cj ᯓ★

You started noticing the letters when you opened your bag: a pristine white envelope tucked neatly between your notebooks. You couldn’t recall who had approached your bag (not that it mattered.) Damian would ensure he was surreptitious, finding the perfect interval between you leaving for a drink and returning. Of course, curiosity bested your self-control, and you hastily opened it to find a letter. Written with deliberation in every word, in penmanship that even historians would envy, the letter casted you into a deep, longing spell.

[First Name],

I have been trained to catalogue every threat, every exit, and every weakness in a room, regardless of who occupies it, civilian or otherwise. Yet, when you are present, my focus inadvertently narrows until the rest of the world dissolves into static. The most frustrating part is that I find myself unwilling to correct this error.

I am distracted by your presence. It is an inconvenience. You possess a force – a gravity I cannot fight – pulling me into an orbit I never requested but now fear to leave. This feeling weighing on my heart is foreign. I do not know how to speak of these things without feeling as though I am mishandling them, risking the ruin of something pure with hands that have felt blood. 

So I write this because my voice falters, even if my intent does not. Forgive this cowardice of ink and paper, as it is the only way I can convey to you that you are the only sun I have ever wished to stand beneath. 

Do not look for me. Just know that you are seen, and you are adored.

You could feel your heart in your throat, thumping violently as you scanned the library after reading the letter thrice, looking for any countenance that suggested, I wrote that. But of course, Damian is a master at stealth, at hiding any sort of interest behind a mask of austerity– as if showing vulnerability would be a fatal injury to his pride.

Damian has never been a stranger to confrontation. He wouldn’t give a second thought to calling Drake a “fucking douchebag” or Bruce a “bastard.” But god, he could not wield his weapon of a tongue around you. That weapon, usually so sharp, turns traitorous and heavy in your presence. So, he uses the softness of the words he learned from his mother– a tactic he will continue to use until he can muster the courage to speak them out loud. But for now, he will allow this proxy of ink to stand between his heart and yours.

His feats were measured in insane calibers– ones that weren’t common to the average Joe. After all, not a lot of people can say they died and rose from the dead. Then again, not a lot of people in his inner circle would spend a Thursday night at a book club. 

“Just say you’re going on a date, Todd.” Damian had scoffed at Jason. Whatever that meant. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been tailing a suspected mobster through the nicer part of town–you know, actual surveillance work, very professional–and he’d gotten distracted. Not by the target, but by you.

You’d stopped in front of the community board, eyeing the flyer advertising a monthly book club. Something about the way you tilted your head in earnest curiosity with a smile, soft and a little hopeful, made Jason forget what the hell he was even supposed to be doing. While you snapped a picture of the flyer with your phone, Jason had subconsciously memorized the details of the event. Honestly, he was going to forget about it, but by some miraculous, semi-convenient twist, he had to sit out from patrol the same day the book club was set to occur. And for some stupid reason, he could not get that image of you looking at the flyer out of his head. Soon enough, he was mumbling a “gotta go” to anyone who caught him before he disappeared.

So now, Jason stood in front of this cafe in a leather jacket that would probably stick out like a sore thumb because who the hell wears a leather jacket to a book club? He gritted his teeth before walking in. Jason told himself he was going to check out the vibe, realize it was obviously not meant for him, and definitely keep a low profile before–

Oh. There you were.

Jason’s heart did an annoying flip he was going to ignore forever. You were curled up in the corner seat, book already opened in your lap talking to a guy who looked like he came straight out of the 2016 millennial Tumblr aesthetic blog, while the other person next to you looked like he came straight from a performative male competition.

“First time?” A cheerful woman appeared behind him.

Caught off-guard by the sudden intrusion, he said the first thing that came to mind: “Uh. Somethin’ like that.” Real smooth.

“Wonderful! We’re just getting started. There’s a seat right over there!” She gestured broadly, and Jason’s eyes tracked back to the empty chair directly across from you. He sucked his teeth before laughing dryly. Well, there was no turning back now.

He wove through the scattered chairs, aware of the ogling as he passed–yeah he didn't fit the aesthetic. He dropped into the seat, glancing up only to meet your eyes. He watched recognition flicker across your face– not that you knew him, but like you’d seen him around. Maybe at the deli on the corner. Maybe passing by on the street.

You smiled. Small, polite, curious. And in that moment, Jason knew that he was screwed.

He could still technically leave. Say he got the wrong address, wrong event, emergency call from work, literally anything. But then you smiled at him again, and his stupid body remained planted to the seat. 

The book club commenced not too long after, and wow, he was not expecting how fast everyone would jump into the book. He had read it (obviously) but decided to sit back and observe how others spoke. Especially you. 

