café con canela

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

[extra pov] - alt! damian + reader’s damian after her return

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

At the time, you’d been too young to truly recognise the ugly cocktail of emotions and insecurities that threatened to swallow you; all you remember is being certain they wouldn’t want you anymore. But then Martha had called your name, ushering you forward to take a look at your new baby brother. 

He was a little ugly, had been your first thought, albeit one you hadn’t dared verbalise, but then a tiny hand had worked its way free from the blanket, even smaller fingers curling around one of your own with an unfeasible strength, and your heart swelled with overwhelming love. 

You are young, and although you haven’t experienced much of the world yet, you’re no stranger to the darkness that lingers. The world is a cold and cruel place, but you’ll not let that be Bruce’s experience. This was your little brother, blood be damned, and you would do anything to keep him safe. 

Fate hears the silent convictions of a child likely too young to ever remember this moment and laughs. If that was your wish, then so be it.

It starts with small concessions. The best part of your dinner given to a pouting Bruce, the movie you want to watch put aside for another rerun of Grey Ghost, your sleep sacrificed as your teary little brother admits to having a nightmare, wanting to sleep with you instead. 

And like a sucker, you cave every time. The best part of your steak is cut and on his plate before he can even ask, his favourite episode already prepared, as your preferred VHS tapes sit gathering dust, your nights devoted to ensuring he sleeps soundly. 

The sacrifices start small until you’re staring down the barrel of a gun, your mother’s blood staining your face and hair as you push a catatonic Bruce behind you. He’s trembling, hands clenching the previously white material of your shirt as he futilely attempts to pull you back from the danger. 

Reaching behind, you push him into your back, making him a smaller target behind your larger frame. “What do you want?” Your voice is shaky, barely audible over the thunderous pounding of your heart in your ears. The barrel of the gun glints in the low lighting, swinging wildly until it’s pointed at your face. Bruce whimpers, the vibration travelling through your body as your gaze stays locked on the threat. 

The man doesn’t answer, beady eyes staring you down before flickering to your mother’s cooling corpse at your feet. The two of you remain locked in your silent staredown for what seems an eternity before the murderer darts forward, reaching down to rip your mother’s pearls from her neck, pocketing whatever doesn’t go flying across the grimy alley floor along with your father’s wallet before disappearing into the shadows. 

Bruce moves, a whimper on his lips, but you’re faster, turning to hug him close to you, burying his face in your chest so he doesn’t see more than he already has. “It’s ok, you’re ok.” You repeat, desperately clutching him close in an attempt to convince yourself of the only words you can manage to muster. Bruce squirms in your arms, his tears soaking through your shirt, but you barely notice, eyes wide and shellshocked. You don’t dare close your eyes, for the second you do, your mother’s face, frozen in death, sears itself onto the back of your eyelids. 

You don’t notice the police arrive, you barely notice the officers ushering you into the back of a patrol car until they try to separate you and Bruce, who screams bloody murder. Adrenaline pumps through you, lips pulling back in a snarl as you lunge for the young man trying to pull your sobbing brother away from you. Nails rake through flesh, more blood staining your fingers as you frantically reach for Bruce. 

Chaos erupts, voices yelling in overlapping white noise that you can’t even begin to make out. Your little brother is already reaching for you, snot and tears streaming down reddened cheeks as you pull him into you, curling over him as best you can, hiding him from the group of heartbroken onlookers. 

A young James Gordon pushes through the crowd of useless officers, slowly approaching the siblings with his coat shrugged off, gently laying it over the older girl. Bloodshot eyes snap up to stare at him, wild and unrestrained as you curl even further around your brother. Broadcasting his movements, Jim places his palm on your back, a silent message that, thankfully, you seem to understand, and relax enough until he manages to usher the two of you into the vehicle, Bruce curled into your side and his coat still hanging off your shoulders. 

With your parents gone, it’s up to you to become Bruce’s primary caretaker. You’re still a child yourself, but Alfred’s not nearly up to the task, too stuck in the old ways of emotionless child-rearing that you refuse to let Bruce become a casualty of. 

But it’s a lot easier said than done. Your grades plummet, your social life is nonexistent, and extracurriculars are quit. Nights are spent watching over him, comforting him through the inevitable nightmares as you fight the constant exhaustion threatening to pull you under. Your entire life is put on hold, frozen, sacrificed in order to pour everything you have into ensuring Bruce’s safety and happiness. 

It’s not until you’re nearing graduation that you become aware of the insidious machinations happening inside your family’s company, your father’s company. The man had devoted his entire life to helping others, and now his legacy was being tarnished. 

Bruce had never wanted to step into that world; it wasn’t in his nature, it wasn’t in yours either. But you knew if push came to shove, Bruce would give up his own dreams to take the reins at Wayne Enterprises. 

Your entire life has been built on sacrifice; what’s one more?

By sheer grit, sleepless nights, and exhausted tears, you manage to pull your grades up enough just in time to graduate. Not enough to get into some prestigious school, but that’s fine by you; you’d never leave Gotham anyway, not when Bruce was still here. 

You enrol at Gotham University, accepted into your first preferences of a dual business/law degree. You suspect your last name plays a large role in this acceptance, and you think you should feel cheated, but you don’t. There’s a prestige associated with the Wayne name that you aren’t above abusing to achieve your goals. 

Alfred spares no expense, cooking all your favourite meals as he stares at you with teary eyes filled with pride. 

“I thought you wanted to be a teacher?” Bruce stares at you like he doesn’t even know who you are anymore, and it takes everything in you not to scream. You’re doing this for him; it’s all for him. 

But that’s a secret you’ll take to the grave, because you know Bruce will never forgive himself for it. So you bite back the hurt, shrugging with a perfectly practised smile as you say you’ve changed your mind. The look on his face lets you know he doesn’t believe it, but maybe if you both pretend enough, it’ll become real. 

