Roman

The Wayne Manor was a sprawling gothic monstrosity perched on the edge of the Gotham skyline, a dark and looming silhouette against the backdrop of a city that never truly slept. It was a place where secrets festered, where power and control were everything, and where the lives of the people within its walls revolved around wealth, influence, and fear. For the people who lived in it, this was home. For you? It was a prison.The Wayne family was Gotham's most powerful mafia family, maybe even in all of North America, an empire built on crime, manipulation, and ruthless control. At the top of it all was Bruce Wayne, the cold and calculating godfather. Your actual father. Beneath him, each of his children had their role to play. But you, his biological daughter, were no more than a ghost within the house. You were a byproduct of a two-night stand with a whore, as your family called her, that had long since faded into shadows, and your presence was barely tolerated by the very people who were supposed to be your family.

At least, that’s how it felt after nearly a decade of living here.

You had arrived at Wayne Manor when you were just seven years old, dragged from the wreckage of your mother’s overdose by a man who was nothing more than a stranger. Bruce Wayne—cold, distant, and unforgiving. A man who ruled over the city with an iron fist and a heart as cold as the marble floors beneath your feet. He wasn’t your father, he never had been. He had simply become the man who was tasked with your care, but that wasn’t much of a care at all. Bruce’s love had always been reserved for the empire he had built, not you. You were merely another complication in his already fractured world. He told you that your mother had left you, that you were his responsibility now, and that you needed to prove you were worthy of the Wayne name. A name that, for the longest time, had been nothing but an empty echo in your mind.

Your mother was your hero, a military hero who realized how fucked up America was and retired. She, like most veterans, got hooked on drugs but that didn't mean she loved you any less. When she died, she took your happiest parts with her.

“Prove you deserve the last name Wayne,” Bruce had said when you were first brought into the manor, his eyes hard, his tone colder than the mansion’s marble floors. He’d looked at you like you were nothing but another part of the vast empire he controlled, a problem to be solved, a name to be earned.

And that’s what you did. You worked. You tried to prove yourself, to be a part of this family—this business. But it didn’t matter. You were invisible to them, a shadow in the background of the Wayne Empire. A ghost that haunted the halls of a mansion that never felt like home.

The moment he had taken you in, he’d told you to keep your head down. "Wayne’s don’t cry. Wayne’s don’t show weakness," he had said, his tone dead and devoid of any warmth. You couldn’t even remember the last time he’d spoken to you unless it was to reprimand or scold you for something minor. You learned quickly that to Bruce, you didn’t exist.

He was the head of the Wayne Mafia and Wayne enterprise, the mastermind who controlled everything from the shadows. He was feared, respected, and never showed weakness. He wasn't your father. He was your boss, distant, cold, and authoritarian. To him, you were nothing. He barely acknowledged you unless you were needed for some mafia-related task, which was almost never. You were neglected in the deepest way possible, emotionally invisible, yet physically present only when it was required.

You learned early on that any attempt to gain his affection was futile. He was too busy running his empire, and any sign of weakness—like wanting to be close to him—was met with disdain. His affection was reserved for his empire and all his other children.

At 15, you had spent eight years in the mansion without a single ounce of affection from him. You were a tool to him, nothing more. And yet, despite his coldness, you still wanted to earn his approval. You knew it was futile, but there was still something inside you that clung to the hope that one day, maybe, he’d look at you like he did the others. You became top of your class, played volleyball, did cheer, ballet, theatre, became student council president, won every award under the sun hoping he’d notice, that one day he’d show up at your award ceremony and bring your siblings. They’d all be grinning at you proudly, they’d make sure everyone knew you were part of the family, they’d let you sit with them at dinner and let you tell them about your most recent tennis match. But that was always a fantasy.

And maybe that was what broke you the most: knowing that he would never see you as a true part of the family.

Earning the Wayne name felt like a distant dream, like something only the others could ever attain. Bruce made it clear when you arrived at Wayne Manor was that you didn’t belong here yet. His blood ran cold when he looked at you, as though you were a mistake he’d have to clean up. There was no room for kindness, no words of comfort. Just a cold gaze, and then the hollow command to stay out of his way.

As you grew older, the cruelty only deepened, and it wasn’t just Bruce.

When Dick Grayson entered the scene, you were still just a child, struggling to make sense of your place in the mansion. He was everything Bruce wasn’t, charming, always smiling, and the golden boy of the family. The way he spoke to you, with that practiced air of kindness, made your skin crawl.

But the smile he wore to the rest of the world was never the one he gave you. The moment the doors closed behind you two, that smile would disappear, replaced with a smirk that spoke volumes. His jokes about you, his casual jabs, it was like nothing you did would ever be good enough. He was always pushing you, always finding ways to make you feel small.

“You know, if you weren’t so weak, Bruce might actually notice you,” Dick would say as he walked by, his eyes flicking over you like you were nothing more than a nuisance. "But don’t worry. Maybe you’ll prove yourself one day. Maybe.”

His words, though they came with a laugh, always carried the sharp edge of cruelty.

The eldest of the children, the perfect golden boy, the one who could do no wrong in Bruce’s eyes. Dick was no different than the rest. As a leader of a section of the family’s operations, he was a busy man. He had his own goals and ambitions, and when it came to you, he cruel.

To Dick, you were a lost cause, someone who wasn't worth the effort, the butt of the joke. While he didn't mock you as often as Damian or Jason, he certainly didn’t love you, he didn't even like you. He was more likely to ignore you entirely, but if you caught him in a bad mood.........He never tried to be a big brother, and in moments when you needed comfort, he’d either brush you off or simply laugh at you and make you feel worse.

Damian—Bruce’s biological son. Your little brother who seemed to have it all. The heir to the throne, groomed for greatness, your father's love. It wasn’t hard to see the resentment and hatred in his eyes whenever you crossed paths. At 13, Damian was already a lethal force, training under the most dangerous men in the world. But what you hated most about him was that, despite the bitterness, he always seemed to find ways to put you down.

your younger half-brother, was the perfect assassin in training, and he hated you. He hated how you existed in his space, how you took up time and energy that could have been spent on his training. To him, you were a nuisance, a shadow in his way. He didn't care about family bonds or affection. You were just the member of the household that didn’t belong.

Damian's cold demeanor was the product of years of indoctrination into the Wayne family’s brutal world. He was protective of the family, of Bruce’s approval, so any sign of weakness or attachment from you only made him more disgusted. He’d learned to use violence as a way to control people, but when it came to you, he was especially harsh, never lifting a finger to defend you, but constantly mocking, hurting, and ridiculing you, making you feel small and insignificant.

Damian never missed a chance to make cruel remarks about you, as though any attempt at closeness with you would be seen as weakness.

"You're nothing more than a distraction," Damian would sneer as he walked past you, his green eyes glowing with disdain. "Father is wasting time on you. You’ll never be one of us."

His words sliced through you like a blade, and it only made the ache of rejection burn deeper.

Tim was the one who ignored you the most. He had a sharp intellect, a mind for strategy, and an indifference to almost everyone around him, including you. You had tried to talk to him once, hoping for some sort of connection, you were around the same age after all, but he just stared through you as though you weren’t there.

When he did speak, it was never pleasant.

"Could you be quieter for once?" he snapped one evening, his gaze never leaving his laptop screen. "Some of us are trying to work."

It was a pattern, one that left you feeling invisible, like you didn’t even exist in his world. On rare occasions, when he was in a particularly bad mood, he’d throw a cutting remark your way, something meant to remind you that you were just a nuisance in his eyes.

"You think you’re important just because you’re here?" Tim would sneer. "Get over yourself. You’ll never be more than a side character."

The family’s strategist, and tech genius, was the quietest of the bunch. Tim was obsessed with perfection, everything had to be meticulously planned. When it came to you, he was condescending. He believed you were too naïve, too soft for the harsh world they lived in. It was clear that he didn’t consider you part of the family in a meaningful way. To him, you were just another piece in the game, and you were never treated like an equal.

Tim would lecture you about what you should be doing, constantly putting you down in subtle ways that made you question your worth.

Jason was the worst of all, next to Damian of course. Where the others merely ignored you or made snide comments, Jason was outright cruel. He made it clear that he didn’t want you here from the moment you arrived. He’d watch you with a sneer on his face, like you were something he had to tolerate rather than a part of the family.

“Do you ever stop being pathetic?” Jason growled one night, cornering you in the hallway. He was older than you—by eight years—and his presence was always overwhelming, his anger like a shadow that clung to him wherever he went. “You’re nothing but a waste of space. Bruce should’ve left you on the streets where you belong.”

You could never forget that night. The venom in his words, the way he towered over you with that sick, twisted smile that barely concealed the disgust he felt for you—it stayed with you, festering in your mind.

Your older brother, was once a wild and rebellious soul, but after his brutal experience with the Joker, he became even more distant. He had built walls around himself, and those walls excluded you. To him, you were nothing more than a symbol of the dysfunction that ran through the Wayne family. He didn’t care about you, he resented you for simply existing.

Whenever he interacted with you, it was laced with sarcasm and cruelty. He would always mock you in front of the others, tearing down your self-esteem at every opportunity. Your attempts to reach out to him were met with disgust, and sometimes even attacks. If you tried to talk to him about anything personal, he’d brush you off with an eye roll or sarcastic comment.

He was a silent witness to your pain, and he didn't care to acknowledge it.

The girls—Steph, Cass, and Barbara—were no better.

Stephanie would occasionally feign interest in you, only to turn it into a mocking session. "You really think Bruce cares about you?" she’d ask with a smirk. "He just likes having more bodies around to do his bidding. And you? You’re nothing but a backup plan, a mistake."

Cass, though quieter, was no less cruel. She had a way of looking at you as if you were beneath her, like you didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air. Her silence was more suffocating than any words could be.

Barbara, though, was the most calculating. She used her intelligence to manipulate, twisting everything into a game of control. She’d often mock you in front of the others, making it feel like you were a joke.

“Do you really think you’ll ever be anything but Bruce’s charity case?” she asked one day, her voice laced with sarcasm. "You’ll never be one of us. Don’t kid yourself.”

They were mean in every sense of the word, they made fun of your looks, your weight, your height, they gave you insecurities you never would’ve thought of.

Alfred, the Wayne family’s butler, was perhaps the only one who ever showed any genuine care, but even that was limited. Alfred's soft-spoken nature meant he was there for you, but he was more like a caretaker than a father figure. He was more interested in making sure you were fed, safe, and well taken care of, but he never pushed against Bruce or the others to make sure you were emotionally okay. Alfred was loyal to the family and followed Bruce’s commands, no matter how cruel they were.

And then there was Duke.

Duke, the one who never even seemed to acknowledge your existence. He was polite—always saying "hello" when he passed by, but that was the extent of it. He didn’t hate you. He didn’t love you. He just… ignored you. It was almost worse than anything the others did. At least when they made fun of you, you existed to them.

But Duke? He acted as if you weren’t even in the room.

In the end, you were just a shadow in Wayne Manor. There was no love here, no family. Just a constant, searing reminder that you didn’t belong.

You were nothing. You were nobody.

But you’d change that. You had to. You had to prove yourself worthy of the Wayne name. Even if it meant enduring their cruelty.

Because deep down, you knew that in a family built on power and fear, only the strongest survived.

And maybe, just maybe, you could become something more.

At Gotham Academy, you were untouchable.

There was no other way to put it. You were awkward and lonely in middle school but that changed as soon as you hit puberty in high school. Suddenly you were the girl everyone wanted to be or be with. Effortless grace and charm, the kind of girl who seemed to have it all together. You were the captain of the cheer team, the student body president, the girl who could throw a party, lead a project, and still ace every test. The guys chased after you with varying levels of persistence, but none of them knew who you really were. They didn’t know you were a Wayne.

They didn’t know you were just a forgotten child in the massive, shadowed halls of Wayne Manor.

At school, you were alive. Teachers fawned over you, praising your work ethic, your achievements, and your positive attitude. "Your essays are brilliant," Mrs. Summers would say, always raising her eyebrow in surprise when she saw your name at the top of the page. "You never fail to impress, your parents must be proud." You smiled, the words coming easily, just as they always did. The praise felt good, almost like an escape from the emptiness that waited for you when you returned to Wayne Manor.

But the truth was, you were dying for something real, something that made you feel seen at home.

When school let out, you gathered your things, avoiding the usual parade of admirers by slipping through the back doors of the school to your waiting car. Today, there was no stopping the swarm of boys who followed you from class to class. Josh from the football team had been practically suffocating you all day with his relentless compliments, while Lucas, the track star, was constantly finding excuses to "study" with you. Both of them seemed to think your "no" was just another challenge. But despite their attention, you were still the one who didn’t belong.

Because once you left Gotham Academy, once you stepped into Wayne Manor, you were nobody.

Bruce never cared to acknowledge your presence, let alone make you feel like part of the family. He was always wrapped up in his business empire or his “other life,” never bothering to check in on you. The closest thing you had to a father was Alfred, the ever-loyal butler, who was the only one who seemed to care about you. But even his affection was distant, a courtesy reserved for a child who didn’t quite fit.

Damian, Tim, Stephanie, and Duke all attended Gotham Prep, the elite school for Gotham’s privileged. Bruce had never bothered enrolling you there, and you wondered, sometimes, if it was because you weren’t good enough, weren’t worth the effort.

And yet, despite their indifference, you longed to be seen by them. Maybe if you earned their respect, earned Bruce’s approval, they would start noticing you.

But it was always the same: emptiness.

The one place you could truly escape to was Grace's house. Grace was your best friend, your sister in every way that mattered. She was the one who saw the real you, the one who didn’t care about your last name or your family’s wealth. She was the only one who knew you were the unwanted daughter of Gothams most infamous mobster. She accepted you as you were: a girl who was as talented as she was misunderstood.

At Grace’s house, you felt alive. It was a normal, cozy home, filled with laughter and love, the kind of place that had never been offered to you at Wayne Manor. Her parents treated you like their own daughter, and her two older brothers—Isaac and Nathan—had taken to protecting you like you were their little sister. Her youngest brother, James annoyed you as much as he did Grace and somehow, you loved him for it. It was nice being a big sister to someone who was actually normal and didn't try to kill you all the time.

Grace’s oldest brother, Daniel, was another story, he treated you like a sister even though you've had a crush on him since you were 10.

You flirted with him constantly. It wasn’t anything serious, but Daniel had a way of making your heart race in a way that the boys at Gotham Academy never could. He was a older than you, maybe 21, with a confident charm that made him irresistible. Tall, blonde, jacked, he was the perfect All-American boy. You knew he wasn’t ever going to see you as anything more that a little sister but that didn’t stop you from trying. Every time he walked into the room, your heart did a little skip, and you couldn’t help but turn into a blushing mess. Grace teased you endlessly for it. Daniel was your first ever crush and that feeling would never really go away, no matter how much you saw him or how sisterly he treated you.

Most nights, you stayed over at Grace's. It became a regular tradition—weekends spent in her house, sprawled out on her couch for movie marathons, stealing her clothes, gossiping about school, and stealing snacks from her kitchen. You loved it there. You could forget about Wayne Manor, forget about the neglect and the loneliness, and just be a normal teenager. You came over for Thanksgiving, your birthday, and for Christmas they even had a stocking with your name on it.

One night, after a particularly grueling practice, Grace invited you to another sleepover at her house. As usual, you packed a bag with the essentials, pajamas, a change of clothes, and your phone, just in case. You already had most things at her house, you practically lived with her at this point. The moment you arrived, Grace’s dad, Thomas, greeted you with a warm hug, his hearty laugh filling the room. “Here comes trouble!” he said, ruffling your hair in that easy-going way he did every time you showed up.

You felt the pang of longing for a real family, but you pushed it away, embracing the warmth of the moment. You wanted to be part of this family, a normal family.

Grace’s siblings were equally welcoming. Nathan tossed you a snack and winked. “You ready to get your ass kicked at Mario Kart again?” he teased, knowing full well that you were unbeatable.

James groaned "I knew I smelled another loser walk in" You gasped dramatically and put him into a headlock, ruffling his hair till he apologized.

As the night went on, and you all sat around Grace’s kitchen table, laughing and joking, you couldn't shake the feeling that your life at Wayne Manor, and the family that barely looked at you, was a shadow that still loomed over your heart.

But then, as if to prove that life couldn’t just be simple for you, the front door of Grace’s house swung open, and your phone buzzed in your pocket. You glanced at it, your stomach dropping as you saw the name.

Alfred.

You knew what it meant. You couldn't sleep over tonight. Bruce was having people over and you had to be there in case the guests asked about you. Another night where you'd sit at the table in the maids kitchen, listening to your family get along without you. Pretending that Bruce’s absence didn’t eat away at you, didn't make you feel less than. You ignored his message. You didn't want to go home, really the guests never even knew Bruce had a biological daughter, they wouldn't ask about you. This was just Alfred's way of trying to make the family bond with you.

It was always the same. Bruce only ever reached out when he needed you for something, when his empire demanded your presence. But never for the reason you truly needed. Not for affection. Not for love.

You stood up abruptly, suddenly feeling suffocated by the laughter and warmth of Grace’s home. You didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to go back to the place that always made you feel so… alone. But you had to. You had no choice. You already ignored Alfred's text long enough, you missed dinner so you had to get home or else Bruce might actually kill you, if he even noticed you weren't there.

No matter how far you ran, how many awards you won, or how many boys followed you around at school, the question remained: when would you finally be seen by the ones who mattered most?

That night, your prayers were answered, your bravery caught the entire family's attention just when you had gotten okay with their negligence, began to enjoy doing whatever you wanted from the shadows.

The rain was fucking relentless.

It hammered down from the heavens, soaking you to the bone as you walked through the backstreets of Gotham. The kind of rain that made you feel like you were being baptized in cold, dirty water. You pulled the hood of your jacket up, not that it did a damn thing to keep you dry. The city’s grimy streets were slick with water, reflecting the neon lights like a damn funhouse mirror. You kept your head down, trying to ignore the chill creeping through your clothes.

Grace’s house had been a brief escape from the cold, suffocating grip of Wayne Manor. For a few hours, you’d felt like a person again. Like someone who could actually live, instead of just existing as a piece of forgotten furniture in the mansion. But that was before Alfred had texted. Before you saw his name flash across your screen, making your stomach twist in a knot.

"Shit," you muttered under your breath, shoving the phone back into your pocket. Not today. Not now. You needed more time before you went back to that suffocating place. But you knew it wasn’t a choice. Bruce would be pissed, and when Bruce Wayne was pissed? Everyone knew about it.

Still, you had to push forward. It was Gotham, after all. A rainstorm in this city could mean anything from a mugging to a full-on shootout. Every step felt heavier as you neared the looming silhouette of Wayne Manor. The mansion stood there like some kind of ancient titan, always watching, always waiting, and never giving a damn about who you were.

The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, trying to make as little noise as possible. Maybe you’d get lucky and Bruce would be too busy with whatever the hell was going on to notice you sneaking in.

Fat chance.

The foyer was dark, and the mansion smelled like dust and expensive wood polish. You should have felt comforted by the familiarity, but instead, all you could feel was that gnawing sense of isolation. The Manor had always felt like a prison to you, and not the kind you could escape with a couple of well-timed sprints or clever words. This was a cage built with stone and glass, and you were stuck inside it.

You started down the hallway, the faint sound of voices growing louder as you passed the dining room.

And then you stopped. Something in the air changed. The hairs on your neck stood up. You were too close to the dining hall, and the moment you looked in through the door, your breath hitched in your chest.

There, at the long grand dining table, sat your family—or, well, what was left of them. Every one of them was slumped forward, tied to their chairs with ropes, blood trickling from their ears, noses, and mouths. The first thing you noticed was that no one was moving. No one was breathing. They all looked... dead.

Bruce. Damian. Jason. Dick. Tim. Cass. Duke. Steph. Barbra, even Alfred was slumped over in the corner where he usually kept watch. All of them.

Your stomach dropped to your feet as you backed away slowly. This was not happening.

“No fucking way,” you breathed out, stepping back, trying to backpedal before anyone heard you. But your mind was already working overtime. Who did this? Why?

The answer came quickly. It didn’t take much to put two and two together. The guests, it had to be them. The rich assholes who had “business” with Bruce. Except now, you were figuring out that the business they were conducting didn’t involve any stock markets or deals. It was murder.

And then the realization hit: whoever these people were, they weren’t here for some petty robbery. They’d been in the house long enough to take down the entire family without a sound.

Fuck.

Your mind went blank. For a second, you thought you were dreaming. But no, this was real. And this was not happening.

You were about to turn on your heel and haul ass out of there, but that’s when you heard it. Footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Two of them, moving fast, and definitely not the quiet kind. The air around you felt thicker. The kind of thick that made your skin crawl.

You darted to the side, taking cover behind a marble pillar. From the sound of it, someone was coming this way. Your heart pounded in your chest as you held your breath, praying to God they didn’t notice you.

You needed to leave. Now. Run. Go.

But just as you turned, desperate to bolt before anyone saw you, you froze.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, and moving fast.

There was no time to think, you stayed hidden watching them walk around the room. They were wearing crisp black suits, and all three looked like they shopped in the"Big and tall" section. There was no way you could fight off all three, yeah you had some muscle but nothing like Jason or even Tim. Even Bruce would break a sweat facing these guys. They seemed to be checking Bruce's pockets right now, looking for something.

While they were distracted, you took deep breathes, trying to calm down. Who the fuck were these people? How did they manage to trick the infamous Wayne Family? What did they want? How could you get out of this and save your family?

Did you even want to save your family?

You shook the thought away quickly; of course you wanted to save them, they were cruel and horrible but who were you to decide their fate without trying to help them? Who made you judge, jury, and executioner?

Then you saw it, Bruce's emergency button, hidden on the wall. Only noticeable to someone who's wandered these halls for years. You almost fell to your knees in relief as you sneakily crawled over to it and pressed it.

Help was on the way and the intruders didn't know you were here! You smiled feeling pure relief at your quick thinking.

How's that for useless huh Damian? You wanted to taunt him as you looked at his unconsious form. He was so much better this way, they all were. They were silent.

Then, you heard it, the loud blaring of alarms and sirens. "Emergency." "Emergency." Alfred's voice rang through the whole manor and the sirens alerted the men that you were in the dining room.

You groaned, eyes burning with tears, "Who's the fucking dumbass that made the silent alarm LOUD?"

The men came rushing into the dining room yet it seemed to be your lucky-unlucky day. Only one of them had a gun.

Time seemed to slow as he aimed it at Bruce's soon to be lifeless head. You don't know what came over you as you tackled Bruce's unconscious body out of the bullets way.

You regretted it as soon as you did it, your vision went white with pain as the bullet hit you shoulder.

You pushed through the pain and grabbed a butter knife as one of the unarmed men approached you. You punched and ducked but the pain slowed you down. He hit you hard right in the ribs, so you did him one better and gouged his right eye out with your butter knife. Those boxing classes really did do some good, no wonder your mom insisted on them.

More shots rang out and it was out of pure adreneline that you were able to pull almost each and every member of your family under the table. Damian was the only one left and as you stood to pull him down too, you saw the armed man pull the trigger of his gun. He was going to kill your baby brother, he was aiming at the 14 year old's head. No matter how cruel or vicious Damian was, he's still a child, still your little brother.

You couldn't let him die. Maybe that's why you threw your self on top of his body, protecting him from the two bullets aimed at him.

Fuck.

This hurt. No wonder people hated being shot. This hurt more than cheer warm ups, did you think you were bulletproof?

You decided that you would just allow the next person to be shot. The man's footsteps were coming closer and you were getting more light headed from the pain. You turned to Jason's unconscious body and punched him. "Wake up you fucking loser! I can't fight this guy."

Obviously, Jason didn't wake up, why did you even think anyone in this family would ever try and help you?

As you shook him and panicked even more, you noticed something shining in Bruce's pocket. So much for "No weapons at the dinner table."

A sleek black gun, any other day you would've marveled at the custom design on it and focused on the monograming, but right now all that mattered was getting it before you bled out and the man killed you. You crawled and those five steps felt like eternity and when you finally grabbed the gun out of Bruce's armani suit pocket, the scary man was standing above you with a cruel grin.

Your heart dropped as he knelt next to you and stroked your hair, "Hey, pretty." He breathed out as he knelt next to you, his hands wandering around your body and up your skirt. Bile rose to your mouth and your heart dropped. No. This isn't happening. "If I had know Bruce had such a pretty thing, I would've been come here. You're certainly the looker compared to your sisters." He said as he began smelling your hair.

You don't know how it happened, but suddenly he was laying on the floor with blood coming out his throat. You looked between your hand holding the gun and his now lifeless body in horror. The last thing you heard before passing out was a flurry of boots and gunshots and a man that sounded like your father yelling for a doctor. The last thing you saw was a tall boy lifting you up, his eyes as blue as the sky, and you genuinely believed you died and went to heaven.

The room was cold, sterile, a sharp contrast to the emotional storm raging inside you. The pain in your shoulder and stomach was nothing compared to the weight on your chest, the realization that no matter what, you couldn’t escape this life anymore. You had made your choice, whether you liked it or not.

You woke to the soft beeping of machines and the scent of antiseptic in the air, your vision still blurry. It didn’t take long for the footsteps to reach you—slow, deliberate. The door creaked open, and one by one, they walked in.

Dick entered first, his expression calm but unreadable. His gaze lingered on you for a moment, and instead of his usual mocking smile, there was something more restrained about him now. The newfound respect he had for you was obvious, but there was a subtle weight behind it. He didn’t say much, just gave you a nod.

“You’re still breathing, that's good,” he said softly, his voice low, a simple acknowledgment. “We all owe you for that. For what you did.” The words weren’t a compliment, they were recognition, quiet and heavy. The respect was there, but so was the unspoken truth: You were one of them now.

You expected to feel happier. You imagined this day so many times before, you prayed for it, so why were you sick to your stomach now that it's happened? Why didn't you want it anymore and why hadn't you realized it till now?

Damian was next, stepping in with his usual, stoic expression. His eyes flicked over you briefly, but there was no anger in his gaze, only a quiet understanding, maybe even admiration, hidden beneath the surface. He didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Your actions saved all of us,” he said, voice flat. “You’ve earned your place here. Just don’t forget it.” His words weren’t harsh, but there was no room for doubt. You had proved yourself. And that meant something far more permanent than any spoken affirmation could express.