He tracked your lips, then your hands as you passionately gestured while talking about why the whole story was an allegory to warn what could happen if citizens stayed compliant amidst government tyranny– holy shit you were hot and smart. He even found himself leaning forward without meaning to, adding some parts to the conversation, strengthening arguments and challenging others. Jason had come here expecting nothing, and somehow–somehow–you convinced him that maybe humanity wasn’t so doomed with literacy comprehension after all. When you finished your spiel, which everyone had been intently listening to, he swore you glanced at him shyly. 

An hour and a half flew by, and Jason had somehow survived his first book club meeting without making an ass of himself. Plus, he’d gotten to see you. A win in his book (no pun intended).

Now people were packing up, grabbing their coats, saying their goodbyes, and Jason was trying to figure out his next move when you beat him to it.

“Hey,” you said, stopping beside his chair as you bundled your scarf. “You’re new, right?”

“Yeah. First time.” He stood, grabbing his jacket. “Jason.”

“Nice to meet you, Jason.” You gave him your name with a warm smile. “What made you decide to join?”

Jason, as much as he wanted to, could not say that he saw a very attractive person staring at the flyer, so he settled for a middle ground. “Saw the flyer, figured why not.” He shrugged, aiming for something more casual. “You?”

You smiled. “Same, actually! I’ve been meaning to join something like this for a while. It’s nice right? Getting different perspectives about a book with people who actually care.”

“Yeah,” Jason replied. “You seemed passionate ‘bout it.”

You nodded. “I think books are becoming more important than ever in a time like this.”

You headed toward the door, thanking him quickly when he held it open before following you out into the winter night.

“So,” you said as you walked down the sidewalk together, “be honest– did you actually read the book or were you winging it there?”

He huffed a laugh. “I read it cover to cover. I swear.”

“Good answer.” You grinned at him, and god, that smile was dangerous. “I wasn’t sure if you were the type, y’know? You seem more…”

“Like I’d rather be in a fight than a book club?” he finished.

“I was going to say action-oriented, but yeah, basically,” you mused. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Maybe I’m full of surprises.”

“Clearly.” You stopped at a corner, and Jason realized you were probably close to wherever you lived. “Well, Jason, I’m glad you took a chance on the book club.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to look less invested than he felt, glancing around the streetlamp next to you. “Yeah? You gonna be at the next one?”

“Definitely. Already ordered the book. Will I see you there?”

Jason grinned. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Good.” You started to walk away, then glanced back. “See you there, Jason.”

As you disappeared down the street, Jason stood there shaking his head at himself. He’d joined a damn book club because he’d seen someone who he thought was attractive looking at a flyer. He would definitely keep this as his little secret. But if it meant more nights like this, finding out how the gears in your head worked, walking with you, making you smile, and getting to know you a little better each time? 

Yeah. He could work with that.

The truth is, Damian doesn’t even realize he’s being threatened by certain people until you mention it– casually dropping “they’re so funny, Damian” into conversation. Suddenly, he’s gritting his teeth because that person was just supposed to be a tutor. Nothing more. And he’s so fucking obnoxiously petty about it too. You could be mid-conversation with him when that person shows up, and Damian will just cut you off with a curt “whatever, I’ll talk to you later” before walking away. He won’t forget about it either. You’ll text him later asking if he wants to hang out, and he’ll respond with “why don’t you ask them” and you’re just speechless at the audacity this man has.

Damian, according to his own words, is never jealous. Maybe he’s in denial. Maybe deep down he knows that if he acknowledges it, he’ll slip into a rabbit hole he can’t crawl out of, because jealous Damian is dangerous– to himself, to you, and to whatever poor soul caught your attention. He’ll find a way to discredit their actions. So what if that person opened the door for you? Damian would install sensors to open doors exclusively for your arrival if he deemed it necessary. Who cares that they paid for your meal? It was cheap anyway, and it wasn’t even your favorite cuisine. Amateur. It’s calculated, mean, but it’s Damian.

There are two ways you make him feel this way: intentionally or unintentionally, and he doesn’t even know which he’d prefer. 

If it’s intentional–for whatever reason–Damian almost likes the thrill. It’s a treacherous feeling, the way you know exactly how to control him in the simplest ways, knowing full well Damian is better in virtually every aspect. He laughs when he figures it out. It’s laudable, really. He knows it’s intentional by the way you stare directly into his eyes while talking to someone else and by the way you glance over to make sure he’s watching. Of course he notices.

If it’s unintentional, however, he has to physically restrain himself from shaking you and calling you an idiot because of how impossibly dense you are. 

