DC

You stood at the opposite end of the room with your hands folded neatly in front of you. You had arrived without triggering the Watchtower’s alarms, without using a Boom Tube, and apparently without requiring oxygen. The enormous observation windows behind you framed the curve of the Earth in brilliant blue, making the edges of your silhouette shimmer like something cut from the fabric of the universe itself.

Your clothing looked harmless enough. Soft trousers, boots with silver buckles, a loose shirt beneath an embroidered coat that seemed to change colour depending on the angle of the light. There were stars woven into the cuffs.

Actual stars, Damian suspected.

They pulsed.

“I understand,” you continued, with the solemn patience of someone explaining a simple concept to particularly nervous children, “that appearing unannounced within your fortified orbital headquarters could be interpreted as threatening.”

“You think?” Green Lantern muttered.

You smiled at him. “Yes. That is why I am clarifying my intentions before anyone makes an unfortunate decision.”

There was a faint creak as Superman’s chair shifted beneath the sudden tension in his posture.

You glanced around the table and added, “An unfortunate decision such as attacking me, which would force me to defend myself and potentially erase this entire station from the timeline.”

Silence descended.

The stars on your cuffs twinkled cheerfully.

You tilted your head. “But I would not enjoy doing that.”

“That,” the Flash said slowly, “did not make it better.”

You frowned, genuinely troubled. “It did not?”

“No,” Batman said.

“I see.” You looked down at your hands, considering. “Perhaps I should have begun with the baked goods.”

A plate appeared on the conference table. It did not teleport in. It did not shimmer into existence or emerge from a portal. Reality simply seemed to remember that there had always been a plate of iced biscuits sitting between Batman’s files and Green Lantern’s elbow.

The Flash recoiled hard enough to nearly tip over his chair.

“They are not poisoned,” you said quickly. Green Lantern leaned away from them. “They also do not contain any parasitic organisms, mind-altering spores, concealed tracking devices, or fragments of my consciousness.”

Green Lantern leaned farther away.

You looked helplessly at Superman. “I am making it worse again.”

“A little,” Superman admitted.

Damian pressed his lips together. It took considerable effort.

His father turned his head slightly. Damian knew that look. It was the silent warning Bruce had used since Damian was ten years old and discovered that openly mocking frightened diplomats was considered impolite.

Damian was not mocking you.

Not yet.

He was, however, beginning to suspect that you were the strangest person he had ever encountered.

Considering the company he kept, that was almost impressive.

Batman placed both gloved hands on the table. “Start again. Who are you?”

You straightened, apparently grateful to be given a question with a clear answer.

You spoke your name.

The lights flickered.

Somewhere beneath Damian’s boots, the Watchtower groaned as if the metal itself recognised the sound.

You winced. “Apologies. Your current reality is somewhat sensitive to my full designation.”

“What are you?” Wonder Woman asked.

“That is more complicated.”

“Try us,” Green Lantern said.

You glanced at him. “Once, before the first stars formed, there was a thought.” Green Lantern closed his eyes. You continued, oblivious. “The thought became lonely, and therefore divided itself so it might have someone with whom to converse. One half became time. The other half became possibility.”

Damian watched your expression rather than listening to the quiet calculations happening around the room. You did not appear proud. You did not appear threatening. If anything, you seemed faintly embarrassed, as though your ancestry were an inconvenient childhood story your parents insisted on telling at dinner.

“Which half are you?” Superman asked.

“Possibility. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” the Flash echoed.

“I misplaced several pieces of myself during the collapse of the Seventh Continuum.”

The Flash stared at you.

You added, “I recovered most of them.”

Damian’s mouth twitched.

Your gaze immediately snapped toward him.

For an instant, the entirety of your attention settled over Damian like the gravity of a star. The room remained unchanged, but he could feel the weight of you—the vastness concealed beneath skin, cloth, and carefully folded hands.

“You are amused,” you said.

It was not an accusation. You sounded fascinated.

Damian lifted his chin. “Your attempts at reassurance require improvement.”

“I practised.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“I stood before a mirror for three hours.”

That did it.

A quiet sound escaped Damian before he could stop it. Not quite a laugh, but close enough that every person at the table looked at him.

His father’s stare became distinctly disapproving.

You brightened. It was a small change, but impossible to miss. Your entire face softened, delight blooming across it like dawn breaking over a dead planet.

“Oh,” you said. “You find me funny.”

“I find your lack of self-awareness astonishing.”

“Is that similar?”

“No.”

“Perhaps it could become similar with time.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. You smiled at him.

Batman deliberately shifted the conversation away from whatever had just occurred. “Why are you here?”

“A hostile force has entered this universe.”

Every trace of levity vanished from the room.

You lifted one hand. A miniature image formed above your palm: a twisting mass of black tendrils surrounding something that resembled a fractured moon. Countless pale eyes opened and closed along its surface.

“It calls itself the Sovereign of Silence,” you explained. “It consumes consciousness. Entire civilisations disappear without physical destruction. Their cities remain. Their machines continue operating. Their bodies remain alive, but empty.”

“How long until it reaches Earth?” Superman asked.

“Thirty-one days.”

“Can you stop it?” Wonder Woman said.

“Yes.”

Everyone waited.

Your image of the creature folded in on itself and vanished.

“But?” Batman prompted.

“I have been informed that solving every conflict through unilateral reality alteration is ethically troubling.”

Damian’s attention sharpened.

You said the words with the weary cadence of someone reciting a lesson after being repeatedly scolded.

“Who informed you?” Superman asked.

“A coalition of intergalactic governments. They were very loud.”

“Did they have a point?” Wonder Woman asked.

You looked offended. “I restored the planets afterwards.”

Damian folded his arms. “After what?”

“After temporarily transforming the invading armada into decorative glass.”

The Flash leaned toward Superman. “I think we should circle back to the not-evil thing.”

“I returned them to their original state,” you said. “Most of them.”

“Most?”

“One vessel was accidentally made into a chandelier.”

Green Lantern stared at you. “Accidentally?”

“It was an extremely complicated chandelier.”

Against all reason, Damian wanted to laugh again.

You seemed to notice.

Your eyes flickered toward him, hopeful. Damian maintained his expression with the discipline of a trained assassin.

The corners of your mouth turned down.

Something unpleasant tugged beneath his ribs.

Ridiculous. He did not know you. You were an incomprehensible cosmic entity who had invaded the Watchtower, threatened to erase it, conjured suspicious biscuits, and apparently committed acts of military interior design.

He should not care that you looked disappointed.

“Why involve us?” Batman asked.

“Because I wish to demonstrate that I can cooperate with mortal heroes without dominating, manipulating, imprisoning, transmuting, unmaking, remaking, absorbing, or marrying anyone against their will.”

There was a pause.

“Marrying?” the Flash asked.

“A misunderstanding involving a moon kingdom.”

Batman rubbed two fingers against his temple.

Damian finally reached for one of the biscuits.

His father caught his wrist.

“They are safe,” Damian said.

“You don’t know that.”

“If they intended to kill us, Father, we would already be dead.”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly.”

Batman’s grip tightened.

“That was not comforting,” Superman said gently.

You sighed. “I thought that one was better.”

Damian took the biscuit anyway.

It tasted of orange, honey, and something warm he could not name. A memory, perhaps. Sunlight on the manor’s library floor. Alfred setting tea beside his elbow without interrupting his sketching. Titus asleep across his feet.

His jaw went rigid.

You watched him anxiously. “Is it acceptable?”

Damian swallowed. “Adequate.”

You beamed as though he had declared it a masterpiece.

That was the moment, though he would deny it for months afterwards, that Damian Wayne’s downfall began.

It started with biscuits.

Most catastrophes did not.

Then again, you were not a catastrophe. You simply sounded like one.

The League agreed to accept your assistance under several conditions.

You were not to alter anyone’s mind. You were not to restructure inhabited planets without permission. You were not to reverse time unless the League approved it. You were not to resurrect anyone. You were not to create sentient life aboard the Watchtower. You were not to consume anything with a soul.

You had objected to the final condition on the grounds that you did not consume souls.

“Not intentionally,” you had clarified.

Batman added three more restrictions.

You accepted every rule with grave sincerity. A glowing contract appeared in the air before you, written in a language that caused Green Lantern’s ring to issue an error message.

You signed it using a quill made of blue flame.

“Completely harmless,” you assured them as the contract vanished into your chest.

Damian heard Nightwing whisper, “Oh, this is going to be incredible,” from the back of the room.

Because the approaching threat affected thought itself, Batman decided to involve several younger hero teams. The Titans, Young Justice, and a rotating group of magical specialists were brought aboard the Watchtower for training and strategic preparation.

Damian, as one of the most experienced Titans and one of the few people aboard who did not appear terrified of you, was assigned as your primary liaison.

“You mean babysitter,” he said when Bruce informed him privately.

“I mean liaison.”

“You wish for me to observe them.”

“I wish for you to help them integrate with the team.”

“Because I ate a biscuit.”

“Because they respond well to you.”

Damian stared at his father. Bruce stared back.

They both knew what had happened during the second meeting.

The League had been discussing potential containment measures when you politely informed them that no prison in this universe could hold you.

Batman had produced six theoretical designs.

You had examined each one with growing delight.

“These are very creative,” you had told him. “Would you like me to pretend they could work?”

Bruce had gone silent.

Damian had laughed aloud.

You had looked at him as if he personally hung the stars embroidered in your sleeves.

“They like you,” Bruce said.

“They have known me for less than forty-eight hours.”

“You like them.”

“I tolerate them.”

Bruce’s expression became insufferably knowing.

Damian scowled. “Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You have adopted Grayson’s habit of lying poorly.”

Bruce leaned back against the Batcomputer. “Just keep an eye on them.”

“They have eyes on several galaxies simultaneously. I doubt my surveillance will prove useful.”

“They’re powerful, Damian.”

“So are you.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“No,” Damian agreed. “They are far more polite.”

Bruce’s stare flattened.

Damian left before his father could reassign him.

He found you in one of the Watchtower’s training rooms, surrounded by half the Titans.

Beast Boy had transformed into a green mouse and was currently perched upon your shoulder. Blue Beetle’s armour was scanning you so aggressively that the scarab’s warnings had become audible. Raven stood at a cautious distance, her dark eyes narrowed.

Starfire floated in front of you, beaming.

“You are saying that you can become any form you desire?” she asked.

“Within reason.”

“You became a mountain yesterday,” Raven said.

“A small mountain.”

“You blocked out the sun.”

“Only locally.”

Damian stepped into the room. “What are you doing?”

Everyone turned.

You lifted a finger to your lips.

“Do not be alarmed,” you whispered.

Damian immediately became alarmed. “What did you do?”

“Nothing evil.”

The Titans collectively groaned.

Beast Boy scrambled from your shoulder as your body began to ripple. Your outline stretched upward, then outward, bending like reflected light on water. For one brief second, Damian glimpsed something vast beyond comprehension: branching limbs holding galaxies like fruit, thousands of eyes gleaming through endless dark, a crown fashioned from collapsing stars.

Then you became a cat. A very small cat.

You sat in the centre of the training room, blinking up at him with enormous eyes. Your fur was midnight black except for faint constellations scattered across your back.

Starfire clasped both hands beneath her chin. “Glorious.”

Beast Boy transformed back into himself. “Okay, that’s adorable.”

Raven’s mouth softened by a fraction.

Damian looked down at you.

You chirped.

“No,” he said. Your ears lowered. “You cannot gain my approval by becoming a feline.”

You walked across the floor and sat directly on his boot.

“Manipulation will not work.”

You placed one paw against his shin.

Behind him, Blue Beetle made a strangled sound.

Damian glared over his shoulder. “Silence.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

Damian bent and lifted you.

Your small body settled immediately against his chest. You weighed almost nothing, though he was deeply aware that the creature purring beneath his hand could probably fold the moon in half.

He scratched beneath your chin. Your purr became loud enough to vibrate through his armour.

“This proves nothing,” Damian informed the room.

“Of course not,” Raven said.

He turned his glare on her.

Raven’s expression remained perfectly blank.

You stayed a cat for the rest of the meeting.

Damian did not put you down.

You were not evil. This became apparent within the first week.

It also became apparent that convincing anyone of this fact would remain an ongoing struggle.

You assisted Superman in diverting an asteroid away from a populated world. When the alien government thanked you, you responded, “Your continued survival benefits my long-term plans.”

The entire delegation paled. You had meant that you wanted to remain friends.

You brought emergency medical supplies to a planet experiencing an epidemic. Upon presenting the cure, you announced that no one would die “unless I permitted it.” You meant that the medicine was highly effective.

You rescued a school bus from falling through a collapsed bridge, suspending it in midair with a gesture. When frightened children asked whether you were a superhero, you smiled and told them that resistance was unnecessary. You meant that they were safe.

The public relations department developed headaches. Damian developed a private collection of recordings.

He told himself he kept them for training purposes. It was, after all, useful to review your mistakes so he could correct them. There was nothing sentimental about the folder hidden on his personal computer labelled Diplomatic Incidents.