Ungrateful brat. You took a bullet for him and he couldn't even thank you. God, you hated him. You were starting to wish you weren't a good person and let them all die. The inheritance would've been insane.

Jason followed suit, and though his rough edges remained, there was a faint softness in his expression as he looked at you.

“Damn, princess,” he muttered, his eyes scanning you with quiet intensity. “You really pulled through. You did what most of us couldn’t.” His gaze softened for just a moment, and then he leaned against the doorframe. “Didn't realize I had such a badass as a little sister. The knife move, the way you ducked and punched? Sick."

Jason, of all people, was praising you. Treating you like his sister rather than dirt at the bottom of his shoe. The nickname, princess, he once used to ridicule you, was said with a quiet revrance; like he actually thought you were a princess now. You couldn't help but feel good, this was all you wanted all these years. And in that moment, you would get shot again without hesitation if it meant you would get that everyday.

Tim entered next, and though his face was stoic, his eyes betrayed the flicker of respect, maybe even admiration. “We all saw it,” he said, his voice steady, but tinged with something quieter. “What you did… It wasn’t just about surviving. It was about protecting us. You earned the right to stand beside us. We all thank you.”

Well, it's not great but at least someone is appreciative. None of them would've done the same for you.

Cass entered, silent as always, but the look she gave you spoke volumes. She didn’t need to say anything—her eyes, sharp and understanding, told you that she saw your sacrifice, saw what you had done for them. She gave you a slight nod, acknowledging your place among them.

Then Duke and Stephanie stepped in.

Duke’s eyes were calm, but you could see the flicker of something more behind his gaze. The weight of what had happened didn’t escape him. His voice was steady as he spoke.

“You did what we couldn’t,” he said, his tone quiet but unshakable. “You kept us alive. All of us. And that means something. You’ve earned your place in this family.” His eyes softened, just the slightest bit. “Just don’t forget... that this family doesn’t leave anyone behind. Not anymore.”

And then there was Stephanie. Her usual energy was gone, replaced with something more somber. She didn’t crack a joke or make a snide remark. Her eyes scanned you with something like respect, but more than that, a quiet understanding that you’d been forced to prove yourself in ways none of them had ever been asked you to.

“Guess you really are one of us now,” she said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, but it wasn’t lighthearted. It was tired. “I don’t know about you, but I’m glad you’re still here.” Her voice wavered slightly, but she pulled herself together quickly. “You’ve got our backs. We’ve got yours.”

Barbra stood next to her in agreement, looking hesitant to say something. She was the only one who noticed how much you resented them even though you were desperate for their love and approval.

What. The. Fuck.

No way this is happening. This is not real. Who knew saving someone's life could have them do a complete 180. Stephanie said she had your back. Duke acknowledged your existence. Jason didn't make you cry. Damian didn't attempt to kill or maim you. It's like the sky turned pink.

Finally, Bruce.

He stepped into the room, his presence overwhelming. The familiar weight of his gaze was on you immediately, but today there was something different—something almost proud in the way he looked at you, as if he finally saw you as more than just a forgotten name in the Wayne family history.

He was quiet for a moment, his hands folded in front of him. And then he spoke, his voice steady, unyielding, but carrying an undertone of something that almost felt like respect. “You did more than survive. You saved our lives. Every single one of us.” His eyes didn’t leave you. “You’re part of this family now. You’ve earned it. You earned the name Wayne.”

The words hit you harder than anything else. Part of the family.

It was like a weight dropping onto your chest—something heavy, something that couldn’t be easily brushed away. There was no turning back. You were one of them now, and that scared you, you hadn’t anticipated that.

Bruce’s eyes softened, just slightly, but his voice remained firm. “From this moment forward, you have a curfew. Midnight. You may have earned your place here, but you’ll follow the rules, just like the rest of us.”

You didn’t say anything. How could you? His words settled into your chest like stone, the finality of them carving out any space for protest. There was no choice in the matter. You were in this life now, whether you wanted to be or not. Midnight was late for a curfew anyway, Grace had to be home by 9.

“We all owe you our lives,” Bruce continued, but there was no gratitude in his tone, only a recognition of the debt. “But that doesn’t mean you’re exempt from the responsibilities we carry. Understand?”

You nodded once, slowly, the words caught in your throat. You wanted to speak, wanted to scream, to tell him that you weren’t sure you could do this, that you didn’t know if you were ready to live this life—the life of a Wayne, the life of this family.

What did a mafia family even do? Did you run around being Bruce's useless henchman, or did you have to go around trying to kill people? Could they be more specific about the pros and cons?

But nothing came out. There was nothing you could say that would change anything now.

Jason gave you a crooked grin,“Guess you’ve got to start following the rules now, huh? Welcome to the real family business.”

Tim’s gaze lingered for a moment, his eyes unreadable. “We’re all in this together,” he said quietly. “Whether you like it or not.”

Damian’s face softened, but only slightly. “I expect you to keep up,” he added, before turning to leave. “No slacking. We all carry our weight in this family.”

Cass’s presence remained, her silent approval almost suffocating in its quiet intensity.

Duke gave you one last nod before he turned, the weight of his gaze a reminder that you couldn’t slip out of this, no matter how much you might want to. He wasn’t angry—just silently resolute in his understanding. “You’re one of us now. That means something.”

And Stephanie? Her eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, before she gave you a small, tired smile. “We’re with you. All the way.”

Bruce? He gave you one last look, his eyes still holding that rare spark of approval—but it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t warm. It was measured, like a general overseeing a soldier. You were part of the mission now.

“We’ll train,” he said, his voice unwavering. “We’ll teach you everything you need to know. But it’s clear you’ve already proven yourself.”

You lay back against the pillows, the silence that followed hanging heavy in the air.

This is so weird. Why are they all being nice? How do you react to it? How do you interact with them? Is it genuine gratitude for saving their lives or is it a cruel joke to make you feel like you're important.

As they left, one by one, you stayed there, immobilized by the weight of it all. You’d earned your place here. But what did that mean now? What did it mean to be part of this family? You weren’t sure you even wanted it. But it was too late to turn back now.

They didn't share names, although this was their fifth roll in the hay. The Alpha was here at some big company convention at the hotel down the street from Danny's donut shop. He knew the man was some rich type, with far more connections and resources than anyone should have, mainly because anyone who passed through the classy hotel's doors was.

The hotel, Wayne Resort, had a reputation with the locals. They could see it, but they rarely entered it, and whenever tourist season arrived, more than one person in town wrinkled their nose while retelling an encounter they had with some of the hotel's patrons.

Rich people were sometimes so out of touch that it was jarring.

It's why Dany didn't want to get too close to this man. He knew that their relationship consisted of. A stress reliever, a means to relax while on a work trip, and really, once the week was up, the Alpha would vanish just like all the tourists that passed through. Which was fine by Danny.

He had his business to run, his dreams to chase, and he didn't have time for a relationship, no matter how much his parents fretted. Times had changed; Omegas weren't as reliant on Alphas or Betas as they were when his parents were young, but they still seemed to have that mentality that their Omega son needed to be taken care of.

It drove Danny mad. They were proud of everything he did, of his education and his accomplishments, but the idea that one day he would "settle down" usually outweighed everything else. As if that was a necessary part of his future that would make everything else he did irrelevant if he didn't have it.

Danny sighs, pushing himself up. He was tempted to stay in bed, but his donut shop opens at 8 am, and he needs to go bake for the day, which is why he's up at 5 am, no matter if he's working or not. His body was used to this being his waking time. It did make sneaking out of the room easier, no need for awkward conversations or polite necessities.

It took a few minutes to find his clothes, as they had been flung around the suit carelessly the night before, but once he's fully dressed, he tiptoes back to the bedroom only to find the pretty Alpha had moved in his sleep.

Now, one arm was thrown over his head, the other placed gently on his chest. A leg had slipped out from under the sheet, covering his bits but just barely. His head was tilted slightly to the left, and his long hair was now far more spread on the pillowcase, as if someone had purposely arranged it that way to create the perfect halo. Gosh, he somehow looked more angelic.

Nature really took the extra time to make the man the embodiment of beauty.

He wrote a quick note on the bedside table, thanking the stranger for his time and informing him that he had to leave for work —a leftover habit from his midwestern upbringing not to leave unannounced —and slipped out. The early hour made the hotel nearly empty, with only a few employees throwing him head nods as he scurried down the elevator and down to the lobby.

The first night the man had brought Danny to the hotel, he had been in awe of the place, unable to keep his jaw up at the sight of all the marvel and elegant setting. Everything was shiny and large, so obviously out of his tax bracket, he was slightly scared of touching anything.

Now, after this fifth walk of shame, it had lost its shine.

The front clerk winked when Danny's elevator stopped on the ground floor. She was a fellow Omega, Susie Van Der Berg, who often visited his donut store after her graveyard shifts. The first night Danny had walked arm in arm with his gorgeous stranger, Susie had been manning the counter. She had thrown him a two-finger salute and a proud arch of her eyebrow when the stranger had placed a teasing kiss along Danny's jaw as the elevator was closing.

Susie was one of his favorites. She knew better than to spread stories through the town about the hotel patrons, so no one was the wiser. Danny was spending nights with "the WR tourists," which would label him a slight traitor- nothing that would cause issues, but more like finding out your friend wore a different team's jersey to the house viewing of the game- in the eyes of the locals.

And she always had a fresh cup of hot coffee with a lavender and French vanilla syrup waiting for him. She got it from the employee break room, which was stocked with free meals twenty-four hours a day.

A coffee and a muffin were sitting on the counter when he walked by her. He gives Susie a thankful nod as he grabs the food, and she raises her own coffee cup in the air, obviously proud of him for once again spending the night with his pretty stranger. No words are passed between them, but they know what the other is thinking.

Danny hurries down the silent street, occasionally being passed by a few cars of early risers, enjoying the morning spring air of March. It's warmer here than Amity Park, with the beach so close by.

Danny had always wanted to leave the small town of Amity Park; his dreams were the stars, but that didn't mean he wanted to stay there until he could reach them. So he packed up his bags and traveled. He went to school online and attended some physical college, and somehow wound up here. He got a job with a local baker, fell in love with the place, and bought it from him when the baker retired.

He turned it into a donut shop because he loved them more, and that was his life. He was content with his life and didn't have the urge to rush to NASA, as he had initially planned.

Now he enjoyed one-night stands with gorgeous people, ran his own business, was his own boss, and fought off his parents' demands to marry in a place that he loved as much as he loved his childhood house.

He arrived at his shop, ran upstairs to his living quarters to grab a quick shower, and then ran back downstairs to prepare for the day. He barely made it in time for the morning rush when he flipped the sign open and let the first customers in. The day passed him by as he focused on his job, being the only employee, so that by the time 3 pm arrived, he knew that his pretty stranger had checked out, and he had been too busy to see him off. Oh well.

His week of fun had ended, and there was no more reason to think of the man beside some fond memories of their time spent together. That was until four weeks later, when the stomach bug he had gone to the doctor for turned out to be a very violent reminder.

Danny had stumbled home half in a daze. His doctor gave him options, and it was entirely up to him what he wanted to do. After hours of debate and worry, Danny decided to keep the child. He had never pictured himself raising a pup, and really, it was scary and confusing, but he knew he wanted to.

There was just one problem: Danny felt like the father had a right to know. He just didn't know who the father was. But he knew someone who did.

"You want to hand over client information?" Susie questioned with a slight wince. Danny had invited her to his shop for a personal taste test of the new donut products, making the request for a real reason to have her over as she nibbled on samples. "You know I can't do that, Danny. I could lose my job, not to mention the legal trouble I'll be in."

"I know. And I'm so sorry for putting you in this situation." He mutters before pushing some papers towards her. He watches her face as she reads his results, clocking in the surprise, the disbelief, the slight worry, and finally landing on understanding. By the time she looks back at him, Danny knows she'll help. "I just want to get a message to him."

"Okay." Susie breaths, "Okay. I'll get his info. We should have his phone number or email on file."

Danny offers her a wobbly smile, feeling both brave and terrified. "Thank you. Hopefully, he'll be happy."

Two weeks later, Susie is rubbing circles into his back, trying to comfort him as he sobs helplessly into his hands. He didn't expect the man to jump for joy or marry him. Hell, Danny didn't even want monetary support. He just wanted him to know he was going to be a father and if he wanted a part of the child's life.

So why did Timothy Drake-Wayne send him a lawsuit for attempting to baby trap him? He's always heard about Alphas like that in fiction; his parents warned him of Alphas like that, but he hadn't thought there were still Alphas who felt that way.

And if men like that existed, then did that mean men who killed Omegas to keep them and the illegement pups silent, real? Was the pretty stranger one of them? Was Danny safe?

Worse, Drake-Wayne came from a powerful and wealthy family, so would he face any justice if he did wind up hurting Danny or the pup?

Susie bites her lip before she says hesitantly. "My cousin works at the clinic. We can fake that you lost the pup, and the lawsuit would lose its purpose. Drake-Wayne can never find out you kept the baby, but...well, you and the baby would be safe. You would need to move. Somewhere far away."

Danny looks at her with wild eyes, to which she gives back an empty smile. "You aren't the first Omega that I've seen in this situation from all my years at WR. Don't worry, we'll figure it out. Together."

"Together?" He echoes as she wipes his tears away.

"Yeah. I've always been planning on leaving this place. Why not now?" Susie, "What do you say? Want to go on the run with me?"

Leave his donut shop, move somewhere like the little town he escaped from, and always look over his shoulder, fearful of Drake-Wayne? Danny hated the idea of it all, but he hated the idea even more that Drake-Wayne would hurt his child. So he nods, and the two get to work on vanishing after Susie calls up her cousin.

He finds it odd how willing the family is to help him with the situation until he discovers that Susie once had a twin Omega brother who was in a similar situation to his own. Only, the Alpha had caught up to him, and Susie had found her brother's body in the local ditch, cold to the touch.

She had refused to watch it happen again and taken a job at the resort, always keeping an eye on any Omega, Beta, or even an Alpha that seemed to have caught the hotel's patrons' eyes. After all, that place had a reputation with the locals.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Welcome.”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just watched you from across the shop with those sharp blue eyes, as if you were the only thing in the room worth noticing. Then, slowly, he stepped forward. The sound of his boots against the wood floor was too loud, even over the rain.

You forced yourself to smile, tucking your hands against your apron. “Looking for anything in particular?”

His gaze flicked to the flowers around him—the rows of tulips, daisies, carnations—but came back to you almost instantly. “No.” His voice was low, rough-edged. “Just looking.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. You nodded quickly, reaching for the small bouquet you’d put together that morning—bright daisies and sprigs of baby’s breath, wrapped in soft brown paper. You always kept a few by the counter, little gestures for the shy customers. “Here,” you offered, holding it out. “On the house. For the rain.”

He stared at the bouquet like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Then at you. The silence stretched until your hand began to tremble, and you almost pulled it back—when he finally reached out. A black leather glove brushed your fingers as he took the flowers from you, and you had to bite down on a startled gasp. “Thank you,” he said, the words careful, deliberate. He pulled a roll of bills from his coat pocket and slid one across the counter. A hundred-dollar bill for a five-dollar bouquet.

“Oh, no—you don’t have to—”

His gaze cut into yours again, silencing you. Not cruel, not harsh. Just… final. “Take it.”

Your throat tightened, and you nodded, tucking the bill away quickly. “Alright. Thank you.”

He didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, flowers in hand, watching you like he was committing every detail to memory—the tilt of your head, the nervous twitch of your fingers, the way you couldn’t hold his gaze for long. Finally, he gave a small nod, turned, and left. The bell chimed again, the rain swallowing him whole. You stood frozen for a long time, the shop suddenly too quiet, the hundred-dollar bill burning in your apron pocket. You thought it was a one-time thing. Just a stranger passing through on a rainy afternoon.

---

The bell chimed again the next morning, bright against the quiet rustle of petals you were arranging on the counter. You looked up—and nearly dropped the stems in your hands.

It was him.

The man from yesterday. The one who’d filled the shop with his thunderstorm presence, left with daisies and a hundred-dollar bill. He stepped inside like he owned the space, though he said nothing at first. His suit was different today—charcoal instead of black—but the gloves were the same. His eyes swept the shop in that same quick, assessing way before settling on you. You found yourself smiling automatically, though your voice wobbled. “Hello again.”

He nodded once, moving closer. “Morning.”

You fiddled with the ribbon in your hands. “Back for more flowers?”

His mouth twitched, just barely, like the question amused him. “Something like that.”

The air felt charged. You cleared your throat and reached for a bouquet of tulips. “These are fresh today. Spring colors. They’re lovely.”

He didn’t even glance at them. His eyes stayed on you, steady and unreadable. “I’ll take them,” he said.

You wrapped them quickly, fingers fumbling with the paper under the weight of his stare. He laid another bill on the counter—another hundred—for a bouquet worth maybe fifteen.

Your cheeks burned. “Sir, this is too much—”

“Keep it.” His voice left no room for argument.

You tucked the bill away, heartbeat quickening, and slid the bouquet toward him. “Alright. Thank you.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just stood there, flowers in hand, gaze lingering on you. It was different from yesterday—less curious, more deliberate. As if he’d come here with a purpose, and the tulips were only an excuse. Finally, he asked, “what’s your favorite?”

You blinked. “Favorite?”

“Flower.”

“Oh. Um…” You glanced around the shop, suddenly flustered. “Gardenias, I think. They’re… simple, but beautiful.”

He nodded once, filed it away. You could see it in the set of his jaw. Then he turned and left, the bell chiming in his wake. You stared after him, unsettled but oddly warm. The next morning, there was a box of white gardenias sitting on the shop counter when you arrived, no note. But you already knew who had left them.

---

The gardenias weren’t the end. They were the beginning. The next time he came in, he didn’t go straight for the counter. He lingered. Walked slow between the rows of flowers, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting something delicate.

You pretended to be busy, fussing with the stems in a vase, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. He didn’t look like anyone else who came through here—too sharp, too dangerous, too… magnetic. He stopped at the counter at last, resting one gloved hand on the polished wood. “You like gardenias.”

You startled a little. “I do.”

“They suit you.”

Your cheeks warmed. “They’re… simple.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he didn’t agree with the word. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned in just a little, his presence heavy and steady. “What else do you like?”

You blinked. “What else?”

“Food. Music. Where you go when you’re not here.”

Your stomach flipped. The questions weren’t casual, not the way he asked them. His voice was too low, too intent, as though he planned on remembering every answer. You swallowed. “Um… I like reading. I usually just go home after work. I’m… not very exciting.”

Something flickered in his eyes then—something sharp, almost dangerous. “Good.”

You frowned softly. “Good?”

“Means you’re not wasting your time on people who don’t deserve it.” He pushed a bouquet of pale roses toward you. “These. Wrap them.” You obeyed, fingers fumbling with the paper, conscious of his eyes on you the entire time. He paid, again far too much, and lingered a second longer before he finally said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And he did. The days bled into weeks. He became part of your routine, though you never said it out loud. You’d unlock the shop in the morning, set out the displays, and brace yourself for the moment that bell chimed and he walked in.

Sometimes he bought flowers. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just stood there, leaning against the counter, asking you quiet questions about your day. And slowly, the questions became instructions.

“Don’t walk home alone tonight.” “Eat more than just a muffin for lunch.” “Don’t talk to the men who loiter outside.”

You told yourself he was just being kind. Just looking out for you. But when you spotted his black car parked across the street one night, headlights off, and realized he was watching—waiting until you got safely into your apartment—your chest tightened with something you didn’t want to name. The scariest part wasn’t that he was watching. It was how safe you felt knowing he was there.

---

The office smelled like you. Not you exactly—he wasn’t that lucky—but the flowers you touched every day, the ones you told him you loved. Gardenias, roses, tulips, bundles of wild lavender tied up in neat twine. They crowded the corners of his office, spilling over in vases and pitchers, climbing along windowsills that used to be bare.

It was ridiculous. He knew it. The head of the Barnes Syndicate didn’t decorate with flowers. His men were already whispering, smirking behind their hands when they came in for orders and found the place looking more like a garden than a war room.

But he didn’t care. Every stem reminded him of your hands. The way you handled them so gently, trimming, arranging, never rushing. He’d caught himself staring more than once, smiling faintly as if the flowers were your private secret. He wanted to burn the image into his skull.

“Boss?” Bucky glanced up from the papers on his desk. Natasha stood in the doorway, sunglasses hooked on her shirt, one brow raised. Her eyes flicked over the room—the gardenias on the shelf, the tulips by the window, the roses near his chair. “You planning on opening your own shop?” she asked dryly.

“Shut up.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple with his metal hand.

Natasha smirked, stepping inside and dropping a file on his desk. “You’re getting soft. All this for a girl who sells daisies.”

His jaw tightened. “Careful, Romanoff.”

“I’m not saying it’s bad,” she countered, folding her arms. “I’m saying you’re obvious. Half the crew knows you’ve got a flower girl now.”

He stilled. The words hit something sharp in his chest. “She’s not—” He stopped. His voice dropped low, darker. “She’s mine.”

Natasha tilted her head. “Does she know that?”

His eyes narrowed, blue hard as ice. “She will.” The room went quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside.

Bucky reached over, plucked one of the gardenias from the vase, and turned it slowly in his fingers. He remembered the way your face lit up when you told him they were your favorite. That soft smile. The little stammer in your voice when he leaned too close.

The world was chaos, betrayal, blood. He’d spent his whole life building walls of steel and shadow. But you—your shop, your quiet, your kindness—were untouched by it. And he wasn’t about to let anyone, anything, change that.

“Make sure the shop’s covered,” he said finally, voice flat with command. “No one bothers her. Not a single soul.”

Natasha studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Understood.”

When she left, Bucky leaned back in his chair, the flower still turning in his hand. He should’ve felt stupid, surrounded by petals and stems. But all he felt was calmer, steadier, knowing some piece of you was in his world now. He wanted more. He’d take more.

---

The bell chimed, right on time. You were bent over the counter trimming stems when his shadow crossed the shop. You didn’t even need to look up anymore—you knew the weight of his presence, the way the air seemed to shift when he walked in. “Morning,” you said softly, glancing up with a small smile.

His eyes warmed just enough for only you to notice. “Morning, doll.” The nickname slipped out as if it had been waiting on his tongue. You blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t correct him. That alone sent something hot curling in his chest.

He moved toward the display of carnations but didn’t so much as glance at them. He was looking at you—always you. The flowers were a thin excuse by now, and you both knew it. “What’d you eat for breakfast?” he asked suddenly, voice low, casual only on the surface.

You hesitated, trimming another stem. “Just… coffee.”

He frowned, a line cutting between his brows. “That’s not breakfast.”

“It’s fine—”

“No.” His voice had that edge again, quiet steel that brooked no argument. He leaned on the counter, closer than before. “You need more than that.”

You bit your lip, looking down at the stems. “I wasn’t really hungry.”

His jaw flexed. He straightened, pulling out his phone. “What do you like? Pastries? Eggs?”

“Bucky, you don’t have to—”

“I asked what you like.” His tone softened, but it was no less insistent.

You murmured something about croissants before you could stop yourself, and he was already typing. Ten minutes later, a man you’d never seen before slipped inside, dropped off a white bag with a bakery logo, and left without a word. Bucky nudged it toward you. “Eat.”

You blinked. “You… you just had someone bring this—?”

“Of course I did.” His eyes softened again, watching you like you might vanish if he looked away. “You think I’m gonna let you starve?”

Your cheeks burned. You opened the bag and pulled out a still-warm croissant. His gaze followed every movement as you took a shy bite. “Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, but you heard it, and the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Later, in his office, Natasha raised an unimpressed brow when another delivery came in—this time boxes of delicate pastries stacked beside the flowers. “You feeding her now too?” she asked, smirking.

Bucky didn’t look up from his paperwork. “She doesn’t eat right.”

“You checked?”

“I asked.” His pen stilled. He glanced at the gardenias on the windowsill, the new croissant bag on his desk. His voice dropped, quiet, certain. “She’s mine to take care of.”

Natasha leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching. “You sure it’s not the other way around?”

But Bucky didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his phone again, thumb hovering over your number he hadn’t even asked for—but had anyway.

---

The bell had barely gone silent when you heard it: the click of heavy footsteps against the wet sidewalk. You turned the shop’s sign to closed and reached for your keys, glancing out through the window. He was leaning against a lamppost across the street, hands in his coat pockets, suit jacket darkened slightly at the shoulders from the drizzle. Your breath caught. Bucky didn’t wave. He didn’t call out. He just waited. The way a mountain waits—immovable, unbothered by the storm.

You stepped outside hesitantly, locking the door behind you. “Are you… waiting for someone?”

“For you,” he said simply, pushing off the lamppost.

Your fingers tightened around your keys. “Bucky, you don’t have to—”

“Doll,” he interrupted, falling into step beside you before you could finish. “It’s dark. You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of his presence swallowed the words. He wasn’t touching you, but somehow he filled the space around you completely. The streets were quiet, rain slicking the pavement. You tried to ignore the way his stride matched yours, the way his eyes scanned every shadowed alley and passing car like they were threats only he could see. “Do you do this often?” you asked softly.

“Do what?”

“Walk women home.”

His jaw tightened. “No. Just you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. At your building, you fumbled with the keys, aware of his eyes on the back of your neck. When you finally got the door open, you turned to him. “Thank you. But really… you don’t need to go out of your way.”

He leaned one hand against the doorframe, caging you in without touching. His gaze held yours, steady and unyielding. “This is my way,” he said quietly. “You’re not out here without me again. Understand?” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even harsh. But there was no mistaking them for anything but a command. You swallowed hard, nodding before you could think better of it. His eyes softened then, the steel melting to something warmer. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against your temple, a ghost of a kiss. “Good girl.”

And just like that, he stepped back into the rain, leaving you breathless in the doorway, your heart pounding too hard to ignore.

It became a ritual. You didn’t even question it anymore—when the bell above your shop chimed closed for the night, he would be there. Always. A dark figure leaning against the lamppost, waiting to fall into step beside you. He didn’t ask if you wanted the company, and you didn’t ask why he bothered. The silence between you was enough.

That night, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and glowing under the yellow streetlights. You walked side by side, the only sound the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement.

You tried not to look at him too often, but it was impossible not to notice the way his hand would occasionally flex at his side—as if itching to touch you but holding back.