Part of him acknowledges the jealousy, but the truth buried deeper, down in the crevices where light doesn’t reach, is that he doesn’t envy how attractive the other person is or whatever superficial quality they possess. He’s jealous of the normalcy he lacks and they have. He knows he can never really live a regular life. He’s a vigilante, after all, bound to darkness and violence and secrets he wants to shield you from. He craves that feeling of being normal with you. Being someone you don’t have to stress over. Someone you know will survive another night.

A man can only have so much self-control, though, especially when it comes to someone like you.

He’ll never admit it out loud, but he’s paid off more than one person who made him jealous in exchange for them never interacting with you again. Maybe it’s about control or protecting what’s his. So when you come to him for the fifth time complaining about how your tutor ghosted you out of nowhere, he offers feigned condolences while internally feeling very satisfied. He also triggered a fire alarm once to get you out of someone’s vicinity before. He’s not proud of it (okay, maybe a little).

The worst part? You’re not even dating (yet). So when you tell him that your friend is “just someone he shouldn’t worry about,” Damian becomes even more concerned. He’d rather you not say that at all, because according to Drake, that particular phrase usually doesn’t end well.

To cope, he tells himself you’re just a civilian. That he’s dealt with larger problems– assassins, apocalypses, and saving the world. But he gets so aggravated when all he can think about is you. Distancing himself doesn’t work because he seems to see your face plastered everywhere he goes. When he patrols, he subconsciously drifts near your neighborhood, just to be safe, of course. He’ll purposefully camp out in the cafe you frequent just in case you happen to bump into him.

But Damian Wayne is never jealous. He just happens to be very, very invested in your safety and poor taste in peers. That’s all.

Last year, Damian had left after forty-five minutes. He timed it perfectly–the minimum appearance required to satisfy expectations without enduring a second more than what was necessary. He positioned himself near the exit, declined all offers of refreshment, and avoided nearly every conversation before an Irish exit. Retrospectively, he considered it a success.

Unfortunately for him, this year, it had been two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes of enduring the most vapid inquiries about his studies, forced smiles that felt like baring his teeth, and the buzzing irritation that clung to him as people viewed him as nothing more than wealth personified. 

Meanwhile Bruce, somewhere in the crowd, was doing what he does best–wearing a billion-dollar smile (quite literally) and shaking hands with donors who cared more about public image than genuine altruism. Dick caught Damian’s eye multiple times already, each with an insufferable smirk that suggested he relished in Damian’s barely concealed misery. Tim had retreated with Stephanie a while ago.

And Jason? God knew where he was. 

He hated everything about this.

Damian stood near the marble pillar, listening to the string quartet that played something classical in the corner. Tchaikovsky, perhaps. Or Rachmaninoff. Damian didn’t care enough to identify with certainty. The music existed only as background noise to the performance of decorum that everyone in this room had rehearsed since childhood.

You emerged from the crowd not long after, holding a glass of cider before standing beside him silently to find respite amidst the chaos.

Damian shifted his position, so his body angled subtly between you and the densest part of the crowd, providing a buffer. He had brought you because it was the most logical course of action. The presence of a partner should have deterred unwanted advances. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the case. In fact, it drew more attention. The mayor’s wife had still cornered you near the ice sculpture. Bruce’s business associate had still made that off-putting joke disguised as casual observation. At least, he thought, the single redeeming quality of the evening was that this was an excuse to spend more time with you.

You had been remarkably gracious throughout the whole ordeal. When the politician’s wife had interrogated you about your future plans as if she had any stake in them, you smiled and deflected with ease. When Bruce’s associate had made that comment–the one that had Damian two seconds from verbally eviscerating him–you simply laughed it off and steered the conversation elsewhere, squeezing Damian’s hand once in reassurance.

It’s been three months since Damian called it official–a strange, intimate arrangement that existed mostly in the spaces between whatever it was he did at night and your studies. The way you stood close enough that your arm brushed his was a delicate balance you’d mastered over those weeks. You knew exactly how much pressure to apply, how to keep him grounded without crowding him, and how to respect his boundaries while simultaneously offering comfort. The point of contact, hot even through the layers, had become a silent language, a substitute for a kiss neither had yet found the courage to initiate. Damian could justify this proximity and holding your hand, but he failed to find a single logical reason that would justify pressing his mouth to yours. And Damian Wayne did not act without reason. 

Damian gritted his teeth. This was hell, and you were with him.

