—. chapter two: dinner for two
pairing: aged up!damian wayne x reader
summary: damian wayne is everything she has always thought. calculating, rude, and devastatingly beautiful. she hates him. he hates her too.
warnings: n/a
wc: 1.4k
divider: @uzmacchiato
the meeting is arranged for that weekend. the sunday. an in between day, one which is neither beginning nor end, and yet both simultaneously. to her, it is the beginning of the week, to her sister the end, to her parents a strange middle ground of neither. their weeks start whenever they want to- as though time is prepared to bend and warp however they want.
regardless. sunday. she has four days to prep, to go through all possible questions, screen herself until she is sick of her own voice, nevermind 'fake damian's'. (an invention of her mind she has made for whenever she is just a little too harsh on herself.)
then she has three days. she spends that day fretting over outfits.
then she is sitting across from damian wayne in an upperclass restaurant, startled by the sharp lines which compose his face. sitting before him is different to seeing him in the magazines and on the news. he is, much to her dismay, quite possibly the most beautiful man she has ever seen. from the slope of his jaw, to the sharpness of his gaze- cutting through her, analysing her- to the perfect way his hair has been combed back.
to say she feels inadequate would be an understatement.
particularly when he is looking at her vaguely like she is entirely beneath his notice.
silence stretches thin, until the only sound is of her breathing and her tapping her fingers incessantly against the table. she stops when his gaze flickers to her hand. when the waiter comes, she smiles and orders- vegetarian, she had done her research.
damian barely seems to notice.
she wonders if he's even aware she's there. perhaps she should speak-
"your parents mentioned you had a love for music in your younger years." it's small, but it's an opening. one she latches onto with a violent desperation.
"ah. yes, sort of. i played the violin, mostly." she flexes her fingers around her wine glass, tilts her head. "i was particularly fond of vivaldi."
the barest flicker of something passes over his face. a smirk? a smile? either way, she finds she wants to wipe it off his smug fucking face.
"vivaldi." he speaks slowly, sipping his own drink. "a safe choice."
her eye threatens to twitch.
"personally, i have always preferred the likes of aschenbrenner, or if we are simply speaking of composers, chopin." he regards her with the air of someone who knows they are better than you, and want you to know that they know that. "but, of course, vivaldi is… good, as well."
she wonders at the logistics of vaulting over the table and strangling the wayne heir to death.
bad for business, very bad for her reputation. potentially worth it.
when the waiter brings over wine, she restrains herself. she will not finish it in one go. even if that would make dealing with arrogant little assholes so much more bearable. the wine is nice, she will give the restaurant that. made, likely, of the finest grapes from the finest vineyards. damian doesn't drink.
she somehow thinks that's a slight against the fact she is.
once again, she ponders strangulation.
"i was unaware," he begins again, and she is almost surprised he is finding ways to fill the silence once more, "you were vegetarian."
she smiles, shakes her head. "well, that's because i'm not-"
"so either you did your research upon me, or you have decided to change it up a little." his tone is disinterested, and she realizes quite suddenly that she has tripped and fallen into a trap. an incredibly well laid out trap, but a trap nonetheless.
she clenches her jaw, and even if he doesn't smile, she sees the victory in his eyes.
neither wants to be here. neither wants to be married. she has little choice, she wonders if he does.
"this arrangement seems odd for the stone cold damian wayne." she shoots back, lifting the glass to her lips and sipping. "did your father tell you to do it?"
the confusion doesn't even have time to land before he shrugs- almost casually.
the wine glass in her hand is too full, it might overflow, she should drain it (into her mouth? all over his shirt? perhaps she could try for both.) because here she is, hanging on by a thread held tenously above her head, ready to snap. and here he is, willing, content. an offering at the doorstep of her father's greatness. another page in the book of his empire. another thing he can hold over her head and say: 'look, look what i gave you.'
she should be grateful, is that it? should look upon this perfect version of every man and rejoice he is to be her husband. not her soulmate, no no, he (or she?) is left to rot in the sewers of gotham somewhere whilst she sits within palace walls. she wants to wrap her hands around damian wayne's throat. she wants to scream and shout and say it's not fair. not fair she is here against her will.
not fair her sister can do whatever she wants.
not fair damian wayne can challenge her intelligence and know he is right.
not fair he can choose to shackle himself to her because his were never shackles and he can leave- can be free, can fly away, can run-
"that's incredibly good of you." is all she says instead.
he doesn't even hum, the bastard, just looks at her as though she is a fly he wants to swat.
she downs the rest of her drink, and attempts to have a nice time.
the issue with famous people is the cameras. in gotham, camera lights flood the entirety of the dark streets, no matter the time of day. reporters scouring the rooftops for batman. lifting vents for the killer croc. and sometimes, occasionally, squatting outside restaurants waiting for damian wayne to open the door for the woman he was seen entering with.
he is, for all intents and purposes, a gentleman. he holds the door for her, shields her eyes from the camera flashes and leads her to the car waiting for her safely.
not once does he touch her.
not once does his skin touch hers and somehow,
that is what she will be thinking about tonight.
how damian wayne couldn't even bring himself to touch her.
she wants to catapult herself off of the closest bridge and sink to the bottom of the gotham harbour. instead, she slips down into the car and smiles up at damian.
"i had a lovely evening."
did you? his eyes seem to say, "as did i." his lips say.
he leans down low, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, waits for the click of a camera before-
-the door slams. and she is alone with her thoughts. the last thing she ever wants to be alone with. driving home is silent, even as she removes her shoes, undoes the pins from her hair, sinks down into the cushions.
she hates him. she hopes he rots.
(by god, he had been beautiful.)
he undoes his tie. throws his jacket over the back of his chair. runs a hand through his hair. somehow, he feels… removed. distant.
damian wayne is floating outside his body, unmoored. his shirt is the next to go as he thinks of casual conversation.
it had been almost simple.
the take. the give. the stopping his lips from quirking up into a smile.
damian shakes his head, decides to patrol early tonight. perhaps he'll find someone to vent this out on until he is joined once more with his body.
the robin on his arm is a violent reminder in the gloom of his room. he breathes in. he breathes out. he reminds himself who he is, where he is, what he is doing and why he is doing and-
he breathes in. he breathes out.
eventually he pulls on his robin suit, covers the expression on his face further by hiding behind his domino mask.
father doesn't ask how it went, he doesn't ask anything, simply unlocks the doors of the batcave and waits, almost impatient, for robin to join batman on the streets of gotham.
damian wayne reminds himself, again, who he is.
an: here is the second part! i hope you enjoy it as much as i do. i thoroughly enjoy these two, they’re deeply fun.
taglist: @bloomfaery @reality-is-a-con