As you passed a small boutique on the corner, something in the window caught your eye. You slowed without meaning to, gaze snagged by the display: a delicate glass lamp, its shade painted with tiny pressed flowers. Soft light glowed inside, warm and golden, spilling petals and stems across the glass like a garden frozen in time.

It was beautiful. For half a second, you let yourself imagine it on your nightstand. The way the light would spill across your room, soft and comforting. The way you could fall asleep beside it, safe. But the thought made your chest ache. You dropped your gaze quickly and kept walking, quickening your pace until you matched him again. He said nothing, just glanced once at the boutique window before his eyes slid back to you.

At your building, he stopped as always, waited until you were safely inside. You whispered a soft “goodnight,” and he lingered a moment longer before vanishing back into the shadows.

You thought nothing more of it. The next morning, when you opened your shop, the lamp was waiting on the counter. The exact same one. You froze in the doorway, keys clutched in your hand. There was no note, no explanation. Just the lamp, plugged in and glowing faintly in the early light, casting warm petals across the shop walls.

Your breath caught, throat tight. The bell chimed, and he walked in. Calm. Steady. Like he hadn’t done anything at all. Your eyes snapped to him. “Bucky… did you—”

He set a paper bag on the counter. You caught the smell before you even peeked inside—croissants, still warm. He leaned one hand on the wood, watching your face. “You liked it,” he said simply. Not a question. A fact.

Your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” His eyes softened, but there was steel in them too—an unwavering certainty that made your heart stutter. “You want something, doll, you get it. That’s how this works.”

You swallowed hard, glancing at the lamp again. Its soft light seemed to fill the whole shop with a kind of warmth you didn’t know how to accept. “I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice lowered, a command wrapped in velvet. He reached across the counter, brushing his fingers against yours just long enough to make your pulse trip. “Don’t hide from me. If you want something, I’ll know.”

He left you standing there, the lamp glowing at your side, the croissants still warm in the bag, your heart pounding too loud for the quiet shop. And you realized something terrifying and undeniable, he was watching. Always watching.

---

The lamp glowed soft and golden on the counter, petals painted across its glass shade, when you finally found the courage to speak. He was there again, leaning his weight into the wood as if the whole shop belonged to him. His gloves were off this time, thick hands resting easily against the surface, blue eyes pinned to you in that steady, unblinking way that always left you a little breathless.

But today, the warmth in your chest twisted into something sharper. “You can’t keep doing this.”

His head tilted just slightly. “Doing what, doll?”

“This.” You gestured to the lamp, to the bag of pastries he’d brought without asking. “Showing up every day. Buying things I didn’t ask for. Acting like…” Your voice wavered, but you forced it out. “Like you own me.” Silence dropped between you, heavy and sudden.

No one ever told him no. No one ever raised their voice to him, not his men, not the people who feared his name. He could see your fingers trembling where they gripped the counter, but you still held his stare. The corner of his mouth twitched—something between amusement and disbelief. “Own you?”

“Yes.” Your throat felt tight, but you pushed on. “You don’t ask me out. You don’t… talk to me like a normal person would. You just decide things. You decide to walk me home. You decide I don’t eat enough. You decide I want a lamp. And I—” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t agree to any of it.”

For the first time since he’d stepped into your life, he looked caught off guard. Just for a flicker of a second, his eyes widened, like the ground beneath him had shifted. Then the surprise hardened into something else. His voice dropped, low and even. “You think I don’t know how to ask? You think I don’t know how to take a girl to dinner, buy her flowers, wait for her to say yes?”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, leaning closer, his gaze like ice and fire all at once. “I don’t do that with you because I don’t want to give you the option to say no. I don’t want you to walk away. I couldn’t stand it if you did.”

Your breath hitched. He exhaled slowly, raking a hand back through his hair. For a moment, he looked almost… raw. “You don’t get it. You’re already mine. Always were, the second you looked at me with those soft eyes and handed me daisies like I wasn’t a monster.” His gloved hand brushed the lamp, a subtle reminder. “You think I do all this because I don’t know how to court you? I do it because I can’t stand the thought of you needing something and not having it. Because I want to see you safe. Fed. Smiling.” His voice broke on that last word, just barely.

Your heart pounded so hard you swore he could hear it. You should’ve been terrified. And maybe you were. But under the steel in his voice was something else—something aching and desperate. Still, you held your ground, even if your voice shook. “Then ask me. Like a person. Not like… this.”

The room went still again. He studied you for a long, tense beat, and you could see the war in his eyes—control versus obsession, command versus care. Finally, his lips curved into something softer, almost rueful. He leaned in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. “Fine, doll. I’ll ask.” His voice was rough, but there was a flicker of something new in it. “Dinner. Tonight. With me.”

The way he said it still didn’t sound like a question, but for the first time, you knew he was trying. And that unsettled you more than anything else.

---

Dinner with Bucky wasn’t what you expected. He came to the shop just before closing, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair combed back, his usual gloves on. He didn’t wait for you to lock up—he did it himself, sliding the key from your fingers with a quiet, “I’ll take care of it.”

The car waiting outside wasn’t the same sleek black one you’d seen lurking near your building before. This one was even darker, windows tinted, the kind of vehicle that made people cross the street when it pulled up. He opened the door for you, and his hand lingered on your lower back as you climbed inside.

The restaurant was one of those places you’d only seen in magazines—low lights, white tablecloths, the quiet murmur of money in every corner. The maître d’ didn’t even ask for a name; he bowed and led you straight to a private table at the back.

You shifted uncomfortably as you sat, smoothing the fabric of your dress. You hadn’t had time to change, still in the simple sundress you wore to work. Compared to the glittering couples around you, you felt out of place. But Bucky leaned back in his chair, eyes on you like there was no one else in the room. “You look perfect.”

Your cheeks warmed. “You didn’t even let me change.”

His mouth curved in that faint, dangerous smile. “Didn’t want to give you the chance to run.”

You frowned, half-playful, half-serious. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.” He poured you a glass of wine himself, ignoring the hovering waiter. “If I let you walk away, you’d start thinking too much. You’d talk yourself out of me. And I can’t have that.”

You looked at him, really looked. The way his metal fingers tapped lightly against the stem of his glass. The way his eyes stayed fixed on you, hungry and unblinking. “Bucky…” you whispered. “You don’t even know me.”

His jaw tightened. “I know enough.”

“That’s not the same.”

He leaned forward then, voice dropping. “I know you hate crowds but love little kids buying flowers for their moms. I know you hum to yourself when you sweep up the petals at night. I know you wear that same sundress every Wednesday because it makes you feel put-together.”

You blinked, startled. “You—”

“I pay attention.” His gaze softened, but the edge in his voice stayed. “More than anyone else ever has. Tell me I’m wrong.” You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your pulse raced under your skin. He reached across the table, taking your hand gently but firmly in his, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “I might not have asked the right way before. But I’m asking now. Let me have this. Let me have you.”

Your breath caught once again. The waiter appeared with menus, but Bucky didn’t even look at his. His eyes stayed on you, unwavering, as if the answer was the only thing that mattered. “Order something,” he said, tone clipped, smooth, the way he probably gave orders to his men.

You blinked, lowering your gaze to the menu. “You could say please, you know.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “I just did.”

“No, you told me,” you said quietly, the edge of a shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Telling isn’t asking.” That made him still. His head tilted, studying you as if you’d just spoken in another language. No one corrected him. No one pushed back. Certainly no one teased him. You turned a page in the menu, forcing your shoulders to stay loose, though your pulse hammered. “If you want me to do something, maybe try asking. Like a normal person.”

For a long beat, his eyes stayed locked on you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. You thought you’d pushed too far—until the corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Normal, huh?” His voice dropped low, velvet-dark. He leaned across the table just slightly, one hand resting near yours. “Alright, doll. What would please you tonight? Salmon? Steak? Or do you want me to ask sweeter?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it is.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles, light but deliberate. “You want me to say the words. ‘Please, sweetheart, pick something so I can watch you enjoy it.’ That what you want?”

You swallowed hard, caught between flustered and indignant. “It wouldn’t kill you to try it.”

For a long moment, he just watched you, silent, eyes burning into yours. Then, softly, deliberately, “please, doll. Order something. For me.”

Your lips parted in surprise. The weight of the words, the fact that he’d said them—not barked, not commanded—hit you harder than it should have. You ducked your head quickly, hiding your flush in the menu. “Okay,” you murmured, finally pointing to something on the page.

His grin widened, wolfish, triumphant. He sat back in his chair, content now, as if coaxing that small concession from you meant more than anything else on the table. But you caught the way his eyes lingered, sharp and possessive, even when his voice had softened. Like no matter how politely he phrased it, he still thought the end result was the same: you, bending to him. And part of you wondered if you minded as much as you should.

The dinner stretched on in a haze of soft light and low voices. The waiter came and went, but Bucky barely acknowledged him—every ounce of his attention stayed fixed on you. He did try, though. You could see it in the way he caught himself before giving another clipped order, the way he reshaped his words into something that almost sounded like a request. “Try the wine, doll,” he started to say, then stopped himself. His eyes softened, a little sheepish for once. “Would you… please try the wine?”

You bit your lip to hide a smile, lifting the glass to your lips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He chuckled low in his chest, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it.”

But he kept doing it. Through dinner, through dessert, through the awkward-lovely rhythm of you teasing and him adjusting. He was clumsy at it, but he tried—for you. When the plates were cleared and the check was slipped onto the table, and ignored by him, you expected him to take you straight home. Instead, he offered his hand as you slid from your chair, steady and warm at the small of your back as he guided you out into the cool night. The city hummed around you—cars hissing down wet streets, neon signs buzzing faintly in the dark. You walked together in silence for a while, his stride matching yours, his hand never quite leaving your back.

Finally, you glanced up at him. “You really don’t ask for things, do you?”

He looked down at you, brow furrowing slightly. “I do now.”

“You tell me what I’m eating, what I’m wearing, when I should go home—”

“Because you don’t look after yourself the way you should,” he cut in, voice steady, but softer than usual.

“That’s not the same as asking,” you insisted, your tone gentle but firm. “You keep saying I’m yours. But you never asked me if I wanted to be.”

That stopped him cold. His steps slowed, then stilled entirely. He turned to face you fully, the glow of a nearby streetlamp carving hard shadows across his jaw. No one ever pushed him like this. Not his men. Not his enemies. And yet here you were, standing there in your simple dress, looking at him with those soft eyes that had undone him from the start—and daring to tell him no.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. His jaw worked, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand. His voice was low, rough-edged, but stripped of command. “Do you?”

You blinked. “Do I what?”

“Want to be mine.”

The words were plain. Honest. Asked, not ordered. Your heart lurched, caught between fear and something warmer, heavier. You didn’t answer right away, and you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip on your hand tightened as if bracing for rejection. But you didn’t pull away. You held on. “I don’t know yet,” you admitted softly. “But if you keep asking instead of telling… maybe I’ll figure it out.”

The silence between you stretched, charged and alive. Then, for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bucky let out a breath that wasn’t weighted with control or calculation. He brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles once, reverent. “Then I’ll ask,” he murmured. “As many times as it takes.” And when he walked you home that night, he didn’t touch your back, didn’t cage you in with his presence. He just walked beside you, his hand holding yours, as though that was enough.

The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual. His hand stayed in yours, heavy, grounding, but he didn’t say anything more after that promise. The city’s neon glow flickered across the wet pavement, painting the silence in color. At your building, you stopped at the door, fingers brushing the keys in your pocket. He didn’t reach for them this time, didn’t lean against the frame and cage you in. He just stood there, watching you. You hesitated, then looked up at him. “Are you… coming in?”

His jaw worked once. You saw the war in his eyes—possession urging him to say yes, control telling him to wait. For the first time, he looked almost… uncertain. “I want to,” he admitted, voice low, rough. “But I’ll ask. Do you want me to?”

Your chest tightened. The way he said it—like the words were foreign, dragged out of him against instinct—made something inside you ache. You shook your head gently. “Not tonight.”

For a flicker of a second, you thought he’d argue. That steel-blue stare locked on yours, intense enough to burn. But then he nodded once, sharp and deliberate, like it cost him something. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”

You slipped inside, heart pounding, and leaned against the door after you closed it. His shadow lingered on the other side, unmoving, until you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.

The next morning, the bell chimed right on time. You looked up from the counter and there he was again—sharp suit, gloves, eyes only for you. But there was something different about him. The usual possessive certainty was still there, but now it was tempered, measured. He set a small bundle on the counter—gardenias again, perfectly fresh. But this time, he didn’t say take them. Instead, he watched you closely, voice low. “Do you want them?”

Your lips parted. You blinked, then smiled softly, shy but certain. “Yes.”

His shoulders eased, just barely. He nodded once, satisfied, though the glint in his eyes still promised he’d never stop wanting to give you more than you asked for. And as you placed the gardenias in a vase by the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He was still the storm hovering over your quiet life—but now he was learning how to ask before he struck.

---

The bell chimed when you left the shop that Sunday morning, keys tucked into your pocket and your bag over your shoulder. The sun was out for once, the kind of warm golden light that made the city feel softer, less sharp around the edges. You’d planned on wandering down to the farmer’s market, picking up fresh bread and maybe some fruit for the week.

You weren’t surprised when you felt him before you saw him. Bucky fell into step beside you like he always did, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the street. He didn’t say he’d been waiting, but he didn’t have to. “Going somewhere?” he asked, voice low and even.

“The farmer’s market,” you said. “Do you… want to come?”

It slipped out before you could stop it. You weren’t sure why you offered—maybe because it felt strange to keep pretending you didn’t see him watching you. Maybe because part of you wanted to see what he was like outside your shop, outside dim restaurants and shadowed sidewalks. His lips twitched, just slightly. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

The market was buzzing with people—kids tugging at their parents’ hands, couples wandering between stalls, vendors calling out prices. The air smelled of warm bread and herbs, the kind of scent that made you feel like the city wasn’t so heavy after all. Bucky stuck close, but not in the looming, possessive way he usually did. Today he just walked beside you, his broad frame making space for you in the crowd. He looked… normal. Or as normal as a man like him could look.

You stopped at a bakery stall, eyeing the fresh loaves stacked high. “These are always gone by the afternoon,” you explained, pulling a bill from your bag. Before you could hand it over, Bucky passed cash to the vendor instead, his gloved hand steady.

“Bucky—”

“Don’t argue,” he said softly, almost smiling. “Consider it me asking.”

You rolled your eyes but accepted the bread, and his smile deepened like he’d won something. At the flower stall—of course there was a flower stall—you noticed his gaze linger on you as you inspected the bouquets. For once, you didn’t feel self-conscious. You just let yourself enjoy it. Then you spotted a row of little jars at another table a few stalls away—local honey, the labels hand-painted with tiny bees. Without thinking, you grabbed his arm, tugging him along. “Come on, look at these—”

You let go as soon as you reached the stall, too focused on the honey jars to notice the way he froze for half a second when your hand touched him. His gaze dropped to where your fingers had been, his jaw tightening. He didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. But the weight of that touch lingered in his chest, hot and heavy, long after you’d pulled away. You picked out a jar, holding it up with a little smile. “Isn’t this cute?”

He nodded slowly, but his eyes weren’t on the honey. They were still on you, watching the way your face lit up in the sunlight, the way you smiled without thinking. And for once, he didn’t feel like the man everyone feared. He just felt like a man walking through a market with a girl who made him want things he’d forgotten he could have.

The market felt different with him beside you. Normally, you drifted through the stalls without much notice—just another face in the crowd—but with Bucky there, people stepped out of the way. Vendors straightened. Conversations dipped quiet for a moment before picking up again. You pretended not to notice, but you did. And so did he. His hand brushed the small of your back once or twice, subtle but guiding, as though keeping you in his orbit. At a food stall, the scent of frying dough pulled you in. You lingered over the handwritten sign—fresh fritters dusted in sugar—and before you could even reach for your bag, Bucky was already paying. “You don’t have to keep buying everything,” you said, exasperated but a little amused.

He handed you the warm paper bag, eyes steady. “I know. I want to.”

You bit into a fritter, the crunch giving way to soft, sweet warmth. A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. Bucky’s eyes softened. He didn’t take one for himself—he just watched you, like the sight of your smile was enough. You found a bench near the edge of the market, shaded by a tree. Sitting side by side, you let the crowd blur into background noise. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then you glanced at him, curious. “So… what do you do?”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Why?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve been… spending time together. You know a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you.”

His jaw tightened, as if weighing how much to say. Finally, he leaned back against the bench, gaze fixed on the crowd instead of you. “I run things. Businesses. Keep people in line.”

“That’s… vague,” you said carefully.

He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. Vague’s safer.”

You studied him for a moment, the sharp set of his shoulders, the way he scanned the people moving through the market like he was cataloging threats. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… something. Something real.”

His eyes flicked back to you then, and for a beat, the weight of his stare pinned you in place. “Something real?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a long time, then finally said, “I don’t sleep much. When I do, I keep the lights on. Always have.”

You blinked, surprised at the intimacy of the admission. He hadn’t given you facts about his work, but he’d given you something raw instead. Something closer to the truth. You nodded softly. “That’s… real.”

His shoulders eased, just slightly. The silence stretched again, but it felt different this time—warmer, less guarded. You shifted, brushing sugar from your fingers, and without thinking, offered him the last fritter from the bag. He didn’t take it right away. He just looked at you, eyes flicking down to your hand, then back to your face. Finally, he reached for it, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. “Thank you.” The words were simple, but they carried weight.

As you sat there together, sharing sugared dough in the sunlight, you realized this felt almost like a normal second date. Almost. And though you didn’t notice it, he did—the way your shoulders leaned just slightly toward him, the way your knee brushed his. To anyone else, it was nothing. But to Bucky, it was everything.

The walk back from the market felt easier than you expected. Maybe it was the sunlight softening the edges of the city, maybe it was the paper bag of warm bread under your arm, or maybe it was simply that Bucky wasn’t looming as much as usual.

He carried most of the weight without asking—jars of honey, bundles of herbs, a carton of fresh eggs balanced in one hand. He hadn’t made a show of it; the moment you’d started to juggle too many things, he’d quietly relieved you of them. “You don’t have to carry everything,” you said, hugging the bread close to your chest.

“I want to,” he answered simply. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, “besides, you’re terrible at hiding how heavy it is.”

You ducked your head, a little embarrassed, but the teasing softened the moment instead of sharpening it. The streets thinned as you left the crowded stalls behind. For once, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop to admire the painted mural on a corner building, the stray cat curled in a sunbeam on the stoop. His gaze followed everything you touched with your eyes, memorizing it silently. “You seem… different today,” you said after a while, glancing at him.

“How so?”

“Less…” You searched for the word. “Commanding. More like…” You gestured at the bags in his hands. “This. Normal.”

He was quiet for a beat, then let out a low breath. “Maybe I just wanted to see what it feels like. Doing this with you.”

You blinked. “Feels like what?”

“Like I’m not who I am,” he said, eyes straight ahead. “Like I could just… be a man walking home from the market with his girl.”

Your steps faltered. He noticed immediately, his head turning, sharp blue eyes locking onto you. But he didn’t backtrack. He let the words hang there, bare and heavy. You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you shifted the bread under your arm and kept walking. As you reached your building, you touched the edge of his sleeve lightly, without thinking, to slow him. “Thank you,” you said softly.

“For what?”

“For coming with me. For trying.”

His gaze softened, more than you’d ever seen. He leaned down just slightly, his voice quiet, meant for you alone. “I’d try for you, doll. Always.”

He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t push. He just pressed the bags into your hands and waited until you were inside, standing guard in the shadow of your building until the door closed. And though you couldn’t see him, he stayed there for a long time, staring at the place where your fingers had brushed his arm, replaying it like a man clutching his first breath after drowning.

---

The weeks passed quietly, the rhythm of your little flower shop unchanged in all the familiar ways and altered in one very specific one. The bell still chimed at odd intervals, children still pressed coins into your palm for bouquets for their mothers, and old women still lingered at the counter to gossip. But now, James “Bucky” Barnes was a fixture.

He came every day. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes at closing, sometimes both. At first, he’d only bought flowers. Now, more often than not, he was simply there—watching, asking you questions in that low voice of his, or taking up a quiet corner of the shop where his looming presence managed to make the whole space feel smaller.

What surprised you most was how quickly he adapted to your routines. One evening, as you were dragging a heavy bucket of water toward the back room, you heard a faint scrape. When you looked up, Bucky was already carrying it with one hand, like it weighed nothing. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he said when you frowned at him.

“I’ve been doing this for years,” you reminded him.

“Not anymore,” he replied, setting the bucket down and fixing you with that firm stare that made arguments slip off your tongue.

After that, he just started doing things. Sweeping up petals after closing. Refilling water vases. Straightening displays. The strangest sight of all was him in his immaculate suit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully trimming stems with the clumsy concentration of a man who had never held shears before. You caught yourself smiling one evening when he leaned too hard on the broom and nearly knocked over a pail of carnations. “What’s funny?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.

“You’re… bad at this,” you admitted, covering your mouth with your hand.

His lips twitched as though fighting a grin. “Maybe. But I don’t mind being bad at something if it’s for you.”

That made your chest tighten. Later, when he tried to lock up the shop himself, you shook your head. “You can’t just decide things, Bucky. You have to ask.”

He paused with the key in his hand, blue eyes sharp on yours. “Ask?”

“Yes. Like a normal person.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, silent. Then, with the barest hint of a smile, “may I lock up for you, doll?”

You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks, before nodding slowly. “Yes.”

He turned the key with a satisfied twist, and though he said nothing more, the look in his eyes told you he was storing that moment away, filing it under things he would never forget.

And that became the new pattern. The man everyone else feared—the man you still didn’t fully understand—swept floors and carried buckets in your flower shop. Not because you asked him to, but because he wanted to. Because it meant being near you, being part of your world, even if it meant stumbling through tasks that had nothing to do with his.

---

The idea came to you while restocking vases one quiet afternoon. Bucky had settled himself on the stool by the counter, jacket draped over the backrest, sleeves rolled up as he trimmed stems with more concentration than skill. It was still strange seeing him like that—this man who radiated danger, carefully adjusting the angle of scissors to keep a daisy neat. “You’re free tomorrow, right?” you asked, keeping your tone casual.

His head lifted, blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”

You hesitated, fingers brushing water from your palms. “There’s an exhibit at the museum. I thought… maybe you’d like to go with me.”

Silence. You felt suddenly foolish. Of course a man like him wouldn’t want to wander through quiet halls, looking at paintings. You opened your mouth to take it back, but he spoke first. “When?”

You blinked. “Noon?”

He nodded once, decisive. “I’ll pick you up.”

The museum was quieter than the farmer’s market, but no less alive. Families moved from gallery to gallery, tourists snapped photos, students sat on the floor sketching. You bought tickets at the front desk, and when you glanced over, Bucky was already scanning the lobby like it was a threat he had to neutralize. “You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you teased gently.

“I don’t like crowds,” he admitted, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Too many hands. Too many eyes.”

You offered him a small smile. “Then just look at me instead.”

Something flickered across his face at that—something raw and unguarded—before his expression smoothed again. He followed you into the first gallery without a word. The space was filled with soft light and framed canvases, oil paintings that stretched from floor to ceiling. You paused before one, studying the brushstrokes, and realized after a moment that he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was watching you. “You’re supposed to look at the art,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“I am,” he replied.

Heat crept up your neck, and you busied yourself reading the plaque beside the painting. As you moved from gallery to gallery, he stayed close, his hand brushing your back whenever the crowd grew too thick. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it surprised you. He had opinions—sharp, quiet observations about color, about shadow, about how one painting seemed “lonely” while another looked like “noise trapped in a frame.” His voice was low, thoughtful, nothing like the clipped commands he usually gave.

You stole glances at him while he studied the paintings. He didn’t fidget, didn’t check his watch or his phone. He looked, really looked, the same way he looked at you in the shop—like he was memorizing every detail.

At one point, you wandered ahead into a side gallery where a massive sculpture stood under a skylight. You stopped, tilting your head, trying to make sense of the twisting stone form. A moment later, his shadow fell across yours. Without thinking, you reached back and caught his hand, tugging him closer. “What do you think this is supposed to be?”

His hand stayed in yours, warm and steady. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tease. He just let you hold him, his gaze dropping briefly to where your fingers curled against his before answering. “Doesn’t matter what it’s supposed to be,” he said quietly. “Matters what you see in it.”

You didn’t even realize you were still holding his hand until you let go to gesture at the sculpture, your cheeks heating. He didn’t comment, though his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary. By the time you stepped back into the sunlight outside, the afternoon was waning. He carried the museum’s little pamphlet in one hand, folded neatly, like it was something precious. “Thank you,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself. “For coming.”

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “You ask, I’ll come.” And though his voice was steady, you couldn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his side—like he was resisting the urge to reach for yours again.

The walk home after the museum felt different than any other evening you’d shared with him. Maybe it was the soft glow of the setting sun bouncing off the buildings, or maybe it was the quiet between you—comfortable, not weighted the way it usually was.

You carried a little bag from the gift shop, a postcard print of your favorite painting tucked inside. He’d insisted on buying it when you lingered too long at the rack, ignoring your protests. Now it swung lightly from your fingers as the two of you turned down your street. He stayed close, as always, scanning shadows and corners. But he wasn’t tense. Not like usual. His shoulders looked looser, his jaw softer, as if he’d finally let himself breathe for once. At your building, you stopped at the door. He reached for the key the way he always did, but this time you didn’t hand it over. Instead, you turned it yourself, then hesitated. When you looked up at him, he was watching you, waiting. “Do you…” You bit your lip, suddenly nervous. “Do you want to come in?”

For a flicker of a moment, something raw crossed his face—surprise, then hunger, then something softer. His eyes searched yours as though trying to find a trick hidden there. “You sure?” His voice was low, almost rough. He was asking, not telling.

You nodded, stepping inside and holding the door open. He followed, quiet as a shadow, and the door clicked shut behind him. Your apartment wasn’t much—small, cozy, smelling faintly of lavender and bread. A few books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the couch, a vase of flowers by the window. His eyes swept the space once, but not with the sharp calculation you were used to. This time it looked like he was… curious. Taking in the pieces of your life he hadn’t been able to reach until now. You slipped off your shoes and gestured awkwardly. “It’s not much, but… it’s home.”

