cherrystarcandy

“Hm?” Confused, you tilted your head a little.

The little boy matched your head tilt with one of his own. “I asked ‘cause my uncle said he- that he’d take you home with him. When I’m home, I watch T.V.! I live with my uncle cause-because my parents are gone. Will you come home with us soon?”

The stunned silence didn’t last long, because, soon enough, the man who wanted to take you home was making his way over.

“Yuji!”

Yuji glanced back with a guilt-free smile.

“Yuji, what the hell are you doing?” The man gently grabbed the small child by his hoodie. “Sorry, lady.”

Looking up at his uncle, the clueless little boy went on, on, and on. “I just ask when she coming home with us. Because you said you wanted to-”

He was cut off by the man suddenly lifting him up. “Just for that, brat, your lunch has changed from dino nuggets to broccoli. No cheese.”

“But I didn’t do anything! Miss? Can you give me the dino nuggets when we go home? I’ll let you play with my twansformer toys!” The boy kicked, pouted, and gave his uncle hell as he tried to toss him over his shoulder.

“She doesn’t wanna play with your transformer toys, Yuji, and she isn’t coming home with us. God, you weren’t even supposed to hear that, you nosy little . . .” The man sighed in pure exhaustion, and, for the first time, found the courage to look you in the eye. “Sorry. I think he fell on his head a coupla times as a baby.”

“It’s alright. It’s funny,” you grinned.

“Can we get her ish cweam?” Yuji said, now using his uncle’s upper body like a jungle gym as he turned himself over to sit on his shoulder.

“Ice cream,” the man corrected.

Yuji frowned in frustration, chubby cheeks poking out, and he tried again. “Ice cweam.”

“Close enough.”

With a grin, Yuji did what he did best. Overshared. “You said that she’s super, super, duper hot, so I think that ice cweam will- because it’s cold, the ice cweam will cool her down.”

“Yeah, we’re leaving.”

The man turned away from you just as you started to giggle.

“Wait,” you called out, letting your laughter die down a bit. “I do like ice cream.”

it’s halloween when you go looking for him.

the neighborhood’s louder than usual, porch lights blinking orange, fake cobwebs sagging between railings, kids running in packs with sugar-high laughter that carries a little too far.

people say it’s harmless, say it’s tradition, say it’s just jokes. you hear someone mutter something about bad luck and black cats and you feel that familiar, irritated pull in your chest.

you grab a jacket and your keys and head out before you can overthink it.

you don’t have a plan, exactly. just a feeling that sits wrong in your chest, heavy and insistent. the kind you’ve learned not to ignore. halloween does that to people—gives them permission to be cruel and call it tradition, lets them dress it up in superstition and laugh while they do it.

you cut through the block behind the strip of houses, where the lights thin out and the noise dulls into echoes. trash cans line the alley like a bad idea, lids dented, wheels squeaking when the wind nudges them. one of the dumpsters is tipped slightly open, lid rattling every time a car door slams somewhere nearby.

something’s been left behind near it—a kid’s bike tipped on its side, one wheel bent in on itself like it was kicked too hard. a plastic pumpkin is still taped to the handlebars, cracked straight down the middle, grin split and useless now. it feels intentional. like someone decided it was easier to break something than carry it home.

at first you think you’re imagining it.

then you hear it—soft, panicked, trapped.

you slow to a stop.

there’s laughter, too. not close, but close enough. you round the corner and catch the tail end of it: a group of kids in cheap masks, one of them kicking the side of the dumpster before darting off. “bad luck,” someone says between laughs, like it’s the punchline.

“hey,” you snap, sharp enough to cut through them. “get out of here.”

they scatter, startled, bravado evaporating the second they’re noticed. the alley goes quiet again, except for the rattling lid and the small, broken sound coming from inside the metal bin.

you crouch immediately.

“it’s okay,” you say, softer now. “they’re gone.”

a hiss answers you—thin, defensive, more fear than threat. you peer inside and see him pressed tight into the corner, fur puffed up, eyes blown wide. black as midnight except for a clean white stripe cutting through his fur, stark and unmistakable, like it was painted there on purpose.

someone wedged the lid down.

your jaw tightens.

