkness. Endless, suffocating darkness stretched through the hallway, interrupted only by a few dim lamps flickering near his siblings’ doors. You stared into the corridor. The corridor seemed to stare back.

    Absolutely not.

   Slowly, carefully, you shut the door again before turning toward the bed. Damian remained half sprawled against the mattress, dark hair messy from sleep as he blinked at you through heavy eyes.

    “Damian,” you whispered.

     He hummed softly in response.

    “My love.”

     One green eye opened further at the name.

    “The hallway is dark.”

     Damian stared at you for a long moment. “It is two in the morning,” he replied flatly. “It is supposed to be dark.”

    You shifted awkwardly. “Dami… I’m scared.”

     Then, without another word, Damian pushed himself upright from the bed. Exhaustion clung to every movement as he stood, grabbing the nearest sword from beside his dresser purely out of instinct before realizing where he was.

     You blinked. “Why do you have that beside your bed?”

     “That is not the current issue.”

     Damian stood there for another second, sword still loosely hanging at his side while sleep fought to keep his eyes shut. The sight would have been intimidating if not for the fact his hair pointed in six different directions and one side of his shirt sat crooked on his shoulder.

    You tried not to smile. Tried. Failed miserably.

    “You are laughing at me,” he accused quietly.

    “You grabbed a sword to walk me to the bathroom in your own home.”

    “And?” His expression remained painfully serious. “If the manor decides to unleash horrors upon you at two in the morning, I will be prepared.”

     A laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it. Soft and warm and enough to make something gentler flicker briefly across his face.

     Damian sighed dramatically as he moved toward the bedroom door. “Come. Before your paranoia convinces you the wallpaper can eat you.”

     “You say that like this place doesn’t look haunted.”

    “It is gothic architecture.”

     “It is a vampire convention.”

    His hand wrapped around the doorknob before pausing. “That was one time. And Dracula was surprisingly polite.”

     “DAMIAN.”

     A ghost of a smirk touched his mouth as he finally opened the door. The hallway remained just as terrifying as before. Darkness swallowing the endless corridor whole while old wooden floors creaked beneath each step. Somewhere deep within the manor pipes groaned like a dying animal.

     Immediately, you latched onto the sleeve of Damian’s shirt. He looked down at your hand. Then at you. Then quietly shifted closer.

      “You mock me now,” you murmured.

     “I am adapting to your irrational behavior.”

     “Mhm.”

      The two of you walked slowly through the hall, Damian slightly ahead as though shielding you from shadows themselves. The dim lamps cast golden light across his features, catching against sharp cheekbones and tired green eyes. Even half asleep he moved like something lethal.  

     Another creak echoed somewhere downstairs. You froze instantly. Damian stopped too, gaze narrowing toward the darkness ahead. His grip on the sword adjusted automatically.

     “Probably Father,” Damian muttered.

     “Probably?”

     “Or Grayson attempting to make midnight cereal.”

     “That does not help.”

     A smaller hand suddenly shot from one of the side hallways. You nearly screamed. Damian physically recoiled backward while instinctively lifting the sword.

     “Woah! Jesus Christ!” Tim whisper-shouted, both hands raised immediately. “Why do you have a weapon?!”

     Damian looked genuinely offended by the question. “Why are you emerging from shadows like a Victorian child with the plague?”

    Tim blinked slowly. “I live here.”

    “An unfortunate decision.”

    You pressed both hands over your mouth trying desperately not to laugh as Tim’s exhausted eyes shifted between the two of you.

     “…Did you seriously escort them to the bathroom?”

    Damian’s face hardened instantly. “You will speak carefully.”

    Tim stared for another long second before sighing deeply. “I’m going back to my room.”

   “An excellent choice.”

   “You are both insane.”

    Tim disappeared back into the darkness just as suddenly as he appeared, leaving silence to settle once more.

     You looked toward Damian, barely holding yourself together now. “You almost stabbed him.”

     “He should not lurk.”

    “He was walking.”

    “Incorrect. He was skulking.”

    Another laugh escaped you, softer this time. 

     Damian looked at you for a moment too long after that. Something in his expression gentling so suddenly it nearly stole the breath from your lungs.

     “There,” he said quietly, nodding toward the bathroom door ahead. “Safe from the horrors of Wayne Manor.”

    “You’re making fun of me again.”

    “Only slightly.”

    You moved toward the bathroom before pausing at the doorway. “Will you wait for me?”

    Damian looked almost offended.