There was especially nothing sentimental about his favourite clip, in which you attempted to reassure a group of diplomats that their children would remain untouched.

“The young ones are beneath my notice,” you had said.

Damian had turned away from the camera because his shoulders were shaking.

You found him afterwards in the Watchtower corridor, arms folded and expression wounded. “You laughed at me.”

“I did.”

“I was attempting compassion.”

“You informed several parents that their children were insignificant.”

“I said they were beneath my notice.”

“That is worse.”

“I meant I would not harm them.”

“Then say that.”

“I thought it was implied.”

“It was not.”

You fell into step beside him.

By then, the two of you had spent enough time together that your presence no longer set every instinct in Damian’s body on edge. He had learned the subtle tells of your power: the way shadows leaned toward you when you were annoyed, the faint glow beneath your skin when you were pleased, the static taste in the air when you concealed fear.

He had learned other things, too.

You loved Earth’s oceans but disliked sand. You considered ice cream one of humanity’s finest inventions. You did not sleep, but sometimes lay down and pretended because you enjoyed being included. You could hear music from dying stars. You had witnessed the birth of Saturn’s rings. You adored pigeons.

This final revelation had nearly destroyed Damian’s remaining patience.

“They are resilient,” you had said, scattering birdseed across a Gotham rooftop. “Adaptable. Social. They thrive despite widespread contempt.”

“They are vermin.”

“So have I been called.”

Damian had looked at you sharply.

You were still watching the pigeons. A grey one hopped onto your knee, cooing as your fingers carefully stroked its feathers.

Something old and quiet had moved in your face. Something too human for a being who claimed to predate stars.

Damian had not insulted the pigeons again.

Now, walking beside him through the Watchtower, you twisted your fingers together.

“I should prepare written statements,” you said. “That may reduce misunderstandings.”

“You attempted that yesterday.”

“The phrase ‘your world remains unburned by my mercy’ sounded better on paper.”

“It did not.”

You sighed.

Damian glanced at you. Your gaze remained fixed on the floor. The lights overhead flickered as you passed beneath them, reacting to the slow dimming of your mood.

“Why does it matter?” he asked.

You looked at him. “Why does what matter?”

“Their opinion.”

You slowed.

Damian stopped with you.

Beyond the observation window, Earth turned silently below them. Clouds curled over blue oceans. City lights shimmered on the darkened half of the planet, fragile and distant.

You looked toward it.

“Because I like them,” you said.

Damian waited.

“I like this place. I like that humans make small spoons specifically for stirring tea. I like that your species writes songs about feelings too complicated to say aloud. I like umbrellas, though I have no need for them. I like that you name machines and speak to animals as if they understand.”

“Many do understand.”

“I know. They have much to say.”

Damian made a mental note to ask you about that later.

You pressed your fingertips to the glass. “I have spent a very long time entering worlds only when something terrible has happened. By the time anyone sees me, they are already afraid. I thought perhaps if I explained immediately that I was not evil, it would prevent that fear.”

“It does the opposite.”

“I am becoming aware.”

“You also threaten people while attempting to reassure them.”

“I do not mean to.”

“I know.”

The words emerged more softly than Damian intended.

You turned your head. Your eyes were not any unusual colour. They could have been brown, or green, or grey depending on the light. Yet something moved deep within them, an endless scattering of possible worlds that appeared and vanished with every blink.

“You know?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“How?”

Damian frowned. “Because I pay attention.”

The air changed. It became warmer, carrying the scent of rain against hot stone. Somewhere inside the observation window, impossible flowers bloomed across the glass before fading.

You stared at him.

“No one has said that before,” you murmured.

“That is because the people around you are easily frightened.”

“You were not.”

“I am rarely frightened.”

You smiled faintly. “That is untrue.”

Damian’s spine stiffened.

“You are frightened frequently,” you continued. “You simply do things while afraid.”

He should have resented the observation. He should have bristled at the suggestion that you could see through him so easily. Most people required years to understand the distinction between Damian’s courage and fearlessness. Even those who loved him sometimes mistook the sharpness of his voice for certainty.

You had known him for two weeks.

“How dare you,” he said.

Your smile widened.

Damian looked back toward Earth before you could see his own.

The first time you came to Wayne Manor, you promised Bruce that you would not bring about the end of the world while inside his home.

Bruce had replied, “That wasn’t one of my concerns until you said it.”

You considered this. “Then I have helped you identify a potential security flaw.”

Bruce looked at Damian. Damian walked past him into the foyer.

“Pennyworth will expect us for dinner,” he said.

You followed immediately.

Alfred, unlike every superhero, diplomat, and government official you had met, displayed no fear whatsoever. He accepted your coat, informed you that reality-altering powers were not an excuse to neglect table manners, and asked whether you had any dietary restrictions.

“I can consume any substance,” you said.

“I shall avoid serving any substances not generally considered food.”

“That is wise. The previous table did not survive.”

Alfred’s eyebrow rose.

You hurried to clarify. “That was several centuries ago.”

“I am relieved to hear it.”

Damian had to leave the room.

Grayson cornered him in the hallway. He was grinning.

Damian continued walking.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

Grayson caught Damian by the shoulders and steered him toward the library, ignoring his protests.

“You brought a date home.”

“They are not my date.”

“A cosmic entity met Dad, threatened the architecture, and followed you into the dining room like a duckling.”

“They are our guest.”

“Your guest.”

“They are working with the League.”

“And apparently flirting with you.”

Damian went still. Grayson’s grin became unbearable.

“They are not flirting with me.”

“They made you a sword out of a meteor.”

“It was a practical gift.”

“They engraved your name on it.”

“So others would not mistakenly claim it.”

“They engraved little hearts around your name.”

“Those were not hearts.”

“They were anatomically accurate human hearts, which is somehow more romantic and deeply unsettling.”

Damian shoved Grayson’s hands away. “You are projecting meaning onto meaningless details.”

“Sure.”

“There is no romantic interest between us.”

“Of course.”

“You are insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing.”

Damian struck him.

Grayson dodged, laughing as Damian chased him through the library.

They returned to the dining room several minutes later to find you speaking with Alfred.

You had taken the seat beside Damian’s.

Not across from him, where Bruce had originally placed your name card. Beside him.

Your expression brightened the moment he entered.

It happened every time. It should not have affected him.

It did.

“Damian,” you said. “Alfred has explained the concept of childhood photographs.”

“No.”

You looked at Alfred.

Alfred calmly poured wine into Bruce’s glass. “I made no promises.”

“Pennyworth.”

“It seems only fair that our guest be given the full family experience.”

Jason leaned back in his chair. “I’m suddenly loving family dinner.”

Tim was already opening an album.

Damian crossed the room with murder in his heart.

You watched the photographs with astonishing focus.

You admired every picture. Damian scowling in formal clothes. Damian asleep beside Titus. Damian at thirteen, covered in mud after attempting to relocate an injured fox from the manor grounds. Damian glaring at the camera while Grayson hugged him from behind.

“You were very small,” you said.

“I was a child.”

“I know. It is strange to imagine.”

“You have seen civilisations develop from single-celled organisms.”

“Yes, but I was not fond of any of them.”

The table went quiet.

You looked around. “Was that inappropriate?”

Jason coughed into his fist. Tim looked down at his plate. Dick’s shoulders began shaking.

Damian leaned closer to you. “You implied that you are fond of me.”

Your face changed.

The stars embroidered across your collar flared brilliantly.

“I did,” you said.

“Was that intentional?”

“I am uncertain.”

Damian stared. You stared back.

Neither of you noticed the exchange of money beneath the table.

Alfred did.

He collected his winnings after dessert.

Preparation for the Sovereign of Silence intensified. The creature moved faster than expected. Entire outposts vanished from communication networks. Ships were discovered drifting through space, their crews breathing but unresponsive.

Magic provided little protection. Technology failed to identify the method of attack. Even telepaths could not locate the minds stolen by the creature.

You attended every strategy session. You answered questions patiently. You accepted restrictions even when they frustrated you. Most importantly, you did not attempt to take control.

Damian knew how difficult that must have been.

He had been raised to believe that power justified authority. Competence meant leadership. If others could not accomplish a task, then the duty fell to him. It had taken years to learn that teamwork was not merely several people following his commands simultaneously.

You possessed enough power to solve almost any problem through force. Yet you asked permission before using it.

Sometimes badly.

“May I obliterate the hostile vessel?” you requested during one confrontation.

“No,” Superman said.

“May I frighten the occupants until they flee?”

“No.”

“May I cause them to experience a brief but educational vision of their own mortality?”

Wonder Woman paused.

“No,” Batman said.

You looked at Damian. He shook his head.

You sighed and disabled the vessel’s engines instead.

Afterwards, Damian found you seated alone in the Watchtower’s botanical garden. Several flowers had turned toward you despite the artificial lighting.

“You are sulking,” he said.

“I am reflecting.”

“You transformed Green Lantern’s coffee into a liquid that whispered his childhood secrets.”

“He said I lacked subtlety.”

“That was not subtle.”

“It only whispered.”

Damian sat beside you.

The garden was empty. Most of the League had returned to Earth for the night, leaving only essential personnel and those preparing for the Sovereign’s arrival.

You drew your knees toward your chest.

“I am trying,” you said.

“I know.”

“I could stop it.”

“You have said.”

“I could reach into the empty space between moments and remove the Sovereign before it ever formed. Every mind it consumed would return. Every planet would be restored. No one would remember that it existed.”

“Except you.”

“Yes.”

“And what would that cost?”

You were silent.

Damian turned his head.

“What would it cost?” he repeated.

The flowers around you closed.

“A portion of this universe,” you said at last.

“How much?”

“I do not know.”

“Then it is not an option.”

“I could choose which portion.”

“No.”

“I would avoid inhabited systems.”

“No.”

“I could select realities already approaching collapse.”

“You would still be destroying them.”

“They are possibilities, Damian. Some outcomes are born only to become suffering.”

“That does not give you the right to erase them.”

Your jaw tightened.

For a moment, Damian remembered what you were.

The air darkened. The garden walls disappeared beneath an endless expanse of stars. Your shadow spilled across the floor, rising behind you in shapes too large and complex for his eyes to understand.

“You speak confidently for someone whose existence occupies less than a heartbeat of mine,” you said.

Damian did not move.

The words should have sounded cruel. Instead, they sounded wounded.

“You are correct,” he said.

Your eyes flickered.

“My life is insignificant compared to yours. You could end it before I drew breath.”

The shadow behind you shuddered. “Do not say that.”

“It is true.”

“I would never harm you.”

“Then listen to me.”

The stars around them stilled.

Damian leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. “You came here because you wished to be trusted. Trust is not earned by possessing the ability to control every outcome. It is earned by allowing others to choose, even when their choices frighten you.”

Your voice became quiet. “And if their choices lead to death?”

“Then we face the consequences together.”

“I do not want you to die.”

The confession struck him more forcefully than any threat could have.

You looked furious about it. Furious and frightened and unbearably alone.

Damian’s chest tightened.

He understood then. You did not crave control because you believed yourself superior.

You craved it because you had lived too long. You had watched people die across centuries. Civilisations rose, flourished, and vanished while you remained. Every attachment became another future grave. Every person you loved was a fragile, temporary thing.

Power had taught you that loss was optional. Loneliness had taught you that love was not.

Damian shifted closer. “I do not intend to die.”

“You cannot guarantee that.”

“Neither can you.”

“I can.”

“No. You can preserve my body. You can alter history. You can build another version of me from memory and starlight, but you cannot guarantee that the person returned would be precisely the one you lost.”

Your expression crumpled by a fraction.

It was enough.

Damian reached for your hand.

You stared down at his fingers around yours.

The shadows withdrew. The garden returned.

“I have rules,” he said.

“You have many.”

“Do not interrupt.”

“Apologies.”

“You will not erase anything without the League’s agreement.”

You nodded.

“You will not sacrifice yourself without telling me.”

Your brow furrowed. “That sounds unfairly specific.”

“It is.”

“Why only you?”

Damian’s grip tightened.

Because the thought of you vanishing into the spaces between worlds made something inside him feel flayed open.

Because he had begun measuring his days by the sound of your voice.

Because he kept finding you in every room, as though his body had become a compass designed solely to point toward yours.

Because you looked at him and saw fear without weakness, saw tenderness without shame, saw a man rather than a weapon or heir or impossible child.

Because when you smiled at him, the universe seemed briefly smaller.

Manageable. His.

“You respond well to me,” Damian said.

You considered this. “That is true.”

“It is therefore efficient.”

“Of course.”

“You are smiling.”

“I find your lies endearing.”

Damian glared.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. He allowed it.

After a moment, he rested his cheek against your hair.

Neither of you mentioned it.

The Sovereign arrived three days early.

It came without warning. One moment, Damian was aboard the Watchtower reviewing evacuation plans. The next, every screen went black.

A low sound moved through the station. It was not audible. It appeared directly within the mind, a vast and hollow note that made Damian’s thoughts scatter like birds beneath gunfire.

People collapsed.

Superman struck the floor first, hands clamped over his ears. The Flash staggered into the wall. Wonder Woman fell to one knee, teeth bared as she fought against an enemy no strength could touch.