“that’s not superstition,” you mutter. “that’s just being cruel.”

you don’t reach in. instead, you grab a stick from the ground and use it to prop the lid open, slow and careful so it doesn’t clang shut again. the sound makes him flinch, body tensing like he’s bracing for another scare.

“hey,” you murmur. “i see you.”

your voice comes out softer than you expect, like you’re talking to something fragile instead of something everyone keeps calling dangerous. you don’t move closer. you don’t reach in. you just stay right there, knees pressed to the pavement, hands loose in your lap so he can see you’re not a threat.

he only settles when your hands stay where he can see them, fingers still.

his body stays coiled tight, every line of him drawn inward, claws scraping faintly against metal as if he’s deciding whether fear or hunger gets the final say.

the sound is sharper than you expect. harsher. it makes something flicker in your chest, a brief, unwelcome thought slipping in before you can stop it—maybe they’re right.

you let him.

you breathe slow on purpose, make yourself small in all the ways that matter. the night air smells like candy wrappers and cold metal and something burnt from down the block. somewhere a car passes, bass rattling windows, and he flinches again, a sharp little shudder that pulls at your chest.

“you’re okay,” you say gently, like reassurance is something you’re offering, not demanding. “i promise.”

you reach into your pocket carefully, narrating the movement without thinking about it. “i’m just grabbing something, sweetie. that’s all.”

when you pull out the treat, you don’t hold it up like a prize. you set it down instead, just outside the dumpster, sliding it across the pavement with one finger before pulling your hand back into your lap.

then you wait.

it takes time. long enough for your legs to start aching, long enough for another burst of laughter to float down the block and fade again. every sound makes him tense, but he doesn’t retreat further. that feels important.

finally, he leans forward. sniffs the air. pauses like he’s waiting for punishment.

none comes.

when he jumps down, it’s clumsy, awkward, like he hasn’t trusted his own footing in a while. he eats fast, eyes darting up between bites, waiting for the trick, the grab, the laugh.

you don’t give him any of it.

you just sit there, quiet company in a loud world, letting him finish.

when he’s done, he stands there uncertain, tail flicking once, twice. you slowly extend your hand, palm open, stopping well short of him.

“it’s okay if you don’t want to,” you say softly. “i’ll still stay.”

that’s what finally breaks something open.

he steps forward and presses his head into your palm like he’s been holding the night up by himself and finally decided to put it down. his purr starts hesitant, like he’s embarrassed by it, then grows steadier when your fingers scratch gently behind his ear.

you smile without realizing it.

“hi baby,” you whisper, fond and warm. “there you are.”

he looks up at you when you say it, really looks, and that’s when you notice his eyes—green, bright even in the low light, sharp in a way that feels more observant than aggressive. they soften a little when your fingers keep moving, slow and steady, like you’re not afraid of what you’ll find if you linger.

you smile without thinking.

“what’s your name, cutie?” you murmur, like it’s the easiest question in the world.

he blinks at you, purr stuttering for half a second, then continuing like he never meant to stop. you laugh softly and reach for the tag, careful not to tug, reading it by the streetlight’s glow.

ONYX.

you hum. “onyx,” you repeat, trying it out. “yeah. that fits.”

he leans harder into your hand, like he agrees. you think about the way people talked. aggressive. feral. dangerous. you look at the way he lets you cradle his head now, the way his claws stay tucked in, the way his whole body relaxes like he’s been waiting for someone to get it right.

“they really don’t know you at all,” you say quietly, more to yourself than him.

onyx flicks his tail.

you shift closer, careful, and when he doesn’t pull away you scoop him up just enough to rest his front paws against your chest. he stiffens for half a second, then melts again when you keep petting him.