    “Beloved,” he said, voice low and certain, “I would wait lifetimes for you.”

     The city bled neon beneath Robin’s boots. Rainwater clung to the edges of rooftops, turning Gotham into something slick and silver beneath the moonlight. Patrol had dragged longer than expected. Two separate break-ins. A car chase through Burnley. One extremely irritating encounter with Killer Croc in the sewers that left Damian smelling faintly like mildew.

     He was exhausted. Worse, he missed you.

     The realization annoyed him more than the bruising ache settling beneath his ribs. Missing someone should not feel this consuming. This distracting. Every glimpse of warm apartment windows made something deep inside him ache with the memory of your laugh.

     Damian landed silently against the fire escape outside your apartment building, cape fluttering behind him. He told himself he was merely checking on you. Gotham had been increasingly dangerous lately. Drake had mentioned heightened gang activity near your neighborhood.

     That was the only reason he was here… obviously.

     Your bedroom window slid upward easily beneath practiced fingers. Darkness greeted him first. Then warmth.

     Your apartment always smelled like you. Faint traces of your favorite perfume and laundry detergent and something softer Damian could never properly describe without sounding absurdly poetic. It hit him instantly the moment he climbed through the window.

     And there you were, asleep. A small lamp near the couch cast golden light across the room, illuminating the mess of blankets tangled around your body. One of his hoodies swallowed you whole, sleeves hanging past your hands while the Gotham Knights shirt he’d lost three weeks ago clung loosely against your legs. His clothes.

     Damian went still. Something dangerous flickered low in his chest.

     You had fallen asleep waiting for him. Your phone rested beside your cheek, screen dark now, though several unread messages from him remained visible in notification previews.

Dami: Patrol ran late.

Dami: Do not wait awake for me.

Dami: I mean it.

     His jaw tightened faintly. You had ignored him. Like you always did when it came to him coming back late.

      The sight should have irritated him. Instead, warmth spread slowly through his chest with enough force to make him uncomfortable. You looked impossibly peaceful like this.

      One leg half hanging off the couch. Hair messy across the pillow beneath your head. Lips parted slightly as soft breaths escaped you. Completely defenseless. Completely his.

     Damian removed his domino mask quietly before stepping closer.

     The floor creaked beneath his boot. Immediately, your face scrunched slightly in your sleep.

     “…Dami?”

     His entire expression softened, “Yes, habibti.”

     Your eyes barely opened. Heavy with exhaustion. “You’re late.”

     “There was a situation downtown.”

    “Mhm.”

    You shifted deeper into the blankets before blinking at him slowly. “Did you get stabbed?”

    “Not tonight.”

    “Good.”

     The simplicity of your concern nearly killed him.

      You reached blindly toward him then, still half asleep. Damian stared at your outstretched hand for exactly one second before taking it immediately. Your fingers curled weakly around his glove.

      “There you are,” you mumbled.

      Damian exhaled quietly through his nose.

      Ridiculous. You had reduced the grandson of Ra’s al Ghul into something unbearably soft. 

      He crouched beside the couch carefully, gaze scanning over you with clinical precision despite the tenderness threatening to ruin him. 

     “You continue stealing from my wardrobe,” he observed quietly.

     A sleepy smile appeared instantly.

    “You like it.”

    “That is irrelevant.”

    “It smells like you.”

     His pulse stuttered.

     You were too tired to notice the way his shoulders locked instantly beneath the suit. You were dangerously unaware of the effect you had on him.

     Your eyes drifted shut again slowly. “Was waiting up,” you murmured. “Wanted to make sure   you came home okay.”

    Home. Not back. Home.

    Without another word, he stood carefully before lifting you from the couch with effortless precision. You stirred only enough to curl instinctively against his chest, face pressing into the space beneath his neck.

     “Tired,” you whispered.

     “I know.”

    Your arms wrapped lazily around him anyway.

    Damian carried you toward the bedroom in complete silence, footsteps impossibly gentle for someone trained to kill before he could properly read. Moonlight spilled across the sheets as he lowered you carefully onto the mattress.

      Yet the second he pulled away, your fingers caught weakly against his sleeve.

    “Stay.”

     The word came out barely audible. Damian looked down at you for a long moment.

You

u up?

It takes less than a minute, of course it does.

Dami 👻

It is 7:49 PM.

You

exactly ure awake

stop judging me i can feel it

Dami 👻

State your purpose.

You grin at your screen. At least he wasn't outright rejecting you anymore. That was progress!