You visit as much as you can, having moved out of the manor to be closer to those early morning classes, and as much as you worry for Bruce, you know it’s time you let him grow a little without your stifling presence. 

New friends invite you out on the weekends, from toga parties to study sessions, but you skip them all in favour of going home. 

“You don’t have to visit every weekend, you know. Don’t you have friends you want to spend time with?” Bruce comments, surly teenager that he is, as he settles into the couch, an episode of Grey Ghost already queued. 

You pause, placing down the popcorn bowl on the coffee table before flopping down next to him, picking up the fluffy blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders as you pull him into a hug. “I get to spend the whole week with them. Besides,” you pull back to squish his cheek as he scowls, “you’re more important.”

Bruce’s words ring in your head as you stare up at the ceiling, lying in your childhood bed that was nearly as big as your entire dorm room. The wall of plushies stares down at you judgmentally as you toss and turn. 

Had that been his way of gently saying he didn’t need you anymore? That you shouldn’t visit?

Your door creaks open, the shadows parting to reveal your not so little anymore brother, hesitance lacing his frame. “Bruce?”

“I couldn’t sleep. Can I…” He trails off, clearly embarrassed. 

“Come here.” You sit up, lifting the blanket until he’s beside you, burying his face in your shoulder with a shuddered breath. Gently running a hand through his sweaty locks, you rock him gently, murmuring soothing words and silly stories to take his mind off the unpleasant dreams. 

It’s been years since you’ve had to do this. Bruce had stopped climbing into your bed after the nightmares the moment he’d turned thirteen, even if the deep circles beneath his eyes betrayed the sleepless nights he’d endured. 

You fight back the urge to cry, both from Bruce’s misery that you’ll never be able to erase and from the confirmation that he still needed you. That he’d always need his big sister. 

Bruce turns 18, and the joy of his graduation is instantly squandered by the announcement that he’s leaving Gotham. He’s unsure for how long, but he asks for your support, determination in his gaze as you try not to falter. 

It’s all you’ve ever wanted for him, to go and enjoy his life, to be free to make the decisions you wouldn’t—couldn’t, and you see him off with a broad smile despite the tears streaming down your cheeks. 

Alfred brews your favourite tea, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder before leaving you to your thoughts without a word. You’re happy for Bruce, you really are, but that doesn’t stop the ugly swirl of resentment from building in your gut, the jealousy that no matter how hard you try to swallow, persists. 

You still visit Alfred, but your weekends are no longer devoted to returning to the manor, as you decide to throw yourself into the fullest experience College can offer. You’re only young once, and perhaps it’s time you let go of your brother, of the ghost of your parents and let yourself live. 

Your girlfriends excitedly drag you to a stoplight party, decked out in neon greens, as you finally allow yourself to fully enjoy a party. It’s a few drinks in, after hours spent dancing with your friends and strangers, when you’re pulled to the side by one of your few friends already in a committed relationship and are voluntold to join the latest round of Beer Pong. 

You don’t know any of the players, but your entire life, you’ve had to navigate Gotham’s circle of elite and a few drinks deep, you’ve become a real social butterfly. Introductions are quick, the boy—Harvey— is cute (and dressed in green, you can’t help but notice), but there are more important things on your mind for now, like winning. 

Turns out, you and Harvey are an unbeatable team, and soon you’ve got other challengers lining up to test their luck against the dynamic duo. A crowd surrounds the table, all other activities forgotten as people howl and cheer around you. 

It’s the closest game so far, but your opponents only have one cup left, and it's your turn to throw. The crowd is silent, watching with bated breath, and the pressure is on, but you’ve always thrived under it, and the little plastic ball sinks into the cup easily as people holler and money exchanges hands. 

You pay none of it any attention, instead turning to Harvey with a victorious squeal, jumping excitedly into his arms. He’s surprised, but adjusts easily, squeezing you back as you pull away just enough to stare at his face. Up close, you notice how long his lashes are, brushing against his cheek as he blinks, his eyes flicker down to your lips, and butterflies erupt in your stomach. Your lips part, and just as you think he’s starting to lean in, a hand clasps on your shoulder, spinning you to face your squealing friends, “Oh my god, girl! Since when were you like, the greatest to ever play beer pong?”

“I don’t know, I guess I just had a good partner.” You shrug, letting yourself be tugged away by the excitable gaggle of girls. Glancing over your shoulder with a sheepish grin, you find Harvey already staring after you. Cheeks warming, you snap your head around just in time to see Stacey lift up her camera for a group picture. 

To your immense disappointment, you don’t get to speak to Harvey again that night, having to take a messy Emma home when it’d become clear she’d had too much to drink. 

You fall into bed that night giddy and buzzed, the world spinning a little as you drift off to sleep. For once, you don’t dream about your parents; instead, pretty blue eyes and a rogueish grin plague your dreams as you sleep peacefully for the first time in weeks. 

“Party girl.” It’s not even a week later when none other than Harvey slides into the chair next to you mid-study session in one of the two campus libraries. 

“Harvey,” you blink, subconsciously sitting up straighter as you try to remain casual. You were a Wayne; men chased after you, not the other way around. 

“You remember me?” He sounds pleased, eyes lighting up a little as you turn in your seat to face him. 

“After we decimated the competition? How could I forget?” His lips quirk further upwards, and your eyes can’t help but follow the movement. 

“I’ve got a bit of a confession to make, I already knew who you were.” You try not to sink into the disappointment his words prompt. Of course he did, this was Gotham, and despite your disdain for the title, you were its princess. He’d probably seen more of the tabloids with your name and face plastered across them than you had. 

“We’re in the same criminal law lecture. I still remember the way you verbally eviscerated that idiot Skylar. I’d wanted to meet you ever since just to shake your hand.”