“so scary,” you murmur, affectionate and teasing. “so mean. clearly a menace to society.”

he purrs louder, offended on principle.

you laugh, soft and breathy, and before you can second-guess it you lean in and press a kiss right between his ears. your lipstick leaves a bright little mark against black fur, messy and unmistakable.

you already brace for it—the scramble, the hiss, the way trust evaporates the second it’s asked to stretch too far. you accept the risk as soon as you take it, hands staying open, still, ready to let him bolt if that’s what he needs.

you stroke his back, slow and soothing, and think about how easy it is for people to mistake silence for hostility. how often stillness gets read as threat. how often something hurt gets called dangerous just because it doesn’t beg to be loved.

“you’re not bad luck,” you tell him softly. “you’re just… misunderstood.”

onyx presses his forehead into your chin like he’s sealing the agreement.

then he pulls back, not startled, not afraid—just done, the way cats decide a moment has reached its natural end. he hops down from your arms with a little huff of independence, tail flicking once like punctuation.

“hey,” you laugh softly. “okay, okay.”

he pauses a few feet away and looks back at you, green eyes catching the light. calm. like he’s committing you to memory instead of running from it.

he blinks slow.

then he turns and trots off down the alley, quiet and sure, lipstick mark still stamped right on his forehead like a secret only the night knows about. you watch until he disappears between the houses, the sound of his steps fading into the hum of halloween.

you sit there a moment longer, letting the quiet settle back in. thinking about reputations. about how easily people confuse silence for danger, fear for cruelty, scars for intent. about how some things don’t need to be fixed—just seen.

you stand eventually, brushing off your jeans, the feeling in your chest lighter than it was when you left.

and somewhere, not far from here, someone else with the same reputation has no idea that tonight—of all nights—the story is already starting to change.

jason comes home late, jacket half-zipped, helmet tucked under his arm, the night still clinging to him in the form of cold air and old exhaust. the neighborhood’s mostly asleep now, halloween burned out to candy wrappers and sagging decorations, porch lights flicked off one by one like the block’s finally exhaled.

he sets his keys down. toes off his boots. routine. quiet. the kind of careful movement you learn when you don’t want to wake anything that might already be on edge.

“onyx?” he calls, low.

there’s a pause.

then soft footsteps.

the cat appears in the doorway like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. tail high. eyes bright. whole. he pads over like he owns the place, hops up onto the counter with practiced ease, and sits.

that’s when jason sees it.

he stops short.

right between onyx’s ears, stamped clear as day against black fur, is a smudged lipstick kiss. unmistakable.

jason just stares.

“…what,” he says finally, flat and confused, like the word might rearrange itself into an explanation if he waits long enough.

onyx blinks at him. slow.

jason steps closer, squinting like maybe the light’s playing tricks on him. he reaches out, hesitates, then gently cups the cat’s head, thumbs careful, like he’s afraid to break something.

he makes sure his hands stay visible, movements slow and cautious, like he’s learned that some things only relax when they can see you coming.

his chest does something weird.

“someone touched you,” he mutters. not angry. not upset. just… stunned.

onyx purrs, leaning into the touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

jason exhales through his nose and rubs a hand over his face. “…yeah,” he says quietly. “guess they didn’t think you were so scary after all.”

he scratches under onyx’s chin and the cat melts, trust absolute, like tonight taught him something important about hands and voices and the difference between cruelty and care.

jason leans back against the counter, watching him, the quiet settling in around them. he doesn’t know who you are. doesn’t know where you found his cat or what made you stop or why you left your mark like a promise instead of a claim.

but he knows this much: someone saw gentleness where everyone else kept insisting on danger.

and for reasons he can’t quite explain, that thought stays with him long after the night finally goes still.

“Would you like to tell her.. about these feelings?” Dick tries again, settling for a more emphatic approach.

Damian winces, averting his gaze—trying to displace the sudden lodge in his throat. “I assumed there were more steps that entail to a courtship. You’re clearly well-versed in them.”

Dick clears his throat. “It isn’t like a routined dance, Damian.” At Damian’s furrowed brow, he continues. “Falling in love—dating, it comes naturally between two people. It’s the million little moments, built upon each other that no practiced motion can recreate. It happens regardless of choices, and that’s the beauty of it.”