That thought bothered him more than it should. You hadn’t complained once. You’d smiled at the right moments, made polite conversation, and navigated the social piranhas with elegance that genuinely impressed him. Except, of course, no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t hide the strained smile after the nth person asked if you were “intimidated” by dating Wayne. You were tolerating this, all for him, which was a realization that turned sour in his gut.

“You know,” your voice cut through his thoughts. “I’m starting to understand why you always look like you wanna murder everyone.”

Damian turned to look at you. Your expression was neutral, eyes scanning the crowd, but your voice held a thread of exhaustion, maybe, or just honest observation.

“Is that so?” Damian mused before quickly adding, “I do not look like I am plotting murder.”

“Dami, you’ve been glaring at that couple for two minutes. They’ve definitely noticed by now–see? They’re glancing at you.”

“They asked you an inappropriate question. It’s natural to look at them with disdain.”

“So you’re not denying it.” You took a sip of your drink before placing it down on a nearby surface.

For a moment, you both stood in silence, watching the gala unfold as one watches a choreographed play. Then you shifted. A barely perceptible movement which, to Damian, was all the more perceptible. The slight wince, quickly hidden, as you adjusted your weight.

“How long have your feet been bothering you?” Damian asked, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You blinked, turning to him with surprise. “What?”

“You’ve shifted your weight. Your heels are uncomfortable.”

You just stared at him, out of awe or apprehension, he couldn’t tell. Maybe it was both. Then you let out a soft, slightly exasperated chuckle. “You’re observant.”

“Naturally.”

“I’m okay, seriously. I think I just underestimated how long I’d be standing,” you smile.

Damian frowned, unsatisfied by the answer. You must have read something in his expression because you said, “Don’t worry, Dami. I knew what I was signing up for when I agreed to come.”

But that was exactly the problem, wasn’t it? That you had agreed for him. And now you were standing here in painful shoes, making conversation with people who had nothing interesting to say, all because he had asked. No, not asked.

“The gala is mandatory, you should come.” 

He hadn’t even asked properly. When had he become the kind of person who simply expected people to accommodate him? Had he really, as a Wayne, failed to consider whether you might actually want to be here? Damian scanned the room, noting the positions of his family members, the flow of the crowd, and the most efficient path to the exit.

“There’s a terrace outside of those doors,” he said abruptly.

You turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Okay?”

“It will be quieter and less crowded.” He paused. “We could leave. Temporarily.”

“Then you’d miss your dad’s speech.”

Damian spotted his father adjusting his tie with an uncomfortable countenance. “The midnight address. A deluge of platitudes about hope for the upcoming year. How tragic that I would be missing it.”

“Exactly,” you looked at him with a conspiratorial glint in your eye. “He’d probably hate to see his favorite son absent during his big speech.”

“Yes, he would be exceptionally disappointed,” Damian agreed, a devious smirk pulling at his mouth. “It would be a shame to slip away now.”

“Such a shame,” you shook your head in feigned solemnity. You slipped your hand into his, fitting against his calloused fingers like a missing puzzle piece, and tugged. It didn’t take much strength for him to follow. 

The crowd parted easily. Damian moved surreptitiously, ignoring the look Dick shot at him from across the room, and the slight nod of acknowledgement from Alfred near the entrance. The heavy glass doors opened with a whisper, and the cold air hit Damian like a physical blow, yet cathartic. You and he were standing on the empty stone terrace, enveloped in the stark silence of winter–in your own little world. In the background, the roar of the party was muted to a dull, rhythmic thumping. String lights were woven through the bare branches, casting a golden glow and stark contrast compared to the harsh chandeliers inside. 

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “I can actually hear myself think.” You slipped your shoes off, setting them down on the stone ledge 

“Better?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

You turned to him, smiling bright enough to rival the constellations that dotted the sky. “So much better. Thank you.”

And there it was again–that inconvenient warmth blossoming through his chest, insistent and undeniable. “You shouldn't thank me for removing you from a situation I subjected you to in the first place,” Damian said.

Your expression softened. “Damian, I wanted to come. You didn’t force me.”

“I didn’t ask properly.”

“You did.”

“No,” he said, jaw tightening.“I stated it as a fact. Which was an oversight of mine.”

“Which, coming from you, is basically the same as asking.” You stepped closer, barefoot now and imperceptibly shorter without your heels. “You don’t exactly do the whole ‘pretty please’ thing anyway. I know how to read between the lines, Dami.”

“That does not make it acceptable.”

“Maybe not by some people’s standards,” you said gently. “But I still chose to say yes. And honestly? I got to see you in a suit, which is a win for me.”

Damian felt the heat creep up to his neck. “Tt.”