He stepped further in, silent for a moment, before his gaze found the vase by the window. White gardenias, still fresh, but starting to droop a little. “You kept them,” he murmured.

“Of course,” you said softly.

Something shifted in his expression then, subtle but undeniable. His shoulders eased even more, and when he finally sat down on the couch—careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb anything—he looked almost human. Almost ordinary. You brought him a glass of water, and he accepted it with a quiet, “thank you,” fingers brushing yours deliberately. The lamp he’d given you glowed faintly in the corner, casting its warm petals of light across the room. He noticed, of course. His eyes lingered on it for a long moment before he turned back to you. “Feels like you,” he said.

You tilted your head. “What does?”

“This place. The light. The quiet. All of it.” He leaned back into the couch, watching you with that same intensity he always did, but softer now. “I like it.”

Bucky didn’t sit like a guest. He sat like he belonged there, broad shoulders sinking carefully into your couch, his hand resting heavy on his knee. The lamplight painted him in soft gold, blunting the sharpness of his jaw, but nothing could dull the intensity of his eyes. They tracked you as you moved—setting the bread on the counter, tidying the little bag from the museum gift shop, fussing with nothing at all just to give your hands something to do.

You finally settled across from him, tucking your legs under yourself. He was too large for your space, all dark edges against your quiet home, and yet… he didn’t look out of place. Not anymore. “You’re quiet,” you said softly.

“I like it here,” he answered simply. His gaze flicked around the room again—the flowers on the sill, the stack of books on your table, the blanket folded neatly over the back of a chair. “Feels like you.”

Your lips curved, though you tried to hide it. “That’s because it is me. It’s my space.”

He studied you then, blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You let me in.”

The weight of those words settled heavy between you. He didn’t sound surprised. More like he was… marveling at it. Testing the shape of the truth on his tongue. “I trust you,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

His jaw tightened. His hand flexed once on his knee. “You shouldn’t,” he said, voice low, raw. “Not with me.”

The honesty in his tone chilled you, but it also pulled at something deeper. You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees. “Then tell me why.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, like he was deciding whether or not to let you see past the walls he kept so carefully built. Then he shifted, elbows on his thighs, leaning closer. “Because I don’t stop. Once I want something—once I want you—I don’t let go.”

Your breath caught, heat rising to your cheeks. But instead of recoiling, you held his gaze. “Then maybe you should ask me if I mind.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you?”

You hesitated, heart pounding, before whispering, “no.”

The silence that followed was thick, humming with unspoken things. He leaned back slowly, the tension in his body still coiled tight, but his expression softened—just barely. “Good,” he murmured.

You didn’t know what possessed you then, but you rose and crossed to the kitchen, pouring him another glass of water, setting it down beside him like it was the most natural thing. He accepted it without breaking eye contact, his metal fingers brushing yours deliberately.

The night stretched longer, the city outside dimming into quiet. At some point, you found yourself curled in the chair across from him, head resting against your hand, listening as he told you little things—not about business, never that, but about the food he liked, the places he couldn’t stand, the way he hated the sound of clocks ticking. Small truths, but truths nonetheless.

When he finally stood to leave, it was later than you realized. He lingered at the door, one hand braced against the frame. “Next time,” he said softly, “I’ll stay.”

You didn’t argue. When the door closed behind him, your apartment still felt full. Heavy with his presence. And when you went to bed, the lamp he’d given you cast its warm glow across the room, reminding you that letting him in once meant you’d never be rid of him again.

The next night, he didn’t wait on the street. You closed up shop, locked the door, and there he was—already leaning against the brick wall, arms folded across his chest. The way he looked at you made the air feel heavy, like he’d been waiting for this moment all day. “Come on,” he said quietly, falling into step beside you.

The walk to your apartment was silent, but not tense. His hand brushed yours once or twice, and though he didn’t take it, you felt the weight of restraint in every step he took. When you unlocked your door and pushed it open, you hesitated. He didn’t ask this time. He didn’t have to. The question was in his eyes, and the answer was already in yours. “Stay,” you said softly.

Something uncoiled in him at that word, something he’d been holding too tightly. He stepped inside without hesitation, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of your chair like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Your apartment filled with him—his size, his presence, the faint spice of his cologne. You made tea because it gave your hands something to do, and when you handed him a mug, his fingers brushed yours deliberately, lingering just long enough to make your pulse trip. He sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched. He drank the tea like he wasn’t used to it, sipping carefully, his eyes never leaving you. “Feels different,” he murmured after a while.

“What does?”

“This. Here. With you.” His gaze flicked around the apartment, then back to you. “It’s quiet. No one watching. No one waiting on me. Just… you.”

Your chest tightened. “Is that what you want?”

His jaw flexed. He set the mug down, metal fingers tapping once against the porcelain. “Yeah. More than I should.”

The silence stretched. You shifted under his stare, then finally leaned back against the couch, letting your shoulder brush his. He stilled at the contact, then eased, as if the world had just given him permission to breathe. The hours slipped by. You talked about nothing—books, music, the weather—and sometimes you didn’t talk at all. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, warm, almost domestic. When the clock ticked past midnight, you stifled a yawn. His head turned instantly, eyes narrowing. “You’re tired.”

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice was drowsy.

He stood, towering over you, then offered his hand. “Bed,” he said.

You arched a brow, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Excuse me?”

His mouth curved faintly. “To sleep, doll. I’ll take the couch.”

You hesitated, then nodded, leading him toward the small bedroom. He didn’t linger, didn’t push. He just pulled the blanket up to your chin once you were settled, his hand brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your throat ache. “Sleep,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes, the glow of the lamp warm against the walls, and the last thing you felt was the weight of his presence just outside the door—silent, steady, keeping watch.

The smell of coffee pulled you awake before the sunlight did. For a moment, you thought you were dreaming—the rich, dark aroma, the soft clink of ceramic from your kitchen—but when you sat up, the lamp still glowed faintly on your nightstand, and the blanket tucked under your chin smelled faintly of his cologne.

You padded quietly to the doorway, pausing when you saw him. Bucky stood at the counter, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he poured steaming coffee into your favorite mug. His jacket was still draped over the back of the chair from last night, his sleeves rolled up again. On the counter beside him was a loaf of bread you’d bought at the market, neatly sliced into even pieces, and butter softening in a small dish. It looked… domestic. Almost ordinary. And it made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for. “You don’t have to do that,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe.

He looked up instantly, sharp as always, but his expression softened when he saw you. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Figured I’d make myself useful.”

You smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You’re really bad at pretending this is normal.”

“Maybe,” he said, setting the mug in front of you. His voice lowered. “But I like pretending with you.”

The warmth of the cup seeped into your palms. You took a sip, humming at the taste—it was stronger than you usually made it, but good. He watched your reaction like it mattered more than anything else. “See?” he said, almost smug. “Better than what you usually drink.”

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “You think you can just take over my kitchen now?”

His grin widened, wolfish but soft around the edges. “If you let me.” For a long moment, you stood there, sipping your coffee while he leaned against the counter, watching you like the morning belonged to the two of you alone. When you finally set the mug down, he reached past you, brushing your wrist deliberately as he moved the butter closer to the bread. “Eat something,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes but picked up a slice anyway. “You know, most people say ‘please’ when they want something.”

He chuckled low, the sound warm and rough. “Please, doll. Eat something for me.”

You laughed then, quiet but real, and he looked at you like he’d just won a war without firing a single shot. And as you sat at your tiny kitchen table, him across from you with his coffee, you realized you weren’t just letting him into your apartment. You were letting him into your mornings, your routines, your life. He seemed to realize it too. Because when you reached for another slice of bread, he leaned back in his chair, eyes soft and possessive all at once, and said quietly, “get used to this. I’m not going anywhere.”

You thought he’d leave after breakfast—slip out the way he usually did, shadow heavy but fleeting. Instead, he stayed, long after the last crumb of bread was gone and your coffee had cooled. He didn’t hover, not exactly. He followed you with his eyes as you moved around your apartment, tidying plates, straightening cushions, feeding the little plant on your windowsill. Every small domestic motion seemed to hold his full attention, as if he were cataloging it all for later.

When you bent to pick up a book that had slipped under the table, he was suddenly there, crouched beside you. His metal fingers brushed the spine before yours could reach it. “Got it,” he murmured, handing it over. His eyes lingered on the cover—an old paperback, spine worn soft. “You like this one?”

“It’s a favorite,” you admitted, hugging it to your chest. “I’ve read it more times than I can count.”

He nodded slowly, eyes sharp, as though he were etching the title into his memory. You retreated to the couch, curling into the corner, and he sat at the other end—close enough that your knees brushed when you shifted. He leaned back, stretching an arm along the top of the couch, watching you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “You’re different here,” you said quietly.

“How?”

“Quieter. Softer.” You hesitated. “Like you’re not carrying the whole world on your shoulders.”

For a moment, something flickered across his face—something raw, almost vulnerable. “Maybe it’s because I’m with you.”

Your cheeks warmed. You turned your gaze toward the window, pretending to fuss with the flowers on the sill. “You say things like that too easily.”

“I don’t say anything easily,” he said, voice low, firm. “Not unless I mean it.”

The air grew heavier, thick with unspoken things. To break it, you stood and gathered the empty mugs. “I should wash these.”

“I’ll do it.”

Before you could protest, he was already in your tiny kitchen, sleeves pushed up, broad frame bent over your sink. The sight of him there—dangerous and untouchable to the rest of the city, carefully rinsing soap suds from your favorite mug—sent a strange ache through you. “You really don’t know how to act normal,” you teased gently, leaning against the counter.

He glanced at you, lips curving faintly. “This is normal. For me. If you let it be.”

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how easily he was weaving himself into your space, your life. When the mugs were clean and drying on the rack, he returned to the couch, looking far too at ease in your home. As though the line between visitor and resident had already blurred. And when you finally told him, half-awkward, that you needed to open the shop soon, he only nodded, standing slowly. His eyes swept the room one last time before settling on you. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, not as a command but as a promise.

And when the door clicked shut behind him, your apartment still felt full.

The second time he stayed, it felt less like a choice and more like inevitability. He didn’t even ask if it was alright—he simply slipped off his jacket, folded it neatly over the arm of your couch, and stretched his long frame across it like it was a habit he’d been keeping for years.

You went to bed with the lamplight still spilling warm gold into the hallway, the faint hum of the city outside, and the comforting knowledge that he was only a few steps away. It was deep into the night when you woke. Thirst pulled you from sleep, groggy and heavy-limbed. Padding into the living room, you found him still on the couch, blanket pushed low around his waist, one arm draped over the edge.

For a moment, you thought he was sleeping peacefully. His chest rose and fell, steady. But then you noticed the twitch of his fingers, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the low, almost inaudible sounds escaping his throat—half-formed words, broken whispers.

You froze. A nightmare. Your first instinct was to leave him be, let him fight his shadows alone. But something in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his breath hitched, made your chest ache. “Bucky,” you whispered, stepping closer. “It’s alright. You’re safe.” You reached out, intending only to brush your fingers across his shoulder, to anchor him in the present. But the instant your skin touched his, his metal arm snapped up, lightning fast, clamping around your wrist.

The pressure was startling, firm enough to hurt, and you gasped softly. His eyes flew open—wild, unmoored, glassy with panic. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t here with you. He was somewhere else. Then recognition hit. His grip loosened instantly, his chest heaving. “God—doll—” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You sank down onto the edge of the couch, cradling his arm with your free hand, your voice low and steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You didn’t mean to.”

But he was already shaking his head, his flesh hand scrubbing hard over his face. “Shouldn’t—shouldn’t touch you. Not when I don’t know where I am. Could’ve hurt you. Could’ve—”

You caught his wrist before he could pull further away. “You didn’t. You didn’t hurt me.”

His metal fingers trembled against your skin, so different from the usual deliberate steadiness you knew. He kept repeating it, almost under his breath, like a mantra breaking apart. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” you whispered, sliding closer, resting your other hand lightly against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your palm. “Look at me.” It took a moment, but his eyes finally lifted to yours—blue and raw, stripped of every layer of command and control. “You’re here,” you said softly. “With me. You’re safe.”

The tension in his arm eased by degrees, until his grip was nothing more than a loose circle around your wrist. He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven. “You shouldn’t have to… deal with this.”

“I don’t mind,” you whispered. And you didn’t. Not when it was him.

For a long time, you just sat there, your hand still against his chest, his breath slowly steadying under your touch. When his grip finally fell away completely, it wasn’t because he pushed you—it was because he let go, trusting you not to move. You didn’t. You stayed.

And when he drifted back into sleep, your wrist still tingled from the weight of his arm, but it wasn’t fear that lingered. It was the way his voice had broken on your name, the way he’d clung to your presence like it was the only thing anchoring him in the world.

By the time the apartment grew quiet again, you hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You’d sat there with him, your hand still resting over his chest, listening as his breath evened out beneath your palm. You told yourself you’d move once you were sure he was settled.

But your eyes grew heavy. The couch was warm beneath you, his body warmer still, and before you knew it, you were sliding sideways, cheek pressed against his shirt. His heart was a steady thrum beneath your ear, his arm—flesh, not metal—loosely draped over your back as though even in sleep he couldn’t help but hold you close.

The couch was small, too small for the both of you, but you didn’t notice. Not with the weight of him grounding you, not with the lamp’s glow painting soft gold across the room.

When you woke, morning light was spilling through the curtains, pale and thin. It took a moment to realize where you were—why your pillow was too firm, why your blanket smelled faintly of his cologne. You shifted, groggy, and felt his chest move beneath you. He was awake. His breathing was shallow, controlled, the way he sounded when he was trying not to disturb you. “Morning,” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.

His chest rumbled under your cheek with a low, uncertain sound. “You shouldn’t… have stayed here.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were sharp, but not cold. There was guilt there, deep and quiet. “Why not?”

“I could’ve hurt you,” he said. His metal hand flexed once against the blanket, as though the memory of gripping your arm was still burning through him. “I did hurt you.”

You shook your head, propping yourself on your elbow. “You didn’t. You scared me for a second, but… you didn’t hurt me.” His jaw worked, but he said nothing. You studied him for a moment—his hair mussed from sleep, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he looked so much younger like this, stripped of the armor he wore in daylight. “Bucky,” you said softly, “I wouldn’t have fallen asleep here if I didn’t feel safe with you.”

That silenced him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes flicking away for a moment as though he couldn’t bear the weight of what you’d just given him. Slowly, carefully, he brushed his knuckles across your cheek, his touch light, reverent. “You shouldn’t trust me that much.”

“Maybe not,” you whispered, leaning into his hand. “But I do.”

For the first time in longer than he could probably remember, his mouth curved into something almost fragile, almost grateful. You stayed like that for a long moment, the morning wrapping around you both like a secret. The couch was still too small, your neck was already sore, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Because for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were comforting him, or if he was comforting you.

---

The bell chimed as usual when he stepped into your shop, but today felt heavier somehow. Maybe it was the memory of the night before, of waking up in his arms on your too-small couch. Maybe it was the image of his wide, haunted eyes as he whispered apology after apology, and the way your chest had ached to soothe him.

You’d been thinking about that all morning. About how much he gave you—his presence, his protection, his steadiness—even if he never admitted it aloud. And for once, you wanted to give him something back. So you’d worked quietly before he arrived, hands steady even as your heart raced, trimming stems and tying ribbon. Now, as he approached the counter, you wiped your palms on your apron and brought the bouquet out from behind you.

It wasn’t like the ones you usually sold. This one was deliberate, personal. Deep blue delphiniums, soft cornflowers, pale forget-me-nots woven together in layers, all tied with a silver-gray ribbon. The colors matched his eyes perfectly—sharp and striking at the center, softer and gentler around the edges. You held it out shyly. “For you.”

He froze. For a man who seemed to always know what to do, what to say, he looked completely undone in that moment. His eyes flicked from the flowers to your face and back again, as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. “You made this… for me?” His voice was rough, low.

You nodded, your fingers twisting the edge of your apron. “You’ve brought me so much. I just thought—maybe you’d like to have something, too.”

He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and took the bouquet from your hands. His metal fingers brushed the ribbon with surprising gentleness, as though afraid he might crush the delicate stems. For a long moment, he just stared at it. Then his jaw worked, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “No one’s ever…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”

Your heart clenched. “Then I’ll just have to make sure it’s not the last time.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, something raw burning in them. He set the bouquet carefully on the counter, then reached across with his flesh hand, curling his fingers around yours. “Thank you, doll,” he said, voice unsteady. “You don’t know what this means to me.” But from the way he held your hand, from the way his thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of you, you thought maybe you did.

Bucky carried the bouquet back with him, cradled more carefully than the files his men handed him daily. When he entered his penthouse, the first thing Natasha noticed wasn’t the flowers themselves—it was the way he set them down gently on his desk, like they were priceless.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Boss, if you keep this up, you’re gonna need a bigger office. Between the vases and bouquets, it’s starting to look more like a conservatory than a headquarters.”

He shot her a sharp look, but it lacked real heat. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the bouquet, fingers brushing over the ribbon like he still couldn’t believe it was real. “You got a problem with flowers, Romanoff?” he asked, voice low.

Natasha’s smirk softened into something almost approving. “Not with flowers. Just with you hiding in here behind them.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m not hiding.”

“You’ve skipped the last three meetings,” she countered, stepping further into the room. “You can’t keep pushing them off. People are starting to notice. And this next one—you can’t get out of it.”

His eyes darkened, steel sliding back into his expression. “When?”

“Tomorrow night.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Seven o’clock. You’ll be there, and you’ll sit through it, whether you like it or not.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. His metal fingers tapped once against the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Then he let out a slow breath, eyes flicking back to the blue bouquet. “Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”

Natasha tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve got her making bouquets just for you now?”

His lips curved faintly—dangerous, but softer than usual. “Yeah. She did.”

Natasha’s brows lifted. “And you’re going to tell her where you’re going tomorrow?”

His gaze sharpened again, voice dropping low. “No.”

“Bucky—”

“She doesn’t need to know.” His eyes lingered on the flowers, something fierce burning beneath the calm. “Not yet.”

Natasha studied him for a long beat before finally sighing. “One of these days, Barnes, you’re gonna realize she’s not just another thing you can keep in the dark.”

But he didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the bouquet again, his hand steady, his mind already far from the meeting Natasha had chained him to.

The following evening, Bucky was restless. He’d shown up at your shop like he always did, the bell chiming as he stepped in, but his presence felt heavier than usual. He leaned against the counter, silent, eyes fixed on you while you arranged fresh stems in a vase. His gloves were still on—he hadn’t even rolled his sleeves the way he sometimes did when he helped close up. “Long day?” you asked, glancing up.

His jaw flexed once. “Not finished yet.”

Something in his tone told you not to press. But you noticed the way his gaze lingered on you a little too long, as though he were memorizing everything about you—the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your hands as you tied ribbon.

When you locked up for the night, he was there as usual, walking you home. His stride was slower, though, deliberate. Like he didn’t want the walk to end. At your door, instead of leaving with his usual “goodnight,” he lingered. His eyes traced your face with an intensity that made your heart race. “You’ll stay in tonight,” he said softly.

You blinked. “I was planning to, yes. Why?”

He exhaled, the faintest flicker of relief passing across his features. “Good. I need…” He hesitated, words sticking like they were foreign in his mouth. “I need to be somewhere. But I don’t want you worrying.”

Your brows furrowed. “Where?”

His eyes softened, but the steel never left them. “Not a place you need to know about.” It stung, a little, but before you could respond, his flesh hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin. His touch was warm, but his grip was firm, almost desperate. “Promise me you’ll stay here tonight,” he murmured. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”

“Promise me.” His voice was low, commanding, but under it was something raw. Fear.

Your heart twisted. “I promise.”

Only then did his shoulders ease, just slightly. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there longer than usual. When he pulled back, his eyes burned with something unspoken. “I’ll be back,” he said simply. And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the city.

You stood in your doorway long after he’d disappeared, the bouquet you’d given him still fresh in your memory. Whatever world he was going back to tonight, it wasn’t one you were part of—not yet. But the way he’d looked at you before he left made you wonder how long he could keep the walls up.

It was late when the knock came—so late the city outside had gone quiet, even the hum of traffic muted. You woke with a start, heart pounding, blinking against the faint glow of the lamp in your bedroom.

For a moment, you thought you’d dreamed it. Then it came again, firmer this time. Three heavy knocks that rattled the wood. You slipped from bed, pulling a sweater over your shoulders, bare feet whispering across the floor. When you peered through the peephole, your stomach dropped. Bucky. He stood close to the door, shoulders squared, hair mussed, suit rumpled. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with something fierce and unsteady. And his knuckles—flesh and metal both—were streaked with blood.

You unlocked the door quickly and pulled it open. “Bucky.” He exhaled your name like a prayer, his chest rising and falling hard. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, filling your small apartment with his presence, the door shutting behind him with a dull thud. You reached for his hand automatically, the blood stark against your skin. “What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said roughly, pulling back just enough to keep the mess off you. “It’s done.”

“Bucky—”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” His voice cracked low, raw, like he’d used up every ounce of steel at that meeting and had nothing left to shield himself with now.

You guided him toward the couch anyway, ignoring his protest. “Sit.” He hesitated, then obeyed, sinking down heavily. His shoulders were still tight, coiled with tension, his fists flexing and unflexing as though he hadn’t yet come down from whatever storm he’d just walked out of. You fetched a cloth and warm water from the bathroom, kneeling in front of him. He tried to take the rag from your hand, but you shook your head. “Let me,” you said softly.

For once, he didn’t argue. He let you cradle his hand, your smaller fingers working gently over the bloodstains. His skin was rough under your touch, his palm scarred, but you treated it like something fragile, as if the violence hadn’t seeped into the lines of his hand at all. He watched you in silence, blue eyes intent, following every stroke of the cloth. “You shouldn’t…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “You shouldn’t want to do this for me.”

“Maybe I want to anyway,” you whispered.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark. “You’re gonna ruin yourself, doll. Being close to me.”

You wrung out the cloth, wiping gently at his other hand, this one colder, harder. His metal fingers twitched under your touch, then stilled. “Maybe you don’t get to decide that,” you murmured.

His chest rose sharply, his eyes snapping to yours. The intensity there was almost unbearable—possessive, desperate, aching. “I came here,” he admitted finally, voice hoarse. “Because after it was over, all I wanted was you. Just… you.”

You finished cleaning the last smear of blood from his knuckles, then set the cloth aside. Without thinking, you reached up and pressed your hand against his jaw, tilting his face toward you. “I’m here,” you said simply.

And for the first time that night, his shoulders dropped, the fight bleeding out of him. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing, as though your palm was the only anchor he had left.

You didn’t let go of him right away. Even when his shoulders eased, when the fury and tension in him finally started to drain, you kept your hand at his jaw, kept your body close enough that he could feel your steadiness. When you finally shifted to stand, he caught your wrist—not tight, not desperate, but firm enough to stop you. His eyes opened, and there it was again: that raw, unguarded fear. Fear of you walking away. “Stay,” he murmured.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly. “But you need to rest. You can’t keep carrying all of this on your own.” You tugged gently until he let you go, then stood and gestured toward your bedroom. “Come on. You take the bed tonight.”

His eyes narrowed immediately. “No.”

“Bucky—”

“I’m not putting you on the couch in your own home,” he said sharply, rising to his feet. “I’ll take it. Always.”

The finality in his tone made you hesitate, but then you stepped closer, meeting his intensity with your own. “You came here for comfort, didn’t you? Then let me give it to you. Please.”

The word hung between you. You almost never asked him for anything. His jaw worked. He glanced at the bedroom door, then back at you, his expression caught between resistance and something almost… longing. Finally, he exhaled slowly. “Fine. But only if you stay too.”

Your breath caught. “Bucky—”

“I won’t sleep otherwise,” he admitted, voice low, hoarse. “Not without you.”

The ache in your chest deepened. You nodded once, quietly, and guided him into the bedroom. He moved carefully, stripping off his bloodstained shirt and leaving it folded on the chair before slipping under the covers in just his undershirt and slacks. He looked out of place in your small bed, too large, too coiled with silent tension.

You slid in beside him, the lamp’s glow soft across both of you. At first, he kept to his side, stiff and deliberate, as though terrified of crowding you. But when you reached out—just the lightest brush of your fingers over his wrist—he shifted closer, inch by inch, until his forehead rested against yours. “Sorry,” he whispered again, the word barely audible. “For last night. For tonight. For all of it.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you whispered back, eyes closing. “Not with me.”

His breath stuttered against your cheek, and then his arm—warm, heavy, trembling slightly—wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest. It was a long time before his breathing evened out, before the tension bled from his body completely. But when it did, he slept deeper than he had in years, anchored by your presence.

And you stayed there with him, awake for a long while, listening to the steady thrum of his heart and wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was learning how to let someone share the weight he carried.

---

You woke to the sensation of warmth. Not the sunlight—though that was spilling pale and soft through the curtains—but the solid weight of the man beside you. His arm was still around you, heavy and steady, his chest pressed to your back. For a moment you stayed perfectly still, afraid that moving would shatter the fragile quiet that had settled over him in the night.

Eventually, you stirred, stretching carefully. His arm slipped away immediately, as if he’d been awake already, holding himself too tightly so as not to trap you. “Morning,” you murmured, rolling to face him. He was lying on his side, head propped on his hand, blue eyes fixed on you. His hair was a little mussed, his undershirt wrinkled. But his gaze was sharp, searching, as though he were trying to read the truth in your expression. “You slept,” you said softly, surprised by how certain you were.

“Because of you,” he admitted.

Something in your chest squeezed. You brushed your thumb lightly across the back of his hand. “I’m glad.”

But he didn’t relax. His eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw flexing. “You don’t regret this? Letting me stay?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “No. Why would I?”

“Because you saw me last night.” His voice was rough, low, like he hated the words even as he forced them out. “Bloody. Angry. A mess. That’s who I am, doll. That’s what I do when I leave you here. And I don’t…” He trailed off, eyes flicking away for a moment. “I don’t want you to look at me different because of it.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbow, leaning closer, catching his gaze. “Bucky. I saw you. And I still asked you to stay.”

His throat bobbed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You shouldn’t have to comfort me.”

“Maybe I want to,” you whispered, echoing the words you’d spoken when you cleaned his bloodied hands.

The silence stretched, heavy but not unbearable. His hand lifted, brushing lightly over your head, fingers catching gently at the nape of your neck. “You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You shook your head. “Not even a little.”