Damian remained upright for six seconds.

Then memories began disappearing.

He forgot the name of his first dog. He forgot the colour of his mother’s eyes. He forgot why the symbol on his chest mattered.

Panic surged.

He fought it, grasping for fragments of himself as they slipped away. Names scattered. Faces blurred. His father became a shadow. Grayson’s laugh vanished. Todd’s voice. Drake’s tired smile. Alfred’s hands.

Damian stumbled.

Someone caught him.

You.

Your arms wrapped around him as the Watchtower trembled.

The power beneath your skin was no longer subtle. Light poured from your eyes and mouth. Your shape flickered between human and something endless, something made of every path reality might take.

“You came,” the Sovereign spoke through every unconscious person aboard the station.

Their mouths moved simultaneously.

“You who contain possibility.”

Your hold tightened around Damian.

The Sovereign’s presence pressed against his mind. It wanted emptiness. Silence. A universe freed from the pain of thought.

“You cannot take them,” you said.

Your voice shook the station.

Metal warped. Glass cracked. Earth’s atmosphere rippled below them.

The Sovereign laughed through a hundred stolen voices. “You could stop me.”

You went still.

Damian forced himself to focus.

The garden. Your hand in his. Rules.

Do not erase anything. Do not sacrifice yourself.

The Sovereign showed you something. Damian could not see it, but he saw the reaction on your face. Horror. Longing. Temptation.

It was offering you a solution.

“Do not,” Damian managed.

You looked down at him.

For one terrifying instant, there was no recognition in your eyes.

Then your expression softened.

“Beloved creature,” you whispered.

Despite everything, Damian felt offended. “Do not call me that.”

A broken laugh escaped you.

The Sovereign pressed harder.

Damian’s knees buckled. You lowered him carefully to the floor, one hand cradling the back of his skull.

“I can end this,” you said.

“Not alone.”

“It is already inside their minds.”

“Then go into mine.”

Your eyes widened.

Damian could feel pieces of himself crumbling. His memories were rooms with the lights going out one by one.

He seized your wrist.

“You said minds are possibilities,” he forced out. “Every decision. Every memory. Every path not taken.”

“Yes.”

“Use mine as a doorway.”

“It could destroy you.”

“You will not allow it.”

The faith in his own voice surprised him. It surprised you more.

The Sovereign screamed through the station.

Damian held your gaze. “I trust you.”

Something in you broke open.

Power exploded outward.

The Watchtower disappeared.

Damian found himself standing in a forest.

Not a real forest. His forest. The grounds of Wayne Manor stretched beneath an impossible sky. Trees grew from memories. Each branch held moments in place of leaves: his father wrapping a bandage around his hand, Alfred teaching him to bake, Grayson catching him during a fall, Todd handing him a book without comment, Drake falling asleep at the Batcomputer beside him.

The Sovereign moved between the trunks like smoke. Where it passed, leaves withered.

You stood beside Damian.

Here, inside his mind, you looked different. You wore no coat. No embroidered stars. Your body was formed from silver light, your edges shifting through a thousand possible versions of yourself. In some, you wore armour. In others, a crown. In one, you had no human shape at all.

Yet your hand felt warm when Damian took it.

“How do we kill it?” he asked.

“We cannot.”

“Then how do we stop it?”

“The Sovereign feeds upon isolated minds. It silences each consciousness by separating it from every other connection.”

Damian looked at the memory-trees. “Then give it too many connections.”

You stared at him.

Understanding flashed across your face. Then delight.

“Oh,” you breathed. “You are brilliant.”

“I am aware.”

You lifted your joined hands.

Every branch in Damian’s forest ignited.

Not with fire.

With connection.

The memory of Dick laughing linked itself to the memory of Bruce’s exhausted smile. Jason’s anger joined Tim’s loyalty. Alfred’s grief wound through Talia’s pride. Jon’s friendship, the Titans, the League, every animal Damian had saved, every person he had protected, every enemy who had shaped him.

Damian was not one mind. He was a constellation of every life that had touched his.

The Sovereign recoiled.

You reached through him. Through every bond Damian possessed. The power travelled outward, passing from mind to mind across the Watchtower. Superman’s love for humanity. Wonder Woman’s devotion to truth. Batman’s impossible, terrible hope. The Flash’s joy. Green Lantern’s will.

The Sovereign drowned in connection.

It shrieked as millions of thoughts surged through it at once. It had consumed isolated consciousness for so long that it could not withstand people choosing one another.

You could have destroyed it. Damian felt the possibility open beneath your feet: a bottomless void, ready to swallow the Sovereign and everything it had touched.

You closed it.

Instead, you separated the stolen minds from the creature one by one.

You returned them.

Every civilization. Every crew. Every person emptied and abandoned.

The work tore through you.

Damian felt your pain as cracks of darkness spread across your silver body.

“You are sacrificing yourself,” he said.

“I am not.”

“You are lying.”

“I am revising my structure.”

“You are breaking apart.”

“Temporarily.”

“Stop.”

“Not yet.”

He pulled you toward him.

The Sovereign thrashed overhead, shrinking as stolen consciousness poured away from it.

“You promised,” Damian said.

“I promised to tell you.”

“That is not sufficient.”

“It was your rule.”

“I am changing it.”

Your smile was faint. “You cannot change agreements during execution.”

“I am Robin. I can do as I please.”

“That is not how agreements work.”

“I will find you.”

Your smile vanished.

Damian pressed his forehead against yours. “If you break apart, I will find every piece.”

“You do not know where they will go.”

“I do not care.”

“Some may fall beyond time.”

“Then I will go beyond time.”

“Some may become new stars.”

“I will search every one.”

“Damian.”

“You do not get to make me love you and then disappear.”

The world went still.

Even the Sovereign seemed to pause.

You stared at him.

The silver light of your body flickered violently.

“You love me?”

Damian’s face burned. “This is not the appropriate moment.”

“You love me.”

“I will rescind the statement if you continue behaving foolishly.”

“You cannot rescind love.”

“I can certainly rescind admitting it.”

The Sovereign lunged.

You turned. With one raised hand, you sealed the creature inside a sphere no larger than a pearl.

The forest returned to silence.

Damian stared at the tiny sphere floating above your palm. “You said you could not kill it.”

“I did not.”

“What did you do?”

“I placed it inside a harmless pocket reality where it will experience the combined internal monologues of every person who has ever lived.”

Damian considered this. “That seems cruel.”

“It will be released once it learns empathy.”

“So never.”

“Possibly never.”

You closed your fingers around the sphere.

It vanished.

Then your knees gave way.

Damian caught you.

The forest dissolved.

Damian woke in the Watchtower infirmary.

His father sat beside the bed. He looked terrible.

Damian pushed himself upright. “Where are they?”

Bruce placed one hand against his shoulder. “Damian.”

“Where?”

“They’re alive.”

Air returned to Damian’s lungs.

Bruce’s eyes softened.

“They’re stable,” he continued. “As stable as anyone can determine. Their physical form was damaged during the separation process.”

“I need to see them.”

“You suffered a significant psychic attack.”

“I am aware.”

“You need rest.”

“I will rest in their room.”

“Damian.”

“Father.”

Bruce stared at him. Damian stared back.

Bruce sighed.

Some battles were decided by experience. Others were decided by having the more stubborn son.

You were lying beneath enough monitoring equipment to track the vital signs of an entire army.

None of it seemed particularly useful. Your heartbeat changed every few seconds. Sometimes it stopped entirely. Your body temperature moved between freezing and fever-hot. The machine attempting to measure your brain activity had begun displaying weather forecasts for planets that did not exist.

Damian sat beside you.

Your face appeared peaceful. Too peaceful.

He hated it.

“I know you can hear me,” he said.

Nothing happened.

“You are attention-seeking.”

The lights flickered.

Damian leaned forward. “If you wished for flowers, you could have asked.”

A vase appeared beside the bed. It contained black roses with silver thorns.

Damian’s chest tightened. “You are awake.”

Your eyes remained closed.

“You are avoiding me.”

A small line appeared between your brows.

“You heard what I said.”

Your eyes opened.

The universe moved inside them.

“Which part?” you asked weakly.

Damian’s face heated. “Do not test me.”

“You said many things.”

“You remember them.”

“I sustained extensive damage.”

“You imprisoned a cosmic predator inside the collective annoyance of all sentient life.”

“It seemed appropriate.”

“You remember.”

Your gaze slid away.

Damian stared at you. You, who had stood before gods and armies without flinching, suddenly seemed deeply interested in the infirmary ceiling.

“I did not expect you to say it,” you murmured.

“I had not intended to.”

“That is somewhat less romantic.”

“You were disintegrating.”

“I was reorganising.”

“You were dying.”

“Only in certain interpretations.”

Damian took your hand. Your fingers were cool.

“You are impossible,” he said.

“I have been described as inevitable.”

“That is worse.”

“I know.”

He traced his thumb across your knuckles. “You frightened me.”

Your expression changed immediately. “I am sorry.”

“I do not require an apology.”

“I frightened you.”

“And I remained.”

You looked at him.

Damian brought your hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against your knuckles.

The monitors began producing sparks.

He glanced at them.

You smiled sheepishly. “Apologies.”

“Control yourself.”

“You kissed me.”

“I kissed your hand.”

“You have never done that before.”

“You nearly ceased existing.”

“Would you do it again if I remained intact?”

“Perhaps.”

Your eyes brightened. “Would you consider kissing somewhere else?”

Damian’s eyebrows rose.

You looked horrified by your own words. “I meant my face.”

“I assumed.”

“Not that I would object to—”

“Stop speaking.”

You immediately closed your mouth.

Damian leaned closer.

For all your power, you trembled. 

That endeared you to him more than he could express. You could tear holes through dimensions. You could transform armies into chandeliers. You could hold collapsing stars between your hands.

Yet you were nervous because Damian Wayne might kiss you.

He cupped your jaw.

“Before you become alarmed,” he murmured, “I would like to make it explicitly clear that I am not attempting to kill you.”

Your mouth fell open.

Damian kissed you before you could respond.

For one perfect moment, nothing happened.

Then every flower in the Watchtower bloomed at once. The station’s artificial gravity failed. Somewhere in the distance, Green Lantern shouted.

Damian floated several inches above the floor, still holding your face between his hands.

You pulled back, eyes wide. “I lost focus.”

“I noticed.”

“I can fix it.”

“Do so.”

Gravity returned.

Damian landed neatly.

A tray crashed in the corridor.

You covered your face. “This is humiliating.”

“You brought the entire Watchtower to a halt by being kissed.”

“I have never been kissed before.”

Damian stilled. “You have existed since before the first stars.”

“I have been busy.”

His mouth curved.

You peeked at him through your fingers. “You are amused.”

“Very.”

“Is that bad?”

Damian lowered your hands. “No.”

You searched his face. “You find me strange.”

“Yes.”

“Frightening.”

“Occasionally.”

“Tone-deaf.”

“Constantly.”

Your mouth twisted.

Damian kissed the corner of it.

“And,” he added, “endearing.”

The room brightened. Not the electrical lights. The world itself seemed to soften around you, colours becoming warmer, shadows gentler.

“You find me endearing,” you repeated.

“Do not force me to say it twice.”

“I would never force you to do anything.”

“I know.”

There it was again.

Those two words.

I know.

Trust given without fear.

Your eyes filled with something endless and tender.

“I love you,” you said.

Damian inhaled.

“You need not say it in return,” you continued quickly. “I understand that mortal courtship traditions contain complicated stages. There may be rituals. Gifts. Battles against rival suitors. The kidnapping of relatives.”

“There will be no kidnapping.”

“Of course. Because I am not evil.”

Damian closed his eyes.

You looked wounded.

He laughed.

Not quietly this time. Not hidden behind a hand or turned shoulder.

The sound filled the infirmary, bright and helpless.

You stared at him in awe.

Damian pressed his forehead against yours, still laughing as you began to smile.

“I love you,” he said.

The Watchtower trembled.

You winced. “Sorry.”

Three weeks later, Damian took you on what you insisted on calling a strategic interpersonal meeting.

“It is a date,” he said.

The two of you were walking through Gotham Botanical Gardens after closing hours. Damian had obtained permission. You had offered to temporarily remove every other person from the city.

He had refused.

“A date implies romantic intentions,” you said.

“Yes.”

“And the possibility of physical affection.”

“Yes.”

“And potentially a formal union if compatibility is established.”

Damian stopped.

You stopped beside him.

“Do not propose to me on our first date.”

“I was not proposing.”

“You created a ring.”

You looked down.

A ring had appeared around Damian’s finger. It was made from dark metal, set with a stone containing a tiny rotating galaxy.

You stared at it.

“I did not do that intentionally.”

Damian examined the ring. “Your subconscious is proposing.”

“It is enthusiastic.”

“I can see that.”

“I will remove it.”

Damian curled his hand into a fist. “No.”

Your eyes widened.

“I will keep it,” he said. “For now.”

The garden lamps flickered. Flowers unfolded along the path despite the midnight hour.

You walked beside him in silence for several moments.