You laughed, bright and unguarded. Behind you, the Gotham skyline stretched out in glittering sprawl, the city lights competing with the scattered stars. The air was bitter as winter had to offer, cold enough to see white clouds form with each exhale. You were starting to shiver slightly, arms wrapping around yourself, but you made no move to go back inside. He shrugged off his jacket and, before you could protest, draped it over your shoulders.”

“Damian–” 

“You’re cold,” he said matter-of-factly, adjusting the jacket so it sat properly on your frame.

“But you’ll be cold.”

“I have endured worse.” He stepped back, satisfied when you pulled the jacket tighter. “Besides, I would rather be cold than watch you shiver.”

You let out a small sigh, relaxing into the warmth. There was something absurd about using a bespoke suit as a heater.

“Thank you, Dami,” you said quietly, to which he nodded curtly.

The sounds of the gala muffled behind the glass, the city beneath you with the year winding down to its final hours. Damian thought, amidst his flurry of thoughts, that he could spend eternity here with you.

He turned to stare unabashedly, your lips were parted slightly, and he knew his mouth would fit against yours like they were destined to be. But he froze. He searched his mind for a reason to act, grasping at straws for any excuse, any logical deflection that would protect his pride from the vulnerability of simply wanting it. But to his great dismay, he found nothing, not one pathetic but reasonable excuse to kiss. So he did nothing.

You started padding barefoot across the terrace stone toward the iron railing that overlooked a field of sculpted statues, hedges, and trees that have lost their vitality. Damian followed, his hands sliding into his packets, which was a habit he only allowed himself when no one was watching, or rather, when the only person watching was you. The terrace wrapped around the ballroom’s exterior in a gentle curve, extending further than what was visible from the doors. Inside, through the tall windows, the gala continued its choreography. Damian could see the glow of the chandeliers, the movement of bodies, the flash of jewelry catching the light. But out here, the contrast was stark.

Damian watched you lean against the railing, face tilted up toward the sky where the stars were bright for a city with light pollution. 

“Your dad throws a beautiful party,” you said eventually. “Even if it’s a little… much.”

“‘Much’ is a diplomatic assessment,” Damian stated, coming to stand beside you. 

“I’m being polite.”

“You’re always polite.” He paused, then added, “Perhaps too polite.”

You turned to look at him cautiously. “Too polite?”

“You extend courtesy to people who do not deserve it.” Damian moved closer, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as he leaned against the railing. “The journalist, for instance. He was clearly fishing for gossip about the family.”

Your shoulders tightened. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything.” He kept his gaze on the skyline. “Especially when someone’s making you uncomfortable.”

A small smile played on your lips. “I know you do. But getting angry wouldn’t do anything. Besides, they don’t matter, Dami. Their opinions don’t matter.”

Damian studied your profile further– the slope of your nose, the way the cold had already started to pink your cheeks, and of course, your lips. He knew you were being genuine. You had dismissed the subtle condescending and prying questions with a grace he couldn’t have managed. Instead of relieving him, however, something inside his chest pulled tighter. You shouldn’t have to feel so gracious about being disrespected.

“They should not have spoken to you that way,” he said quietly.

“Maybe not,” you sigh. “But it’s okay, Damian.” You shifted, turning to face him fully, expression soft with understanding, maybe, or patience. “I can handle a few awkward conversations. I’m tougher than I look.”

“I am aware.”  And he wasn’t lying. Since your first encounter with him, Damian memorized moments of resilience– one of the qualities that captivated him in the first place. The way you’d bounce from a failed exam with determination, how you handled his messy family, the unspoken strength you displayed by supporting friends through their own crises while handling yours. 

You were tougher than you looked, yes, but that didn’t mean you should have to be for him. 

You seemed to sense the shift in his mood because you bumped his shoulder gently with yours. “Hey. Stop brooding. We escaped, remember?”

Damian opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. You had started walking again, following the curve of the terrace toward a section where the string lights grew denser, more isolated. Damian naturally followed. The stone was likely freezing against your feet, but you didn't complain. You just walked, holding his jacket tighter around yourself while humming some off-key melody under your breath.

“Can I ask you something?” you said suddenly.

Damian tensed. In his experience, this particular starter rarely ensued with anything good. “Yes.”

You were silent for a moment, and Damian prepared himself for questions about his family, past, or other secrets. 

Instead, you asked, “Do you make New Year’s resolutions?”

Damian blinked. That was a question he had not anticipated.

“No,” he said flatly.

“Really? Not even when you were younger?”

A short, humorless puff of air left his lips. “Especially not when I was younger.”

You shot him a curious look. “Why not?”