You

ok first, i should rlly teach u how to text soon

u sound like a mob boss again

Dami 👻

I’m being direct.

It saves precious time.

You

its weird

Dami 👻

If you have nothing useful to say, I will be ending this conversation.

You sit up slightly, his message awaking you.

You

wait wait don't do that

were going out

The pause was longer this time.

Dami 👻

No.

You blink, seriously?

You

u didn't even ask where!

Dami 👻

It doesn't matter.

You

wow

so open minded of u

Dami 👻

We don't even have a proper itinerary.

There it was. You anticipated this.

You

perfect

Dami 👻

Explain.

You

the 2nd mission, teaching u to be spontaneous

You could feel his skeptical glare from the screen, but that was never enough to shoo you away.

You

no planning, no schedules.

Dami 👻

No.

Dang it, he probably didn't even consider it. You purse your lips together and brows knitted together, focused on convincing him.

You

oh cmon ure no fun

live a little dami

On the other end, Damian rolled his eyes at his phone. Live a little. You say it so easily. He already has. Just…not like this. He's done more than that, probably far more than you ever will.

If only you knew what that meant to him.

You

or r u scared? 🤨

…That does it.

Dami 👻

Send the location.

You couldn't help the smug grin on your face. That was a lot easier than you honestly expected. You quickly send the location to him.

You

don't be late!!

Dami 👻

I’m never late.

You smile to yourself, locking your phone and staring back at your reflection on the dark screen. The quiet creeped back in almost immediately, making you stand up to go grab your jacket.

Anything was better than this.

You spot him in the crowd almost immediately. Which was…a bit concerning honestly.

He stands out, and you weren't entirely sure if it was in a good way. He looks completely out of place, like he should be lurking in the shadows or some fancy gathering.

You don't think twice, you don't have to. You just walked straight towards him.

You blended in easily with the crowd, posture relaxed and smiled casually. And despite that, you barely made it halfway before his eyes landed on you.

Jesus. That was scarily quick.

You lifted your hand and gave him a small wave. And he doesn't wave back. That was awkward. You kept walking, until you stopped in front of him with a cheeky grin like you had just won the lottery.

“Alright,” you clap your hands together once. “Mission 02. Let's get started.” He doesn't get the chance to ask or say anything when you grab his sleeve and start dragging him further into the crowded street.

“Where do you exactly plan on going?” He asks, his voice flat and brows lifting slightly. “I heard there was a stall with really good fruit juice. We should try it!”

He looked at you, then closed his eyes for a moment as if to recollect himself. He was already regretting this.

The stall was louder than he expected. Not literally.

But the type of loud that had bright neon signs, a menu that had slightly crooked cursive, and a line of people that moved slower than the two of you could ever imagine.

“This…is the stall?” he asks flatly. “Yep!” you beam in return, already lining up. His eyes scan over the stall, clearly unimpressed and looking like it had personally offended him.

“It seems questionable.” he mumbles under his breath with a shake in his head. By the time you two reach the counter, he was already assessing everything. Until your voice cuts through his train of thought. “Two fruit juices, please!”

“I didn't-” His eyes shot down to you, only to see you already paying for the drinks and looking way too pleased with yourself. “Too late.” He instantly goes still. For a moment, you could see his mouth part slightly, probably to argue. Then close again.

Because somehow that look on your face was a lot more frustrating than the situation itself.

The vendor moved swiftly, while Damian stood rigidly. He scanned everything, the ingredients, the cleanliness, the preparation. “You're doing that face again.”

“This is just how my face looks.” He frowned deeper. “...That doesn't make it any better.” You shake your head slightly. The vendor calls out your name, sliding the two cups over to you.

You grab one cup first, then push the cup closer to him. He doesn't take it right away. Just stare at it, judgingly. You take a sip of your own juice, he watches your reaction carefully before he grabs his own cup cautiously. Like it had to earn his trust.

For a moment, his expression changes. Barely. Just a tiny raise in his brows that suggested he was a lot more impressed than he’d like to admit. “It is…acceptable.” he hummed, taking another drink as you both walked away from the stall.

“There it is.” You grin instantly. He doesn't respond or react to that, but he doesn't put down the drink either.

The ice in your drinks had already half melted from the heat of your hands when you stepped back into the crowded streets again. You were already searching through the rows of stalls, trying to find any remotely interesting snack.

Damian, on the other hand, was being hyper vigilant of his surroundings. His attention split effortlessly. His ears picking up on the sound of a group of friends laughing uncontrollably behind you, street vendors calling out to get people's attention, bells ringing when bikes passed by.