“Naturally.” Damian tests the word on his tongue, but like he suspected, it ran off with a bitter taste. While he has been deemed a prodigy, a perfect weapon—being a normal human was not something trained into his veins, but rather suppressed.

“Maybe it is for you, Grayson—but where I was raised, details of courtship and emotional connection with another person were never discussed. My body is not programmed to have these natural decisions come forth to my mind, and I-”

It feels like swallowing glass when he mutters. “I require your assistance to explain it to me.”

Dick’s gaze softens in pity, which weighs heavier, worse than his laughter earlier. “Hey, we actually started off on the same boat. If anything, at least you didn’t have to experience Bruce’s attempt at explaining it. He’s more an expert than any of us when it comes to emotional suppression.”

“Love..” Dick ponders. “It hits you when you least expect it, but spending time together does test if the feeling is reciprocated.”

“I suppose there are some steps that you could follow.” Dick murmurs, thumb trailing his chin in thought. “Alright, here’s the plan.”

Gotham Outdoor Ice Rink, Bristol, Gotham. (Grayson's Brilliant Plan)

Damian may not be well-versed in the matters of courtship. However, standing stiffly in competition with the street lamp beside him, his nose buried into his green scarf more so to hide his shame rather than from the winter cold, his regret grows tenfold with every passing minute for even agreeing to this.

You're bound to arrive at any moment, and he'd rather suffer in his regrets than leave you stranded on a date his brother suggested. Not that he used that term, he could barely handle deeming it a hang out.

In his earpiece, Dick’s voice echoes with irritating amusement.

“Damian, you need to relax. You look like an assassin waiting for your target to appear.”

“Train to be one from the moment you were born with a family legacy on your shoulders and see how that affects your posture.” Damian grumbles.

“It’s okay if you’re nervous. I’ll guide you if you freeze, remember?”

“I’m not nervous—”

His peripheral vision recognises your silhouette before he can even finish his retort. All sound seems to fade past the stuttering in his chest, including his brother’s teasing, and maybe time slows too—he wouldn’t put you below that possibility. You’re busy with your scarf that’s loosened enough to reveal your lips, and you don’t even notice that you’re speed-walking right towards him.

It’s instinctive, not at all pleasing when his hands reach out just in time to grab onto your shoulders before you slam face-first into his coat.

Your eyes widen comically, but it doesn’t appease the thundering of his pulse, not especially when you smile at him like that, bashful and sweet. “Damian! Fancy bumping into you here." You tease.

“Perfect meet-cute.” Dick whispers to himself. “Tell her it’s fine—that you actually think it’s cute.”

“What?” He snaps, feeling ashamed at the mere suggestion.

You blink twice at his sudden reaction. He needs to recover quickly, say something.

“Watch where you’re going.” He slips out.

He can hear the sound of Dick slapping his own forehead, echoing in his eardrums.

Thankfully, you don’t seem deterred by his slow-witted response, grin still in-tact. “Apologies for almost ruining your luxurious scarf. Though I’ll must say, green looks really good on you.”

He tenses. This is the moment, he must say something right this time.

“Brings out the colour of my eyes.” Dick offers through a sigh.

Perfect. Something witty, and completely appropriate for the situation.

“Brings out the colour of my eyes.” Damian’s delivery is completely robotic, unlike the one he heard in his ears, carrying none of the light-hearted tone that made it sound right.

Miraculously, it only cracks a laugh out of you.

“She’s an angel.” Dick groans, almost pitifully.

He winces, letting you go before offering his hand. “The snow’s slippery.” His excuse is well-rehearsed, recovering back into the steps Dick gave him.

Your expression brightens, taking ahold of his hand. It’s a perfect fit, your glove in his and a warm glow is forming behind his ribs—an unsteady, pleasant feeling, almost enough to forget the mistake he made.

“Smooth recovery.” Dick comments in approval. “Bring her to the next location.”

If Damian could, he’d mute Dick's channel immediately if he was going to be reminding him every second. It was distracting and nerve wracking to be multi-tasking two tasks at once, especially when you easily compelled him to lose all train of thought.