His eyes closed briefly, as though the weight of that truth was too much to hold. When he opened them again, they burned with something softer than you’d ever seen in him, something dangerously close to hope. And though he didn’t say the words, you could feel them in the way he held your gaze, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin.

For once, he wasn’t just the man who haunted your shop, who walked you home, who carried storms in his chest. For once, he was just Bucky.

---

The day had been quiet, the steady hum of your little shop wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. You were working at the counter, arranging fresh lilies into a tall glass vase, humming softly under your breath. Bucky had slipped into the back earlier, muttering something about moving crates that were too heavy for you, though you hadn’t asked him to.

You balanced the vase carefully in your hands—just a little too tall, a little too slick with condensation—and then it happened. The glass slipped. You gasped, a sharp sound breaking the quiet as the vase hit the floor and shattered. Water splashed across your shoes, stems splayed in every direction, and shards of glass glittered in a jagged circle around your feet.

“Doll?” His voice was immediate, sharp, and then he was there, bursting from the back with all the force of a man expecting the worst. His eyes swept the scene in an instant—the water, the flowers, the glinting glass around your shoes—and then locked onto you.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, holding your hands up like surrender. “I just—”

“Don’t move,” he snapped, the command biting. But his eyes softened a heartbeat later, voice lowering. “Please. Don’t move.” You froze, biting your lip. Shards glittered dangerously close to your ankles, one sliver already catching at your sock. Bucky’s chest rose hard with a deep breath. Then he stepped closer, gaze flicking up to yours. “Do you trust me?”

The question startled you—so direct, so weighted. But your answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

In one smooth motion, his hands found your waist, strong and steady, and he lifted you up out of the circle of broken glass. You startled, legs instinctively tightening around him as he held you against his chest, the strength in his arms effortless and certain.

Your heart hammered, breath catching as the world tilted. You could feel the hard lines of him through his shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat pressed to your chest. For a moment, you were frozen, caught in the intensity of his eyes as he looked at you—so close, so intent, like you were the only thing in the world. Then, before you could stop yourself, a quiet giggle slipped out. You ducked your head against his shoulder, cheeks warm. “You’re… really strong.”

The corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous, but softer than you’d ever seen it. His grip tightened just slightly at your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how easily he held you. “Damn right I am,” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “Strong enough to carry you as long as it takes.”

Your breath caught, the teasing words laced with something heavier, deeper. You clung to him just a little tighter, not because of the glass scattered on the floor, but because of the way he said it—as though he meant more than just this moment.

And when he finally set you down on the counter, out of harm’s way, his hands lingered at your waist, eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His hands lingered at your waist even after he’d set you safely on the counter, his eyes locked on yours like he was trying to convince himself you were unharmed. Only when you shifted slightly—cheeks warm, fingers fiddling with the hem of your apron—did he finally step back. “Stay there,” he ordered softly. It wasn’t harsh, but it brooked no argument.

You opened your mouth to protest, then caught the flash in his eyes, the steel under the softness. You nodded instead, watching as he crouched to gather the scattered stems first, setting them aside with almost comical care before he tackled the glass.

He worked in silence, broad shoulders bent, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he swept every shard into a neat pile with practiced efficiency. He didn’t let you come near—every time you shifted on the counter as if to hop down, his gaze snapped to you, sharp as a warning. “You’re acting like I nearly lost a limb,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.

“You could’ve cut yourself,” he muttered, scooping the last of the glass into the dustpan. “Slipped, fallen—”

“Bucky, it was a vase.”

He dumped the shards into the bin and straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t matter. Anything that touches you—anything that could hurt you—it matters to me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy, possessive. Your heart thudded in your chest. When he finally crossed back to you, he brushed his hands down, metal glinting faintly in the shop’s light. Then, to your surprise, he reached out and gently lifted your ankle, checking your sock, then the other. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he needed proof with his own eyes that you were unscathed. “I told you I was fine,” you whispered, heat curling in your chest.

“I had to see for myself,” he murmured. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing lightly against the bone, before he finally let go.

You giggled then, nervous and shy, but unable to hold it back. “You really are strong, you know. Picking me up like that…”

His lips curved into something sharp and slow, a smile that was equal parts dangerous and softened just for you. “You liked that?”

You ducked your head, embarrassed, but nodded faintly. “Maybe.”

His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped closer, caging you gently where you sat on the counter. “Good. Because I’m not done showing you how strong I am.”

The words made your breath hitch, your pulse skittering wildly. And though he didn’t touch you again, though he only lingered there in your space, the promise in his voice wrapped around you like a second heartbeat.

The shop closed later than usual that evening—the broken vase had set you behind, and you insisted on mopping every last drop of water yourself while Bucky loomed nearby, pretending to help while really just watching you like a hawk.

By the time you stepped out into the cooling night, the streets were already washed in shadow. He fell into step beside you, as always, but tonight felt different. The air between you was warmer, charged, still echoing with the memory of his hands lifting you clear of the glass, your legs around his waist, your breathless little laugh against his shoulder.

You stole a glance at him as you walked. His jaw was set, his gaze sharp on the street ahead, but there was something softer in the curve of his mouth, something unspoken simmering in his eyes when they flicked toward you. “Thank you,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.

He turned his head slightly. “For what?”

“For earlier. For making sure I didn’t… get hurt.” You smiled faintly, shy. “And for carrying me. Even if it was just across a puddle of glass.”

The corner of his lips curved, slow and wolfish. “I’d carry you farther than that, doll. Anywhere you wanted.”

Your heart thudded, and you ducked your gaze to the pavement. When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly reluctant to let the night end. He stood close, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin, close enough that the city noise faded into nothing. He studied you for a long moment, blue eyes intent, then lifted his hand. His knuckles brushed along your cheek, light as a whisper, before he leaned down. The kiss wasn’t on your lips. It was at the corner of your mouth, feather-light, lingering just long enough to steal your breath. When he pulled back, his gaze was burning, fierce and possessive but softened in a way you’d never seen before. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

You managed a quiet, flustered, “goodnight,” before slipping inside, leaning against the door once it clicked shut. Your pulse was still racing. The ghost of his touch still lingered on your cheek. And you knew, with startling clarity, that something between you had shifted again—deeper, closer, and far harder to resist.

---

The last customer had barely left when you flipped the little sign on the door to closed. The shop was quiet, petals scattered on the counter, the air still thick with the mingled perfume of roses and lilies. Bucky was already there, leaning against the wall near the register, sleeves rolled up, watching you sweep the last of the day’s mess into a neat pile.

It was almost habit now—him staying until you locked up, walking you home like a shadow no one could shake. But tonight, as you tied off the trash bag and wiped your hands on your apron, you found yourself blurting something out before you could second-guess it. “Do you… want to come grocery shopping with me?”

His head lifted, eyes narrowing as though you’d just offered him something strange and dangerous. “Grocery shopping?”

You nodded, a little shy. “Yeah. Just the corner store, nothing big.”

For a moment, he just studied you, unreadable. Then his mouth curved, the faintest tug at the corner of his lips. “You’re asking me on a date to a grocery store?”

Your cheeks warmed. “Not a date. Just… normal. Something normal.”

That seemed to strike something in him. The teasing faded, replaced with that sharp, focused look he always gave you when he was paying too much attention. Finally, he pushed off the wall, slipping into his jacket. “Alright. Let’s go.”

The store was half-empty when you arrived, aisles humming faintly under fluorescent lights. You grabbed a basket, but before you could even step forward, Bucky plucked it from your hands, carrying it himself without comment. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, same as he always did when you tried to argue.

You shook your head with a smile and wandered down the first aisle. The ordinary act of choosing bread, fruit, milk felt almost surreal with him beside you. People glanced your way—some because of his presence, some because of his sheer size—but he ignored them, his attention fixed entirely on you. You paused at the shelf of pasta, biting your lip as you compared prices. He frowned. “What’re you doing?”

“Deciding which one to get.”

“Just grab both,” he said flatly.

You laughed under your breath. “That’s not how grocery shopping works.”

He arched a brow. “When I’m here, it does.” And before you could protest, both boxes were dropped into the basket.

A few aisles later, you spotted a display of apples, glossy and red under the lights. You reached for one, but he plucked the apple from your hand. “Too bruised,” he muttered, discarding it for another. Then another. Until finally he chose one and handed it to you, his expression deadly serious.

You bit back a giggle, putting it into the basket. “You’re very picky.”

“I don’t want you eating anything that isn’t good enough for you,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Your heart gave a little squeeze.

At the checkout, the clerk gave you both a curious look, eyes flicking from the man built like a soldier to the flowers still faintly clinging to your apron. Bucky ignored it, pulling out a roll of bills before you could reach for your own wallet. “Bucky—”

“Don’t,” he warned softly, sliding the cash across the counter.

You sighed, but your lips curved despite yourself. When you stepped back into the night, bags in hand, he shifted most of them to his own arms, leaving you only one light sack to carry. As you walked back toward your apartment, you realized your chest felt strangely full—like the simple act of buying apples and bread with him meant more than any extravagant gift could. And when you glanced up at him, his eyes already on you, you wondered if he felt the same.

The bags rustled quietly between you as you and Bucky made your way back to your apartment. He carried almost all of them, his broad frame cutting through the dim streetlight glow like a shield. Every so often, you’d catch him glancing down at you, his gaze lingering on your smaller bag as if he were annoyed you had any weight at all to carry.

By the time you reached your door, he was already fishing the key from your pocket—something he’d made a habit of, though tonight he looked at you first, waiting. You smiled faintly and gave him a nod. He unlocked the door, nudging it open with his shoulder, and followed you inside.

The apartment felt warmer with him in it, crowded but not in a way that unsettled you. He set the bags on the counter, already rolling up his sleeves like this was second nature. “You don’t have to help put everything away,” you said, slipping off your shoes.

“Not letting you do this alone,” he countered, already unpacking a bag.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re terrible at letting me do anything.”

“Only because you deserve better than doing it by yourself.”

The simple certainty in his tone made your chest flutter. You busied yourself with the pantry shelves while he stacked cans and jars, his movements precise, almost military. Every so often, he paused to ask where something went—not in his usual commanding tone, but softer, quieter, like he wanted to get it right. When you turned to find him awkwardly holding up a carton of milk, brows furrowed, you giggled. “That goes in the fridge, Bucky.”

He smirked, shaking his head as he set it inside. “Not my strong suit, doll.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “And here I thought you were strong at everything.”

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and knowing, but softened quickly. “I am. Especially when it comes to you.” Heat crept up your neck. You ducked back toward the pantry, pretending to fuss with the bags.

When the last of the groceries were tucked away, he leaned against the counter, watching you tie the bags into a neat bundle. His presence filled the small kitchen, his eyes steady and unreadable. “This is…” He paused, exhaling. “Nice.”

You glanced at him, smiling softly. “It is.”

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, you brushed past him on your way to the sink, your arm grazing his, a tiny, wordless acknowledgment. The evening stretched out lazily, the two of you lingering on the couch after the groceries were tucked away. You’d made tea, steam curling faintly between you, and at some point your head had drifted to the back cushion, eyelids drooping while Bucky sat beside you, quiet and watchful. “You’re falling asleep on me,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and almost amused.

“M’not,” you mumbled, even as your head tilted a little to the side, threatening to nod off completely.

His lips curved, subtle but there. “Doll, go to bed.”

You groaned softly, rubbing your eyes, and gave a small pout. “Don’t wanna move. It’s too far.”

The faintest laugh rumbled from his chest. “Too far? It’s ten steps.”

You cracked one eye open, playful despite your exhaustion. “Then carry me.” You hadn’t expected him to take you seriously. But before you could blink, his hands were at your sides, sliding under you with practiced ease. You let out a startled little gasp as the world tilted, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. He gathered you up without effort, cradled securely against his chest in a full bridal carry. Your breath caught, a laugh bubbling out as your cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Bucky—”

“Don’t pout at me if you don’t mean it,” he murmured, his voice quiet but edged with satisfaction.

He carried you through the small apartment like you weighed nothing, each step steady and sure. You didn’t protest—you couldn’t, not with the warmth of him surrounding you, not with the way he held you like you were something precious. By the time he set you down gently on the bed, pulling the blanket up over you, your heart was racing too fast for sleep. He lingered at your side for a moment, his eyes soft in a way they rarely were. “Better?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, cheeks warm, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Much.”

He exhaled slowly, almost like relief, before straightening. “Sleep, doll. I’ll be right outside.” And as you drifted off, you could still feel the phantom weight of his arms around you, carrying you like you were the only thing in the world worth holding onto.

---

It started with a lightbulb. You were balancing on the edge of a chair, stretching on tiptoe to reach the fixture above your counter when Bucky walked in. He froze in the doorway, eyes narrowing like he’d caught you dangling off a cliff. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Changing a bulb,” you answered, squinting up at the socket. “It burnt out last night.”

He stalked forward, plucking the box from your hand. “Get down.”

You turned your head, giving him a pointed look. “It’s just a lightbulb, Bucky.”

“Get down,” he repeated, voice soft but firm, like the sound of a lock clicking shut.

You sighed dramatically but stepped down, brushing dust off your apron. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re reckless,” he shot back, climbing onto the chair himself. It creaked under his weight, but he made quick work of the fixture, replacing the bulb in seconds before hopping down. He set the empty box on the counter like he’d just conquered something monumental. “See? No problem,” he said, smug.

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched. “You act like you saved me from falling off a building.”

His gaze softened as he brushed a speck of dust from your shoulder. “Doesn’t matter how small it is, doll. I don’t like seeing you in danger.”

The habit stuck after that. A loose hinge on your cabinet? Bucky fixed it before you even realized it needed repairing. A crack in the paint near your window? He brought in supplies and patched it one evening, sleeves rolled and shirt clinging to his back while you tried not to stare too obviously. And it wasn’t just repairs. One night you came home with groceries, and before you could even set the bags down, he was unloading them, stacking cans with soldier-like precision. He held up a carton of tea, frowning. “You drink this?”

“Yes?” you said slowly, tilting your head.

He dropped it into the cupboard. “Not anymore. I’ll bring you something better.”

You crossed your arms, trying to look stern. “You can’t just replace my tea without asking.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Then I’ll ask. May I replace your tea with something that won’t taste like dishwater?”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. “Fine. You win.”

But the moment that stayed with you came later, when you offered something back. You’d picked up a box of his favorite pastries—something you’d noticed he always lingered over when you passed a certain bakery. When you handed it to him shyly at the shop, his expression faltered. He blinked down at the package, then at you, as if the gesture didn’t compute. “For me?” he asked, voice quiet.

“Of course,” you said, suddenly nervous. “You’re always helping me. I thought… you might like them.”

He opened the box, stared at the neat row of pastries, then at you again. His jaw worked, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. “No one does this for me.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers over his wrist. “They should.” His eyes darkened, burning with something fierce, something hungry—but instead of pulling you closer like you half-expected, he only nodded, as if committing the moment to memory.

---

It happened on an ordinary night, the kind where the city felt half-asleep and the shop was already dark behind you. Bucky walked you home as usual, his hand brushing lightly at your back whenever the sidewalk narrowed. The streets were quiet, the glow of the lamps stretching long shadows across the pavement.

You were telling him about a customer who’d come in earlier, half-laughing at their confusion between carnations and camellias, when your foot caught on an uneven crack in the sidewalk. You stumbled, breath catching as your balance tipped forward.

Before you could even react, his arm was around your waist. It wasn’t just a steadying touch—it was a full, protective pull, yanking you against his chest so hard your breath whooshed out. His other hand splayed across your shoulder, holding you there, shielding you as if the cracked pavement had been a bullet. “Careful,” he rasped, voice rough, too sharp for the small stumble.

Your heart raced, half from the fall, half from the intensity in his eyes when you looked up. He wasn’t just steadying you. He was possessing you, holding you so tightly you couldn’t have slipped away if you tried. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice wavered.

He didn’t let go right away. His grip stayed firm, the muscle in his jaw ticking as though he was fighting some deeper instinct. Finally, slowly, his fingers loosened, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering even as you stood straight again. “You scared me,” he admitted, voice low. The honesty in it startled you more than the stumble.

You swallowed hard, shy under his gaze. “It was just a crack in the sidewalk.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, the words sharp but weighted with something else—something you couldn’t quite name. “Anything that could hurt you… I won’t let it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretched, heavy and electric, until you finally let out a small laugh to ease it. “Bucky,” you teased softly, “you act like you’re my personal bodyguard.”

His lips curved faintly, but his eyes never softened. “Maybe I am.” You didn’t argue. Not when your heart was still racing from the feel of his arms around you, not when the memory of his grip lingered like fire on your skin. And for the rest of the walk, his hand stayed at your waist, steady and sure, as if he didn’t trust the world not to trip you again.

---

It was late when you noticed it. The soft scrape of the couch, the low creak of springs shifting—quiet, but not quiet enough. You blinked awake in your bed, the faint glow from the lamp spilling into the hall. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d dreamed it. But then you heard the sound again, the unmistakable weight of someone moving restlessly.

You padded out into the living room, bare feet whispering on the floor. Bucky sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, elbows braced against his knees. His hands were clasped together so tightly the tendons stood out, and his jaw worked as though he was chewing back words. The blanket you’d given him earlier was pushed aside, rumpled like he’d tried to settle under it and failed. He looked up sharply when he heard you. His eyes softened, but only a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you whispered. You took a step closer, watching him carefully. “Nightmare?”

His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer, but the silence was loud enough. Your chest ached. You crossed the small space and lowered yourself beside him. For a long moment, you just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the quiet settle. Then, slowly, you leaned into him, resting your head against his arm. He went very still. You could feel the tension thrumming through him, the way his breath hitched, the careful restraint in the way he didn’t move. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you murmured.

He exhaled, a shudder slipping out despite himself. His arm shifted—hesitant at first—then wrapped around your shoulders, drawing you closer. You let him, curling instinctively against his side, your body fitting against his with surprising ease. The silence stretched. His breathing steadied, slow and deep, but you could still feel the echoes of the storm lingering in him. So you stayed, quiet and warm, letting your presence do what words couldn’t.

At some point, your eyes grew heavy again. The steady rhythm of his chest beneath your cheek, the weight of his arm holding you—it was too much comfort to resist. Sleep pulled at you until you gave in, drifting off curled against him.

When you stirred again, it was to the strange awareness of being shifted. His arms were around you, lifting you easily. Your head lolled against his shoulder, and you blinked blearily up at him. “You should be in bed,” he murmured, voice low and rough, though his eyes softened when he saw you awake.

“M’fine here,” you mumbled, not fully conscious of the words.

His lips curved faintly, but he didn’t set you down. Instead, he lowered himself back onto the couch, letting you settle against him, your cheek pressed to his chest this time. His hand brushed down your arm, steady and grounding. You drifted again, half-asleep, your last hazy thought the realization that he was calmer now—his heartbeat steady, his breathing even—as though holding you was the only anchor he needed.

---

The first thing you noticed when you woke was warmth. Not the blanket—you realized quickly it had slipped down in the night—but the steady heat of a chest under your cheek, the quiet rise and fall of someone breathing. It took only a blink to remember where you were, who you were on top of.

The early light from the window cut across the room, spilling soft gold on his face. His head was tipped back against the couch, lashes low, jaw unshaven and rough. He looked younger like this, stripped of the sharp edges he carried in daylight. Vulnerable.

You shifted slightly, the motion enough to stir him. His arm—still heavy across your waist—tightened instinctively, pulling you back before you could move away. His eyes cracked open, blue and still hazy from sleep, but the moment he realized where you were, they sharpened. “Morning,” you whispered, your voice catching at how close you still were.

His gaze searched yours, careful, guarded. “You’re still here.”

You smiled faintly. “Of course I am.”

He swallowed, his throat working, but he didn’t release you. His fingers brushed lightly along your side, almost tentative, as if waiting for you to flinch. “You don’t… mind this?”

Your heart skipped. You shook your head, whispering, “No.” The silence that followed was thick with things neither of you were saying. You could feel his pulse against your palm where it rested on his chest, steady but a little too quick. He was waiting—waiting for a crack, a sign that you’d regret what happened. Instead, you curled closer, nestling against him. “You slept,” you murmured, half teasing. “Didn’t even wake me this time.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “That’s ‘cause you were here.”

The words landed heavy, unpolished and raw, and for a moment neither of you breathed.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t break it. You just stayed there, your cheek against his chest, his arm secure around you, until the sounds of the waking city crept through the window and the day forced you to move. But even then, when you finally pushed yourself up, he let his hand linger at your wrist, reluctant to let go.

The morning moved slowly, like it didn’t want to let go of the quiet night before. You padded into the kitchen first, hair mussed, blanket still slung around your shoulders. Bucky followed a moment later, barefoot, his undershirt clinging faintly to his chest. He looked out of place and yet so settled, as if he’d been here a hundred mornings before.

You went for the kettle, but his hand slid past yours, already reaching for it. “Sit,” he said simply. You gave him a look, but he was already filling it with water, movements efficient, deliberate. You sank into a chair at the table, hiding a smile as you watched him. His broad shoulders bent under your too-small cupboards, his frown of concentration as he searched through your cabinets until he found the tea. He set it down with a grunt, muttering under his breath about “organizing this better next time.”

By the time he brought you a mug, he’d also sliced a piece of the bread you’d bought together, setting it on a plate with a seriousness that made you bite back a laugh. “You don’t have to take care of me every second,” you teased, wrapping your hands around the warm mug.

“Yes, I do,” he answered without hesitation, pulling out the chair opposite you.

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks. “That’s not very normal, you know.”

His gaze sharpened, then softened again, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t want normal. I want you safe. I want…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “…I want mornings like this.”

The honesty in his voice stilled you. Your throat felt tight, but you smiled anyway, shy and warm. “Then I guess I’ll let you keep making tea.”

For a long while, you just sat together in the small kitchen—the hum of the kettle, the creak of the chair under his weight, the soft sound of his breathing across the table. Ordinary, but not. Intimate in ways that left your chest aching. When you finally stood to rinse your mug, he was there instantly, taking it from your hands. “I said sit,” he reminded, his mouth curving faintly.

You rolled your eyes but went back to the table. Watching him wash the single mug at your sink, sleeves rolled, shoulders filling the space, you thought that maybe—just maybe—this was what he meant when he said he wanted mornings like this. And you thought, maybe, you did too.

--

It was one of those nights where the air felt restless, heavy with the promise of rain. The shop had closed hours ago, but Bucky lingered like always, walking at your side while the streets shimmered under the faint orange glow of the lamps. The first drop landed on your cheek just as you rounded the corner to your street. You brushed it away, glancing up at the dark sky. “Looks like we’re about to get drenched.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked upward, then back to you. “We’ll be fine. It’s not far.”

But by the time you reached the halfway mark, the drizzle had turned steady, cool drops soaking through your clothes. You let out a startled laugh, clutching the bag you carried tighter to your chest. “So much for fine.”

He caught the sound—the way you laughed, bright and unbothered—and something softened in his face. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” you admitted, tilting your head back to the rain. “Feels kind of… freeing.” He watched you for a long moment, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense. The city blurred around you, people darting for cover, but he stayed rooted, unmoving, his eyes fixed only on you. “Bucky?” you asked, blinking the rain from your lashes.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until his hand lifted—hesitant, almost reverent—and cupped your cheek. The rain beaded across his glove, slid down his wrist, but his palm was warm, steady. You froze, heart hammering. “I shouldn’t…” His voice was low, strained, like he was fighting himself. “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want this.”

Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding. It was slow, careful, almost cautious, as though he was giving you every chance to pull away. His lips were warm against yours, tasting faintly of rain and something darker, something entirely him.

For a moment, you were too stunned to move. Then you melted into him, your hand curling lightly into his shirt, your body leaning closer without thought. His thumb brushed along your jaw, grounding, steady, while his other arm slipped around your waist, drawing you nearer.

The world narrowed to the rhythm of the rain and the steady thrum of your pulse, the rest of the city fading away. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged, eyes burning through the thin veil of water between you. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll,” he murmured, voice rough and reverent all at once.

Your lips curved, trembling but sure. “Maybe I do.” He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, brushing another kiss—softer, fleeting—against your lips before tucking you firmly against his chest. The rain poured harder, but you barely noticed. Not with his arms around you, not with the weight of that kiss still lingering between you.

The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual, but it wasn’t the silence of strangers or awkwardness. It was charged, heavy with something unspoken—like every step still echoed with the kiss you’d just shared.

Bucky kept you tucked firmly against his side, his arm secure around your waist as though the rain or the night itself might try to take you from him. His head bent closer than usual, his hair damp and curling at the edges, his jaw tight with something you couldn’t quite read.

You caught him looking at you more than once. Not in the way he always did—observant, calculating—but softer. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, that you’d kissed him back, that you hadn’t pulled away.

By the time you reached your door, the rain had soaked through your clothes, dripping onto the floor as you fumbled with the lock. His hand covered yours, steadying, guiding the key into place. When the door clicked open, you stepped inside, turning back to him.

For the first time since you’d met him, he hesitated on the threshold. His shoulders were squared, his expression composed, but his eyes betrayed him—something raw flickering there. “You should get dry,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse.

“So should you,” you countered softly. “Come in.” For a beat, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, the door shutting behind him with a soft finality.

Inside, the apartment felt smaller than ever, the air thick with rain and warmth and the weight of what had just happened. You peeled off your damp sweater, tossing it over the back of a chair, and glanced up to find him watching you, his own jacket hanging heavy in his hand. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Finally, you whispered, “Bucky…”

He crossed the space in two strides, his hand lifting again to your cheek. You froze, heart hammering, as his thumb brushed a drop of rain from your skin. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he murmured, though his voice betrayed no regret.

You tilted your face toward his palm. “But you did.”

His lips curved faintly, a hint of something dangerous and tender all at once. “And I’ll do it again if you let me.”

You didn’t answer with words. You rose on your toes, closing the small space between you, your lips meeting his once more. This kiss was different—hungrier, deeper, the careful restraint from before crumbling under the weight of what you both had been holding back. His arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand cradled the back of your head like you were something breakable.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, murmuring your name like it was a vow. And in that moment, with the rain still dripping outside and his heartbeat thrumming against your chest, you knew something had shifted for good.