Skylar? You mouth to yourself, brows furrowed in an adorable manner that makes Harvey’s heart skip a beat. It’s not until he starts describing the aforementioned idiot that your nose scrunches in recognition, “Oh, him.”

“Yeah, him.” Harvey nods before putting on his best suave grin, “So, how about that handshake?”

Rolling your eyes, you hold your hand out to him, breath hitching a little when he lifts your knuckles to his lips, gaze never leaving yours. 

Oh, he was trouble. Though looking into those pretty blue eyes focused entirely on you, you’re not sure you mind. 

Harvey Dent is suspiciously perfect. He’s intelligent, handsome, charming, the perfect gentleman. As the weeks pass and you give no indication of reciprocating his increasingly obvious affections, you wait for the veneer to slip, for the inevitable realisation that he’s just like every other man out there. 

He’s popular with the ladies; girls practically trip over themselves to get his attention, each prettier than the last, but to Harvey, it’s as if they don’t even exist. You’re the only one he spares a second glance at, the only one who gets escorted to classes and has study dates, the only one who gets to see the real him, and though you haven’t even had a proper first date, you can feel yourself falling embarrassingly fast. 

A glance at your watch prompts a frown. Harvey’s late; he’s never late. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve got the time wrong, or even the wrong library, but you could’ve sworn—

A frantic call of your name interrupts your thoughts, Emma running over to you with a panicked look on her face. Before you can even ask, she’s grabbing your arm, tugging you to your feet and pulling you along after her. 

“Emma, what—”

“It’s Harvey, he got in a fight!”

“What?!” You shriek, following after her with more urgency now, “Where?”

“Over by the science block.” As soon as the location leaves her lips, you’re taking off, sprinting ahead with your heart pounding as your mind conjures scenario after terrible scenario. 

A jeering crowd draws your attention, and you shove your way through the excitable crowd, just in time to witness an unfamiliar man punch Harvey in the mouth. The crowd cheers as you scream his name, causing both men's attention to snap towards you. 

There’s a bruise already starting to decorate his jaw, and his lip is swollen and bloodied enough to make you wince. “Harvey?”

“There she is, the slut of the hour.” No name chimes in with open arms and a smirk as you stare at him with furrowed brows. 

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Whoever he is, he doesn’t get the chance to answer, as an enraged Harvey tackles him to the ground suddenly. 

“I said, don’t call her that!” Taken by surprise at the sudden attack, the other man doesn’t manage to get his arms up in time to block the barrage of furious blows Harvey lands against his unprotected face, struggles dying down as he slips into unconsciousness. 

“Harvey, Harvey!” You scream, barely managing to pull him off the now still body, “Harvey!” He looks to you then, chest heaving, a wildness in his eyes that takes you aback. He goes to speak, but you’re keenly aware of the various eyes staring at the free show, and you shake your head, taking him by a bloodied hand as you lead him back to your dorm, away from leering eyes. 

Harvey’s silent as you clean bloodied and cracked knuckles, gaze averted as you hiss frustrated obscenities between a lecture. “What were you even thinking? Why would you even—”

“He called you a slut!” He roared, finally meeting your gaze with fury that gives you pause, eyes wide as you stare at him unblinking. Instantly, he softens, regret colouring his features as he reaches out to take your hand, “he was bragging, loudly, about how you’d had sex and all the things he’d—” His jaw clenches, “he said you were easy, called you all sorts of names and I—”

“So you hit him?”

“He deserved worse.” Harvey spat, looking away until you lifted a hand to cup his cheek tenderly. 

“Harvey, look at me, please.” Reluctantly, he does so, as if expecting to be met with your scornful gaze, “thank you for defending my honour, even if I wish you hadn’t gotten into a fight.” And before he can answer, before you second-guess yourself, you close the distance, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips as you try your best to avoid his injuries. 

All too soon, you’re pulling away, giggling when Harvey follows after you, eyes slowly flickering open. He blinks a few times, composing himself before looking to you with a hopeful grin, “Does this mean you’ll go on a date with me?”

Though you roll your eyes, butterflies erupt in your stomach as you attempt to remain nonchalant, “one date, then we’ll see.”

Harvey grins like a man who’s just won the lottery, and even then, you know it’s not going to be just one date.

You wake with an aborted scream, limbs trembling and sweat soaking the sheets beneath. Tears well in your eyes that you desperately try to fight back, chest heaving as you struggle to calm your breathing. 

“Sweetheart?” Harvey’s voice is groggy, his hands smoothing over sheets as he attempts to locate you in the dark. 

Guilt gnaws at you; he’d had a few late nights in the office lately, nearly working himself to exhaustion over the latest case he’d caught, and he needed all the sleep he could get. “M’sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“None of that now, darlin.” He huffs, pulling you back down into his arms even as you weakly protest that you’re all sweaty and gross. “Like I care about that… your parents?” His voice is soft, endlessly understanding as you nod against his bare chest. 

Harvey knows there’s not really anything he can say to make it better, to take away the lingering pain and fear from that night, no matter how much he wishes he could. Throughout the years, he’s learned what does and doesn’t work, but you’d been doing so well lately, sleeping through the night for months without incident. 

Suddenly, you’re moving, throwing a leg over his hips as you straddle him, palms braced against his chest as you lean down, “distract me, please.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t think—” He gasps, cheeks colouring and hands gripping your hips on instinct as you grind down on him. 

“Please, Harv, I need you.” Harvey’s always been a man of great resolve, but you see the moment he buckles, giving in to you like always. He never was able to deny you anything. 

Strong arms lift you, rolling until you're flat against the mattress, trapped beneath his bulk. The moonlight filtering in from the window highlights his pretty face, and your breath hitches at the unabashed adoration shining in his eyes. 