The skating rink is crowded, more than he’d like, but he wasn’t up for improvisation after his earlier attempt. It’ll have to do, and he’s sure his withering glare can clear enough space for the two of you.

“I’ve always wanted to try ice skating.” You’re brimming with glee with your gaze glued to the ice, and his eyes trail over your excitement with a tender patience. He’d like to sketch it out when he was back home, but even the thought of ending this moment was incomprehensible, so he settles on bending down to tie your skating shoes.

”Just to warn you—” Your joyful glimmer falters into a rare bundle of nerves. “I’ve never skated—like ever. You’ll need to teach me the ropes.”

His lips quirk the slightest lift. “You have the best teacher in all of Gotham.”

“Really?” You tease, leaning down slightly that he feels the warmth of your breath over his nose, sending goosebumps down his arms. “That’s a bold claim.”

“I was raised on snow mountains since I was an infant. A skating rink in Gotham is a small feat for me, and it shall be for you.”

“Less bragging, more swooning.” Dick’s voice echoes in his eardrums.

Damian’s expression clamps shut as he leads you towards the ice. He takes the first step and balances himself perfectly on the naturally formed ice. You enter immediately on the wrong angle, and slip. He doesn’t think, his free hand wrapping around your waist before you fall.

He freezes, and you do too. Caught at the entrance of the rink in the corner where no one is watching, you’re wrapped so closely in his embrace—his body instinctively shielding and protecting you. He feels his entire face burning up from the lack of distance.

“Maybe ice and me are less compatible than you think.” You whisper, as if the ice would crack and swallow you whole if it heard you.

It’s enough to kick him back into his senses, and he quickly lifts you back up to your feet. Gently letting go of your waist, he ignores the jittering in his fingers by taking hold of your hands instead.

“Hasn’t been proven yet.” He answers, looking down at your feet. “Mirror my stance.”

Your own gaze shifts down, and you adjust the blades of your shoes into the same V position. You’re shuffling less, which is already a sign of improvement.

“Alright, now one step forward, and the other leg lifts like a kick.” Damian instructs.

You try, but your feet wobble at your first kick, making you fall into his arms again. Not that he minds.

“You’re lifting too early.” He notes. “You’ll have to glide with your other foot first.”

Your brows furrow together, an adorable concentration creased in the centre as you try again. You manage it the second time, and he finds it despite himself, vulnerable to smiling when you let out a huff of joyous laughter as you glide with him, his hands still holding onto you.

“I guess you proved yourself right.” Your focus is still on your feet, but when you lift your gaze, you’re leaning close to him just like before when he had caught you—with such pure, content bliss that the word ‘beautiful’ fails to describe your features. “You are a good teacher.”

Dick’s muttering something in his ear, but the erratic signals shooting through his brain fries all comprehension of what he’s supposed to do next other than stare at you speechless like a bumbling fool.

He messes up his next step, and before he knows it, he’s tumbling down to the ice, and you fall down with him through your connected limbs. His body shields you from the freezing ice, but nothing protects him from the shame that drowns his entire conscience—of falling onto the ice which he has never done in his lifetime, and dragging you down with him.

He hears Dick clearly now, laughing so hard that it stings his eardrums from the high frequency.

“Damian!” You call out, and your gaze is half worry, half shock. “Are you okay?”

His ears flush with blood at your question, most likely reddened as if there wasn’t enough to mope about.

“I would very much like for the ice to swallow me whole.” He mutters dryly. “Other than that, I am uninjured.”

“I so have that captured.” Dick howls through the earpiece. “I’m calling it, this is going to be the topic of discussion for our next family dinner.”

Damian discreetly rips his ear-piece out and shoves it into his coat’s pocket when your gaze averts to an elderly couple stopping by the two of you like his fall is some tourist attraction, asking if he needed any help to get back to the entrance.

He is never asking Grayson for help ever again.

The Bat-Cave, Wayne Manor (Drake’s Secondary Home)

“You sure you have the right person?” Tim guffaws, his expression a mixture of horror and fascination. “Haven’t you tried—”

“Grayson, yes. He has failed.” His scowl has dug deeper if possible, the faint memory of Dick’s laughter still penetrates his eardrums when he isn’t preoccupied with his responsibilities.