The rain had stopped by morning, leaving the city washed clean, the air sharp and cool when you cracked the window above your sink. Your apartment, though, was warm—warmer still with the weight of what had happened the night before. You padded into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, still in the oversized shirt you wore to bed. The smell of coffee hit you before you even saw him. Bucky was already there.

He stood at your counter like he owned the space, sleeves rolled, steam curling from the pot he’d set on. His jacket hung neatly on the back of the chair, his damp clothes from the night before draped over the radiator to dry. He glanced up when you entered, and for the first time in all the mornings he’d lingered here, his gaze softened in a way that made your breath catch. “Morning, doll,” he murmured.

You sank into a chair, watching him pour a cup. “You’re getting comfortable.”

He set the mug in front of you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I am.”

You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, thick with everything that had changed between you. Every glance lingered a beat too long, every brush of his hand near yours deliberate. When you finished your coffee, you stood to rinse the mug, but his hand caught your wrist lightly. “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to,” you said, smiling.

“I want to,” he countered, voice steady, his thumb brushing once across your skin before he released you.

Later, you opened the shop as usual, but the rhythm of the day felt different with him around. He stayed longer than he usually did, claiming a spot in the back to “keep out of the way” but emerging whenever he thought you needed him—hauling a box, adjusting a display, even holding the ladder steady when you climbed up to reach a high shelf. “You know I’ve done this before,” you teased, glancing down at him.

“Not on my watch,” he muttered, knuckles white on the ladder. By the afternoon, he’d drifted closer, sitting on the counter while you arranged a bouquet for a customer. His eyes tracked every motion of your hands, and when you tied the final ribbon, he murmured, “blue suits you better than those roses.”

You blinked up at him, flustered. “That wasn’t for me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low. “You’d make it look better.” Your cheeks warmed, and you quickly turned back to the flowers.

That evening, after you locked the door, he walked you home again. The air was still damp, the sky clear now, but his hand stayed at your back the entire way. At your door, instead of pulling back like usual, he lingered. “Let me in,” he said softly. Not a command this time, not quite. You hesitated only a moment before opening the door. Inside, you both shed your coats and shoes, the small apartment wrapping around you in its familiar warmth. He stood close, too close, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

For the first time, you didn’t look away. And though he didn’t kiss you again right then, you both knew it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. It was because the night before had changed everything—and you were both still learning how to live in that new space.

---

The first time he left, it felt strange. Bucky had woven himself into your days without question—closing the shop with you, carrying groceries, claiming the corner of your couch like it was his by right. He didn’t linger on the edges of your world anymore; he stepped directly into it.

But then one morning, he kissed your forehead at the door and said quietly, “I’ve got business I can’t put off any longer.” His eyes lingered on you like he hated the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ll be gone a while.”

You didn’t ask how long. You’d learned by now that some answers weren’t yours to demand. You only nodded, letting him go. When Bucky walked back into his penthouse, the silence struck him like a fist. It was too still, too immaculate, the air faintly cold from being shut up for days. Natasha was already there, perched on the arm of a chair like she’d been waiting. “Thought you’d moved out,” she said dryly, arching a brow.

He shrugged off his coat, dropping it onto the back of the sofa. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs.”

She tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the fresh bouquets lined along the window ledge. Some were old—petals curling, stems leaning—but the colors still painted the room in soft life. Your flowers. “Hard not to notice,” she said. “Your fortress looks like a greenhouse.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on the fading blooms, something tight twisting in his chest. He’d meant to bring them home, to replace them, to keep them fresh—but the shop, the walks, your laugh, your soft hands pressing tea into his grip… it had been easier to stay in your world than return to this empty one. Natasha’s voice pulled him back. “The meeting last week—you missed it. Again.”

He grunted. “Send them my apologies.”

“You don’t have apologies big enough for the people you’re brushing off.” She stood, crossing her arms. “You’re slipping, Barnes.” He shot her a look, sharp enough to silence most. But Natasha only raised a brow, unshaken. “What happened to you?” she asked, quieter now. “You used to live for this. Now I have to drag you back here by the collar.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He poured himself a drink instead, his eyes drifting once more to the flowers. One in particular caught his attention—a small blue bloom tucked into a vase. You’d given it to him, shy and smiling, saying you’d picked it because it matched his eyes. His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the glass. “I’m not slipping.”

“Then what do you call it?” Natasha pressed.

He looked at her then, his expression sharp, dangerous—but his voice was low, certain. “I call it finally having something worth more than this.”

Natasha studied him for a long beat, then huffed a quiet laugh. “God help her if she doesn’t know what she’s getting into.” Bucky said nothing. His eyes lingered on the blue flowers, softer now, before he turned back to the empty penthouse.

Bucky didn’t last the night. He’d tried—sitting in the penthouse office, staring at the stack of reports Natasha had dropped on his desk, the kind of paperwork he used to burn through without blinking. But the silence pressed in, suffocating. The city sprawled below him, restless and alive, but all he could think about was the warmth of your little apartment. The way your voice softened when you teased him, the way your hand lingered on his wrist when you passed him tea, the way you’d kissed him in the rain.

He set the pen down, unfinished page abandoned, and leaned back in his chair. His eyes found the vase on the windowsill again—the flowers you’d given him. The petals were curling now, the blue fading, but the sight of them punched straight through the cold shell he wore in this place. “Fuck this,” he muttered. Ten minutes later, he was gone.

It was well past midnight when the knock came at your door. You blinked awake, heart thudding, but you knew who it was before you even checked. The weight of his presence pressed through the wood like it always did.

You opened the door to find him there—damp from the mist outside, hair mussed, eyes burning with something fierce and restless. He didn’t say a word at first, just looked at you, drinking in the sight of you like he’d been starved. “Bucky?” you whispered, confused but soft. “It’s late.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, voice rough. The honesty in it knocked the air right out of you.

You stepped aside without thinking, and he slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. He stood in your living room like he was both too big for the space and yet exactly where he belonged. His jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, but his gaze was only on you. “I thought you said you had business,” you murmured.

“I did.” He exhaled, a sharp sound, shaking his head. “But none of it mattered. Not when all I could think about was you.”

Your breath caught, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your chest. “You came all this way in the middle of the night… just to see me?”

His jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I came because I needed to know you were here. Safe. Real.” The vulnerability under his words left you starstruck. For once, the weight he carried wasn’t hidden behind commands or possessive glares—it was just him, raw and unguarded, standing in your apartment like the man he didn’t show the world. And when you stepped closer, reaching out to brush the damp from his sleeve, his hand caught yours, holding it against his chest like an anchor. “I don’t care how late it is,” he said, voice low. “If you’ll have me, I’ll come back every night.”

The clock on your wall ticked quietly, the only sound filling the space between you. Bucky still hadn’t let go of your hand, his thumb brushing absently against your skin as though he couldn’t stand to stop touching you. His presence was steady, grounding—but you could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the way his shoulders slumped despite his stubbornness. You rubbed at your eyes, fighting the pull of sleep. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice small, rough with drowsiness.

He tilted his head, gaze softening instantly. “Yeah, doll?”

“Carry me back to bed?” The words slipped out before you could second-guess them, half a murmur, half a plea.

For a heartbeat, his expression flickered—surprise, something darker, something warmer. Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, into the kind of smile that always made your heart stutter. “You got it.” Before you could say anything more, his arms were around you. He scooped you up easily, strong and certain, bridal style once again. You gave a sleepy little sound of protest, more out of instinct than anything else, your arms looping around his neck as you curled against him. “You like makin’ me do this, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, almost teasing as he carried you through the dim apartment.

“Maybe,” you whispered, smiling faintly against his shoulder.

The bedroom door creaked open, and he nudged it wider with his foot. The room was still warm from earlier, the blankets rumpled. He lowered you onto the mattress with infinite care, like you were something fragile that might break if he wasn’t gentle enough.

But when you caught his wrist before he could pull back, your voice soft but certain, his entire body stilled. “Stay with me?”

His eyes flicked to yours—blue, burning, conflicted—and then he nodded once. “Always.”

He toed off his boots, shed his jacket, and slid onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the space between you vanishing when his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.

You sighed, nestling into him, your hand curling around his forearm where it lay heavy across you. His breath was warm against your hair, steady and sure, but you could still feel the tension in him, the way he held you like he was afraid you might disappear. Sleep tugged at you again, and just before you slipped under, you whispered, “feels right… when you’re here.”

He pressed his lips to the back of your head, a kiss so soft you almost missed it. “Good,” he whispered. “’Cause I’m not going anywhere.” And for the first time in a long time—for both of you—you fell asleep without a trace of fear.

The morning crept in soft and unhurried, sunlight spilling across your bedroom in pale strips. You stirred slowly, awareness tugging at you in waves—the warmth pressed against your back, the steady weight of an arm looped around your waist, the faint tickle of breath brushing against your hair. For a moment, you simply lay there, cocooned in the quiet. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against you, solid and reassuring, his arm heavy but comforting, like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep.

When you shifted slightly, he made a low sound in his throat, not quite awake but not fully asleep either. His arm tightened, pulling you closer, his face burying against the curve of your neck. The bristle of his jaw grazed your skin, and you bit back a laugh. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice still husky from sleep.

“Mm,” he rumbled, voice low, heavy with drowsiness. “Stay still. Too early.” You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into him. But when you wriggled again—just to tease—he huffed, pressing a kiss against your shoulder, lazy and soft. “Thought I told you to stay put,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin again, this time slower.

Your breath caught, warmth spreading through you. “You’re not usually this… affectionate in the morning,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a faint laugh, the sound vibrating against your back. “Don’t usually get mornings like this.” Another kiss followed, lower along your shoulder. Then another, featherlight at the back of your neck.

You giggled quietly, tucking your chin as if you could hide from the press of his lips. “That tickles.”

“Good,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your skin just enough to make you squeak. His arm tightened again when you shifted, holding you flush against him. “You’re not getting away.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you let out a breathy laugh, turning your head slightly to glance back at him. His eyes were half-lidded, blue softened by sleep but burning with something tender. The sight made your stomach flip. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, smiling despite yourself.

“Maybe,” he said easily, brushing his nose against your hair. “But you’re mine.”

The words should’ve sounded possessive, but in his voice—low, almost reverent—they were softer, gentler, like a confession instead of a claim. You didn’t argue. Not when his lips found yours a moment later, lazy and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to kiss you. And for once, maybe he did.

The lazy morning stretched long, unhurried, as though the world outside had decided to pause just for you. Bucky didn’t let you go right away. Every time you shifted like you might get up, his arm cinched tighter, his lips brushing your temple in silent protest. Eventually, though, your stomach growled loud enough to make you both laugh. “Fine,” he muttered, finally loosening his hold. “But only because you’re hungry.”

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging him along behind you by the hand, which he allowed with surprising docility for a man who barked orders at everyone else. He leaned against the counter while you rummaged through the cupboards, watching with that intent gaze that always made you feel both flustered and oddly cherished. “Eggs, toast… maybe fruit?” you mumbled.

“I’ll do it,” he said, already reaching for the pan.

You tried to argue, but he shot you a look over his shoulder—the kind that dared you to push back. You rolled your eyes but smiled, sinking into a chair as he worked. He wasn’t polished, but he was efficient, moving with the kind of quiet precision that said he’d cooked for himself far too many times in silence.

When he set a plate in front of you—scrambled eggs, toast buttered just the way you liked—you blinked, warmth spreading in your chest. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he cut in, his voice soft but firm.

The meal wasn’t fancy, but you couldn’t stop smiling as you ate together at your tiny table. He asked about your week, listened with rapt attention as you rambled about flowers and customers, and even smirked when you teased him about hogging the pepper.

The rest of the day unfurled lazily. You cleaned the shop’s ledger at the table while he stretched out on the couch, half-reading, half-watching you. At some point, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with tea, setting the mug by your elbow without a word. Later, you both ended up tackling laundry, and you laughed when he insisted on folding with military precision. “You’re ridiculous,” you teased, holding up a perfectly squared shirt.

“Efficient,” he corrected, lips twitching.

By mid-afternoon, sunlight spilled through the windows, and you both ended up back on the couch. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest while his arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He pressed the occasional kiss to your hair, to your temple, slow and lazy, as though he couldn’t help himself. One kiss landed just behind your ear, ticklish enough that you giggled, turning to nudge at him. “Bucky…”

He smirked faintly, kissing you again, this time softer, lips lingering against your skin. “What?”

“You’re… distracting.”

“Good,” he murmured, nuzzling lightly against your hair before kissing you again, this time catching your lips in a slow, lazy press that left your cheeks warm.

You tried to hide your smile against his chest, but he felt it anyway, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your arm. The day melted into evening like that—quiet, ordinary, yet threaded with something so tender it made your chest ache.

Evening settled gently, the last of the sunlight fading from your windows, and for a while it felt like the day might slip into night without disturbance. You and Bucky lingered on the couch, your head nestled on his shoulder, his arm looped comfortably around you. His thumb traced lazy arcs against your arm while your favorite show played faintly in the background.

It was quiet. Too quiet, maybe, because the knock at your door startled both of you. Bucky’s arm tightened around you instantly, his body going taut beneath your cheek. The easy warmth that had colored the whole day dropped from his face, replaced by sharp alertness. “Stay here,” he murmured, voice low, already rising to his feet.

You frowned, but before you could protest, he’d crossed the room. He opened the door a crack, blocking the entrance with his body. Natasha’s voice slipped in, calm but cutting. “You’ve been hard to reach.”

Your brows shot up, but you stayed where you were, listening. Bucky didn’t move aside, didn’t open the door further. “Not an accident.”

“You’re expected tonight,” she said, and though her tone was casual, there was no mistaking the weight behind it. “You’ve dodged the last two. That’s not an option anymore.”

“I said I’d handle it,” Bucky bit out, jaw clenched.

From your angle on the couch, you could see Natasha tilt her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You can’t handle it from here.”

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. For the first time, you realized just how little you knew about what “business” meant in his world. Bucky’s body blocked you from the door, but the tension in his shoulders told you enough. “I’ll come,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Tomorrow night.”

Natasha arched a brow, then glanced past him toward you. Just for a second, her eyes softened with something unreadable before she nodded once. “Tomorrow,” she confirmed, and then she was gone.

Bucky shut the door with a quiet finality, leaning against it for a moment before turning back to you. His expression had softened again, but not all the way. There was still a shadow there, still a reminder of the part of him you didn’t see when he was folding laundry or kissing your shoulder in the morning. You sat up a little, hesitant. “Was that… work?”

He crossed the room, his jaw tight, and sank back onto the couch beside you. His hand found yours almost instinctively, like he needed the contact to ground himself. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Work.”

You studied him, unsure whether to push, but the look in his eyes stopped you. Not because it was cold—but because it wasn’t. It was protective, desperate, like he’d do anything to keep you from the parts of his life that led Natasha to your door.

So instead of asking, you curled against him again, letting your fingers twine with his. “Tomorrow,” you murmured softly, repeating his promise. His arm wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing your temple. “Tomorrow,” he echoed. But the way he held you, fierce and unwilling to let go, told you that if it were up to him, he’d never leave your apartment again.

The night he finally went, the shift in him was immediate. You’d gotten used to a certain softness around him—the lazy mornings, his arm around your waist as you drifted through the farmer’s market, the way his mouth curved when you teased him. But when he stepped out of your apartment that evening, dressed sharp and dark, there was nothing soft about him. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, his whole body coiled tight like a man walking into battle.

You tried not to worry. He’d promised he would be back. Still, when you finally drifted to sleep on the couch, the clock ticking toward midnight, the sound of a knock at your door jolted you awake. You knew it was him before you even opened it.

Bucky stood in the hall, shoulders broad, coat collar turned up against the chill. His hair was damp with mist, but it wasn’t the weather that made your heart lurch—it was his hands. His knuckles were split raw, streaked with blood, some dried, some fresh. His face was drawn, exhaustion and something darker carved deep into his features. “Bucky,” you whispered, reaching for him before you could stop yourself.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past you into the warmth of the apartment. But the words rang hollow.

You shut the door quickly and followed him into the living room. He dropped heavily onto the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head bowed. For a moment, he just breathed, the weight of the night settling on him like armor he couldn’t shed. You crouched in front of him, your hand hovering near his without quite touching. “You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”

His eyes lifted, blue and tired, searching yours. Something in them softened, cracked, and for a moment he looked less like the untouchable man everyone feared and more like the one who’d spent the morning teasing you with kisses. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”

“It matters to me.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tight, but he didn’t pull away when you reached for his hands. Carefully, gently, you guided them into your lap, your thumbs brushing over the torn skin. You fetched the first aid kit you’d kept tucked away since the first time you’d seen him like this. As you worked, dabbing at the blood, his gaze never left you. His eyes followed every movement of your hands, every soft touch, every careful breath. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he murmured after a long silence.

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze steadily. “Maybe not. But I want to.”

His breath hitched, something raw flickering across his face. He leaned forward then, his forehead resting against yours, the distance between you vanishing. “Sweetheart…” His voice broke low, rough. “I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.”

Your fingers tightened around his, careful not to hurt him but unwilling to let go. “That’s not your choice to make, Bucky.”

For a long moment, you stayed like that—forehead to forehead, his battered hands in yours, the room hushed around you. And though he never said what had happened out there, the way he clung to you told you enough.

Bucky was quieter than usual after you finished bandaging his knuckles. His eyes tracked every movement you made, like he was memorizing them, but he didn’t speak. Not when you cleaned up the kit, not when you coaxed him toward your bedroom. When you tugged gently at his hand, he followed without resistance. His shoulders looked heavier than they had all week, but the set of his jaw eased the moment you reached the bedroom door.

You crawled into bed first, expecting him to take his usual place at your side, but when you looked back, he was still standing there. His eyes softened, shadows clinging to the edges of his expression. “C’mere,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “I’m already here.”

He shook his head once, low and deliberate. He sat on the mattress, leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out. His hand patted his chest. “Here. Want you here.” Your breath caught, heat rushing to your cheeks. The request was tender, almost vulnerable, but it was also so very him—not asking, but needing, like the idea of you saying no had never crossed his mind. Still, you didn’t hesitate. You climbed up, settling carefully between his legs, your back against his chest at first. But when his arms wrapped firmly around you, pulling you closer, you shifted, turning just enough to lay half across him, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, faster than it should’ve been for a man trying to rest. His chin dipped, lips brushing your hair as he murmured, “That’s it. Stay right there.”

You shifted shyly, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “You’re comfortable like this?”

His arms tightened, pressing you flush against him. “More than comfortable.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. You just breathed together, your body melting into his, his warmth sinking into you until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. The tension in his frame slowly unwound, his muscles relaxing bit by bit as though your weight anchored him back to the earth.

When you tilted your head slightly, you found his eyes already on you, blue and intent even in the dim light. Without a word, he dipped down, his lips brushing yours in the gentlest, laziest kiss you’d ever felt—more a question than a demand, more a sigh than a claim. You smiled against his mouth, shy and soft, and he kissed you again, this one lingering, his thumb tracing idle circles at your waist. You giggled when his stubble scratched your cheek, and his lips curved faintly against yours.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low and rough, “don’t giggle when I’m trying to kiss you.”

You flushed, hiding your face against his chest, and he chuckled quietly, his mouth pressing into your hair instead. It wasn’t long before your breaths synced again, the weight of the day pulling you toward sleep. But this time, when his body stilled beneath you and his chest rose and fell in the deep rhythm of rest, you knew he was holding you not out of fear, but because—for once—he could.

---

The fight started small—like most things between you and Bucky did. It was late afternoon, and you’d decided to run down the block to grab milk before closing the shop. Harmless, ordinary. When you returned, juggling the bag in one hand, Bucky was already waiting at the door, his expression sharp, his shoulders rigid. “Don’t do that again.”

You blinked, startled by the clipped tone. “Do what?”

“Leave without telling me.” His voice was low, edged, the kind that made most people freeze.

You frowned, setting the bag down on the counter. “Bucky, I was gone ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes is long enough for something to happen,” he shot back, stepping closer. “You can’t just walk out without me knowing where you are.”

Your chest tightened—not with fear, but with frustration. You’d had this conversation with him before. The way he framed things like orders, the way he seemed to assume he had the right to tell you what you could and couldn’t do. You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. “You didn’t ask me, Bucky. You told me.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “So? I don’t want you at risk. I’m not gonna apologize for that.”

“That’s not the point.” You stepped closer too, your voice rising just slightly. “I’ve told you before—I need you to ask me. Not command me like—like I don’t have a choice.” For the first time, he faltered. His mouth opened, then shut again, his jaw tightening. You could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to push back this hard. Your heart hammered, but you pressed on, quieter now, more vulnerable. “If you want me to tell you where I’m going… then ask me. I’ll tell you. Gladly. But don’t bark orders at me, Bucky. That’s not how this works.”

The silence stretched, thick with tension. His hands flexed at his sides, metal fingers clenching once before he exhaled slowly. “No one talks to me like that,” he admitted finally, his voice rough. “No one pushes back.”

You softened, your frustration edged with something gentler. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need someone who will.”

His eyes locked on yours, something raw flickering there—anger, yes, but also respect. And maybe, just maybe, a trace of relief. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful. “…Will you at least tell me next time?”

You bit back a smile, though your cheeks warmed. “See? Was that so hard?”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. And though the tension didn’t vanish completely, you knew you’d broken through something important—that he’d actually heard you. And Bucky, for all his control, didn’t know what to do with that.

The shop was already locked for the night, the ledger closed, and the soft glow of your single lamp lit the room. You’d expected Bucky to be restless after your argument—brooding, maybe even distant—but instead he lingered in the doorway, watching you curl up on the couch with a book.

When you looked up, you caught that same flicker from earlier—the one that said he’d actually listened. He crossed the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the couch. For a moment he just sat there, silent, his hands flexing once on his knees. Then, in a voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him, he asked, “can I hold you?”

Your breath caught. The simple question, asked instead of commanded, made your chest warm. You set your book aside and smiled softly. “Yes.” Relief flickered in his eyes. He shifted back, opening his arms. You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees bracketing his thighs, your arms looping around his shoulders. He drew you in immediately, strong arms banding around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’d been starving for this.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just curled into him, your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His breath stirred your hair, slow and deep, as though the tension had finally bled from him.

His hand slid up and down your back, not possessive now, but gentle, grounding. When he tilted his head down to press a kiss to your temple, you giggled quietly, shyer than you meant to be. “What?” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin.

“Nothing,” you whispered, though your cheeks warmed. “Just… it tickles.”

His lips curved against your hair. “Good.” He kissed you again, lower this time, at your cheekbone. “You’re sweet when you giggle.”

You hid your face against his shoulder, and his low laugh rumbled through his chest. “Don’t hide from me, doll,” he said softly, shifting to tip your chin up with his finger. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. “I like seeing you happy.”

The moment stretched, warm and quiet, until your lashes fluttered and you leaned forward, brushing a quick kiss against his jaw. His arms tightened, his breath catching, but instead of claiming more, he held you steady, letting you settle against him again. And there, curled in his lap, you realized that maybe—just maybe—he’d heard you after all.

---

It was a quiet afternoon in the shop, the kind where the sun streamed lazily through the front windows and you could hear the faint hum of the city outside. You were trimming stems at the counter when Bucky walked in, his presence filling the room the way it always did—solid, steady, magnetic.

But instead of his usual lean against the counter or wordless offering of help, he paused. His hands slid into his pockets, his eyes scanning the flowers before finally settling on you. There was something different in his gaze—not sharp or commanding, but hesitant. “Doll,” he said quietly, and when you looked up, you noticed the faint tension in his jaw. “Can I ask you something?”

You smiled faintly, setting down the shears. “Of course.”

He shifted, almost like he wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “There’s a gallery opening. Tomorrow night. I was thinking…” He trailed off, then forced the words out, softer now. “Would you come with me?”

The question caught you off guard—not because of the invitation itself, but because of the way he asked. Not a command, not an expectation. A question. You tilted your head, curious. “A gallery?”

“Yeah,” he said, lips twitching faintly. “Art. Paintings. You like that kind of thing, don’t you?”

Your chest warmed. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” His voice was low, steady, but his eyes flickered away for a moment, almost shy. “It’s… not really my scene. But I figured maybe you’d like it. And I’d like to take you.”

Your heart skipped. For all his power, his control, this moment felt different. Vulnerable. Human. You stepped closer, brushing your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I’d love to.”

Relief flashed across his face, subtle but undeniable. His hand covered yours, warm and solid, and he exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. We’ll make a night of it.”

The promise in his voice lingered long after, and for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about keeping you safe or close. This was him trying—awkwardly, earnestly—to give you something that felt like a real date. Something normal. Something yours.

---

The night of the gallery opening, the city felt different—brighter, sharper, like it was holding its breath. Bucky picked you up just as he promised. You’d taken care with your appearance—clean lines, a favorite dress, a touch of perfume—but as soon as you stepped out of the car and saw the crowd, you realized it wasn’t the same kind of “dressed up.”

Everyone else glided past in tailored suits, glittering jewelry, gowns that looked like they’d cost more than your entire rent. The women’s heels clicked against the marble entrance, men’s watches caught the light, champagne flutes sparkled in elegant hands. They looked polished, untouchable. A different world entirely. And you? You felt… small. Pretty, yes, but simple.

You faltered just a little at the entrance, but Bucky noticed immediately. His hand slid firmly into yours, anchoring you. “You’re perfect,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. His eyes caught yours, steady and unflinching. “Don’t even think about it, doll. They’ve got nothing on you.”

Heat crept up your neck, but you nodded, letting him lead you inside. The gallery itself was stunning—high ceilings, gilded light fixtures, and walls lined with canvases that demanded silence. The crowd murmured in low, cultured tones, laughter muffled behind polite smiles. It felt like stepping into another universe.

You noticed quickly how people looked at him. Heads dipped in acknowledgment, eyes flicking toward him as he passed. A few men approached with polite greetings, their voices threaded with deference. Women gave him longer looks, curious, measuring.

You didn’t know their names, but you could feel it: he belonged here. Even if he stood a little apart from the crowd, he carried himself with an authority that made people move out of his way without realizing they had.

And then there was you, clinging to his hand. For a moment, you worried you looked out of place—until you caught him watching you. His gaze softened, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. The look in his eyes made you forget the polished crowd, the crystal chandeliers, the undercurrent of wealth and power humming through the room.