Then you said, “I should clarify that the ring does not contain surveillance magic.”

“Good.”

“It does not bind your soul to mine.”

“Excellent.”

“It does not mark you as my property to predatory entities.”

Damian looked at you. You smiled nervously.

“Does it do anything?”

“It will protect you from most forms of psychic intrusion, temporal displacement, molecular disintegration, possession, accidental dimensional exile, and moderate curses.”

“Moderate?”

“Powerful curses require the matching bracelet.”

“Of course they do.”

The bracelet appeared around his wrist.

Damian sighed.

You reached toward him, then paused. “May I hold your hand?”

He looked at you.

The question still came carefully. Despite all your power, despite knowing he loved you, you asked.

Always.

Damian threaded his fingers through yours. “Yes.”

You continued through the garden together.

Above you, Gotham’s clouds parted to reveal a sky full of impossible stars.

Damian glanced upward. “You are doing that.”

“I thought the natural sky lacked drama.”

“It is sufficient without your interference.”

The additional stars vanished. The ordinary night returned.

After a moment, Damian squeezed your hand. “You may restore some of them.”

The sky burst into colour.

Damian rolled his eyes.

You smiled.

Anyone watching might have found the sight alarming: Gotham’s most severe vigilante walking hand in hand with a being capable of remaking creation, both surrounded by flowers blooming out of season.

Perhaps you were dangerous. Damian had never doubted that. You were vain without realising it, dramatic by accident, catastrophically bad at reassurance, and powerful enough to make gods reconsider their life choices.

You also cried during animated films. You carried injured insects out of buildings. You remembered everyone’s preferred tea. You once paused a battle because you noticed Damian had skipped lunch. You loved mortals despite knowing you would outlive them. You chose restraint even when destruction would have been easier.

You had been feared for so long that you announced your goodness before anyone could accuse you of its absence.

Damian understood that. He had spent much of his own life insisting he had changed before anyone believed him. Sometimes the truth sounded most suspicious when spoken by someone desperate to be trusted.

You rested your head against his shoulder as you walked.

“I am very pleased,” you said.

“With the date?”

“With you.”

Damian looked ahead to hide his expression. “You should be.”

“I am also pleased that I resisted the urge to eliminate all potential romantic competition.”

Damian stopped walking.

You stopped with him.

A pigeon landed on a nearby statue.

You glanced toward it. Damian stared at you.

“That was a joke,” you said. He narrowed his eyes. “I have been practising.”

“A joke.”

“Yes.”

“You have not eliminated anyone.”

“No.”

“Or imprisoned them.”

“No.”

“Transformed them.”

“Certainly not.”

“Married them against their will.”

“That only happened once.”

Damian’s stare sharpened.

You lifted both hands. “Not evil.”

The pigeon cooed.

Damian exhaled through his nose. Then he pulled you closer by the front of your coat and kissed you beneath a sky you had rearranged solely because you thought he deserved prettier stars.

You melted against him.

The garden lifted three feet into the air.

Neither of you noticed for several minutes.

When the League questioned you about it later, you promised that the levitation had been entirely harmless.

No one believed you.

Damian did.

You were not Gotham’s lesson. You were its contradiction.

You walked into the lives of heroes with no cape, no crest, no ancestral oath or alien sun burning beneath your skin. You arrived with steady hands, tired eyes, and a reputation that made even gods go quiet.

You could heal anything. That was what everyone said.

The Justice League said it with reverence. The Titans said it with relief. The Outlaws said it with reckless gratitude. Young Justice said it like they had discovered a cheat code and decided not to read the terms of service.

Jon said you were “basically a miracle.”

Damian said miracles were unreliable.

You had smiled at him when he said it. Amused.

“Good thing I’m not a miracle, then,” you had replied.

He had disliked you immediately.

Not because you were wrong.

Because he wanted you to be.

The first time Damian let you heal him, he was twenty-one and old enough to know better.

It was not a serious injury. That was what he told himself. A fractured wrist after a fight with a metahuman trafficking cell near the docks. He had taken the hit redirecting a collapsing beam away from a child. The child survived. His wrist did not.

A favourable exchange.

You found him on a rooftop afterwards, attempting to secure a splint one-handed with the grim concentration of a man personally offended by gauze. You stood in front of him for five seconds before saying, “That wrap is a hate crime.”

Damian did not look up. “It is functional.”

“It is shaped like unresolved childhood trauma.”

His eyes lifted. You smiled mildly.

He stared. “You are bold for someone within throwing distance.”

“You’re injured.”

“You believe that protects you?”

“No. I believe your wrist is broken and your left-handed aim with medical tape is probably worse than you think.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. The worst part was that you were correct.

You stepped closer but did not reach for him.

That was unusual. Most people reached. Medics, especially. Even kind ones often forgot that kindness could still become an invasion if delivered without permission.

You held your hands at your sides.

“I can heal it,” you said.

“No.”

“Okay.”

He paused.

You did not argue. No persuasive speech. No moral lecture. No “you don’t have to be tough with me,” which was a phrase Damian loathed almost as much as “calm down.”

You simply accepted his answer and leaned against the roof access door.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“To make sure you don’t pass out from pain while continuing your one-man war against compression bandages.”

“I will not pass out.”

“Great. Then this will be boring.”

The silence that followed should have annoyed him.

It did. But not only.

You watched the skyline instead of watching him. You gave him privacy without leaving him alone. It was a surprisingly difficult balance, and Damian hated that you managed it.

Eventually, his splint slipped. You did not comment.

His wrist throbbed hard enough that his vision flashed white at the edges. You still did not comment.

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Fine,” he said. You looked over. “I will permit your assistance.”

“Assistance with the splint or healing?”

He paused. You waited.

Damian looked at your hands. They were steady. Scarred in small places, though no injuries lingered long on you. He knew that much. Everyone knew that. You healed quickly. You healed others faster.

A miracle, Jon had called you. A risk, Damian thought.

“To heal,” he said finally.

You stepped toward him. Slowly. “May I touch your wrist?”

“Yes.”

Your fingers settled around the fracture. Warmth bloomed beneath your palm.

Damian prepared for pain. There was none.

The ache vanished. The bone slid back into place with a painless shift that should have been impossible. Swelling disappeared. Torn tissue knitted itself whole. His fingers, stiff seconds before, flexed freely.

He stared at his hand. There should have been consequences. There were always consequences.

You released him and took half a step back. Your own fingers curled briefly against your palm.

A twitch. Almost nothing.

Damian saw it. “What was that?”

You blinked. “What was what?”

“Your hand.”

“My hand exists. Very observant.”

He frowned.

You smiled. It was a practised smile.

He would understand that later.

At the time, he only knew that he disliked it.

Trust came slowly.

Damian preferred it that way. Trust that arrived too quickly was either foolishness or manipulation. Real trust was built like a fortress: stone by stone, inspected from every angle, reinforced after every storm.

You never rushed him. That was the first stone.

You respected every no. That was the second.

You remembered details he did not expect anyone to notice: that he preferred tea without sugar, that he hated being touched from behind, that Titus became restless during thunderstorms, that Damian’s right shoulder tightened before he admitted exhaustion.

You learned the names of his animals before you learned the gossip about his family. That was several stones at once.

“You brought treats,” Damian said the first time you visited the Manor, and Titus abandoned dignity to shove his massive head into your hands.

“For Titus.”

“I can see that.”

“You sound offended.”

“You have bribed my dog.”

“I have respected his interests.”

Titus wagged his tail with shameless enthusiasm.

Damian crossed his arms. “He has betrayed me.”

“You love him anyway.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smiled down at Titus. “Good boy.”

Damian watched the way your hands scratched behind the dog’s ears. Gentle, sure, absent of fear. Titus leaned against you like a creature who knew exactly where kindness lived.

Damian did not realise he was staring until you glanced up.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Your smile became suspicious. “Was that almost fondness?”

“No.”

“It looked like almost fondness.”

“You are mistaken.”

“I’m choosing to believe otherwise.”

“Your delusions are your own burden.”

You laughed. Damian looked away too late.

After that, you became a regular presence.

Not constant. Damian would not have tolerated constant.

Familiar.

You appeared in the Cave after League missions, carrying medical supplies and the quiet authority of someone who had seen heroes at their worst and remained unimpressed by theatrics. You patched Grayson while he told a story with too many hand gestures and not enough respect for his own cracked ribs. You argued with Todd about antibiotics until he took them out of spite. You confiscated Drake’s coffee once and survived.

Damian had been impressed. Not that he said so.

Jon noticed, because Jon noticed everything Damian wished he would not.

“You like them,” Jon said one evening on a rooftop patrol.

Damian did not stumble. Barely.

“I tolerate them.”

Jon floated beside him, cape moving in the wind. “You gave them one of your sketches.”

“It was a medical diagram.”

“It was a drawing of their hands.”

“Hands are medically relevant.”

“You wrote ‘rest’ under it.”

“They do not rest.”

Jon’s grin widened. “You are so down bad.” Damian turned slowly. Jon backed up in the air. “I say that with love.”

“I will remove you from the sky.”

“You can’t fly.”

“I will improvise.”

Jon laughed.

Damian resumed walking. His ears were warm.

Jon landed beside him, quieter now. “They look at you differently, too.”

Damian’s step faltered. “They do not.”

“They do.”

“Kryptonian hearing does not make you an expert on human emotion.”

“No, but hearing their heartbeat change when you walk in is pretty compelling evidence.” Damian stopped. Jon also stopped, expression immediately apologetic. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You listen to their heart?”

“Not intentionally! It’s just loud when they see you.”

Damian’s own heart became deeply undisciplined.

Jon smiled softly. “You should tell them.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Damian glanced at him, suspicious. “You concede too easily.”

“No, I just know you’ll do it eventually and pretend it was your idea.”

Damian glared. Jon grinned.

Two nights later, you found another drawing tucked into your medical bag. This one was of Titus asleep with his head on your knee. Beneath it, in Damian’s precise handwriting, was one sentence: He trusts you. This reflects well on your character.

You found Damian in the garden.

It was raining, because Gotham apparently believed subtlety was for lesser cities. He stood beneath a stone archway, pretending not to wait.

You approached with the sketch held carefully against your chest.

“This is beautiful,” you said.

“It is accurate.”

“It’s kind.”

“That is debatable.”

“No.” You smiled. “It isn’t.”

Damian looked away.

You stepped under the arch beside him. Rain whispered over ivy. The Manor glowed behind you both, all old stone and golden windows.

“Thank you,” you said.

He nodded stiffly.

There was a silence.

Not uncomfortable. That had become dangerous.

You looked at him, and Damian could feel the moment opening like a door.

“You’re allowed to want things,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened. It was not fair, how gently you said it. As if the words were not a blade sliding between armour plates. “I am aware.”

“You know it intellectually.”

He looked at you sharply. Your smile was sad.

“What do you want, Damian?”

Many answers came to him.

Peace. Purpose. His father’s approval, though he had outgrown needing it and somehow not outgrown wanting it. A world where children were not trained into weapons. A self that did not sometimes still hear his grandfather’s voice and mistake it for his own.

But those truths were too large for the rain. So he chose the smaller one. The braver one.

“You,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Damian did not look away. Your face changed in a way he did not have language for. Softened, yes, but not with pity. With wonder. With wanting so open, it made his chest hurt.

“You have me,” you whispered.

He should have asked if you were certain. He should have warned you that he did not love gently by instinct, that his devotion had teeth, that he was still learning how to hold without gripping too tightly.

Instead, he leaned in.

You met him halfway.

The first kiss was rain-cold and mouth-warm, hesitant for only the first breath. Then your hand rose to his cheek, and Damian let himself lean into it.

Let himself want. Let himself be wanted.

Later, Jon would claim he heard Damian’s heartbeat “attempt to achieve escape velocity.”

Damian would threaten him. Several times.

But in the rain, beneath ivy, you kissed him like there was nothing in him that needed to be earned back from violence.

And Damian, foolishly perhaps, believed you.

He should have known the past would come for him with a blade. 

The League of Assassins rarely wasted poetry.

When the case began, it looked like a string of metahuman disappearances. Three teenagers taken from Metropolis. Two from Gotham. One from Blüdhaven. All newly powered. All young enough to be frightened by what their bodies had become and old enough for someone cruel to turn that fear into compliance.

Oracle connected the disappearances to an abandoned hospital outside Gotham registered under six false companies, two shell organisations, and one name Damian had not heard spoken aloud in years.

A minor League sect. Old blood. New methods.

His father stood at the Cave computer, grim and silent. Grayson’s usual warmth had sharpened into focus. Drake’s fingers flew across keys. Todd checked and rechecked his weapons with quiet, murderous care. Jon stood beside Damian, tension radiating off him like sunlight behind storm clouds.

You stood near the medbay entrance. Damian saw you before anyone spoke.

“No,” he said.

Your eyes moved to him. “Excuse me?”

“You are not coming.”

Todd muttered, “Smooth, brat.”

Damian ignored him.

You stepped closer. “They’ll have injured kids inside.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want a healer there?”

“I do not want you there.”

The room went still.