“I love you. More than anything.” He whispers, nuzzling into the side of your jaw and pressing tender kisses along every patch of skin he can reach. Your heart flutters, butterflies swarming in your lower belly at the declaration. Harvey’s been uttering those same words for years now, but he still manages to make every instance special, never diminishing in their meaning. His lips carve a path down your sternum as he slides beneath the covers to rest between your legs, “Let me prove it, yeah?”

Your hands grip chestnut locks, hips bucking up to meet his eager mouth as you let your thoughts drift to nothing but Harvey and the modest ring he’d placed on your finger. 

It’s late, far too late to be considered polite visiting hours when the knock on your front door comes. You’re already dressed for bed, hair still damp from the shower you’d shared with your fiancée. You pause, setting down your glass of water with a frown as you debate the merits of answering. 

Harvey would be upset with you. You may still live in one of the nicest areas in the city, but this was still Gotham. The knock comes again, this time slightly more insistent, and your feet start to move before you can think better of it. 

“Sweetheart? Is someone at—” Harvey steps into the room, eyes widening as he sees you reach for the door handle, “Don’t! I’ll—” He hurries across the space, but you’ve already opened it. 

“Bruce?” Tears well in your eyes at the boy, the man, standing on the other side. He’s filled out, broad shoulders, sharp aristocratic features finally suiting his face, and he’s nearly two heads taller than the last time you saw him, but it's undeniably your little brother. 

He opens his mouth, before closing it again, unsure what to say, repeating the cycle as you desperately drink him in. He never was the best with words, but you’ve spent a life learning to decipher every expression and minute shift in body language that you understand well enough. 

I missed you. I’m sorry. 

Before you can read deeper into it, you're throwing your arms around him with a sob. At some point, your knees give out, but Bruce catches you with ease, holding you upright as he leads you inside, setting you down on the couch as Harvey watches like a hawk, settling next to you. 

Bruce stares offendingly at the hand Harvey’s placed on your bare thigh, the men sizing each other up while you’re distracted. 

“I went to the manor first, but Alfred said you’d moved out years ago, with your…” Bruce trails off in thinly veiled disdain. 

“Fiancee.” Harvey deadpanned, “Harvey Dent.” 

“Bruce, where have you been?” You cut in, brimming with so many questions you’ve been longing to ask for years, gaze not daring to stray from Bruce’s face for fear that he’ll disappear again, that this will all have been some fanciful dream. 

You hope it’s just Harvey’s presence, but Bruce has never been comfortable around strangers, and there’s something wrong with your little brother. It’s not noticeable at first, but the more questions you ask, the fewer answers you actually get. He’s deflecting, downplaying, revealing insignificant details as his words circle you. 

Had you been anyone else, he may have fooled you, but you’ve been the CEO of Wayne Enterprises for a few years now, and you’ve spent your life cutting through the bullshit of suck-ups and enemies alike. And more than anything, you know your little brother. There may be years and what now seems like thousands of miles between the two of you, but you still know Bruce, perhaps better than you know yourself. 

You stay up late into the night, speaking about everything and nothing at all until your eyelids droop heavily, head nodding as you struggle to keep yourself upright, and Harvey’s forced to intervene, tucking you into bed despite your protestations. 

The bedroom door clicks shut behind him softly, the atmosphere suddenly a lot less welcoming as the two men stare each other down. 

“Fiancee, huh, with whose permission?” Bruce scowls, all false pretences completely dropped, gaze icy and jaw set. 

“Hers.” Harvey grits, fists clenched as he fights to keep his temper in check, “Maybe if you’d been around, I would’ve asked.”

“I—” Bruce starts, but Harvey’s not finished, years' worth of resentment and grievances for the man who claimed to be your brother bubbling forth. 

“No! You don’t even realise, do you? What she’s sacrificed just for you! The absolute hell you’ve put her through these past years. Never calling, never writing, nothing! You could have been dead off in some foreign country, and she would have been none the wiser! How dare you come back and judge me? I’ve been the one here to pick up the pieces, the one loving her, holding her through the tears and the nightmares. It’s you who doesn’t deserve her.” Harvey seethes, struggling to keep his voice so as not to wake you. 

Bruce is silent, and the shame that overcomes his features is nearly enough to satisfy Harvey. Nearly. 

“There’s a spare bedroom, you’ll sleep there tonight and stay for breakfast.” He leaves no room for argument, ignoring Bruce’s surprise. “She’s just got you back, you’ll break her heart if you leave so soon, and I think you’ve done enough of that already, yeah?”

With the only reason for your impending nuptials to be put on hold finally returned to Gotham, you and Harvey marry within the month. The two men put aside their own grievances for at least one day, just to see you happy. 

(They both cry as you walk down the aisle, though for very different reasons.)

You should have known the universe would never let you stay so happy. 

It’s a year into your marriage, and life with Harvey is still perfect. He’s attentive, doting and still sickeningly in love with you even after all these years. Everything’s perfect until Johnny Viti’s wedding. Harvey comes home black and blue, tension in his brow as he brushes off your concerns. 

Unbeknownst to you, the tides are shifting in Gotham, and your perfect life is about to shatter into a million pieces. 

It’s Halloween, and Harvey comes home smelling of ash, all grins and lingering touches as you hand out candy to the neighbourhood kids. Johnny Viti’s been shot in the head, and Harvey’s dealt a serious blow against the Roman by burning all that money. He’s had the perfect day, right up until he brings the mail in. 

It’s by some cruel, sick cosmic joke that he’s somehow miraculously unharmed in the impending explosion, barely a scratch on his perfect skin, whilst you lie prone and immobile on the stark white hospital bed. 

The Batman comes in through the window, a silent spectre and witness to Harvey’s grief as he clutches your hand, tear tracks marring his cheeks. “I don’t care how, find me the bastard that did this so I can kill him.”

Bile rises in his esophagus as Bruce stares at your limp form.