“Because they’re pointless. The words came out harsher than he’d intended. “Statistically, most people abandon their resolutions within the first month. The concept of waiting for an arbitrary calendar date to improve is illogical. Improvement should not be a whim based on some calendar date.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “That makes sense. Very practical.”

In your moment of pondering, Damian waited for the defense, the attempt to change his mind. But you kept walking, with the same contemplative look. 

“You disagree,” he said without question.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You stared at him for a long moment, and Damian stared back, refusing to concede. “Okay, yes. I disagree. But not because I think you’re wrong about the statistics.” you started walking again, slower this time. “I just think… hm… I don’t know. There’s something nice about the symbolism of it, you know? The idea of a fresh start. A clean slate.”

Damian fell back into step beside you, his lips curving downwards. “The date changing does not create a clean slate. Nothing material has changed.”

“I know that, but sometimes the feeling of change is enough to create it. An encouragement, maybe?” You glanced at him. “The idea that you can be better than you were. That you can grow, improve, and become a better version of yourself.”

Damian was quiet. You weren’t wrong, per se. He just found the execution flawed. But watching you talk about it, seeing the genuine enthusiasm in your demeanor, Damian realized that whether or not he agreed was irrelevant. You believed in the possibility of transformation. In hope as a reason for change. Which was very much you.

“So you make resolutions,” he said.

“Every year.” You chuckled. “I probably fail at most of them but I still like making the list. It feels like…” you pondered carefully to find the right words. “Like I matter enough to try”

Of course you mattered, he thought. The fact that you questioned it, even hypothetically, was absurd. 

“What are they?” he asked before he could stop himself. “Your resolutions.”

You looked surprised by the question, then pleased. “You actually wanna know?”

“I would not have asked otherwise.”

“Okay, well…” you shifted. “I want to read more books for fun, not just for class. I want to stop cursing. I want to actually stick to a sleep schedule instead of staying up until 3:00 AM.” you paused, then added quietly. “And I want to be better at telling people how much they mean to me. Instead of just assuming they know.”

You turned to him, meeting his gaze for a moment. But out of embarrassment, you looked away, suddenly fascinated by the city lights. “So yeah,” you said. “That’s the list. I know it’s kind of stupid”

“It’s not,” he replied instantly.

You turned back to him, eyebrows raised. “I thought you said–”

“I said resolutions as a concept are statistically inefficient. I did not say anything about yours specifically.” A pause, “Your goals are pragmatic and defined. They have substance. That is different.”

Like sunrise, your smile started small and grew slowly. “Did Damian Wayne just compliment my resolutions?”

“I am acknowledging effective planning.”

You laughed. “Right.”

In the silence, you led him further along the terrace, him following as he always does. You led him toward a section with benches, but instead of sitting, you drifted past them, continuing your leisurely stroll.

“Your turn,” you said, glancing at him.

Damian frowned. “My turn for what?”

“To tell me your resolutions, since you think mine are so well-planned.”

“I already stated I don’t make resolutions.”

“I know what you said. But come on.” you slowed your pace, turning to walk backward so you could face him, a precarious choice given the uneven stone and your bare feet. “There must be something you want to work on. You don’t even have to call it a resolution. Just something you’d like to be different.”

Damian’s jaw tightened reflexively. Self-improvement, to him, was a constant endeavor, as it had been since before he could properly form memories. 

“I don’t require improvement in any area that would constitute a resolution,” he said, more defensive than intended.

“Everyone has something they could work on, Dami.”

“Then perhaps I am the exception.”

You stopped walking, planting your bare feet on the cold stone, and gave him a look that was equal parts amused and exasperated. “You’re serious right now.”

“Yes.”

“Come on.” Your voice softened. “There’s gotta be something. You don’t even have to share it if you don’t want to. But pretending you’re perfect is just… it’s very you, don’t get me wrong, but it’s also kind of ridiculous.”

Damian, uncomfortable by the accurate observation, looked away. A long moment passed. You waited, patient as always, and the silence stretched until it became almost unbearable.

“Fine,” he said abruptly. “If I were to hypothetically identify an area of potential improvement, it would be caring more. Or demonstrating it more effectively.”

You blinked, clearly surprised. “Caring?”

“Yes.”

“Damian.” you stared at him like he’d just said the most unreliable statement. “You’re already one of the most caring people I know.”

He scoffed, looking away toward the distant city lights. “I never took you as one for deception.”

“Seriously.” you continued walking, looking forward this time. “You noticed my heels were bothering me before I said anything. You gave me your jacket the second you saw me shiver.”

“Those are basic observations. Anyone with adequate situational awareness–”

“No.” You cut him off gently. “Not anyone. You. You notice things about me that others don’t.” You continued. 