Your face did not change, but Damian saw the hurt land. He regretted the phrasing instantly.

Not the meaning. The wound.

You folded your arms. “Because it’s dangerous?”

“Because it is League.”

Your expression softened, which was worse than anger. “Dami.”

“No.”

“You can’t keep me away from every shadow in your past.”

“I can keep you away from this one.”

“That isn’t your choice.”

“It is if I refuse to allow you through the Zeta-tube.”

Drake winced.

Grayson said, “Dami.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, he thought you would argue. Part of him wanted you to. Part of him wanted you angry enough that the fear in his chest had somewhere to go.

Instead, you nodded once. “Fine.”

Damian hated the word.

You looked at Bruce. “I’ll coordinate med support from here.”

Bruce’s gaze shifted between you and Damian.

Then he nodded. “Accepted.”

You did not look at Damian again.

Good, he told himself. He had protected you.

It felt like losing.

The facility beneath the hospital was exactly what Damian expected. That made it worse.

Stone corridors beneath sterile tile. Modern restraints bolted into old walls. Hidden sigils carved under steel plates. The League had always understood the value of layering cruelty beneath cleanliness.

The team split. Batman and Nightwing cleared the upper labs. Red Hood secured the escape route with a level of aggression that suggested several assassins would later require reconstructive dentistry. Red Robin disabled surveillance from the Cave with you beside him on medical coordination. Damian and Jon moved through the lower chambers.

They found the first two teenagers in a containment room.

Bruised. Dehydrated. Alive. One had burns from power-dampening cuffs. The other had a dislocated shoulder and a split lip. Damian’s jaw tightened as Jon broke the cuffs with careful rage.

Your voice came through comms. “Status?”

“Two recovered,” Damian replied. “Nonfatal injuries. Burns, dislocation, dehydration.”

A short pause. “Can they move?”

“Yes.”

“Get them to extraction. I’ll have medics ready.”

Damian heard it in your voice. The restraint.

You wanted to be there. You wanted to put your hands over the burns and make them vanish.

Instead, you gave orders.

He was proud. He was afraid. Both feelings sat together in him like badly behaved animals.

They moved deeper.

The final chamber was beneath the old surgical wing. It had once been an operating theatre. The League had turned it into something worse. Six teenagers were strapped to tilted metal tables arranged in a circle around a machine pulsing with stolen metahuman energy. Their powers fed into the device through cables bright with unstable light.

In the centre stood a man in black armour with a white sash marked in old League script.

Damian knew the title.

Not the man. That hardly mattered. The League was full of replaceable monsters wearing inherited arrogance.

“Blood heir,” the man said.

Jon’s eyes burned red. “I hate when they call you that.”

“As do I,” Damian said.

Then the fight began. Assassins dropped from the rafters. Red solar emitters ignited in the walls, flooding the room in pulses designed to weaken Jon without fully stripping him. Power-dampening fields snapped on around the captives. Blades flashed.

Damian moved.

He had been raised in rooms like this. He knew their rhythm. Strike before the second attacker lands. Never follow the obvious opening. The left wall hides a second blade. The floor sigil is not decorative. The man with the shorter sword is the true threat.

He fought like memory given teeth. Jon fought beside him, weakened but furious, each hit controlled enough to avoid collapsing the chamber on the children.

“Red Robin,” Damian snapped over comms. “Disable the solar emitters.”

“Working,” Tim replied. “They’re layered into the medical grid.”

Todd’s voice cut in, breathless and violent. “I can blow the grid.”

“Do not blow the grid,” Tim and Bruce said at once.

Todd scoffed. “No one appreciates vision.”

Your voice came through, tight. “Damian, behind you.”

He turned before the blade reached his spine.

An assassin fell.

Damian’s pulse sharpened. You were watching through hacked security feeds.

Good. Bad. You were seeing too much.

The lead assassin smiled.

“Still guided by softer hands,” he said.

Damian lunged.

Mistake.

Not fatal. Almost.

The floor beneath him flared with old script. Chains of black light erupted around his right arm and shoulder, locking him mid-strike. Jon shouted and tried to reach him, but two assassins drove him back beneath red solar pulses.

Damian twisted. The chains tightened.

The lead assassin drew a curved blade.

Not toward Damian’s heart. Toward his arm.

Damian understood at once. Maiming, not killing. A message. A punishment. A ritual humiliation. The blood heir made less whole.

He fought the chains with everything he had.

Not enough.

The blade came down. Pain went white.

For one suspended heartbeat, there was nothing.

Then sound returned.

Jon screaming his name. The teenagers crying out. The wet sound of blood hitting tile.

Damian looked down. His right arm was nearly severed below the elbow. Attached by ruined flesh, fractured bone, and a stubbornness his body had apparently inherited from him.

The sight was clinical in its horror.

He knew what losing the arm would mean.

Not death. Worse, in some ways.

Relearning everything. Sword forms. Drawing. Writing. Touch. Balance. The language of his body rewritten by another person’s blade.

Pain struck next, vast and blinding.

Damian dropped to his knees. His left hand clamped above the wound. Blood surged between his fingers.

“Robin!” Bruce’s voice cracked over comms.

That, more than the injury, frightened him. His father sounded afraid.

Jon hit the lead assassin so hard that the man flew into the far wall.

The solar emitters died.

Tim’s voice, “Grid down.”

Todd, “I still think explosions would’ve been faster.”

Your voice came next. Not steady. Not anymore.

“Damian?”

He clenched his teeth. Could not answer.

Jon dropped beside him, face white. He pressed both hands over Damian’s arm, trying to stem the bleeding without making it worse.

“Oh God,” Jon breathed. “Dami, stay with me.”

“I am… here,” Damian forced out.

“You’re losing too much blood.”

“I noticed.”

“Stop being sarcastic while actively bleeding out!”

Your voice came again. “Jon. Status.”

Jon looked at the comm on Damian’s collar, horrified.

“It’s his arm,” Jon said. “It’s—it’s almost gone.”

Silence. The kind that took all air with it.

Then the sound Damian dreaded most. The Zeta-tube activating in the chamber beyond.

“No,” Damian rasped.

Jon looked at him. “Damian—”

“No.”

He tried to push himself upright. Failed.

The chamber doors opened. Batman entered first, cape like a storm, medkit in hand.

You came behind him.

Your eyes found Damian. Everything in your face stopped.

No. That was his first thought.

Not relief. Not love.

No.

Because he knew you. He knew what you were seeing. Not only the blood. Not only the limb hanging by torn flesh. Not only the future unravelling in one brutal line.

You were seeing something you could fix.

“Do not,” he said.

Your face crumpled. You crossed the room anyway.

Bruce knelt at Damian’s other side, taking over pressure from Jon with controlled, terrible efficiency.

“Tourniquet,” Bruce said.

Jon was already moving.

You knelt in front of Damian.

“Hi,” you whispered.

Absurd. He loved you so fiercely in that moment that it frightened him more than the blood loss.

“No,” he said again.

Your hands hovered over his arm. Shaking now. The tremor was visible. He hated that.

“I can save it,” you said.

His vision blurred. “No.”

“You could lose your hand.”

“I know.”

“Your arm.”

“I know.”

“Damian.”

He looked at you. Your eyes were full of tears, but beneath the fear was something harder.

Resolve. The same resolve he had seen in you a hundred times when someone was hurt. When pain became a problem and your body became the answer.

“No,” he whispered.

You touched his face with one blood-slick hand.

He should have turned away. He did not.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

His heart stopped. “No.”

“I can’t let them take this from you.”

“No.”

“You draw with this hand.” His throat closed. “You hold your sword with it,” you continued, voice breaking. “You hold Titus. You hold me.”

“Beloved—”

“I can help.”

“You will take the wound.”

“Not all of it.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know my body.” A desperate, broken smile flickered across your mouth. “It changes things. It softens the transfer sometimes. I probably won’t get it as bad.”

“Probably,” Damian spat.

You flinched. Good.

No. Not good. Nothing was good.

Bruce’s gaze snapped to you. “What does that mean?”

No one answered him. The entire chamber seemed to narrow around you and Damian.

Your hand was still on his face. His blood streaked your fingers.

“I can’t watch you lose part of yourself,” you whispered.

Rage and terror rose together in Damian’s chest. “You think my hand is myself?”

“No,” you said immediately. “No. That’s not what I mean.”

“That is what you said.”

“I mean they took enough from you. The League took enough. Your childhood, your choices, your body, your pain, your name before you even knew what names meant.” Your voice cracked. “I cannot sit here with the power to stop them from taking one more thing and choose not to.”

His breath hitched.

There it was. The blade under the kindness.

Not pity. Fury. You were angry for him. You were choosing him. You were choosing him over yourself.

He wanted to weep. He wanted to shout. He wanted to beg.

“Ask me,” he said.

Your face broke. “Damian—”

“Ask me.”

The words cost him more than blood.

You stared at him. “I can’t.”

Pain lanced through him.

Not from the arm. From you.

“You can,” he said. “You must.”

“If I ask, you’ll say no.”

“Yes.”

“And then I’ll have to let it happen.”

“You will have to honour my choice.”

Your tears spilled over. “I’m not strong enough for that.”

Damian’s heart shattered.

Bruce went very still beside him. Jon made a small, broken sound.

You leaned closer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.

And then your hands closed around Damian’s ruined arm.

The transfer hit like lightning.

Damian screamed. So did you. For one second, pain filled everything. Not leaving him gently, not fading like mercy. It ripped out of him, dragging fire and nerve and blood with it.

Then his arm healed. Bone snapped into alignment. Flesh knitted. Tendons reconnected. Skin sealed beneath your palms. Feeling surged down to his fingertips in a brutal rush.

His hand flexed. Whole. His.

Then you collapsed.

Your right arm buckled beneath you.

Not severed. Not as bad. You had been right. Somehow, impossibly, terribly right.

But the damage still tore through you. A jagged wound split from your forearm toward your wrist, deep enough to expose blood and white flashes of bone beneath muscle. Your fingers curled uselessly. Blood poured down your hand, splattering onto the tile. Your shoulder hit the floor, and your breath broke on a sound Damian would hear forever.

For half a second, he stared at his healed hand. Then at yours.

No.

No.

No.

He lunged toward you. His body, newly healed but blood-weakened, nearly failed him. Jon caught his shoulder. Damian shoved him away and dragged himself to you with both hands, both whole hands, which made it worse.

“Beloved,” he choked.

You were curled around your injured arm, face white with agony.

Bruce moved quickly, already applying pressure to your wound. You cried out. Damian flinched as if the sound had opened him.

“Do not touch them,” he snapped at Bruce.

Bruce’s eyes flashed. “They’re bleeding.”

Damian knew he was being irrational. He did not care.

“Damian,” you gasped.

His attention snapped to you.

You were looking at him. Not your arm.

Him.

Relief trembled through your expression.

Relief.

Because his arm was whole. Because you had succeeded.

Damian felt something inside him go cold and wild.

“How dare you,” he whispered.

Your eyes filled. “I’m sorry.”

“How dare you.”

“I couldn’t—”

“You could,” he said, voice shaking. “You chose not to.”

Your face crumpled.

He wanted to take the words back. He wanted to sharpen them. He wanted to kiss you until your pain disappeared. He wanted your blood off the floor. He wanted his wound back.

“You chose me,” he said.

Your lips trembled. “Yes.”

“Over yourself.”

“Yes.”

The honesty was a killing blow.

Damian’s breath left him.

Bruce tightened the pressure bandage around your arm. You whimpered, trying to stay still. Jon knelt nearby, crying openly now. Damian barely saw him.

“You were right,” you whispered. His heart stopped. “It’s not as bad.”

Damian stared at you.

Then laughed once. A terrible sound.

“You think that matters?” Your eyes searched his, confused through pain and shock. “You think because the wound is smaller, the violation is smaller?”

You flinched.

Bruce’s expression tightened.

Jon whispered, “Dami…”

“No,” Damian snapped. “Do not.”

Your breathing hitched.

Damian’s hands shook. His right hand, whole and healed, shook.

That made him angrier. That made him love you more. That made him hate everything.

“You did not save my arm,” he said, voice breaking. “You made it yours.”

Your face went slack.

There. Good.

No. Not good.

Truth. Necessary and brutal.

You looked at your wounded arm as if seeing it for the first time. Blood soaked the bandage beneath Bruce’s hands.

Your mouth opened. No sound came out.

Then the pain took you. Your eyes rolled back.

Damian caught you before your head hit the floor. “Beloved?”

No response.

“Beloved.”

Bruce pressed two fingers to your throat. “Pulse is weak. We need extraction now.”

Damian held you against him, his healed hand cradling your head.

His arm worked perfectly. He had never hated his own body more.

The Watchtower medbay smelled like antiseptic and fear. Damian sat outside the surgical suite with blood on his clothes.

Yours. His. Both.

He had refused to change.

Todd had said nothing, which was how Damian knew the situation had reached an unnatural level of horror. Jon sat on the floor across from him, knees drawn up, cape wrapped around his shoulders. He had cried himself quiet twenty minutes earlier. Bruce stood near the observation window like a statue carved by grief. Grayson paced. Drake typed furiously on one tablet, then another, then stopped as if realising no amount of data would make time move faster.