 Maybe he should have paid more attention to the inflection in Harvey’s voice (perhaps then he could have somehow prevented what was to come), but for the first time since his return to Gotham, Bruce considers the merits of breaking his self-imposed rules. 

The killings continue. Blood is spilt on both sides, and Harvey becomes a man obsessed, possessed even until his presence in your home becomes less likely than not. He slides into bed hours after you’ve gone to sleep, holding you close as if it would protect you from the chaos filling the streets as months pass and the GCPD remains no closer to identifying a killer. 

He knows you’re lonely, that you’re even starting to resent him a little, the screaming match you’d started when he’d come to you with the possibility of a connection between Bruce and the Roman still rang heavy in his ears. 

He pictures the longing glances you’d throw little Barbara Gordon whenever their family visited and the doubt that had overcome your features upon discovering the .22 calibre handgun in the basement. Harvey knows he’s losing you, and the thought has him squeezing you tighter until you groan a little in your sleep. 

It’s nearly over. Things will go back to normal soon, and you’ll be a family again. But until then, Harvey will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Whatever it takes. 

There’s a break in the case. Sal Maroni takes the stand, and with you watching front and centre from the gallery, Harvey feels invincible. This is it, the testimony he needs and then he can come to you early for the first time in months; he can be your husband again. 

He confesses to two murders, and Harvey’s riding high right up until the acid hits his skin. Until he’s overcome with the most severe pain a person could possibly experience, skin and cloth melting away as he writhes in agony on the floor. 

There’s a shrill scream echoing through the courtroom, and it takes you a few moments to realise that you’re the one screaming, pushing through the chaos of horrified onlookers and sliding onto the carpeted courtroom floors. Your knees split open upon contact, a horrific carpet burn that you won’t even notice until long after the adrenaline’s worn off. 

Tears cloud your vision, hysterical sobs bursting from your chest as you scream for help. Harvey’s still writhing in agony as you gently settle his head on your lap, unsure how to help, if you can help. There’s no blood to staunch, it’s not a simple laceration, and even just steadying his head had caused him immense pain. 

It’s Bruce who has to bodily pull you off him as the paramedics arrive. Logically, you know you need to let them work, but with each of Harvey’s pained screams, you can’t help but struggle in Bruce’s arms, wailing as you’re dragged away from the scene. 

You refuse to leave Harvey’s hospital bedside, stationed loyally by his side as you hold his uninjured hand, eyes dried and all out of tears. Bruce tries to get you to take a break, to go home, shower, go for a walk, something, but his pleas fall on deaf ears. 

Nothing but death itself will part you from Harvey’s side now. Which is perhaps why, when you inevitably crash from exhaustion, you don’t wake when your husband does. 

Harvey looks upon your sleeping form and, for a second, he falters. In sleep, you’re peaceful, ethereal even with the deep circles beneath your eyes. Circles that he’s largely at fault for. Until he’d met you, Harvey hadn’t thought it was possible to love another person so wholly, so completely and without restraint. 

You don’t even stir when he slips out of the bed, groaning at the rough sting of badges against raw skin, holding back a string of curses as he quietly moves to stand by your side. His fingers brush your cheek, featherlight, before abruptly retreating when the voice hisses in his head, he doesn’t deserve to touch you, not yet, when there’s still work to do. 

Despite the venomous voice, he still leans down to press a soft kiss against your forehead, allowing himself to linger for a touch longer to inhale your scent. You stir a little, nuzzling into the sheets as if you’re trying to locate him in your sleep, and Harvey freezes. When you show no further signs of waking, he pulls back, sparing you one last glance before disappearing into the night. 

You wake to a hospital in chaos, tears you hadn’t thought possible anymore streaming down your face as you sob into your hands. Jim’s already asked his questions, pity shining in his eyes as he’d tried to console you. 

(It hadn’t worked, but you’d thanked him for trying nonetheless.)

Despite Harvey’s recent absences, the house feels emptier than ever, like it knows your husband is never coming back. Reaching for the wine glass, you softly curse at the realisation it’s empty, the bottle still somewhere on the kitchen bench and beyond your reach. You probably should have bypassed the glass entirely, but you’d wanted at least the illusion of control. 

“Are you going to stand there all night? Or are you going to ask your questions?” The shadowy form in the dark startles at your abrupt address, before what you could only describe as sheepishly steps forward. The Batman opens his mouth, but you scoff, placing the glass down so harshly you’re surprised it doesn’t shatter. 

“You can cut the act, I know it’s you, Bruce.” He startles, stilling momentarily, and you can practically hear the running internal commentary as he debates the merits of denial vs acceptance. It’s such a Bruce thing to do that his hesitation only further confirms your suspicion. 

“When did you—”

“I’ll admit, it took me a few weeks, but the injuries, your unavailabilities, the attempts at nonchalance when the topic of the Bat came up. Did you forget I know you, Bruce? Just because you fucked off to who knows where for all those years, doesn’t mean you’ll ever be able to hide things from me.” There’s a bitter tinge to your words you hadn’t quite managed to hide. You both ignore it for now; there are more pressing matters at hand. 

“I’ve already told Jim everything I know, which is practically nothing. I don’t know why he left, where might do, anything!” Your little brother steps forward, a hand reaching out that you shrug off. “I don’t need you to comfort me right now, Bruce, just find him, please.”

Bruce spends many a sleepless night on the hunt for your wayward husband to no avail. Later, when the wound isn’t so raw, you’ll acknowledge that Bruce did his best, that there was nothing else he could have done for Harvey. 

The man who had been your husband was already long gone, but it would stubbornly take several Arkham breakouts and a trail of bodies before you could ever bring yourself to accept that. 

Truthfully, you’ve sacrificed too much of yourself to him to ever give up on Harvey.