Pointing an intrusive finger to his new prey, he speaks. “You are to prove yourself more worthy than he is, as the next best in line for successful courtships.”

Tim raises a brow. “Didn’t know you kept track.”

Damian scowls. “Your methods are unconventional, but there are no other better alternatives.” Imposing and distracting with his crossed arms, casting a shadow over the littered papers, his presence eventually forces Tim to detach from the case he was working on.

“Alright, what’s her name?” Tim sighs, his fingers switching to a new tab where the identity search bar flickers.

Damian stiffens, defensive. “Why would you require her name?”

“To search for her, genius.” Tim comments as if it’s obvious that an illegal identity search is the best course of action. “I can have her interests, dislikes, and her entire profile mapped out in less than five minutes.”

“That’s dishonourable.”

“It’s efficient.” Tim fires back. “Or else we’ll be here all day. Why waste time on the uncertainties when you can already mould everything to go perfectly?”

“My respect for you shrinks by the second, Drake.”

Tim snorts. “As if you had any in the first place. Don’t act like you haven’t done your own illegal searches. Suddenly, it’s your crush and I’m not allowed to look into it?”

The back of Damian’s neck grows hot at the mere use of the word ‘crush’, dumbing his feelings down to something so.. pathetic. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. You’re not allowed to so much as glance at her.”

Tim’s hands raise in mock surrender. “I would never.”

As Damian settles into the seat, given the privacy as Tim launches himself into the spare chair, spinning it backward with his back facing the Bat-computer, he can feel the latter brewing with something to say.

“Spit it out.” Damian huffs.

“I just—” Tim starts. “Never thought I’d live to see the day of you softening up for someone. I mean—it’s even made you come all the way for my assistance.”

“I did not come for assistance.”

“Advice is practically the same thing.” Tim remarks. “You may have called it dishonourable, but can you truly claim you love a person if you don’t know them fully? I think falling in love means having a curiosity so strong for someone that you would like to know them as deeply as they know themselves. Isn’t that what it means to love?”

Damian’s gaze flickers to Tim who yawns widely, tucking his head into his elbows over a long drought from sleep after staying up for two days straight. It… resonated with him, his never-ending greed to learn the intricacies of your emotions and actions, to know the depths behind each story you held in your mind.

He’s spent long, treacherous months avoiding even the mention of your name anywhere outside the confinements of his mind, aside from the occasional scribble and tear of his paper, and his hunger has become an obstacle that even he can’t tackle any longer. With a mental push, the mere action of typing your name numbs his fingers from the anticipation.

Your social media accounts pop up—one is public with your name listed, and another is a photography account. There’s not many photos, but there’s enough that it feels like he’s peeking into something intimate, a catalogue of your life that has his heart quickening.

He remembers vividly of you asking to exchange social media accounts when you had first met, before he quickly shut it down, commenting that he refused to have such useless applications.

Yet, here he was—frozen, mesmerised at the sight of your smile captured on your digital camera, unable to scroll further past your most recent post. It didn’t capture the true essence of your joy like he remembered so clearly from that failed date, but it still struck him all the same.

Even his denial falls silent when he’s looking at you, because he’d be a fool to pretend away the quick pattering of his heart, or the small smile etched into his lips caused by you. His mind has formed a despicable habit—a quiet, dreadful longing whenever he envisions even a frame of you in his mind.

He has fallen for you quietly—strongly, and even as he scrolls further, to the latest bookstores you’ve frequented, or your blurred snapshots of sunsets along the Gotham horizon, he’s not satisfied. What is the use of seeing these images if he wasn’t there to witness it or hear from you in person?

He wants to be in your life, not just a mere bystander, but he doesn’t know how to say it.

“You’ve been deathly silent for ten minutes.” Tim comments. “It’s kind of making me curious—”

“I will gouge out your eyes myself, Drake.”

There’s only one person he has left to ask, and as he pierces a coffin-burying glare into Tim’s prying gaze, he wasn’t sure if he’d get the answer he needed.