“And it’s not just with me. “I saw you help the server with those trays. You warned Dick about the loose railing before he could lean on it. You helped Tim and Stephanie escape the gala. You’re here and not skipping the gala, even though you hate it so much,” you smiled. “You’re constantly taking care of people, Damian. You just do it quietly.”

Was that true?

He’d considered his actions through a lens of necessity. Maintenance, he would say. He told himself that assisting the server was to improve efficiency. That warning Grayson about the railing was avoiding a lawsuit. That helping Drake and Brown sneak out was to prevent a public spectacle. But looking at you now, wearing a toothy grin, the excuse felt thin. He knew, deep down, he had done those things not just due to efficiency, but because it came naturally. 

“I was unaware I was being subjected to such scrutiny,” he said, a clumsy attempt to recover from being caught off guard.

You smiled, soft and knowing. “See? You don’t need to add ‘caring more’ to your resolutions because you’re already doing it well.”

Damian opened his mouth to offer a rebuttal, the way one does when confronted with an uncomfortable truth, to claim that efficiency was not the same as care, but he could not form the words. He held your gaze for a bit longer, then gave a stiff shrug.

You walked towards one of the benches and perched on its edge. 

“You’re shivering.”

“It’s December, Dami,” you pulled his jacket tighter.

“Which is why we should keep moving,” he countered. “To generate body heat.”

“Yes,” you slid off the bench and started walking again. Damian followed, because apparently that’s what he did now. The silence settled between you, comfortable but holding more weight than before. Damian found himself hyperaware of your presence beside him– the sound of your breathing, the way you pulled his jacket tighter against the wind, the careful placement of your bare feet on the cold stone, and Damian found himself caught in the tangles of his own thoughts.

Damian thought, with something that felt dangerously close to surrender, that he did care, especially about you, far more than he had intended.

Damian tried to trace it backward, searching for the exact moment he faltered. The first study session together? The morning he’d gone out of his way to bring your drink? The night he’d realize he was checking his phone with a sliver of hope for your messages? But there was no single moment. It had been gradual, and that was the part that frustrated him the most. A slippery slope he could have prevented but didn’t. Though, he admitted to himself, he would have slipped down even the steepest slope just to be with you.

“Dami?” Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Are you okay? You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“You’re being quiet in a different way.” You stepped closer, and even in the dim light, he could see you studying his face. “What are you thinking about?”

Everything, he wanted to say.

“Nothing of consequence,” he said instead.

You didn’t look convinced, but you didn’t press. Instead, you simply nodded, accepted his non-answer, and continued walking in companionable silence for nearly a minute when you spoke again. “Okay, but here’s what I think you should do,” you said, turning to face him. “Pick another one.”

“I don’t–”

“Come on, Dami,” you stopped walking entirely now, turning to face him fully. “One resolution. You’re already great at caring about people, so it can’t be that. Pick something else. Anything.”

He should have said no, or redirected the conversation, or simply refused to engage. But you were looking at him with such genuine encouragement, such undiluted faith that he might actually participate in this stupid, arbitrary tradition.

“I’m not doing the self-improvement thing,” he said.

“Okay, so don’t. Make it something fun. Something you actually want to do.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know! That’s the whole point. You’re supposed to pick it.” You shifted your weight, and Damian noticed you were starting to favor your left foot. The cold was getting to you. “Just… think about it. Is there anything you’ve wanted to do but haven’t? Anything you’ve been putting off?”

Damian opened his mouth to respond, but the words died before they could form. Because in the distance, muffled but unmistakable, he could hear it.

“Ten!”

The shout came from inside the ballroom, the chant of the crowd picked up a rhythmic, impending countdown.

“Nine!”

You heard it too. Your head turned toward the windows, toward the warm flow of the ballroom where people were gathering, couples positioning themselves for a traditional kiss.

“Eight!”

“The year is ending, Dami,” you grinned. “Last chance.”

“Seven!”

Damian looked at you, the expectancy in your eyes, heart hammering against his ribs.

“Six!”

Logic could only hold back desire for so long before it crumbles.

“Five!”

You looked back at him, something uncertain flickering across your face.

“Four!”

And in that moment, he knew what he wanted to do.

“Three!”

“I have one,” he blurted out. The words bypassed his brain entirely, driven by an impulse he couldn’t control.

“Two!”

You blinked, surprised. “You do?”

“One!”

Damian didn’t answer your question. Instead, he closed the small distance between you, his hand coming up to cup your jaw with a gentleness he didn’t know he had, cold lips on cold lips. The roar from inside the ballroom, the cheers and distant party horns all drowned out in this little world that only you and he occupied.