Richard Grayson is nine years old when he watches his parents fall to their deaths. His entire life has just been upended, his future torn to shreds, and his sleep haunted by seemingly never-ending nightmares when he’s taken in by a strange billionaire to live in a house bigger than he’d ever thought possible. 

It’s lonely at first, cold, the old architecture and stretching halls dwarfing him, making him feel like an insignificant speck, like he doesn’t belong. 

Dick Grayson is nine years old when he meets a lonely woman, haunted by many a ghost of her own, but with a smile so kind it chases the nightmares away. Bruce had taken him aside, explaining gently that his sister had recently been moved back into the manor, and that she’d recently lost a husband. Not quite in the same manner as his parents, but that Mr Dent was lost to her all the same. 

Despite this, Dick never sees you cry. There’s never anything but some semblance of a smile as you pick him up from school, despite the factthat you have a butler, who could easily do so. You take him to get ice cream, ask about his day, praise him for his grades, and cheer at his gymnastics meets, all with a smile.  

You tuck him in at night, and somehow, you’re always there to comfort him when he wakes from a nightmare, a hand smoothing over his hair as you whisper reassurances and offer midnight hot chocolates as long as he promises not to tell Bruce. 

Dick hasn’t had a nightmare for weeks, when he wakes suddenly, startled by a dream that’s already fading from the recesses of his memory. Part of him is embarrassed to have expected to find you already sitting in the chair beside his bed, book in hand, as you prepare to lull him back to sleep. A larger part of him simply craves the comfort you’d always so freely provided. 

Trembling legs kick off the covers, as he stealthily slips through the manor, your assurances that ‘should he ever need anything, to come and get you’ ringing in his head. Your door is already cracked open, likely to help you keep an ear out for Bruce’s late-night movements, but it’s not until he’s already stepped inside that Dick realises—you’re crying.

All at once, Dick feels like he’s intruded on something he was never meant to see. It’s almost… unnatural, seeing you so visibly upset and for a few moments, he freezes in indecision. You hadn’t noticed him yet; he could easily back away and leave you none the wiser, but that felt wrong—leaving you to suffer alone when you’d sacrificed so many of your nights by his side. 

If he left you now, Dick’s not sure how he could even call himself Robin.  

Softly, he knocks on your door frame, calling your name so as not to startle you too badly. At the sight of him, you startle, hastily wiping your eyes with your back turned before pasting on an admittedly weak smile as you spin to greet him. 

“Dick! What are you—trouble sleeping?” You cough, but Dick’s not going to let you distract him so easily. 

Dick barely manages to crawl onto the foot of your bed when the words are blurted out, “Why are you crying?” 

So, admittedly, his interrogatory skills need some work, but the question’s been burning on his tongue since he stumbled across the scene, and patience has never been one of his greatest virtues. 

“Oh, sweet boy, you don’t need to concern yourself with that.” You reach out, brushing the hair from his eyes, faltering when his frown deepens. 

“But I want to! You take care of me when I’m sad, why can’t I do that for you?” Dick is, unfortunately, one of the most stubborn children you’d ever met. You and Bruce had learnt that the hard way after multiple manor breakouts in his quest to hunt down Tony Zucco, and then again when he’d refused to give up being Robin. 

You weighed the likelihood of Dick giving up his latest crusade, but you find your odds lacking. “It’s—Bruce told you about my husband, didn’t he?”

Slowly, Dick nods, listening intently as you pull him up to sit next to you, automatically curling into your side. “He’s—he’s not well. He did some bad things, but—I still miss him.” You confess with something that sounds very akin to shame. 

Dick’s recently turned ten years old, and he thought he could never hate anybody more than Tony Zucco, but now, he thinks Harvey Dent might come close, just for making you cry. 

Jason Todd bursts into your life, an opinionated whirlwind with an inbuilt distrust for adults that has you wanting to burn the city to the ground. He’s quieter than Dick, but no quieter than Bruce was at that age and a passion for books that has you hoping this child won’t turn to a life of brightly coloured vengeance. 

(Sadly, these dreams don’t come to fruition, but you’d had to have hope.)

Jason’s independent, standoffish, but he’s got the biggest heart, and you fall in love the moment he’s brought into your home. Dick no longer lives in the manor, but between monitoring comm lines and helping Alfred patch up injuries after long patrols, you’ve accepted you’re likely never moving out. 

(It’s been a decade since Harvey, and you doubt you’ll ever truly move on.)

Your family library has more books than one could possibly read in a lifetime, but this doesn’t prevent you from monthly bookstore visits with Jason. You’d happily take him every week; you certainly had the funds to do so, but Jason was still cagey when it came to using that wealth on him. 

Footsteps from behind cut through your thoughts, turning from the book you’d been about to pick up, “Oh? Finished already?” Your smile drops when it’s not Jason who’s approached, but an unfamiliar man with a sleazy grin that has you inwardly flinching. 

“You come here often?” Not anymore. Is your first thought, immediately followed by incredulity from the line. Did people even use that anymore? Did it even work? You really hoped not. 

Lacking the social awareness to back away at the sight of your sneer, or perhaps he thinks he’ll be the exception once you’ve listened to the follow-up, either way, he steps into your space even when you back away. 

“Listen, I’m not—”

“She’s not interested, so scram!” Jason appears as if from thin air in front of you, practically barking as he glowers up at the man twice his size. Even though he’s been living off the nutrient-packed meals provided by Alfred on the doctor’s recommendations for nearly a year now, Jason’s still very short for his age. 

It makes for an amusing sight, one that has you holding a book in front of your mouth to stifle your laughter. He’s about as intimidating as a chihuahua with the confidence of a much larger dog, but the prospect of a child is apparently enough to get the sleazebag to turn tail and scamper away. 

Jason puffs out his chest in pride, grumbling something incredibly inappropriate under his breath, but this time, you’ll let it slide. You’ve certainly said worse yourself in board movies (not that you’ll ever let the kids find that out.)