Todd leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, helmet off, face pale and furious.

“This is bullshit,” Jason said finally. No one answered. “This whole damn thing is bullshit.”

“Jason,” Dick said softly.

“No. They should’ve told us.”

Damian’s eyes lifted.

Todd looked at him.

Not accusing. Not pitying.

Understanding.

It was unbearable.

“They should’ve told us what healing cost,” Jason said. “Before any of us let them touch us.”

Damian looked down at his right hand.

He flexed his fingers. Whole. Obedient. Yours now, some treacherous part of him thought.

No.

No.

He dug his nails into his palm. Pain answered.

His pain. At least that remained.

“They knew I would refuse,” Damian said.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

Everyone looked at him.

“They knew,” he repeated. “So they did not ask.”

Jon’s face crumpled again.

Bruce said, quietly, “They thought they were saving you.”

Damian’s gaze snapped to his father. “They were.”

Silence.

Damian stood. His body swayed.

Jon scrambled up, but Damian lifted a hand. Jon stopped.

Damian looked at Bruce. “That is the problem.”

Bruce’s face tightened.

“I know,” he said.

Of course he did. Bruce Wayne understood being saved against his will. Understood surviving at a cost someone else paid. Understood the rage that followed gratitude so closely they became nearly impossible to separate.

Damian hated that he understood.

The surgical doors opened. Dr Mid-Nite emerged, expression grave but not hopeless. Damian was in front of him immediately.

“They’re alive,” the doctor said.

Damian nearly collapsed.

He did not. But Jon did, a little, against the wall.

“The transferred injury was severe,” Dr Mid-Nite continued. “Less catastrophic than yours would have been, but still serious. The arm is salvageable. There’s nerve trauma, tendon damage, blood loss. Their accelerated healing is responding, but slowly.”

“Will they regain function?” Damian asked.

“Likely, with treatment and time.”

Likely. Damian hated likely. Likely was probably wearing a white coat.

He wanted certainty. He got none.

“Can I see them?”

The doctor hesitated. Damian’s eyes narrowed.

Bruce stepped closer. “He won’t interfere.”

Dr Mid-Nite looked at Damian. Damian lifted his chin.

“I will not interfere,” he said.

He did not know if it was true. But he meant to make it so.

The doctor nodded.

You looked too small in the bed. Damian hated that thought. You were not small. You were not fragile. You were not a wounded bird cupped in his hands.

You were the person who had looked at the League’s attempt to maim him and said, No more. You were the person who had made yourself the answer.

You were terrible. You were brave. You were unconscious beneath white sheets, right arm wrapped from shoulder to wrist and elevated in a brace.

Damian approached slowly. Machines hummed. Your face was pale with pain even in sleep.

He stopped beside the bed. For a long time, he did nothing.

Then he reached out with his right hand. The healed one.

His fingers hovered over your bandaged arm.

He did not touch. He could not.

It felt obscene.

“Why?” he whispered.

You did not answer. The monitors did.

Steady beep. Alive.

Damian sat. He folded his hands in his lap. His right hand looked unchanged. Same calluses. Same scars. Same fine ink stain near his thumb from sketching two days earlier. Same knuckles bruised from training. Same fingers that had held yours in the garden.

It should have been a relief.

It was. That was the cruelty.

He was relieved.

He loved his hand. He loved what it allowed him to do. Draw. Fight. touch. Feed Titus scraps when Alfred was not looking. Hold his sword. Hold you.

He had not wanted to lose it. He had been prepared to.

You had seen the part of him that feared the loss, the part he would have hidden beneath pride, and you had chosen that frightened part over your own safety.

Damian hated you for it. Damian loved you for it. Both truths wrapped around his throat until breathing became difficult.

“You should have asked,” he said. His voice shook. “You should have asked me and allowed me to refuse. You should have trusted me to survive less than wholeness.” His eyes burned. “You should not have loved me like the League.”

The words entered the room and stayed. He regretted them immediately.

No. He did not.

Yes. Both. Always both with you now.

You stirred. Damian sat forward sharply. Your eyelids fluttered.

“Beloved?”

Your eyes opened slowly. Unfocused.

Then they found him.

Relief. Again.

Damian closed his eyes. When he opened them, you were trying to smile.

“Arm?” you rasped.

His jaw tightened. “Yours or mine?”

Your smile vanished.

Good. No. He was tired of good. Tired of bad. Tired of feeling everything.

“Damian,” you whispered.

He took the cup from beside the bed and held the straw to your lips. His right hand did not tremble this time.

You drank. Only a little. He set the cup down.

“My arm is whole,” he said.

Your eyes closed. “Good.”

The word struck him like a slap. He stood so quickly the chair scraped back.

Your eyes opened, startled.

“No,” he said.

Your face twisted with pain and confusion. “No?”

“No. You do not get to say good.”

Your throat bobbed. “I saved it.”

“You took it.”

“I saved it.”

“At the cost of your own.”

“It isn’t as bad.”

He stared at you. You seemed to hear yourself then. Your face faltered.

“It isn’t,” you said, quieter. “I knew it wouldn’t be as bad.”

“You did not know.”

“I was pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure,” he repeated.

Your eyes filled.

His hands curled into fists. Both hands. “You gambled with your body.”

“I gambled to keep yours.”

“I did not ask you to.”

“I know.”

“You did not let me refuse.”

“I know.”

“You did not trust me.”

That hurt you. Your mouth trembled. “I did trust you.”

“No.” Damian shook his head once. “You trusted that I would survive. You did not trust that I had the right to choose what survival looked like.”

Tears slipped down your temples.

“I couldn’t bear it,” you whispered.

“What?”

“The thought of you losing it.” Your gaze flicked to his right hand. “Your hand. Your arm. Your art. Your sword. The way you touch everything like you’re still learning you’re allowed to be gentle.”

Damian went still.

Your voice broke. “I couldn’t bear knowing I could help and choosing not to. I couldn’t bear seeing another piece of you taken by them.”

He looked away. The room blurred.

Damn you. Damn you for knowing that. Damn you for seeing the child beneath the blade, the boy raised by people who called ownership love, the man still trying to make his body his own. Damn you for choosing him. Damn you for being right that part of him was glad.

“I would have learned,” he said. You sobbed once. “I would have adapted.”

“I know.”

“I am more than my sword hand.”

“I know,” you said, crying harder now. “I know, Damian. I swear I know. I didn’t do it because I thought you’d be less. I did it because I love all of you, and I couldn’t watch you be forced to lose something when I had a chance to stop it.”

His anger fractured. Love rushed in through the crack.

Unwelcome. Unstoppable.

He sat down again, slower this time. “You chose me over yourself.”

Your eyes held his. “Yes.”

The honesty hurt worse than any lie could have.

Damian lowered his head. For a moment, he was back in the chamber. Your hand on his face. Your eyes full of tears. Your voice saying sorry because you already knew you were about to betray him for love.

He hated that he understood. He hated that if it had been you on the floor with your arm nearly severed, he did not know if he would have done better.

That thought humbled him. Humiliation would have been easier. This was grief.

“I love you,” he said.

Your breath caught. He looked at you.

“I love you for choosing me,” he continued, voice rough. “For looking at the worst thing the League tried to make me and refusing to let them take more. I love you for your fury. For your tenderness. For wanting me whole even when I was prepared not to be.”

Your face crumpled.

“And I hate you for choosing me over yourself.”

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

“No,” he said. “Listen.”

Your eyes opened again.

“I hate that you decided my wholeness was worth your damage. I hate that I am relieved. I hate that part of me wants to thank you while another part wants to never let you touch me again.”

A tear slid down your cheek. Damian reached for it.

Stopped.

“May I?” he asked.

Your face broke all over again. “Yes.”

He wiped the tear away with his right thumb. His healed thumb.

You leaned into the touch. He nearly broke.

“I am angry,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I will be angry for some time.”

“I know.”

“I may not forgive you quickly.”

Your lips trembled. “Okay.”

“But I am staying.”

A sob caught in your throat. Damian leaned closer.

“I am staying,” he repeated. “Because love is not leaving when one has been wounded. Even by the beloved.”

You cried then.

Not quietly. Not beautifully. You cried like something in you had finally stopped bracing for abandonment.

Damian rested his forehead against yours, careful of the tubes, the bandages, the injured arm held between you like a third presence.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

His eyes closed. “I know.”

A faint, watery laugh escaped you. “Arrogant.”

“Yes.”

“Say it back anyway?”

His mouth softened. “I love you.”

Your breath shuddered.

“I love you,” he said again, because the words seemed to hurt you in a healing way, and Damian was beginning to understand that not all pain was harm. “I love you, and you were wrong.”

You laughed and sobbed at the same time. “That is very you.”

“I am consistent.”

“You are.”

His hand remained on your face. Your uninjured hand lifted slowly and covered his.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The monitor kept counting proof of your survival. Damian listened like it was scripture.

Recovery was not gentle. Yours rarely was.

The wound had not taken your arm, but it had changed it. Nerves misfired beneath the skin. Your fingers trembled. Grip strength came and went like a moody ghost. Some days, your hand curled stiffly and refused to open without coaxing. Some nights, the pain climbed from wrist to shoulder and left you pale, sweating, biting back sounds Damian wished he could tear from the world.

He did not offer to have you heal yourself. He had learned enough by then. You could accelerate your recovery only in fragments, carefully, at the cost of exhaustion that frightened everyone.

So you healed slowly. Humanly.

Damian stayed. Angrily. Devotedly.

He brought tea and corrected your posture with surgical precision. He read aloud when the pain made focusing difficult. He chose poetry at first because he thought it might soothe you. Then he chose murder mysteries because you criticised everyone’s investigative technique so fiercely that even Drake listened from the doorway with reluctant approval.

He brushed your hair when your arm hurt too much.

The first time, you cried. He pretended not to notice until you said, “You can notice.”

So he did.

“You are crying,” Damian said.

You laughed wetly. “Thanks.”

“I am uncertain what response is appropriate.”

“Just keep going.”

He did. His fingers moved through your hair with grave concentration.

Todd walked in, saw the scene, and immediately walked back out muttering, “Nope, too intimate, I’m emotionally allergic.”

You laughed so hard that Damian threatened him through the door.

Some days, Damian’s anger sharpened unexpectedly.

A dropped cup. Your wince while trying to flex your fingers. The sight of you struggling to button a shirt. Each small reminder of what you had taken from him and made yours.

One afternoon, you caught him staring at your hand as you failed to hold a pen.

“Say it,” you said.

Damian looked up. “What?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I am thinking many things.”

“The angry one.”

His jaw tightened.

You waited. Always waiting, even now.

He exhaled. “I am thinking that I should be the one unable to hold a pen.”

Your face softened with pain.

“I am thinking that you stole a consequence from me.”

“Yes.”

“I am thinking that I am grateful.”

Your eyes filled.

His voice hardened. “And that gratitude disgusts me.”

You set the pen down. “Damian.”

“No. You asked.”

“I did.”

He stood, restless, anger moving through him like a blade seeking a target. “I look at my hand and I am relieved. I draw and I am relieved. I hold my sword and I am relieved. I touch you and I am relieved.”

Your mouth trembled.

He looked at you, furious and wrecked. “Then I look at your hand.”

You said nothing.

“I do not know where to put the relief,” he confessed.

Your expression crumpled.

Oh. There it was. The truth under the anger.

He did not know how to be grateful for something that had hurt you. He did not know how to love the saved part of himself without feeling like he was betraying the wounded part of you.

You rose carefully from the chair. He stiffened. You came close but did not touch.

“I don’t need you to be only grateful,” you said softly. His throat tightened. “I don’t even need you to be grateful at all.”

“I am.”

“I know.”

“I despise it.”

“I know.”

Your injured hand hung between you, bandaged, trembling slightly.

Damian looked at it. Then, slowly, he held out his right hand. His healed hand.

You stared.

“May I?” he asked.

Your eyes filled. “Yes.”

He took your injured hand with unbearable care. The bandages were soft beneath his fingers.

Your hand trembled in his. He lifted it and pressed his mouth to your knuckles. You inhaled sharply.

“I am angry,” he said against your skin. “I am grateful.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

Your eyes closed. “I know,” you whispered.

He looked up.

“And I hate,” he said, voice rough, “that those truths do not cancel each other out.”

You opened your eyes. “They don’t have to.”

“No.” He held your hand between both of his. “No,” he repeated. “They do not.”

It was not forgiveness. Not yet.

But it was contact. It was honest. It was enough for that moment.

Jon came often. He was terrible at pretending he was not checking on both of you. He brought snacks, flowers, terrible jokes, and one stuffed cow wearing a tiny Robin cape.

Damian stared at it. You stared at it.

Jon held it out with both hands. “For emotional support.”

Damian said, “Leave.”

You laughed immediately.

Jon brightened. “See? It helped.”

“It offended me.”

“That’s your love language.”

“I will make you eat the cow.”

“It has a name.”

“No.”

“Moo-bin.”