“This one,” you whispered after a while, pausing before a painting of blue-gray waves crashing against dark rocks. The colors pulled you in, fierce and haunting, yet strangely calm. “I like it.”

Bucky leaned close, his hand still around yours, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Because it looks like my eyes?”

You flushed instantly, glancing up at him in surprise. The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you he’d said it on purpose. “Maybe,” you admitted shyly, but your smile gave you away.

He chuckled softly, his arm sliding around your waist. And just like that, the crowded room, the expensive clothes, the stares—they all faded. Because no matter what world he belonged to, in that moment, he was looking at you.

The gallery opening stretched on, the crowd shifting like a tide of silk and crystal. Every so often, someone approached Bucky—men in sharp suits, women draped in jewels, people who clearly knew who he was. Their greetings were subtle, respectful, often accompanied by a dip of the head or the briefest handshake. You noticed how quickly their eyes slid to you afterward, measuring, curious, but no one dared to say much beyond polite murmurs.

Bucky’s arm stayed around your waist through it all, his touch steady, grounding. He answered their greetings in clipped tones, a man who knew he didn’t need to waste words. The difference between how they treated him and how you knew him in the quiet of your apartment made your head spin.

At one point, a server passed with a tray of champagne. You hesitated, unsure if you should take one, but Bucky plucked a glass easily and offered it to you, his lips twitching faintly at your shyness. “Go on, doll. You’re allowed.” You took it, fingers brushing his, and felt oddly proud when you managed a small sip without feeling out of place. He leaned down, his voice low and meant only for you. “You doing okay?”

Your heart fluttered—not just at the words, but at the way he asked them. Quiet, careful, not assuming. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

For a while, you walked together through the halls, pausing before a few pieces of art. He didn’t say much about them, but you could feel his eyes on you as you spoke, listening as though your thoughts mattered more than the art itself.

And then, almost before you knew it, he was steering you away from the noise, out onto a balcony strung with soft lights. The city sprawled below, glittering, alive. Out here, the hum of conversation dimmed, replaced by the quiet night air. You set your half-empty glass on the railing, exhaling slowly. “They all know you,” you said softly, more observation than question.

Bucky glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “They know of me.”

The correction made your stomach flip. You turned toward him, searching his face. “And what should I know?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand reached for yours instead, fingers lacing with deliberate slowness. “Just that I wanted you here with me. That’s all that matters tonight.”

The way he said it—firm, certain, yet soft enough to make your chest ache—kept you from pressing further. You squeezed his hand, letting the quiet stretch between you, filled only by the glow of the city lights. When you finally left the gallery, his hand never let go of yours.

The car ride home was silent but not heavy. His hand rested over yours the entire drive, his thumb brushing absentminded circles against your skin, and every so often his eyes flicked to you, as if reassuring himself you were still there.

It wasn’t until he walked you upstairs, the city hushed around you, that he finally broke the silence. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he said simply, voice low, the words meant only for you.

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you smiled shyly, your fingers tightening around his. “Thank you for bringing me.” His lips curved faintly, and for once, the powerful, untouchable man from the gallery was gone. It was just Bucky—your Bucky—looking at you like you’d given him more than he’d ever thought to ask for.

---

Bucky’s office was dim, the blinds drawn against the daylight. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, though a closer look would’ve shown smudges of ink on his knuckles where he’d signed contracts and notes. He’d spent the whole morning hunched over the desk, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp and clipped as he handled one matter after another. The work never stopped; it simply waited for him to return.

Natasha leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her gaze steady on him as he hung up the latest call. She’d been patient—quiet even—but her silence was its own kind of weight. When he finally looked up, she pushed off the wall. “You’ve been slipping,” she said, matter-of-fact.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been managing.”

“Managing?” Her brow arched, cool and unimpressed. “You’ve been avoiding meetings. You skipped the last sit-down with the heads. You didn’t show up to the import check. That’s not managing, Bucky. That’s negligence.”

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the shift of his weight. “Everything that needed to be handled was handled.”

“Not by you.” Natasha’s tone sharpened. “And people notice. You can’t disappear into that flower shop every other day and expect them not to talk.” At the mention, his eyes flickered, a spark of something softer breaking through. Natasha caught it instantly. “There it is,” she said, quieter now. “You’ve been different. Lighter. Hell, even I noticed. But you can’t keep living in both worlds without one swallowing the other.”

Bucky’s hand curled into a fist against the desk. “She doesn’t know.”

“And she shouldn’t,” Natasha countered. “Not unless you’re ready to bring her in. Because if she stays in the dark, she’s a liability. Not because she’s weak—because she’s unprepared. And unprepared means vulnerable.”

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The thought of dragging you into his world, of letting you see the blood and steel behind the quiet moments you shared—it twisted something in his chest. He wanted to keep you untouched. Untouched and his.

Natasha’s voice softened, though it never lost its edge. “You’re at a crossroads, Bucky. Either you pull back, or you let her see who you really are. But you can’t keep her in the middle. That’s where it gets dangerous.”

His eyes narrowed, jaw working, but he didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t have an answer. Because she was right. The silence stretched, heavy as the air between them. Then finally, his voice came out rough, low. “I can’t let her go.”

Natasha tilted her head, unreadable. “Then you’d better figure out how to keep her safe. Before someone else decides she’s the best way to get to you.” The words hung in the room like smoke, impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt something he didn’t allow himself often: fear. Not for himself, but for you.

That night, you noticed something was different the moment Bucky walked through your apartment door. Usually, when he came to you after a day of work, there was a rhythm—sometimes tired, sometimes sharp-edged, but always softened the moment he saw you. Tonight, though, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual. His coat stayed on, his posture stiff, his eyes shadowed in a way that made your chest tighten. “Hey,” you said softly, trying to draw him in. “Long day?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough. He shut the door quietly, almost too quietly for a man who usually moved with certainty. His gaze flicked over you—like he was making sure you were really there—before he crossed the room.

When he pulled you into his arms, it wasn’t like before. Not just affection, not even just need—it was desperation. His grip was tight, almost crushing, his face buried in your hair. You froze for a moment, startled, before sliding your arms around him, holding on just as firmly. “Bucky,” you whispered, trying to lean back enough to see his face. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed against your temple, and you could feel his heart hammering through his chest. Finally, in a low rasp, he said, “you don’t understand how dangerous it is.”

Your breath caught. You’d always known, in some quiet corner of yourself, that there was more to him than the man who carried your groceries and folded your laundry with military precision. But hearing it now, in that tone—it was different. “Dangerous… for me?” you asked carefully.

“For you,” he confirmed, his hands tightening on your waist as though to prove his point. “Being with me… it paints a target on you. And if anyone ever—” His words cut off, sharp, like the thought itself was unbearable.

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then, softly, you said, “and if you left? If you pulled away?”

He finally lifted his head then, his eyes finding yours. They were raw, unguarded, and the sight of them nearly broke you. “I can’t,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’ve tried to think about it. Tried to imagine it. But I can’t, doll. I can’t stay away from you.”

Something in you cracked open at the confession, equal parts fear and tenderness. You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over the stubble there. “Then don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t stay away. Just… let me be here. With you.”

His breath shook, his metal hand lifting to cover yours where it rested against his cheek. He leaned into your touch like a starving man, his eyes shutting for a moment. When he opened them again, his voice was steadier, though still low. “If I do this—if I keep you close—it means you’ll see things. Parts of me, parts of my life… I’ve kept them from you on purpose.”

You swallowed hard but nodded. “Then show me. I’d rather see than be left in the dark.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, searching, as if weighing the truth of your words. And then, finally, he exhaled, pulling you back against his chest. “Alright,” he whispered into your hair. “But once you’re in, sweetheart… there’s no going back.”

And though his tone carried warning, his arms held you like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.

---

It started with a question you hadn’t expected. A few days had passed since that night in your apartment—the night Bucky had admitted he couldn’t let you go. He hadn’t said much more about it, but you felt it in the way he hovered a little closer, in how often his hand found yours, in the quiet determination that lingered in his eyes.

So when he showed up at your shop one afternoon, leaning against the counter with that intent look of his, you thought he was there just to keep you company. Instead, he said, “there’s a gala this weekend. I want you to come with me.”

You blinked. “A gala?”

“Big one. Everyone who matters will be there.” He didn’t elaborate who everyone was, but the weight behind his words made it clear. Then, softer, “I want them to see you with me.” The warmth in your chest almost made you forget to breathe. Official. That’s what it sounded like.

He didn’t waste time. The next day, you found yourself swept into a world you’d never touched before. The tailor’s boutique looked more like an art gallery than a store—marble floors, velvet curtains, rows of gowns shimmering under soft lights. You hovered near the entrance at first, your fingers twitching nervously at your sides. The place smelled faintly of leather and perfume, expensive in a way that made you want to keep your hands tucked safely away.

Bucky, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease. He guided you forward with a hand at the small of your back, his voice steady as he spoke to the attendant. “Something for her. For Saturday night.”

The attendant’s eyes widened just slightly, recognition sparking as she nodded quickly. Within minutes, you were being ushered into a fitting room with armfuls of gowns in every shade and style. The first dress was sleek, dark, clinging in ways that made you self-conscious. You stepped out hesitantly, smoothing your hands over the fabric. Bucky’s eyes lifted instantly. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even breathe for a moment. His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, before he finally said, “beautiful.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “It’s… too much, maybe?”

“Not enough,” he countered smoothly, his voice rougher than usual.

You ducked back into the fitting room, your pulse racing. The next dress was brighter, softer, with delicate embroidery along the bodice. When you stepped out this time, he leaned forward slightly in his chair, his elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. “This one’s good,” he said, but his tone wasn’t casual—it was thoughtful, assessing, almost protective. “But I want something that makes them stare.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “That sounds… intimidating.”

“Good,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “They should be intimidated.”

By the third dress—a deep navy that shimmered when you moved—you felt the air change. Bucky stood this time, crossing the room in a few strides. His hand lifted, brushing along the fabric at your waist, not quite touching you, but close enough to make your breath catch. “This one,” he said, voice low and certain. “Matches your eyes. And when you walk in with me wearing this, no one’ll dare forget it.”

You giggled softly, nerves twisting with warmth. “Bucky… it probably costs more than my whole apartment.”

His lips curved faintly, but his gaze stayed steady. “You let me worry about that.” And in that moment, as the silk whispered around your legs and his hand hovered at your side, you realized: this wasn’t just a dress. This was a declaration.

The attendant had just whisked the navy gown away to be pressed and boxed when something caught your eye. Off to the side, away from the racks of shimmering evening wear, hung a small collection of lighter dresses—soft fabrics, airy shapes. The kind of thing you’d wear in the shop on a warm day, not at some glittering gala.

One in particular made you pause. A simple sundress, pale with little embroidered details along the hem. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t dripping with jewels or stitched with silk. It was… sweet. Something you could actually see yourself wearing, not just trying on for someone else’s world. The attendant followed your gaze. “That’s from a quieter line,” she explained with a professional smile. “Not evening wear, but if you’d like to try it, you can.”

You startled slightly, glancing back at Bucky, who was still flipping idly through a lookbook the attendant had left with him. He looked up at the hesitation in your posture. “Try it,” he said simply. Not a command this time, but a suggestion—an invitation.

You hesitated. “I couldn’t… it’s not—”

His brow arched, the faintest curve of a smirk playing on his lips. “Doll, if you want to try it, you try it.”

So you did. The fabric was soft against your skin, the cut loose but flattering. When you stepped out, you felt lighter somehow, less like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s world and more like yourself. Bucky’s gaze lifted immediately. For once, he didn’t move, didn’t speak right away. His eyes roamed slowly over the dress, then back to your face. You fidgeted under the weight of it, tugging gently at the skirt. “It’s simple. Too simple, probably. Not for…” You gestured vaguely to the opulent boutique around you. “This.”

Still, he didn’t say anything. Just stood, crossing the room with quiet steps until he was right in front of you. His hand reached out, brushing the edge of the fabric at your hip, his thumb pressing lightly into the material. “You look…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, almost frustrated with himself. “You look like you.”

Your cheeks warmed. “That’s… good?”

“It’s perfect.” His voice was rougher than usual, sincere in a way that left no room for doubt. “The gala needs the navy gown. But this one? This one’s for me.”

Your heart fluttered, and before you could argue—before you could even tell him you couldn’t possibly afford something like this—he was already glancing over his shoulder at the attendant. “We’ll take both.”

Your mouth fell open. “Bucky—”

His hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, silencing the protest before it could fully form. His eyes softened, that steady, unyielding gaze fixed only on you. “Let me.”

And standing there, wrapped in a simple sundress in a boutique that reeked of money and power, you realized it wasn’t about the price. It was about him wanting you to have something that made you feel yourself, even in his world.

Bucky didn’t let you change out of the sundress. The attendant had neatly packaged the navy gown, slid it into a garment bag, and made a note of the transaction, but Bucky had waved her off when she offered to take the sundress back to the fitting rooms. “She’s keeping it on,” he’d said, casual but with the kind of finality no one ever argued with.

And so you found yourself leaving the boutique hand-in-hand with him, the evening air brushing against your legs as the hem of the simple dress swayed with each step. It felt strange—like you were supposed to be polished and expensive after a store like that, but instead you felt like yourself. More than that, you felt like his.

He opened the car door for you, but instead of giving the driver an address for home, he leaned down and murmured, “let’s take a walk first.”

The driver pulled away a few blocks later, leaving you and Bucky in a quieter part of the city. The streets were lined with little shops and cafés, the kind that glowed warmly in the evening. He guided you toward one tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall, the kind of place you might’ve gone with friends—if you’d had the time.

Inside, the café smelled like coffee and sugar, the hum of conversation gentle and low. No one looked twice at you. No one cared that you weren’t in glittering gowns or pressed suits. And Bucky—your Bucky, who had filled a marble-floored boutique like he owned the world—looked almost out of place here. His broad shoulders crowded the small table, his hands too large around the delicate porcelain cup. But the way he watched you, leaning forward as though you were the only thing that mattered, made the rest fade away. “You like it here?” he asked, his voice softer than the quiet jazz playing in the background.

You smiled, stirring your drink absently. “It feels… normal.”

“Normal,” he repeated, like the word was foreign on his tongue. His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Guess I could get used to that.”

For a while, you sat together in that small café, talking about nothing and everything. He asked you about your favorite flowers—not the ones that sold best, but the ones you secretly kept for yourself. You teased him about how he never drank his coffee until it was practically cold. He listened, his hand finding yours across the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in steady circles.

And when you left, walking slowly down the street, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop at the little bookstore window, linger at the flower stall, laugh at the sight of a dog sticking its head out of a taxi. At one point, you tugged his hand without realizing, pulling him closer to something that caught your eye—a display of postcards painted with watercolor scenes of the city.

He didn’t comment on the gesture, but you felt the weight of his gaze as you flipped through them, your fingers brushing over the colors. When you finally slipped back into the car, the sundress soft against your skin and a paper bag of postcards in your lap, Bucky leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You looked beautiful in the gowns,” he murmured, his tone low, almost possessive. “But this? This is what I’ll remember.”

And you realized it wasn’t the marble floors, or the glittering chandeliers, or the navy silk that made the night feel important. It was him. It was this.

---

The gala was nothing like the gallery. From the moment you stepped into the ballroom, it was clear this was a different level of opulence entirely. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light across the space, polished marble gleamed beneath your heels, and the air hummed with the low thrum of strings from a live orchestra. Guests glided past in gowns stitched with gemstones, tuxedos pressed to perfection, diamonds glittering at throats and wrists.

You’d taken extra care tonight, wearing the deep navy gown Bucky had chosen for you, the one that shimmered with every movement. It hugged you in ways that made you nervous at first, but when you saw the way his gaze lingered on you before you left your apartment—sharp, reverent, possessive—you knew you didn’t regret saying yes.

At first, you kept to his side, your fingers woven with his, your steps perfectly matched as he led you through the crowd. His presence was magnetic; people parted for him instinctively, their eyes darting toward you with open curiosity. Some smiled, others whispered, but all of them looked.

The first introductions came quickly—men with quick, firm handshakes, women with perfectly painted smiles. They greeted Bucky with respect, almost deference, and then turned their attention to you. The questions came in polite tones—your name, how long you’d been in the city, whether you enjoyed the gala.

You answered as best you could, but each new set of eyes made your chest tighten. You weren’t used to being the center of attention, and in a room like this, the stares felt heavier than silk gowns and diamond necklaces combined.

So you inched closer. It was subtle at first—your hand tightening on Bucky’s, your shoulder brushing his arm as someone else struck up a conversation with him. He didn’t move, didn’t draw you in, just let you settle where you wanted. But as the night stretched on and more people gathered, you found yourself tucking yourself closer and closer into his side.

By the time he was cornered by a trio of older men discussing investments, you were practically pressed to him, your arm sliding around his. His body was solid against yours, steady in a way that kept you grounded. He shifted slightly then, not pulling you in but adjusting just enough that you fit more comfortably against him. You realized you were hiding. And that he was letting you.

Between conversations, he leaned down just once, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, “you okay, doll?”

Your breath caught, but you nodded quickly, whispering back, “Just… a lot of people.”

His hand slid down, resting against the small of your back, warm and firm. “Stay close, then.” And you did. Through introductions, through polite laughter, through glasses of champagne that you barely sipped. You stayed tucked into his side, your cheek brushing his shoulder once when you leaned in to whisper something shyly, and his answering smirk told you he didn’t mind in the slightest.

It was overwhelming, yes. But the whole night, Bucky’s presence wrapped around you like armor. You weren’t just there as a guest—you were there as his. And judging by the way people looked at him, then at you, that message was loud and clear.

The gala bled into night, the golden chandeliers giving way to the hush of the city as you and Bucky slipped into the car. The door shut, muting the noise behind you, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and the faint rustle of your gown as you shifted against the seat.

For the first time in hours, you exhaled, your shoulders slumping slightly. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself until now. Bucky’s hand found yours almost immediately, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady rhythm. “You did good,” he murmured, his voice quiet but certain.

You smiled faintly, though your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t really do anything.”

His eyes slid to you, blue and intense even in the low light. “You were with me. That’s everything.”

The words settled heavy in your chest, warm and strange, like they meant more than you knew how to hold. The car turned, and instead of heading toward your apartment, you noticed the streets getting sharper, quieter, the buildings taller and glinting under the city lights. You glanced at him, curious. “This isn’t the way home.”

He didn’t look away, didn’t let go of your hand. “No. I want to show you something.” When the car pulled up to a gleaming tower, you felt your breath hitch. This was the kind of place you’d walked past before but never imagined entering. The doorman nodded the instant Bucky stepped out, opening the door like it was second nature. No questions, no hesitation. Just respect.

He offered his hand to help you out of the car, steady and sure, and guided you inside. The lobby was marble and glass, understated yet impossibly expensive. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to shout. The elevator ride was silent except for the low hum of the machinery and the sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears. His hand stayed at the small of your back, grounding you. When the doors opened, you stepped directly into his penthouse.

It was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, the city sprawled out beneath like a living map of light. The furniture was sleek, dark, carefully chosen—luxury without clutter. A bar lined one side of the space, glassware gleaming faintly under soft recessed lighting. There was a piano, too, its polished surface reflecting the skyline. You turned slowly, taking it all in. “This is… yours?”

“Mine,” he confirmed simply, watching you carefully as you moved further inside.

It felt surreal, like stepping into the part of him he’d kept hidden. The part that wasn’t coffee shops and farmer’s markets, but glass towers and quiet power. You drifted toward the windows, resting a hand against the cool glass as you looked out over the city. Behind you, you heard his steps, deliberate and steady, until his reflection appeared beside yours. “Why tonight?” you asked softly. “Why show me now?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because after tonight, there’s no pretending. Everyone saw you with me. They’ll keep seeing you. And I don’t want you walking into this blind.”

You turned, looking up at him. The shadows in his eyes were still there, the weight of his world, but so was something else—something softer, rawer. “I told you I’d rather see than be left in the dark,” you whispered.

His hand lifted, brushing lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s what scares me.”

And then, before you could answer, he bent his head and kissed you. Not the shy, tentative kisses of your apartment, but something deeper, firmer, threaded with everything he hadn’t said aloud. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he needed to remind himself you were really there. The city stretched endlessly below, but in that moment, all you could feel was him.

Bucky didn’t stop at the kiss. When he finally drew back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand slid down to lace with your fingers. “C’mere,” he murmured, tugging you gently away from the windows. “Let me show you around.”

The penthouse unfolded like something out of a dream. He guided you first through the living space—sleek lines, soft lighting, and a bar stocked more like a high-end lounge than a home. Past that was a dining area, the table long enough for ten but polished to a shine that suggested it wasn’t often used.

Then he took you down the hall to the master suite. The bedroom was spacious but not ostentatious, anchored by a bed large enough to swallow you whole. It was softened by details you hadn’t expected—heavy curtains, a worn leather chair in the corner, books stacked neatly on a nightstand. Not the kind of impersonal room you imagined in a man like him.

But it was the closet that stopped you cold. The space was larger than your entire bedroom at home, walls lined with dark wood shelves and neatly arranged clothing. His suits, pressed and orderly, filled one side. On the other, though—where you expected emptiness—were rows of neatly folded soft fabrics in your size. Pajamas. Sweaters. Undergarments in delicate lace and cotton, still with tags. Even shoes, flats and slippers and a pair of heels you knew you hadn’t bought. Your steps faltered. “Bucky…”

He watched you carefully, his hands tucked in his pockets, his jaw tight. “I didn’t want you to come here and not have anything.”

You turned slowly, looking at him. “You… bought all this?”

“I had someone pick it up,” he admitted, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing. But the way his eyes never left your face told you it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.

Your throat tightened. It wasn’t just that he’d thought of it—it was that he’d prepared for the possibility of you being here long before you ever were. You smiled softly, shy but earnest. “Thank you.”

His shoulders eased just slightly, and he stepped closer, brushing his knuckles along your arm. “Just want you comfortable, doll. Always.”

Before you could answer, a voice carried from down the hall, low but sharp. “She’s here, then?”

You turned, startled, as Natasha appeared in the doorway. She was different from how you’d pictured—tall, poised, her red hair a striking curtain around a face that gave nothing away. She leaned casually against the frame, though her eyes, green and assessing, flicked over you in a way that made you straighten unconsciously. Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah. She’s here.”

Natasha’s gaze lingered on you another beat before she gave the faintest of nods. “Good. Better she’s here than in the dark.”

You weren’t sure what to say, so you offered a small, polite smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Her lips curved, just barely. “We’ll see if you still think that later.” Then, with a glance at Bucky, “she’ll need to know more. Sooner rather than later.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, but he nodded once. Natasha’s gaze softened—if only slightly—before she slipped away as quietly as she’d come. The silence left behind felt heavier than the closet full of clothes, heavier than the glittering view outside. But when Bucky turned back to you, his eyes softened, grounding you once more. “You okay?” he asked. And this time, he phrased it like a question.

You let out a shaky breath, smiling faintly. “Yeah. I think so.”

Once Natasha’s footsteps faded, he tugged you gently back into the hall, his hand warm and steady around yours. “C’mon,” he said, softer now. “There’s more.”

The penthouse was larger than you’d realized. He showed you the kitchen first—polished stone counters, state-of-the-art appliances, cabinets so tall you wondered if he ever actually used them. But there were signs of him here too: a coffee mug left out near the sink, a half-empty bottle of scotch on the counter, a dish towel folded with military precision.

From there, he led you to a smaller sitting room, tucked away from the sweeping skyline. It felt more lived in than the main space—cozier, with a blanket folded across the back of the couch, a chessboard set up mid-game. You wondered if he played with Natasha, or if the board had been waiting for an opponent he hadn’t found until you.

He showed you a study too, lined with dark shelves and heavy books, the scent of old paper lingering faintly. A few leather-bound journals lay stacked neatly on the desk, a fountain pen resting perfectly parallel beside them. You didn’t ask, but part of you wondered what he wrote in them.

By the time you circled back to the master suite, the nerves that had knotted your stomach earlier had softened into something else—curiosity, warmth, and the quiet awe of realizing this was his space. And now, in some way, yours too. He paused at the bedroom door, his eyes flicking to you. “You should get ready for bed. The pajamas are in the closet.”

You bit your lip, shy but smiling, before disappearing into the walk-in again. The set you chose was simple—soft cotton, a pale color trimmed with delicate lace. It fit perfectly, hugging you without clinging, comfortable in a way that made your breath catch. He hadn’t just guessed. He’d known.

When you padded back into the bedroom, barefoot, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the pajama top, Bucky was already waiting. He sat at the edge of the bed, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, the city lights spilling across him through the windows. His gaze lifted the moment he heard you. And it lingered.

You froze for a moment under the weight of it, heat rushing to your cheeks. “They… fit,” you murmured.

His lips curved faintly, but his eyes stayed intent, almost reverent. “Told you. I just want you comfortable.”

You crossed the room slowly, and when you stopped in front of him, he reached for your hand, pulling you gently between his knees. His metal thumb brushed over your knuckles, his touch careful, grounding. “Stay here tonight,” he said quietly. Not a command. A request.

You nodded, your chest tight, your heart racing. “Okay.”

He exhaled softly, his hand sliding to your waist as he pressed a kiss against your stomach through the thin cotton. Then he looked up at you, his eyes blue and raw. “You look like you belong here.” And for the first time, standing barefoot in silk-soft pajamas in his penthouse bedroom, you believed him.

---

The bed was cold when you rolled over, your hand brushing against rumpled sheets where Bucky should’ve been. For a moment you thought maybe you’d imagined it—the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest pressed to your back—but the faint indentation in the mattress told you he’d only slipped away recently.

You sat up slowly, tugging the pajama top tighter around you, and padded out into the hall. The penthouse was hushed, the city beyond the windows muted in its endless glow. You followed the faintest sound—paper rustling, a pen scratching—to the study.

There he was. Bucky sat behind a heavy desk, sleeves rolled up, a lamp casting sharp shadows across his face. Papers were spread across the surface, neat columns of numbers, ledgers, notes scrawled in his firm hand. He didn’t look up at first, but the moment your bare feet padded against the rug, his gaze lifted. “Doll,” he murmured, his voice softening instantly. He set the pen down and held out a hand. “C’mere.”