He turns to you, still beaming with pride, blushing when you lean down to plant a kiss on his forehead and call him “your hero.” He’s so precious like this, and selfishly, you wish he never has to grow up.

You’d think by now you’d stop wishing for things. 

Alfred hands little Timothy Drake a brightly coloured suit, and your relationship with the man is forever soured. A good soldier, he calls Jason, and you can no longer look at the man you’d once considered a second father with anything but disgust. 

His continued presence as Robin only puts an immense strain on your relationship with Bruce, and unfortunately, in turn, Tim, who possesses the same foolhardy stubbornness that was apparently a requirement for all children brought into the household. 

Your heart is beyond tired, weathered and jaded from all the loss, and you can’t handle another heartbreak. Not after your parents, not after Harvey or Jason, not after sweet little Barbara Gordon, who used to bring you coloured drawings to stick on your fridge, is shot and paralysed. 

“Batman needs a Robin.” It’s Tim who confronts you first, having returned to the cave the night before to witness the epic screaming match between you and your little brother. Or rather, you’d screamed until your throat was raw and hoarse, while Bruce had stood like a brick wall and taken it before tensely asking if you were done. 

“Batman doesn’t need anything from you; you’re a child. Go home, Tim.” You hiss. Almost instantly, you regret the harsh words when Tim flinches back. 

“Batman needs—”

“Enough!” You shout, nerves frayed beyond compare as you despair over the state of children, insisting they needed to sacrifice themselves for this cursed city. “Batman is a fully functioning adult.” Debatable. Sighing, you soften your tone, “I know you want to help him. I know he’s your hero, but what help are you to anyone dead? Because that’s the only way this ends, Tim. With you dead, another child on Batman’s, and my conscience.” Eventually, a compromise is reached, and Tim has to undergo many months of intense training before he’s allowed back on the streets. Despite this, your relationship with Tim never truly recovers, and you carry that heavy regret to the grave, but you’ll sacrifice much for your family. And if that means you have to be the bad guy, then so be it.

Cassandra Cain is a quiet child, not that that bothers you much, and of all the children Bruce has brought into your home, Cass is the one who has you squinting, pondering the necessity of a paternal DNA test. 

She’s objectively dangerous, and unlike her predecessors, you’ve got no moral leg to stand on when it comes to preventing her from joining the family nighttime hobby. 

With Cass, it’s not the Batgirl training that presents a challenge, but rather, everything else. It’s for Cass that you step into the manor’s library for the first time since Jason’s death, taking to reading the words aloud as she follows along, memorising the sounds and structures. 

It’s for Cass that you pull out old photo albums, of Bruce and your parents, of Jason, of Harvey. It’s Cass that wordlessly opens her arms for a hug as you break down in tears over your husband for the first time in years. 

Legally, you’re still married, for fear of Harvey’s—Two Face’s reaction, should you even attempt to go forward with divorce proceedings. You may not admit it to anyone, even yourself, but deep down a part of you still dreams he’ll get better one day. 

And it's Cassie who finds you after the latest Arkham breakout, who takes you into her arms and holds you after your husband is dragged back to the institute, kicking and screaming. 

Your family gathers in your room that night, with Dick even making the trek from Bludhaven, not at all subtle with their motherhenning. It makes you laugh, seeing them all crammed into various seats and mattresses, and it’s enough to almost drown out Two-Face’s poisonous words. Almost. 

Regardless, you’ve never felt so loved.

The years pass in what seems like a blink, and your family grows with both new and old members. 

Jason, your sweet, heroic Jason, returns from the dead in a furious vengeance. He returns with a new weapon of choice and blood staining his hands, but it's Jason nonetheless. Your Jason, who loved learning and literature and late-night runs to Batburger. 

Bruce is less forgiving of the bodies dropping in the Narrows, but you can’t find it in yourself to care (part of you whispers that it's deserved), not when it means you have him back, scarred and changed but alive. 

Much to your dismay, he refuses to move back to the manor, even after the multiple screaming matches you’d had with Bruce following the revelation that the Red Hood was in fact Jason. After he’d tried to hide that from you. But he doesn’t refuse your latest extended invitation to the old bookstore you used to frequent, and part of your heart finally begins to mend. 

Damian Wayne, and hadn’t that been a shock, an actual biological child, is all but dropped on your doorstep, and if it weren’t for Bruce insisting he’d had no idea of the child’s existence, you would have beat his ass, Batman or no. 

You’d heard about Talia Al Ghul in passing, getting Bruce to discuss his past was like pulling teeth, but you suddenly find his words of quiet praise immensely lacking. You’ve hated a lot of people over the years, but Talia quickly becomes the top name on your shit list, because you have a nephew, a brilliant, beautiful little boy that she’d hidden from your brother for so much of his life already. 

Damian doesn’t take kindly to you at first, or Tim, or anyone who threatens his status as ‘the true blood son and heir.’ It should be threatening, but you’ve dealt with enough insanity through the years that you can’t help but find it endearing. 

Damian’s integration into the Wayne family unit is… difficult to say the least. There’s a lot of yelling, tears, sleepless nights, and a truly concerning amount of bodily harm via sharpened blade. But eventually, the pieces start to fall into place, and the kind heart buried beneath the layers of League indoctrination is unearthed. 

Who knew all it would take was a trip to the zoo? 

One look at the myriad of majestic creatures locked so cruelly away in cages, and the heart of an environmental warrior for justice was born. The zoo undergoes a mass reconstruction effort, and various creatures and critters find themselves a new home on Wayne Manor grounds (much to Bruce’s dismay, well, until he’d seen the way his son lit up when caring for said creatures.)