He doesn't mean to. But places like this—bustling and unpredictable—were ideal for trouble. There were too many blind spots most people wouldn't notice, too many distractions.

If something bad were to happen, it would be quick and easy. And most likely people wouldn't notice until it was too late.

The noise felt like it was surrounding Damian for a second, a caged feeling washing over him. Too many variables pressing in from all sides. His gaze shifts, to the left, right, behind you—shoulders tense and alert as he anticipated.

“Hey.”

Your voice cuts through the noise. He pauses, taking in a breath he had no idea he was holding. You're already a few steps ahead, facing him as you trusted the crowd behind you not to completely swallow you whole. (Which he finds questionable.)

You only needed to take one look at him to know what he was doing. “Relax,” you tell, voice softer this time. “Nothing's going to happen.”

His eyes scan everything around you out of habit. Then went back to you. “That is not a guarantee.” You couldn't help but smile way too fondly. Because everything wasn't a guarantee, hell—waking up in the morning isn't even a guarantee.

“Yeah, but at the moment? It's good enough.” He waits for a moment. Everything was still there. The noise, the people, the unpredictability. But it fades into background noise, not completely. Just..enough for him to actually lower his guard down.

You turn forward like nothing happened and start walking again. “Come on,” you say lightly, expecting him to follow. “I saw some empanadas over there.” He exhaled quietly, and reluctantly followed you.

This stall was quieter, tucked in between brighter and flashier stalls like a hidden gem. Your eyes light up at the sight of the golden pastries. Damian stopped beside you, seeing your delight. “Hm…deep fried.”

You barely give him a glance. “Two, please!” Because you were already ordering. “I did not—” You raise your finger at him and wiggle it in a ‘no’ motion. “Too late.”

A few seconds later, a warm paper bag was pressed into your hands as you handed over the payment again. You wasted no time and pulled one out quickly, softly blowing on it before you bite. “Ow ow ow, oh my gosh—it's delicious.”

Your cheeks puff up each time you attempt to cool down the food in your mouth. “At least wait for it to cool down.” he tells, watching you like you were a fish forming bubbles.

“You need to try this.” You turn to him, already pulling out the second empanada from the paper bag. “I will not.” You pause, as if you were waiting for him to give in. You slowly took another bite of your own empanada, and he ends up watching you chew it in a deliberate manner. “Whatever. You're definitely missing out.”

He looks at you, then at the empanada, then back at you. “Fine.” You freeze mid-chew, your eyes practically saying “Really?” He rolls his eyes and reaches out his hand, waiting for you to offer the pastry to him. “I’m only confirming if you're telling the truth.”

You hand it to him, nodding with an unconvinced but pleased smile on your face. He takes it and takes a moment to look at it carefully. It's mostly cooled down by now when he takes a bite. His expression remains unreadable with each chew. “It's acceptable.”

You end up rolling your eyes, not bothering to make a comment about how boring his compliments were. You would've been better off reading reviews off of Google. You step away from the stall, taking another bite yourself. “Come on, let's find someplace to sit.”

Damian followed beside you, eating his own empanada silently. You glance around the place, trying to look for any spots where you two could sit down and rest.

Bingo! A bench.

It wasn't exactly far away from the crowd, but the distance was enough to dull down the noise, just enough to breathe. “Over there.” You point, already rushing over there because you’d be damned if anyone got there before you.

You drop down on the bench with zero hesitation when you get there, leaning back into the cold wood as you let out a relaxed sigh. Ick. You stick your tongue out when you take a sip of the fruit juice. It did not taste good warm..

Damian sits at the other end, not too far and not too close. The atmosphere was a huge contrast to the busy streets earlier, here—things finally slowed down.

You turn over to him, just scooting an inch closer. “So, do you always go out like this?” He blinks down at you. He thinks about it for a moment. Technically, yes. In fact, he was always out at night—not in places like this though.

“...Occasionally.” He answers, which again—technically wasn't a lie either. He attended galas, and sometimes his brothers dragged him out of the house. Still, you raise a brow.

When silence falls between you two, not uncomfortably, just…natural. It gave him an opportunity to talk this time. “You seem used to this.” He gestured subtly at the crowds of people and the noise drifting in from the street.

You glance towards the street, taking it in. “Yeah, I guess so.” You rest your face against your hand. “It's a lot better than being bored.” You could almost grimace at the thought of spending your night scrolling on your phone and sulking in bed.