Your eyes went wide. Your breath caught–he could see it, the way your chest hitched with surprise. It wasn’t his first kiss (his training has been unfortunately comprehensive), but it was the first one that mattered. The first one that made his chest feel like it might split open from the pressure of everything he didn’t know how to say. You tasted faintly of the cider you’d been drinking earlier. For a fraction of a second, you were frozen in surprise, and Damian’s mind unhelpfully thought of all the possible ways this could go catastrophically wrong. 

But, to his great relief, you softened. Your hand came up to cup his cheek, and you kissed him back with a warmth that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the fact that you were you, and he was irrevocably, terrifyingly–

You pulled back first, just slightly, your breath mixing with his in the small space between you. Your eyes still and wide, searching his face for something.

“That,” Damian said quietly.

You stared at him for a long moment, and Damian couldn’t read your expression. His hand was still cradling your jaw, and he could feel your pulse hammering against his palm. Then you laughed– breathless and surprised and absolutely radiant.

“That’s not how New Year’s resolutions work,” you said, but you were smiling.

‘I don’t care,” Damian said. And he meant it. For once in his life, he didn’t care about reason or logic or whatever proper protocol was. He just cared about the way you were looking at him, like he was the greatest being on earth.

Behind you, through the windows, he could see the gala guests celebrating. Inside, his family was undoubtedly looking for him, wondering where he’d disappeared to. He briefly thought about his father’s address. But out here, it was just you and him and the year turning over into something new. You were still smiling, still close enough that Damian could count the small clouds your breath made in the cold air.

“So,” you said softly. “That was your resolution? To kiss me at midnight?”

“No.” Damian’s hand was still cradling your face, thumb tracing absent patterns against your skin. “You were correct earlier. I did not need a resolution to care more.” He leaned his forward against yours “I needed a resolution to stop pretending I wasn’t.”

“Damian..”

“I was making excuses. Calling it efficiency, but I couldn’t find a logical excuse for this, so I stopped looking for one.” His eyes searched yours. “I was a fool for waiting so long.”

For a moment, you just looked at each other, and Damian felt the weight of everything unspoken hanging between you. The careful distance he’d been maintaining, the walls of maintenance and necessity he’d been building, the control he’d been desperately clinging to, all of it undermined by a single kiss that he’d initiated without planning, without excuse.

“We should probably go inside,” you said eventually, though you made no move to step away. “People are going to wonder where we are.”

“Let them wonder.”

“Damian.” You bit your lip, clearly trying not to smile. “It’s freezing out here.”

“Then stand closer.”

That’s not–” you stopped, shaking your head with exasperated fondness. “Fine. Five minutes.”

Damian nodded and you shifted closer, touching shoulders this time. Together, you turned to look out at the Gotham skyline. The city spread before below, lights reflecting off buildings and streets and the distant river. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks burst in scattered intervals– late celebrations from other parties, other gatherings, other people welcoming the new year.

Damian barely noticed them.

He was focused on you beside him, you, here next to him, which was what he wanted to carry into the next year. Standing there with you, watching Gotham turn over into a new year, Damian thought that maybe resolutions weren’t completely pointless after all, but rather about deciding what mattered–and facing the future with you made it one worth caring for. 

in a relationship, he wouldn't demand his partner be vegetarian. He lives with the batfamily, after all, and they eat meat (see below for a fun panel). but it would definitely matter to him on a deeper level. a partner who shares his vegetarianism wouldn't just be a "plus" but more so a genuine alignment on something tied to his core beliefs. it'd also be more convenient when sharing meals 💀. though i want to emphasize that not being vegetarian isn't a dealbreaker; what matters more is that they understand why he made that choice. someone who gets the reasoning behind it would connect with him more meaningfully, and i say this as someone who is a borderline carnivore. i love meat.

if his partner eats meat, damian would have standards. he'd absolutely insist on ethically sourced ingredients, so nothing factory-farmed. he'd probably judge "cheap" meat harshly and end up buying expensive, humanely raised options himself, because if it's happening in his space, it's gotta meet his standards.

but here's where it gets very damian: he wouldn't lecture or guilt-trip. he's mature enough to not put someone down because of their dietary choices. instead, he'd prove his way is superior through sheer excellence. so rather than having a steak date, he'd prepare a michelin-star level vegetarian meal and say something like "why eat a dead animal when I could prepare this?" (see below for chef damian). it's not force, no not at all. it's uh... demonstration! and honestly, it's also how he shows care. i could see him cooking really good hotpot with homemade tofu skins and fresh veggies... mmm....