Damian closed his eyes. You laughed so hard you had to clutch your injured arm, which made Damian glare at Jon with genuine threat.

Jon winced. “Sorry. Sorry. Medium laughter only.”

You wheezed, “Moo-bin.”

Damian looked at you.

Betrayal. Absolute betrayal.

Jon smiled, then sobered. “Can I talk to Damian for a sec?”

You looked between them.

Damian stiffened. “If this is another emotional intervention—”

“It is.”

“No.”

“Dami.”

You touched Damian’s wrist gently. “Go,” you said.

He frowned. “I’m fine.”

“That word is banned.”

“I am stable, medicated, and entertained by Moo-bin.”

Jon looked delighted. Damian looked betrayed again. Still, he followed Jon into the hallway.

For several seconds, Jon said nothing.

Damian crossed his arms. “Speak.”

Jon looked toward the medbay door. Then back at Damian. “You’re allowed to be glad.”

Damian went still.

Jon’s face was open and earnest and far too difficult to dismiss.

“That your arm is okay,” Jon said. “You’re allowed to be glad.”

Damian looked away. 

“They would want you to be.”

“That is part of the problem.”

“I know.”

“You do not.”

Jon’s jaw tightened.

“I watched them do it,” he said.

Damian looked back.

Jon’s eyes shone. “I watched you say no. I watched them do it anyway. I watched you heal and them drop. I’m angry too.”

Damian’s throat closed.

Jon stepped closer. “But I also heard your heartbeat when you saw your hand move again.”

Damian flinched.

“Sorry,” Jon said quickly. “I know. Accidental perceiving. Bad habit.”

Damian did not respond.

Jon continued anyway. “It sounded like hope.”

The words struck too deep. Damian turned away.

Jon’s voice softened. “I don’t think that makes you bad.”

Damian’s jaw clenched.

“The League made you think every gift is a debt,” Jon said. “But this isn’t that.”

“It feels like that.”

“I know.”

“They paid in blood.”

“Yeah.”

“For me.”

“Yes.”

“How is that not debt?”

Jon was quiet. Then he said, “Because they’re not asking you to repay it.” Damian shut his eyes. “They’re asking you to stay.”

Damian hated how simple Jon made things. How gentle. How impossible to refute.

“I do not know if staying is enough,” Damian said.

Jon stepped beside him. “Maybe not every day. But it’s a start.”

The hallway remained silent.

Then Damian said, “Moo-bin is a terrible name.”

Jon laughed, startled. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“You keeping him?”

Damian looked toward the medbay door.

Through the small window, he could see you holding the cow in your lap, smiling faintly at its ridiculous cape.

“Yes,” Damian said.

Jon wisely did not comment.

The first time you returned to the garden, your hand was still bandaged. The rain had stopped earlier, leaving the paths dark and shining beneath the evening lights. Titus wandered ahead, sniffing at wet leaves. The Manor windows glowed gold behind you.

Damian walked beside you. Close enough that your sleeves brushed.

You stopped beneath the same ivy arch where he had first told you he wanted you. The memory sat between you.

Soft. Cruel. Yours.

You looked at him. “I’m scared you’ll never look at me the same.”

Damian’s chest tightened.

He considered lying.

No. No more soft lies.

“I do not look at you the same.”

Your face fell.

He turned toward you fully. “I know more now.”

You swallowed. “That sounds ominous.”

“It is honest.”

Your mouth trembled.

He reached for your injured hand. Paused. You nodded.

He took it carefully. “I know you are capable of betraying my choice to preserve my body.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know you are reckless when afraid.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

“I know you love me with a ferocity that does not always ask permission.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I’ll keep saying it.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to make it right.”

Damian looked down at your joined hands.

His whole one. Your wounded one.

“There is no undoing it.”

Your breath caught.

He looked back at you.

“There is only what comes next.”

You opened your eyes. “What comes next?”

He brushed his thumb lightly over the edge of your bandage. “You tell me when you are in pain.” You nodded. “You do not minimise it because it is less than what I would have suffered.” Another tear fell. “You let me be angry without deciding I no longer love you.” Your face crumpled. “And I,” he continued, voice roughening, “will learn to feel relief without turning it into shame.”

You stared at him.

The rain began again, soft at first. Gotham had timing. Terrible, dramatic timing.

You laughed through tears.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re negotiating emotional terms in the rain.”

“It is a serious matter.”

“It’s very romantic.”

“It is practical.”

“It can be both.”

He considered this. Then nodded once. “Fine.”

Your smile was small. “Fine?”

“It can be both.”

You stepped closer. “Can I kiss you?”

Damian’s heart moved painfully.

Even after everything. Especially after everything. You asked.

“Yes,” he said.

You kissed him gently. Too gently. As if afraid he would break beneath the weight of what you had done.

Damian’s left hand rose to your face. His right rested against your waist, whole and steady and unbearable.

He deepened the kiss. You made a soft sound against his mouth. He held you there beneath the ivy while rain gathered in your hair.

When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.

“You are not forgiven yet,” he whispered.

Your eyes opened. “I know.”

“But you are loved.”

Your face broke open with relief so bright it nearly hurt to see. 

He continued before the words could fail him. “You are loved while I am angry. You are loved while I am grateful. You are loved while I do not understand how to carry either.”

Your injured hand rose slowly and touched his chest. Over his heart.

“I can live with that,” you whispered.

“You must.”

A faint smile. “Bossy.”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

His throat tightened. “I know.”

You gave him a look.

He let the smallest smile touch his mouth. “I love you too.”

Titus barked from somewhere near the fountain, apparently offended that no one was paying attention to him.

You laughed.

Damian’s right hand flexed at your waist. He felt the motion. Felt every tendon obey. Felt relief. Felt guilt. Felt your warmth beneath his palm.

This time, he did not push any of it away. He held it. All of it. The anger. The gratitude. The love. The wound. The choice stolen and the life preserved. The hand he kept and the hand you injured to keep it for him.

Pain had gone somewhere. So had love.

Not cleanly. Not without consequence. But here, in the rain, with your hand over his heart and his over your bandages, Damian understood something he had never been taught in the League.

A gift paid in blood could still be wrong. A wrong thing could still come from love. Love could wound and remain love. And healing, real healing, was not the absence of scars. It was the choice to stay and learn the shape of them.

Damian pressed his forehead to yours.

“I will draw again,” he said quietly. Your breath caught. “And when I do, you will sit for me.”

You smiled through fresh tears. “What will you draw?”

He looked at your face. Your wet hair. Your tired eyes. Your stubborn, devastating tenderness. Then your bandaged hand. Then his own.

“Hands,” he said.

You laughed softly. “Again?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Damian lifted your injured hand and kissed the bandages. “Because they tell the truth.”

You looked at him like he had given you something fragile.

Maybe he had. Maybe he was learning. Maybe both of you were.

The rain fell harder, silvering the garden.

Inside the Manor, his family waited with tea, lectures, jokes, and the unbearable relief of people who had almost lost too much and were now determined to hover about it.

Out here, there was only you. Only him. Only the wound between you, no longer hidden.

Damian held your hand. You held his. Neither of you were whole in the way you had been before.

But you were here.

Loved. Angry. Alive.

“I barely coughed.” 

He says, even while knowing his scratchy voice gives him away instantly. You hop off the bed to take the heated blanket Jon offers and lay it over your grumbling boyfriend.  

“He’s been sniffling and coughing all day, but I finally got him to take some meds.”   

“Which was a waste because I have the immune system of a-” 

His sentence is cut off when Jon sits on the bed --his weight dipping the mattress almost comically-- and leans over him to place a hand on his head. Damian lays there frozen and Jon, oblivious as always, gives a hum.  

“You're burning up, and your heartbeat is faster than usual. Seem pretty sick to me.” 

You snicker from behind Jon, watching your boyfriend’s flustered face turn into a scowl. He huffs and turns over so he doesn’t have to face either of you.  

Jon gives you a concerned look and you only shrug, crawling into bed next to your lover and getting comfy under the sheets.   

“Now that you’re here, you can help me keep him in bed, so he actually gets some rest.” 

You prop your head up on your hand and softly poke at Damian’s face, watching his sharp eyebrows scrunch and his lips pout. In all your years dating him, he’s only gotten sick a few times and every time rendered him an irritable, miserable mope of his former slightly less-irritable self.   

“Right. Good idea.”  

Jon slips off his shoes and then his shirt and then reaches for the button of his jeans. You pat Damian on the shoulder to make him roll on his back so you’re both watching the half-kryptonian, neither saying a thing lest he stop halfway through shoving his pants off.  

It's only when he's hopping around with his jeans stuck on his ankle that Damian speaks.  

“What are you doing?”  

Jon pauses, looking up at you both, his glasses askew. “I can’t sleep in outside clothes.” 

You meet your boyfriend’s eyes for a silent moment.  

"Ah, of course.” “...Obviously.”  

You both telepathically decide not to mention the fact that he could just go fetch his own pajamas in Metropolis and be back in a second, or that he has extra pj's in your drawers from the other times he's slept over. 

He places his glasses on the bedside table and clambers onto Damian's other side, spooning the former vigilante from behind while you keep him snug to your chest. You take a few moments to shuffle around and get comfortable before settling into a quiet, calm state of existence.  

Your legs are an incomprehensible tangled mess, Jon's arm rests under your head and Damian rests his head in your warm chest, all kept close together by Jon's strong arm reaching over Damian and resting on your lower back. The faint sound of Gotham traffic a few stories down and slow breathing is all that fills the room.  

Your fingers lightly card through Damian’s dark hair, catching Jon’s lidded eyes.  

“Thanks for coming, Jon.” 

Damian gives the quietest, shortest little hum in agreement, shuffling back a bit so he’s closer to Jon’s chest, who pulls you closer in response, warm fingers lightly brushing where your shirt has ridden up and sending heat all the way up your spine. 

“Don’t thank me.”  

He gives a warm smile, and nuzzles a little closer to Damian, who shivers slightly, fingers digging gently into your waist. You realise it might be a little overwhelming for him to be squished in the loving embraces of the two people he- 

“It’s just what best friend's do for each other.” 

You hide your grimace in your boyfriend’s hair, he hides his frustrated sigh in your chest.  

ᯓ★ 

The sun was blazing hot, the sand was worse, but neither could beat the sight of Damian Wayne stepping out of the waves; toned muscles flexing as he sweeps a hand through his wet hair, droplets slipping down his abs and past his swim trunks, his well-defined thighs flexing with the strain of stepping through wet sand.  

Jon let himself stare longer than he usually would, only turning away when he hears you clear your throat. His neck snaps towards where you lie on your side next to him on the blanket you're sharing, giving him a smug look. 

“Good view, huh?” 

Jon’s eyes widen, flicking from you to your boyfriend and back to your growing grin.  

“Yeah, we’re lucky the weather’s really great today and the waves! Nice waves!” 

Your smile only gets more cat-like, but you hum in agreement.  

“Very nice waves.”    

You both silently watch Damian walk up to your little set up on the empty beach and collapse next to Jon, cocking his head at the man. 

“Why is your face so red, Kent?” 

The second man of steel stammers for an answer before you pipe up from his other side.   

“Yeah, Jon? Did you put on sunscreen?”  

"Uh, yeah. I mean, no. I don't really need-" 

Before he can stammer any more, you're already getting your sunscreen out your beach bag and shuffling closer. His heart and stammering halt when you straddle his hips, uncap the tube and place a tiny pea of the white cream on your palm. 

You take a little with your finger and dot some on his red cheeks and across the bridge of his nose while Jon tries desperately not to stare at your chest, including the faint love bites that travel down your swim top.  

He can’t see Damian smirking at him, but definitely hears it in his voice.  

“Didn’t know Kryptonian’s could get sunburnt.” 

Before Jon can fumble through an answer, you pass the sunscreen to Damian.  

“Well, he’s only half Kryptonition.” 

Damian takes it and moves behind Jon to start massaging sunscreen into his tense shoulders. Jon clears his throat, avoiding your eyes.   

"I didn't know you guys were so... sun conscious." 

Your thumbs trace over his red hot cheeks, making him look you in the eyes.  

"Only because we care about you.” 

The sun reflects in his eyes, you feel his shoulders relax under your boyfriend’s skilled touch and his eyes ease shut as you rub soft circles on his red cheeks.  

“I care about you guys too.“  

You dip your head just a little closer, almost close enough to touch noses.  

“You’re such good friends to me.” 

You're glad his eyes are still closed so he can't see you deflate like a balloon. Damian's pained groan from behind him causes him to open his eyes again and give you a raised brow. You sigh, pat his shoulder and slip off his lap.  

ᯓ★  

Jon’s eyelids are heavy, sleep still weighing on his mind as he tries, though lazily, to remember where he is.   

"-and we have to be subtle about it." 

"You think we've been subtle?" 

Jon blinks the haze away, the hushed conversation only barely registering in his mind. 

“This is tiring, Beloved.”  

“I know, but we can’t overwhelm him.” 

“We won’t, we’ll explain-” 

The conversation stops abruptly when the couch creaks with his weight as Jon adjusts his sore body.  