You simply weren't that type of person to stop when it felt like your world was crumbling. The world always kept on spinning. It wouldn't pause for some teenage girl just so she could get a breather.

He watches you closely, a bit too closely. “How about when it's quiet?” He could see you pause, only for a split second. Then you smile again, casually. “I just find something to do.” You lean back further, stretching your arms idly.

Then a much cheekier smile appears on your face. “Or someone to bother.” you add, giving him a knowing glance. “Obviously.” He sighed, making you grin wider. He doesn't look away this time.

He's starting to understand that you don't fill in the silence because you enjoy it. You fill it because you can't stand the feeling that comes with it.

“Enough serious talk.” You sat up straighter, taking the final bite out of your empanada. “This is starting to sound like a therapy session.”

He doesn't push, letting the quiet moment slip away.

You hop up from the bench, tossing the paper bag into a nearby trash can. “Alright,” You brush your hands together, ridding of any crumbs. “I believe Mission 02 is a success.” You pull out your phone to check the time. It wasn't too late. Not that it mattered.

A little girl runs past, her childish carefree laughter spilling into your world even as you tried to ignore it by not looking. She darts down the street, a man—her father, chasing her down with a tired smile.

Her laughter fades into the street behind you, leaving a hollow feeling in your chest. And you pretend you don't feel it. A beat passes in the uncomfortable silence.

“We should head back.” You blink once, as if his voice pulled you out of a moment you had no idea you were still stuck in. “Right, yeah..” you agreed with a hum, a softer smile returning to your lips.

“We can walk.” he says, already angling himself towards the street. And this time, you follow him without a word.

No one’s waiting for you.

The words return to his thoughts uninvited, too familiar to ignore. So he kept walking, a bit more aware. Not of the city's danger this time, but of you.

Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.

That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.

"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.

That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.

You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.

"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.

Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.

Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.

You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.

Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.

Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.

"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."

The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.

"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.

"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."

He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."

This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.

"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.

He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.

Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.

"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."

Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.

"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."

Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.

Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—

Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.

Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.

It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.

A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.

Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.

He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.

"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."

You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.

"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"

His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.

"She's dead."

It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.

Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.

When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.

Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.

You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.

It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.

"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.

There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.

"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.

Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.

"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."

You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.

"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."

His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.

"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"

Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.

"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.

Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."

"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."

"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.

"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.

"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"

He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."

You draw a short breath. "Shit."

Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.

You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.

He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.

"There is nothing here." He states.

"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."

His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.

"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.

Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.

You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.

"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."

You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.

The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.

"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.

Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"

"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."

That... sounds very Damian of him.

You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."

Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."

Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.

This time, you take his hand.

Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.

"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.

His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."

Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."

You raise a brow, confused.

He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."

Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.

"What do you want to know?" You shrug.

His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"

Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"

His smile strains a little, and you realise why.

"Ah." You murmur.

"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."

You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."

He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.

"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.

"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."

"So, why are you here?" You push.

A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."

You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.

"What else do you like?" He reiterates.

Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"

"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."

"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."

His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."

"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."

He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"

"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."

He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."

"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."

The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.

He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.

"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."

"I like that."

You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.

"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."

His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."

Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.

"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."

Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.

Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.

It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.

"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."

He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.

He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.

"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."

"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.

You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.

"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."

Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.

"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.

"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"

"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."

"At being fair?" He asks.

"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.

His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."

The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.

He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.

"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.

"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."

Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.

You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.

A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.

"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.

He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.

"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."

"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"

Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.

What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.

"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."

He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.

"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."

"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.

You blink, taken aback by his reaction.

"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."

"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."

His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.

"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."

Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.

"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."

His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."

"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."

"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."

"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."

He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.

"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."

He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"

"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."

He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.

"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."

He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.

"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.

You nod gently.

Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.

When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.

When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.

"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.

As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.

He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.

It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.

"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."

You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."

"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."

This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.

Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.

"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."

That settles it. In two days... you're going home.

"I hate waiting."

"I am aware." Damian murmurs.

"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.

"Alright."

Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.

His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."

You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."

"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.

"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"

"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."

"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.

"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.

"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.

He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.

Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.

"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.

The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.

"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.

Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.

Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.

"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.

"I never got to tell you." He starts.

Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.

"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."

"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."

The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.

He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."

"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."

Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.

"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."

"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."

You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.

Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.

You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.

How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?

Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.

A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.

"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.

He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.

What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.

"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."

That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.

He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.

"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."

"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."

It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.

In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.

Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.

But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works