89, Skirley Apartments, Park Row (Crime Alley) (Todd’s Rebellious Man-Cave)

Jason whistles, leaning against the door to his mess of an apartment. “You must be desperate if you’ve come to see me.”

The disgruntlement in Damian’s expression comes mostly from embarrassment and partly from the state of disarray he finds from one single swipe past the gap of Jason’s shoulder and the door frame. Motorcycle gear is splayed out over the scratched floorboards, signaling another random side project.

Barely lived in, and somehow a complete mess that would have Alfred over in a snap with his emergency cleaning set.

“Grayson’s overly optimistic and Drake’s downright creepy.” Damian huffs.

“And that leaves me..?” Jason’s brow raises, a taunting smirk on his lips.

“As the last option.” Damian grits.

Jason steps back, his back pushing against the wood to allow Damian into his less-than-adequate living quarters.

“Well, sorry to break it to you, kid—” Jason plops down onto the couch, and the pillow-seat sinks under his weight. “But my understanding of love is barely any better than yours.”

“You’re still the second oldest.” Call it desperation, Damian isn’t sure if he’s above that anymore after the failure of his two other brothers. “You must’ve had some experience.”

“Now, age matters?” Jason mocks. “Well—if you want my two cents, I suppose I can give it.”

“There’s no point beating around the bush.” Jason states. “If you really like her, you just have to say it. Even if it hurts, especially if you’re scared it’ll hurt. That means there’s something worth to lose, and to never ask, it’s always gonna hurt worse than knowing.”

“That’s the whole point of love. It takes being brave, and realising the possibility of something real right in front of you—and fighting for it. You only have so few chances in the world to experience it, and you’re going to waste something like that over fear of what—rejection?”

“Have a heart-to-heart. That’ll always mean more than some hidden message, hoping she’ll notice and give in first.” Leaning back, Jason eyes Damian with a rare look he doesn’t recognise, because there is no possibility in the world that wisdom could exist in that big-head of his. “If she doesn’t return how you feel, that sucks. You’ll live barely, then it’ll heal and you move on. If you never answer the question? It’s gonna haunt you for life. The one that got away.”

The thought of losing you to cowardice, of being a permanent outsider to your life, nearly ruins him. Damian can’t afford that, not when there’s never been a person he desired for more than you. This week has made sure of that.

Even more of a horrifying realisation is that of all people, Jason Todd was the one that got through to him. His trained eyes scan the perimeter for any signs of a secret partner, a reason for this sudden shift in his usual, thick-headed sibling. “Where did you obtain such knowledge?”

Jason’s lips quirk up. “Jane Austen, you should try her sometime.”

135, Kane Street, Otisburg (Damian's Last Resort)

Damian has only felt the urge to puke on two occasions this past year. Firstly, when he discovered old photos of Dick’s first Nightwing costume in an old album, and had to wash his hands twice with anti-bacterial soap. Secondly, when a rare poison seeped into his bloodstream that he had not already trained to be immune to.

Never had the nauseating feeling of nerves scale till the point of trembling fingers and stiff legs. He just needed to tell the truth, so why did the matter seem so petrifying?

He’s been standing outside your door, letting the winter frost bite at his exposed skin—like a pathetic loser for the past fifteen minutes and if he stood there any longer, he might as well brand himself as one. His hand comes up to knock in three measured beats, and he waits with the patience of Dick’s pit-bull for a belly rub.

The door unlocks, and your tousled hair greets him first. His heart tugs at the sight of you in your home attire, with your loosened shirt and pajama pants dragging against the floor. You’re utterly beautiful, even as you’re slapping your cheeks lightly to coerce yourself awake. It takes a few seconds for the realisation to hit your half-asleep features before your eyes nearly pop out.

“Damian? It’s five in the morning! What are you doing here?”

“I have romantic feelings for you.” He blurts with the subtlety of a ramming gun.

“If you reciprocate, I would like to..” He pauses, his thoughts competing with the rapid pace of his heartbeat. “Wait, I didn’t think this through.”