He groans and stretches, wincing a little as his joints pop with the strain. He hears someone approach and feels fingers gently comb through his hair.  

“Did you sleep well?” 

He nuzzles into the touch, nodding his head with a croaky hum and mumbles something like, "HwamIhere?" 

He hears your chuckle, the sound making him smile. 

“You flew in here after a mission talking about an inter-dimensional imp or something and then collapsed on the couch. You looked pretty knocked up so we let you sleep and changed you out of your suit for you.” 

He doesn't even register the last bit of that, too caught up on how disappointed his mom would be if she heard he barged into a friend's home and took up their space without even asking! 

“I’m sor-” 

You completely stop him in his tracks with a playful kiss in his forehead before he can finish. 

“Don't apologize, Kent. We're glad you came to us.” 

You grab his wrists and pull him up off the couch.  

“Dami’s almost got dinner ready.”  

Jon's never heard a better sentence in his life. He hangs weightlessly on your shoulders as you walk over to the kitchen so he doesn’t have to use his still unconscious legs.  

You lean against the kitchen counter and Jon’s head leans against your shoulder as you both watch your lover in his element. You can help but smile, remembering how awful he was at cooking or really any house chores when you started dating. 

“If you two would stop gawking and set the table, that would be helpful.”   

You both huff in amusement, but do as told. Jon floats over to the cupboard, taking out three bowls and placing them on the counter.  

“Come and taste this.” 

Jon floats over to Damian, who holds out a steaming spoon for him. Jon slips at the soupy contents and lets out a moan. Damian scoffs, eyes rolling but smile unhidden. He lifts Jon's chin slightly,   

“Good?” 

 Jon’s eyes widen a little but he nods wordlessly and Damian gives a short hum before turning back to his stove. The half-kryptonian speeds over to help you set up the table as Damian finishes up the rest of the food.  

Soon, all three of you stuffing your faces with soup and buttered bread sticks. Both you and Damian can tell there's something on your friend's mind by how quiet he is. He only speaks after his second serving, swirling his bread stick in his almost empty bowl.  

“So uh, I have a date.” 

Neither you nor Damian react immediately, save for the look you throw each other from across the table. You pipe up with a smile you hope looks more genuine than it feels.  

“That’s great! Do you think it’ll go well?” 

Damian rolls his eyes as if to say, "Real subtle." and you shoot him a glare. 

“Well, he’s nice and I think he’s into me.” 

He hears Damian scoff and mumble, “Nice?” under his breath. He also hears you kick his foot under the table.   

“If you’re nervous, we could join you. For emotional support.”  

You shrug as if it’s a normal thing to bring your two best friends along for a first date. He rubs the back of his head.  

“Thanks, but I think you guys scared away my last date.” 

You scoff awkwardly, Damian doesn't look up from his soup. 

“What? That’s ridiculous.”  

“She wasn’t worthy.”  

You glare at Damian from across the table and Jon just gives you a raised brow, gesturing to your boyfriend.  

“Okay, fine. But it’s just because we want the best for you.” 

You place your hand in his, giving him a very cautious smile. 

“Because we love you.”  

Damian gives a short nod down at his soup and Jon feels his heart warm and his cheeks flush. 

“Jeez, I love you guys too.”  

His thumb strokes the back of your hand, he looks like he’s glowing.  

“I’m lucky to have you guys as frie-” 

Damian roughly sets down his bowl, cutting him off before Jon can utter the word. You give him another glare, one that he returns this time as Jon looks between you with concern written all over his face.  

You win the staring match when Damian lifts his bowl back up to angrily slurp at the rest of the contents.  

“We’re lucky to have you too.” 

 You pat Jon’s hand and Damian grumbles all the way back to the kitchen to wash his dish and sulk for the rest of the night.  

ᯓ★ 

The moon is high in the sky, a random movie is playing on the tv, and Jon has once again found himself stuck snuggly between his two best friends.  

You were already attached to his bicep not even a minute into the movie, curled into his side. 

Damian’s on his other side, arms crossed, thighs spread apart lazily. Jon’s been trying not to stare at where his pajama shorts have ridden up, the heat of his skin burning where his thigh presses against Jon’s. His head tips back against the couch, lidded eyes gazing at the screen with a bored look.  

Safe to say, Jon can’t seem to focus on anything going on in the movie. Especially not when your fingers idly trace up and down his forearm like that.  

“so... how did your date go?”  

It’s quiet for a moment as Jon thinks up a proper answer. He shrugs,  

“It was nice.” 

It’s always just nice, if even that.  

That might not have been the proper answer because he can feel both of you looking at him and then look at each other and then look at him again. He hates it when you do that, it makes him feel more left out than if you guys just kissed in front of him. Not that he thinks about that often. 

Damian shuffles a bit at his side, his arms flex ever so slightly as he readjusts. 

“What happened?” 

He’s trying to sound nonchalant but both Jon and you know how protective he can be and how out of hand that can get. Jon shakes his head and answers a little too quick. 

“Nothing! Nothing happened.”  

He shoves his hands in his lap, keeping his eyes on the screen. There’s another short silence and Jon just knows you’re doing the couple telepathy thing again. 

You take one of his hands in yours, in the gentle way you always do.  

“Is there going to be a second date?”   

Jon bites the inside of his lip, shrugs and gives a noncommittal, "Maybe." 

His date texted him a few hours ago asking about just that, but he doesn't want to tell you why he hasn't responded yet. You nod slowly and take a deep breath.  

"Y'know, we could help you out? Give you some advice?" 

He wants to laugh. He already knows you can’t help him because you’re the problem. He can’t go on a date without thinking about how he’d rather be hanging out with you and Damian or wondering if you’d like the person or imagining your lips or Damian’s hands instead of the person he's supposed to be on a date with. 

He hasn't gotten laid in ages because the last time he did, he almost said both your names and the guilt almost ruined him.  

He huffs an awkward laugh,  

“I don’t need advice.” 

Damian scoffs and Jon whips his head around, 

“Clearly your dates would disagree.” 

Jon gawks and turns to you, clearly looking for some backup, but the only thing you offer him is a pained expression and a shrug. Damian continues,  

“Your string of failed dates has become embarrassing to watch. You clearly need help.”  

Jon goes to argue again but stops himself with a scoff when he realises there's no point. He rubs his palms into his eyes, already burning with embarrassment. You place a hand on his shoulder. 

“Its okay to be nervous on a date, Jon. We can at least help you feel more...experienced.” 

He throws his hands up,  

"I am experience-" 

"I know. But maybe you just need more practice?" 

He turns to you, searching your face for what that could possibly mean. You're biting your lip in a way that's clearly meant to be hiding some excitement behind it, your hand moving down his arm.  

“Damian’s a good kisser. He could show you.” 

Jon’s eyes go so wide you have to stifle a laugh, waving your hands placatingly. 

“Just for practice, obviously.”  

He spins his head around to Damian when he hears the man’s huffed laughter.  

Damian has his head tilted back against the couch, waiting with a confident smirk. His eyes flick down to Jon’s lips making the man's shoulders tense and his heart stumble.  

“I don't- Well if- I mean-” 

Damian rolls his eyes, and without drawing it out further, pulls Jon by his collar into a hard kiss. Jon makes a high-pitched yelp sound against Damian's lips, one that almost matches your stifled scream of excitement as Damian keeps him close, deepening the kiss.  

When Damian pulls away you can tell it’s too soon for both men. They look forward at the TV, Jon blinking with his mouth agape while Damian schools his face into a deadpan expression.  

“That was terrible.”  

“What?!” 

You can’t help but laugh, only making Jon's embarrassment burn brighter. 

“You don’t reciprocate enough. Just stayed still like a dummy and made me do all the work.” 

Jon holds his hands out in exasperation, more offended than he should reasonably be. 

“That's because I wasn’t expecting it!” 

“Are you expecting it now?” 

Damian takes his jaw and turns his head towards where you've been patiently waiting your turn ever since they separated.  

You give him a moment to back away before meeting his lips, softer than Damian, just getting a taste before diving deeper. He slowly melts against your lips as you deepen it, reciprocating every kiss with his own. His hand stays on your back, keeping you close when you mumble against his lips.  

"Terrible. Needs lots of practice."  

You hear Damian scoff and Jon lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched sound as your boyfriend nips at his neck, trying in vain to leave any marks on the Half-kryptonian's skin. You feel Damian making his way up Jon's neck and pull away, letting Damian have another taste while you work down his neck. You hear Jon moan into the kiss as Damian bites down on his lower lip, trying to get him to open up so Damian can slip his tongue into his friend’s mouth. You slowly start unbuttoning Jon's sleep shirt, each button revealing that toned chest you just have to lay kisses on, trying not to get distracted by the growing tent in his pants. 

When you get to the last button, Jon pulls away from Damian, panting even though he doesn't need to breathe air.  

"You guys don't have to do all this just- just to help me get a date." 

There's a second of silence before both you and Damian let out frustrated groans. Damian grabs Jon's face, looking him in his big blues.  

"Are you serious?" 

Jon doesn't answer and you sigh wearily, playing with the waistband of his plaid pajamas.  

"We'll have to make it more obvious, Dames." 

Damian takes one hand and, without breaking eye contact with your stupid, oblivious, beautiful friend, he takes your hand and grabs Jon's half-hard cock. 

The man hisses, looking down at where you both cup him over his pajamas and Damian squeezes harder, grabbing him by the jaw to meet his eyes again.   

"Call me your friend again, I dare you." 

Jon can only let out a pained groan. You feel his cock twitch in your hand, the wet spot worsening.  

"Oh, he liked that." 

Damian huffs in snide amusement. He backs away from Jon, looking down at you and suddenly, Jon seems to realise how truly fucked he is when Damian leans down to meet you in a sweet kiss.  

He watches the way you both seamlessly trade positions, your hand leaving his cock so Damian can palm him at his own pace while you kiss up his neck. He tries to lean back and relax, but Damian’s hand is so warm and strong, and your lips are so soft and they mumble so gently against his neck. 

“Are you feeling overwhelmed?” 

He nods, unable to say much else with his heart in his throat. He's been dreaming of this for so long and, of course, when it somehow is finally happening to him, he can barely react with anything other than choked sounds.  

“That's okay, we just want to make you feel good.”  

You hold both his cheeks in your hands, he stares up at you like a deity who came down to bless him.  

“Jon,” You place a kiss on his forehead, “Can we do that?” 

He swallows, noticing that Damian's hands have stopped moving, waiting for his answer. He swallows and then nods his head rather dumbly, lifting his hips from the couch so Damian can slip his pants off. 

“Good boy.” 

Jon’s cock twitches. Damian murmurs, “He liked that.” before giving a soft kiss to the his swollen pink tip, smearing the generous amount of pre down his shaft and working him up from the base with the deft hands of an artist and doctor.  

Jon lets out absolutely debauched moans, tipping his head back against the couch and pinching his eyes shut, all while feeling your gaze watching his every reaction. You play with his hair idly, and when Jon's eyes flutter open and meet yours again, all pretense of being the good cop in this situation has evaporated. 

“Kissing is far from the only thing he's good at, but you knew that already.” 

Jon's barely cognizant enough to understand what you're implying and just when he does, Damian's tongue on his cock wipes any cognitive function left, turning him into a whining mess under his two most loved people.  

His hips buck up just slightly as he nears his first release of the night. You keep one of his thighs wide open with your knee, not taking your eyes off his pretty face for even a second. His eyelashes flutter, his lips part and his curls bob with every thrust of Damian's. He feels everything at once; Your fingers in his hair, your lips fluttering softly against his cheeks, Damian's hands, his fingers, his mouth.

Just when his moans reach a crescendo, just when you know he's reached his peak, Damian lifts both his head and hands, leaving Jon's cock bobbing in the air with no stimulation, ruining the man's orgasm completely. 

"Damian!" 

Both you and Jon cry, Jon out of painful betrayal and you out of amused shock. Damian watches the man struggle without a lick of sympathy, wiping his hands on Jon's shirt. 

"Serves him right for putting us through all that." 

Jon lets out a broken whine, not helped by your barely stifled laugh.  

Damian holds out his hand for you and you take it, letting him lift you from the couch and off to your bedroom, calling back,  

"Come, Jonathon. Don't be dramatic." 

You can hear Jon's pained groan from down the hall. No doubt asking any higher being for mercy. 

ᯓ★ 

The room is dark, air still cooling down from a very eventful night. Three bodies lay in tangled sheets, Jon in the middle while you and Damian huddle into him for warmth using his chest as a pillow. It's been quiet for a while, Jon's fingers gently trace your hip and up Damian's back. 

"So...does this mean I should cancel that second date?" 

In unison, you and your boyfriend shoot up to look him in the eyes, expressions holding a cocktail of emotions; anger, exasperation, bafflement, mostly anger. 

He lifts both hands in surrender, a self-satisfied grin on his face. 

"I'm kidding." 

He's then assaulted with pillows and yelled at by both his lovers and almost sent to the couch for the rest of the night. 

ᯓ★ 

--- God. Finally, this fic has haunted me for a week! There may be mistakes but I'm free!!