You’ve always hated galas, hated the people, the distasteful displays of opulence, the forced socialisation. You hated it all. Alas, you loved your city, were committed enough to its betterment that you’d learned to grit your teeth and bear it. Rubbing shoulders and shmoozing with rich assholes in order to beg for donations for the latest children’s hospital, education grants, housing projects, whatever it may be, was a necessity that came with the family name. 

You’ve managed to drag most of your family along with you to this one, tired of suffering alone against the masses. If you got caught alone with Lex Luthor one more time, you were liable to kill someone, likely the bald bitch himself. 

At the start of the night, you’d managed to appropriate Damian for yourself, using him as a scowly barrier between you and all would-be approachers. Across the room, Bruce glares at you for help before turning back to the conversation with an airheaded smile. 

“Shouldn’t we help Father?” Damian mumbles, but you usher him away to the snack table with a giggle. 

“Think of it as a training exercise, what sort of Batman would he be if he couldn’t survive a night of societal niceties?” You whisper conspiratorially, with just a twinge of evil satisfaction. Bruce had left you alone in Gotham holding the bag for years; it was only fair he started to make up for it now. 

It takes another ten minutes before your little brother slinks toward you, the glint in his eye promising you’d be receiving an earful later on. “You look tense. How about a drink?” You tease, holding your glass out. Bruce takes the drink and downs the whole thing before you can even finish saying the words. “Wow, someone’s tense.”

Whatever the retort Bruce was going to give, you never hear it, drowned out by the sound of shattering glass and gunshots as the attendees start to scream in panic. 

Instantly, Bruce is grabbing you and Damian, trying to usher you away to some semblance of safety. You know you should follow his orders, but your feet remain rooted in place, eyes wide and fearful as you scan the room with your heart in your throat. 

“Bruce! Bruce, stop! Where are Tim and Cass?”

“I’ll find them, I promise, but just—” His words die on his tongue as he looks at something over your shoulder with unabashed panic. Slowly turning, your entire world narrows down to the masked man standing not five feet away, rifle under his arm and pointed dangerously close to Damian. 

You don’t even think; your body just moves, pushing your snarling nephew behind you as blood roars thunderously in your ears. Damian squirms, protesting your sudden status as a human shield for his smaller form, and you think he hisses something at the gunman that has Bruce desperately pleading with his son to shut up. You’re not entirely sure; you can’t really hear anything over the pounding of your heart and the overwhelmingly intense urge to protect your family, to protect your little brother.

You blink, and suddenly you’re back in that grimy alley, your mother’s blood on your face and staring down the muzzle of Joe Chill’s gun. Another, and the ballroom is back, your hands tremble, and you think you feel Damian move again, but you don’t let him.  

The surrounding area is a cacophony of chaos, but Bruce steps forward, palms upright, as he tries to reason with the gunman, and the man turns, firearm trained on your little brother and for you, everything is silent. 

The man’s mouth remains uncovered by the simple black ski mask, and you see the second it twists downward, agitation lacing his frame as his finger twitches on the trigger. 

It’s not the first time you’ve put yourself between Bruce and a gun, but as the shot rings out and you stagger back into his arms, you realise it’s definitely the last. The pain doesn’t register immediately, shock probably, you distantly think, and at first, you simply feel like you’ve been shoved, knees giving way with the force.

A wet, choked gasp reaches your eardrums through the lingering ringing of the shot, and it’s not until Bruce’s hands apply pressure against your neck that you realise the sound’s coming from you. 

“No, no, no, no, no. This isn’t happening. Don’t do this to me! You’re not allowed to do this to me!” His mumbled words evolve into a raw kind of scream that, although he’s close, sounds miles away, almost as if you were underwater.

Your vision’s blurred, but not enough that you can’t detect the frantic tears sliding down Bruce’s face, and even through the gasping, choking, useless breaths your lungs attempt, you frown, because there are few things you hate more in the world than seeing your little brother cry. You try to reach up to wipe them away, but your coordinations shot to shit, and suddenly even the simple act of lifting an arm becomes a monstrous task too great to complete. 

Blood stains the previously pristine white collar of the suit he’s wearing, the one he’d complained about at length on the drive over and insisted he’d never wear again, and a mutilated giggle forms in your shredded throat at the thought because at least now he has an excuse. 

“S’ok. Love you.” Your voice is garbled, barely legible through the bubbles of blood pouring past your chin. Your attempts to calm Bruce down are, admittedly, pretty shitty, but you think you could be forgiven given the circumstances. 

“It’s not ok!” He hisses, “Don’t—it’s not—just keep your eyes open, goddamn it! Just, just keep your eyes—” 

You never hear the end of what he says. You don’t hear the wounded wail he lets out, or the desperate bargains for any higher power to hear, nor do you see the way he collapses, pulling you into his arms as he sobs harder than he had at even your parents' funeral. 

You die choking in blood and cursing your decision to ever get out of bed that morning, leaving behind a family shattered beyond repair. 

You die sacrificing yourself in an act of love that was always meant to be.

You wake with a chest burning fiercely, akin to as if you’d been submerged in frigid arctic waters for a minute too long as you wake, darting upright in bed and heaving for oxygen. 

You wake coughing and spluttering, rolling off your bed and hitting the floor in a panicked, flailing mass of limbs as you fight to regain precious breath. 

“What the fuck?” You gasp, hands reaching up to grasp your miraculously intact throat. Only for you to pause at the state of your voice. It sounds wrong, different, younger. 

A quick glance at the patterned cover on your bed only invents new questions, because even in the dark, you recognise it as something from your younger, teenage years. Frantically, you scan the room, stomach sinking and hysteria reaching new heights as you recognise posters lining the walls that long ago should have been thrown out, and a school blazer hanging from the back of a chair you doubted even fit anymore. 

But all the panic, the questions, everything is put on a back burner the moment you hear a knock at the door, as a Bruce far littler than he should be steps into a room you haven’t slept in for years. 

“I can’t sleep. Can I stay with you tonight?”