You blink slowly, shock blasted over your face, before a soft, warm smile creeps over your lips. “No-no, go on.”

He wants it to be perfect, but his words were too direct, too harsh. He wasn’t like Dick, who was naturally charismatic with others, or Tim who thought two steps ahead for every interaction, or Jason who bulldozed through without a care in the world. He doesn’t want to risk losing you over his own incompetence. “No, I feel like I’ve started it all wrong.”

“It’s five in the morning, even Damian Wayne is human enough to mess up his words at this hour.” You tease. His shoulders sag in relief at the sound of your comforting voice, which he suspects is the purpose of your teasing. To calm him, tell him it’s okay.

“Right.” He mutters. “May I start over?”

“I’m all ears.” You grin.

He cracks a soft smile in return. It is difficult for him to be human, to feel his faults bubble to the surface, but in front of you, he is willing to try. “I am unfathomably, undoubtably.. and completely in love with you. Romantic feelings don’t even come close to describing the knowing in my heart that it has chosen you from the very moment you entered my life.”

“When I am around you, it’s as if the world disappears, and all I envision is you.” He admits. “From the moment you approached me with your maddening smile and charming wit, I don’t believe I could have ever fought against it, against you.”

“Your laughter brings joy to me, your sadness distracts me of all my senses, and your very existence is a gift in my life that I cherish deeply and.. I’m terrified at the idea of losing that, losing you.”

“Love..” He hesitates. “..is a difficult concept for me to understand, because it has never been shown to me outright. So when I felt this desire—this constant want to be in your presence, I sought for understanding.”

“I see now—that love can’t be explained in just mere words. It is the shared moments between us that I replay in my mind, the small details I find myself noticing of you and cherishing deeply, and the fear of losing that privilege of knowing you. I realised.. that I can’t fathom continuing my life without you in it.”

“I don’t know if I deserve to be by your side, but I would like to try.” His gaze finds yours, and he hopes. So desperately, he hopes. “Would you have me, even if I am a fool who doesn’t know the right things to say?” His plea is quiet against the silent rustle of the trees, the dark twilight sky that watches over them.

Your eyes soften, filled with warmth and that same, brimming happiness he has memorised from the time spent on the ice. “You’re only an idiot if you think you didn’t say all the right things, Damian.”

His chest, tight till the point of rupturing, feels like it’s finally able to breathe.

Leaning in slowly, right across the barrier of the doorstep that separates you from him, you gift him with a soft kiss pressed against his lips and his entire world falls apart, not that it ever truly existed before you.

He takes you into his arms, lifting your feet off the doorstep as his boots crunch against the melted snow when he kisses you back. He has never kissed anyone before, but the feeling of wanting you so close to his soul only feels natural when you’re here in his arms.

It’s sweet, clumsy—and out of all the moments he’s spent with you, he truly wished he could replay this over and over.

When you break the kiss, he has to remind himself to not follow after you when you whisper softly against his lips. “You never finished. What did you want to do if I reciprocated?”

Visions, blurred and incoherent, flash through his mind but it’s nothing compared to the real thing right in front of him. “Everything. As long as you’re mine, the possibilities are endless.”

“Of course I’m yours, Damian.” Your eyes crinkle into that puddle of warmth that melts through all his defences. “No one has ever come to my doorstep, at five in a winter morning, professing their love before.”

His brows furrow, lips nearing to a pout. “Has anyone ever tried professing their love in other ways?”

You laugh, and he can get used to that. Making you smile and laugh as if it’s his one purpose on this planet. “No—I think my heart was too busy being taken by the person in front of me, who just conveyed what love is so perfectly that I can never think of anyone else.”

He relaxes at that, feeling his own smile deepen at the relief of finally having you in his arms, and in the comfort of the warmth shared under the dim streetlights, he thinks he’ll have to temporarily bump Jason to the number one spot in his long line of siblings.

Not that he’d ever tell him that—but he supposes if a limited edition of Jane Austen's collection ends up at Jason's doorstep tomorrow, it would have simply been the universe's divine gift.

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