You crossed the room, shy but certain, and when you reached him, he tugged you gently onto his lap. You settled sideways across his thighs, your head resting against his shoulder. His hand smoothed along your back, slow and steady, grounding you. “You should’ve eaten first,” he said, brushing his lips against your temple. “I’ll text Natasha, have her send something up.”

You hummed, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I didn’t come looking for food.”

His brow furrowed slightly as he angled his head to see you. “No?”

You shook your head, cheeks warming. “…I missed you. In bed.”

For a moment, the silence stretched. Then his chest rumbled with a low exhale, almost a laugh but not quite. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re gonna kill me saying things like that.”

You smiled shyly against him, and after a moment, curiosity tugged at you. You shifted just enough to glance at the papers scattered across the desk. Numbers, neat rows and totals, some underlined, some circled. “What’s all this?”

“Work,” he said simply, but when you didn’t look away, his mouth softened. “Keeping track of everything. Shipments, money in, money out. Making sure it all balances.”

You blinked, surprised. “You do the books yourself?”

“Trust’s hard to come by,” he said dryly, though his thumb traced idly over your hip. “Don’t like letting anyone else touch the numbers.”

Your lips curved faintly. “I do my shop’s books too. Every night before I close.”

That earned you a glance, one brow raised, a flicker of amusement breaking through his guarded expression. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not as complicated, but… numbers don’t lie. You can see the whole picture if you know where to look.”

His smirk deepened just slightly. “Smart girl.” He tapped one of the ledgers with a calloused finger. “Wanna help me, then?”

You looked at him in surprise, then back at the papers. The idea of being folded into this part of his world, even in something as simple as numbers, made your heart beat faster. Slowly, you nodded. “Alright,” you whispered. “Show me what you’ve got.”

And for the next hour, you sat curled on his lap while he walked you through the ledgers, his voice low and steady, his arm always around you. It was strange—intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not just the touch of him, but the trust of it.

Bucky’s voice had become a low murmur in your ear, patient as he explained the rows of numbers. You tried to keep up, scribbling a few notes in the margin of his ledger, but the warmth of his chest and the steady rhythm of his hand tracing circles over your thigh slowly lulled you. Your head grew heavier until it finally settled against his shoulder. He noticed the shift instantly. Your pen slipped from your hand, rolling across the desk. Bucky caught it without looking, setting it aside, his gaze softening when he realized your breaths had evened out. You’d fallen asleep on his lap, curled up like you belonged there.

For a while, he just let you rest, one arm wrapped around you protectively, the other turning pages with a deliberate quiet. Every so often, he brushed his thumb over your side or adjusted the blanket he’d pulled down from the back of the couch. A knock broke the silence. Sharp, precise. He didn’t even raise his voice when he answered, “come in.”

The door opened, and Natasha stepped inside, a tray balanced in her hands. Steam rose from a pot of tea, plates neatly covered. Her sharp gaze flicked over the scene in front of her—you asleep, Bucky’s arm wound firmly around you—and her lips curved just slightly. “She’s out,” she said softly, setting the tray down on the corner of the desk.

“Mm,” Bucky grunted in agreement, his hand still smoothing idly along your back.

Natasha straightened, crossing her arms. “You should put her in bed.”

His jaw tightened, and he shook his head once. “She’s fine here.”

The redhead studied him for a beat longer before nodding. “I’ll leave you two, then.” She turned to go, but paused at the door, glancing back with a raised brow. “You’re softer than I thought you’d be, Barnes.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just shifted slightly, holding you a little closer, his gaze fixed on your sleeping face. Natasha’s faint chuckle followed her out of the room. The penthouse grew quiet again. He leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the curve of your cheek against his chest. His hand stilled over your side as he bent to press the gentlest kiss to your hair. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so quiet you didn’t stir. “I’ll keep you safe. Always.”

The breakfast tray sat untouched on the desk, the tea growing cooler by the minute. But Bucky didn’t care. You were warm, you were breathing steady, and you were here.

And for him, that was enough.

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

bucky barnes taglist: @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu @averyhotchner @umbreoni

Damian is four years old, and being given a knife to play with. 

His pudgy little hands grip at it, weakly, trying to angle it as best as he can. He stares at it, at how it looks different. How it is too big for him. 

He throws it with all his little toddler strength, which isn’t a lot but more than the average 4 year old, and it thumps on the ground pathetically. He watches it slide away from where he is sat, and even as a child he knows how terrible the throw is. 

He cries, because he is an angry child, and angry children cry. 

He doesn’t know it yet, but he will carry that anger with him for a long, long time. 

===

Damian is six years old when his mother comes to his rooms to tell him she will be busy around the compound. 

Damian tilts his head at this, as she is always busy around the compound, but ultimately nods his understanding. His mother smiles at him, soft as she always is when it is just the two of them, and thanks him for his understanding, for being strong. He will cope without his mother for however long is necessary. It will not be much different. 

Except it is, it is very much different. 

Damian is a smart boy, so he learns quick: without his mother to occasionally drop by and monitor his training sessions, the teachers are rougher, more demanding. Three days without his mother, and they’ve taken it upon themselves to up the level of his training. 

When the Cat is away…

Damian grunts as he is tossed over onto his back, the hard dirt packed ground cold and unforgiving. The mats they usually train on are already thin, but at least the sharp edges of the rocks littered around are covered. 

He breathes out harshly through his nose, wary of another ‘scolding’ for breathing too loudly for an assassin. 

“Get up.” Today’s instructor is a woman, slim like his mother, but smaller, a full head shorter than most of the other assassins on the compound, but infinitely more meaner. He has forgotten her name, but he knows she has more things to prove in this compound than anyone else.

He gets up.

“Again.” So he gets tossed on his back again. And again. And again. 

“You bring shame to the Al Ghul name. You do not deserve the title of heir apparent.” it is nothing he hasn’t heard before. 

“Your mother babies you, coddles you. Again!” She sneers at him, tossing him onto his back once more. He pants out his mouth, loud and forceful, and feels like a failure.

But he is heir apparent. And that means he does not cry. He does not complain. 

She forcefully adjusts his stance, nails pinching and digging into his skin even through the thick cloth of his training garb. 

He is heir apparent, and that means he should do better.

So he does. Because Damian is a smart boy, so he learns quick: his body simply needs to keep up, and it is only a matter of time before it does. His instructor huffs, agitated and annoyed, before barking out an order to a nearby servant to fetch the throwing knives. 

She makes him throw tens of knives, a little under a hundred. He is still young, and his aim is abysmal. She runs him through it, corrects his stance with sharp talons and barking vitriol. She makes him count each and every throw, 132 now, and uses a stick to smack at the back of his calves when he is starting to flag. It is a terrible experience, but it works. He starts to get the trick of it. 

Throw 168 is a bullseye. Throw 169, the same. 

Throw 170 goes straight through his instructor's left eye. 

Damian is six years old when he has his first kill. 

He is a smart boy, so he learns quick: The League of Assassin’s is a dog eat dog world, survival of the fittest. And he knows a single truth: He is heir apparent, and if he does not stand strong, be better, he will die.

Simple as that. 

===

Damian is seven years old, and is about to die. 

It isn’t the first attempt on his life, and it will hardly be the last. 

Still, he is young and new and trembling, sweaty enough for the dagger he sleeps with to slip out of his hands as he tumbles over his bed. The assassin deftly flips over the bed, just as he crawls underneath and bursts out into the corridor. 

It is late at night, and he has no choice but to find some kind of cover. The hallway does not agree, wide open and cobble stoned. It’s a deliberate choice, to make it harder for would-be attackers. He is still too young to have the feel of the uneven floor ingrained into him. 

He stumbles, cobblestone working against him as the assassin tugs at this shirt collar, slamming onto his back. Big hands grip at his neck, pressing down until he can’t breathe, until the blood feels like it will pop his head like a piece of too ripe fruit. 

Disgustingly, a small sound manages to escape him that is eerily akin to a whimper. Black bleeds into his vision, the assassin’s cloaked face the only thing he can see. He wonders if Mother would be disappointed. He knows she loves him, and that she is trying to make the best of their living situation, but he does not actually know how she feels about his training. 

It is too late to ask, which infuriates him. He will die here, but that doesn’t mean he will die willingly. He claws at the hands cutting off his airflow, but it does little to deter his attacker despite the blood it draws. He spits at them, causing them to jolt back. Still they do not let go. 

His eyes feel like they are about to pop out of their sockets, like his neck bone might be giving in. His assailant laughs at him, and it is very unpleasant. He is glad for the bloodrush in his ears, because it drowns out that awful, ugly laughter, just a bit. His muscles slack, against his will, and his vision blurs.

And then his assailant is suddenly gone, flying sideways so suddenly their nails catch at his neck as they slide away. Damian takes heaving gulping breaths, coughing and choking at the spit and blood. 

When he has his wits about him, on his knees and one hand with bleary eyes, the other hand coming up to cradle his own neck. The scratches there sting, but the bruising is the worst of it. There is a man—no, a boy straddling his would-be assassin and punching at them in reckless abandon. The assailant tussles with the newcomer, attempting to roll over or buck them off, but they force the roll to loop once more and stay steady. There are cracking sounds now that Damian recognizes, but cannot seem to place. 

“Little Robin, that is enough.” His mother’s voice echoes in the hall, ripping Damian’s gaze towards her. She’s at the corner, still a ways away, lightly out of breath but impeccably graceful regardless. As if she ran to catch up. 

The punching noises have stopped, Damian distantly notices. When he looks over at the newcomer, they still have a fist up in the air, as if they have frozen mid action. Robin, who is neither little nor large in Damian’s opinion, drops their fist but does not move away. The body below them does not twitch. 

“Habibi, are you alright?” Suddenly, his mother is crouched before him, eyeing him over, cataloging every little hurt and ache. He knows she is worried, that she cares, and yet still, her gaze stings of failure. He failed in saving himself, and Mother is here to witness it. He has not seen her in weeks. 

“I am fine, Mother.” He tries not to sound petulant, to sound confident and uncaring. But he is seven years old, and some part of him yearns. For what, he does not know. He was never taught.

She reaches out to him, adjusting his hair, lightly tracing the back of her index finger down his cheek, still rounded with youth. She sighs, and he tries not to lean into the feeling, not to blow away with it. He fails.

“Alright.” She ushers him up, guides him towards his room before stopping in the doorway to look over her shoulder. Damian risks a peek, eyeing the newcomer.

Robin's eyes are vacant, shadowed, but are intense in their almost teal-like blue. His jet black hair is shinier than Damian’s rough locks, his skin paler in the moonlight. On closer inspection he is not a boy at all, but possibly a teen—awkward proportions like he has yet to fill out. He looks empty, like a dog who has lost its purpose—its master. 

“Damian, this is…Robin.” Mother falters over the name, a rare occasion. She looks unsure, which makes him scrutinize the teen harder, “They have just about finished their…training.”

Robin looks towards Mother, reacting to the name by getting up and sloping over. They seem to toddle, as if unused to their own limbs, before stopping next to Damian. Robin crouches, staring at Damian with vacant eyes, searching, too big hands reaching over. One gently prods at his neck, where the bruises are no doubt now surfacing. The other cradles his still assuredly small hands, turning them this way and that to inspect the cracked up nails. 

Robin grunts, scooping Damian up into his arms despite his protests. The teen is strong, holding him tightly and looking at Mother with some kind of expression that causes her to heave a heavy sigh. “Let us get you cleaned up, Habibi. It seems that you will be seeing more of Robin in the future.”

Damian’s night usually starts with a quick shower to wash off the grime of wherever he’s been put—sometimes a forest, sometimes in an abandoned city, most times within the sandy compound itself. He dons the high collared, gold trimmed outfits his Mother urges him to wear, and sits to have dinner—sometimes alone, sometimes across Mother, less often times with his Grandfather cutting an imposing figure at the head of the table. 

And then Damian goes to bed, alone, until he wakes up to start the cycle anew—sometimes alone, sometimes with an unwanted visitor, sometimes with his Mother softly knocking on the door jamb. 

With Robin’s arrival, everything changes. 

With Robin’s arrival, Damian’s day starts with a large hand shaking him awake, causing him to grab the knife under his pillow and blindly stab at the intruder and disappointingly being thwarted by the other, just as idiotically large hand. 

He prepares himself for the day in 15 minutes, because Robin makes it difficult, and has it in mind that Damian should properly brush his teeth, despite the fact that Damian does. He is, frankly, insulted by the insinuation that he does not brush his teeth for long enough, by a mute imbecile no less. He’s more insulted by the amount of time he wastes just trying to figure out the accursed teens intentions. They give no real input, no indication on what they want, simply moves whatever is displeasing them. 

Damian was picked up like a sack of potatoes and placed back in front of the sink six times before he understood. He still boils about it even now. 

Things have changed, and Damian is wholly displeased by it. Their presence adds an entirely unnecessary amount of steps to his routine, wasting his time unrepentantly. It frustrates Damian that he has not once been able to win over them, and it frustrates Damian even more that it takes him so long just to figure out what the imbecile wants from him. 

Robin has been treating him like a fool, like this is some kind of game. 

Damian’s day is now littered with back and forths—one sided, of course, because Robin is still mute, and it is foolish, but Damian can be heard throughout the compound arguing with air. 

His teachers sneer, but they cannot touch him, nor can they touch Robin. Mother has ensured it. 

Mother, confusedly, seems to find the change amusing. 

Because the biggest change of all, with Robin’s arrival, was Mother herself. 

Damian just wasn’t sure how. 

===

Mother comes to him one night, solemn and tense, with a cloth bag hidden underneath her cloak.

“Good evening, Habibi.” Despite the soft words, Damian tenses at how stiff she remains, how she mechanically tucks the sheets around him and takes care to place the mysterious bag on the floor by her feet.

She’s been doing this, lately, this act of checking upon him before he is set to slumber once every week or so. Damian is not sure what to make of it, but something has possessed his Mother and he is loathe to deny her much of anything. 

It seems to be a fixation—a goal of sorts, and Damian does not dislike these private moments between them. 

But tonight is special, it seems. 

“Good evening, Mother.” Damian finally replies, once his Mother seems settled. She reaches for him, carefully pushing back the strands of hairs fallen onto his face. He is due for a haircut, but Robin has been making a fuss about sharp objects outside of the training room. It has become a problem that Damian is still trying to tackle. 

“I…I have something for you, dear heart.” Mother whispers, and Damian still cannot shake the unease with which her apparent nerves have caused. Is this gift the reason why? Is it his first mission? He stays silent, as the questions whirl. His mind spins with possibilities, but he has not been taught nearly enough regarding missions—he has only been taught violence and demands and survival.

Mother reaches down into the cloth bag, pulling out a lump of cloth and placing it in her lap to unwind it. Damian watches warily, until…more cloth is revealed. 

He sits up, squinting and trying to understand why Mother would go through the trouble of wrapping fabric within fabric. Is the item especially prone to dirt and stains? Is it something precious?

Mother smiles gently, much prettier than Robin’s smile, if a little stiffer. Damian has yet to really see himself smiling, but he wonders if his smile would be just like his Mother’s, or his supposed Father’s. She hands him what looks like, perhaps, a cloth bear. 

He had learned about bears in his lessons regarding wilderness survival when he was 5 years old. What he wants to know is why Mother would give him a miniature dummy version of it now, when he completed that training years ago. He takes the small plush, tilting it this way and that. It is not anatomically correct, and in fact seems to be exaggerated in proportions. Its head is too big, and its torso is not as rectangular as it should be. He looks up at her, questioning, before freezing at her expectant and excited look. 

This is a test. 

He studies the bear once more, scrutinizing more closely. When he squeezes it, he notices that it does not seem to have any organs inside it, merely stuffing. He also notices that his Mother leans forward, just a scant, as if anticipating. This must be it! 

He grips the bear by the head, facing it towards Mother and triumphantly points at the side of its neck, small though it may be.

“Here, Mother. This is where I would cut it should I need to dispatch such a creature. If given time to prepare, I would go from behind.” He turns the bear away, as if to demonstrate, before turning it back to her. 

“If it were attacking me I would duck under.” He makes a motion, lifting the bear just a bit to make room for his free hand to sweep under, “And then tackle the weak point from that angle, catch it off guard that way.”

He smiles up at her, triumphant and confident at giving her the correct answer. 

Except his Mother’s face falls, causing his smile to falter. Was his answer not correct? He places the bear down, puzzled and frustrated and feeling like a failure.

”....I’m sorry Mother. Was that not correct?” He looks down in defeat. He was confident, and fool to feel so.

Mother sighs, gently ushering him to lay back down and placing the bear side him on the pillow, as if tucking it in with him. He tries very hard not to touch the bear, lest he give in to how soft it is against his skin. Mother reaches over to poke at his furrowed brows, startling him into relaxing them as he looks back up at her. She smiles at him, but it is sad now. He feels a pang at failing her. 

“It was correct, habibi, a perfect answer.” She hesitates, before nudging the bear towards him, enough to touch and ruin all his efforts. “This is your reward. Keep it safe, just for the two of us.” 

He nods at her, shuffling to pull the bear under the covers so it is hidden. It must be important, so he will keep it safe as she bids him to. The fabric feels soft between his fingers, and he inadvertently clutches at it. He doesn’t understand. 

She bids him good night with a gaze full of emotions Damian struggles to comprehend, and in the darkness he runs his fingers through the fur of the bear and wonders and wonders and wonders.

It isn’t until much later, in the soft light of the moon in a Manor far far away, that he learns of his mistake—of Mother’s sweet, heartbreaking lie.

===

There is something odd about Robin. 

There are several things, in fact. The teen is mute, for one thing, but selectively so from what Damian can gather in the scant month that he knows them. They grunt and hum and tilt their head, emoting with their body as if they are used to facial expressions not being enough, but never actually talk. 

It is hard to say how present the teen is, as they seem to stare off into the distance when they aren’t actively doing a task that has been given to them, which is often. 

Robin, Damian notices, does not do anything unless commanded to or scheduled. They follow the schedule to a T, mute and with a vacant and blank expression, but otherwise?

The only exception to that rule, the oddest thing, that thing that bothers him the most, is that Robin insists on following Damian around. The worst of it is that Mother lets him. 

He remembers throwing a fit about it, and Mother sighing about it. 

“They will be your protector, for now.” Mother had said to him, weeks ago as she was bandaging his neck, “They are capable enough for it. And it would be…prudent, for you to be used to them.”

Damian had almost curled into himself, shame crawling into his stomach, but was waylaid by Robin’s arms around him. In the face of his Mother’s disappointment, he had forgotten he was sat upon Robin’s lap, restrained like some kind of errant prisoner. 

Damian had struggled, but his Mother had given him a Look, and Damian was tired. He sat stiffly there until Mother had finished bandaging him, which seemed to be the signal Robin was looking for to finally let go. When he had swiftly jumped off and dusted himself off to shake off the unusual warmth caused from the teen’s body heat, Robin had stood up and pat him on the head.

It had caused him to stiffen for a fraction of a moment before instinctively pressing the heel of his hand up and away in a sharp upward motion. Robin simply moved their hand away to dodge the blow, dropping it to their side and smiling an vague, lopsided smile at him.

That is another thing that Damian notices, that Robin does not actually smile at anyone much at all. They smile at Damian with half lidded eyes, as if sad and proud at the same time. As if scared for Damian, which is absurd.

(Damian had seen it, once, when Robin smiled at him with their whole face, only to clutch at the pink scar that ran from the edge of their lip all the way to their left temple. Robin did not smile for days after that).

There is something odd about Robin.

A great many things, actually, that frustrates Damian to no end. 

They will not stop following him around, they insist at every single juncture that Damian is not properly taking care of himself, and they are determined to…to fix that, to touch him. 

Ruffling his hair, picking him up by the scruff, patting him on the shoulder—always, always, Damian is shocked by it. Always, he reacts with violence and yet still, Robin persists. 

For whatever reason, Robin has decided that Damian is incompetent, a child. 

And Damian loathes, loathes, that somehow, somewhere along the way, Damian has become numb to it. Damian has become used to Robin’s touches, and it makes everyone else’s touch all the more…harsh. Abrasive. Jarring. It makes his reactions more extreme, more intune to the person’s intent.

It sharpens his instincts, and most horrid of all, it makes him comfortable. 

There are many things odd with Robin, but there is something terribly odd about Damian too:

Damian, against all odds, has come to trust the accursed teen. Almost as much as his Mother.

And Damian, in all his youth and intellect, truly and honestly does not know what to do with that information.

===

“Habibi.” Mother’s voice croons at him, just outside his room. 

Robin twitches, but does not move from where they sit sentinel beside Damian on the bed. Dread fills Damian from head to toe, but he does not falter. He slowly sits himself up, Robin supporting him subtly with a hand on his back. 

Mother does not take another step in, but Damian can see her hand clenched tightly closed. 

Damian finally sits up, Robin hissing and fretting, much to his displeasure. Robin has been doing this lately, hissing. It is unbecoming, and something Damian has been trying to train him out of doing. 

It is another thing he has failed miserably at. 

“Good evening, Mother.” Damian whispers. He has not yet mastered his vocal control, his voice not yet broken in puberty. It is irritatingly high pitched, despite the way he tries to emulate one of his teacher’s low drawls.

“You’re hurt.” She says, unnecessarily. It is apparent, with the large white bandages wrapped around his still yet small body. 

“I am.” He answers, though she did not ask, per say. He’s at a loss. The first time he failed this badly, Robin was there as a buffer. Now, it is stranger to see Damian without Robin by his side than with. Now, his Mother has no other options but to talk to him about his failures. 

It is Damian’s worst nightmare, disappointing her. More than his grandfather, more than the Al Ghul name, more than anything, and it is this moment, right now. He grits his teeth, enough to hear his jaw creak, and ignores the hot prickling behind his eyes.

There’s a beat of silence, as Robin fusses and Damian pushes their hands away, where they simply stare at each other. Damian’s heart is in his throat, and his Mother looks….lost. 

Damian doesn’t know what to do about that. Equally, his Mother also doesn’t know what to do about that, it seems.

Like Mother, like Son. 

She takes careful steps inside, eyes Robin, mirroring the teen. Her movements are awkward, but gentle as she checks him over. It is no different than when he usually gathers the stray cut or two, but…But it is entirely different. too. The intent of it tastes of unfamiliarity and hesitance. It’s that goal of Mother’s, again. The one Damian’s been struggling to understand, and failing at. He thinks he’s gotten closer, honed his skills from figuring out Robin’s intentions, but it still seems so out of reach.

“You are alright?” Mother asks, and Damian can do nothing but nod. 

Mother sighs a long, hurt little sigh, and it stings him worse than the stab wound throbbing on his side. It spurs him to explain himself, to make sure Mother knows he isn’t a total failure. 

“There was another assassin,” Damian starts, almost a report. “Robin and I dispatched them quickly, but I simply was too slow to guard my right side.” He takes a breath, slow, “I will be faster, next time. I saw it coming, so the issue is with my body's speed and slow growth.”

He stares at his sheets, watches Robin smooth out the wrinkles in his periphery. There is a shuffle, before Mother’s hand enters his view. He blinks, both because he’s not sure what he’s seeing, and because Robin has frozen stock still beside him. 

There is something in Mother’s hand…some kind of plastic figurine that does not fully fit in her hand. It’s of a man, painted monochrome in grays and tans. He has a double breasted suit, light gray, with a dark gray cape for some reason. He sports some kind of trilby, with bright blue lensed goggles covering the top half of the face.

Damian stares, glancing up at Mother, who takes his hand to place the figure into. He grips it weakly as she shuffles through her pockets once more, pulling out a small handful of miniature accessories: a gun, some kind of remote-control looking orange car with a number 1 on the side, a set of alternative hands in different positions, and….a tiny DVD case sporting the words GRAY GHOST in bright yellow font. Mother places those into his other hand, and he stares and stares and stares. 

A low, painful keening disrupts his scattered thoughts, whipping his head to watch as Robin makes distressful noises. He shares a look with his Mother, both at a loss and unsure as to what could cause such a reaction. 

Robin grips at the sheets, and does not stop staring at the figure, so Damian thrusts the toy at the teen, hoping for…for something. Robin has never made such a noise before, and it’s throwing him off kilter. 

Robin does not take the figure from him, only stares with that unblinking blankness, tracking as Damian places it carefully in front of them. There is another long moment, but there isn’t much else he can do, and Robin is no longer making those painful noises so he deems it good enough. He faces his Mother for guidance instead. 

Mother’s gaze is thoughtful, heavy with some sort of recognition, and possibly even regret. When she catches him looking she coughs a little ungracefully, an entirely unfamiliar habit. This too, throws Damian off, but Mother has been like that lately. A little ungraceful. 

In truth, Damian quite likes it. 

But it is also true that Damian does not know what to do with this Mother. 

“I have brought up…memories, I believe.” She finally says, rueful. “This was for you, a little souvenir from my last mission. It is your reward.” Damian thinks about the bear, hidden beneath the pillows, his last reward from half a year ago. He was safely keeping it in a hidden spot underneath a loose brick in his rooms, but Robin has insisted the plush be settled with Damian every night. It has long been a battle Damian has given up winning. 

“But I have done nothing to earn it,” Damian’s voice sounds soft and vulnerable. He hates it. 

“...You survived today, did you not?” Mother asks after another long moment. There are a lot of long moments tonight. Still, he flinches just that tiny bit at the reminder. 

“Not of my own merit.” He risks another glance at Robin, who is now cradling the figurine, turning it this way and that with a scrunched up face of what Damian thinks might be remembrance. 

Mother follows his gaze, smiling a little painfully. “Well. It seems you will have to share this one souvenir then.” 

He nods, because what else is he supposed to do? Mother reaches out for him, hand hovering for just a millisecond before she pats him awkwardly on the head—the way that Robin does. Damian’s chest warms under the flush of confusion that washes over him. 

It is not the first time Mother has given him skinship, but she was always so careful, so deliberate before. This awkward fumbling is new. Another thing that Damian quite likes, but is not sure what to do with. 

He tries to smile up at her instead, and is pathetically grateful when she softly beams back at him. 

She stands up then, dusting herself off and beckoning Robin with a soft command. The teen follows mutely, as ever, pausing to try and place the figure onto the bed next to Damian. 

“You may have it tonight, Robin.” Damian whispers, unsure, though his upbringing begs him to meet the other’s eyes. Robin seems to consider him for a moment, eyes seeming to shine a little bluer, clearer than the usual cloudy opacity, before silently placing the toy into one of their pockets. 

Mother bids him good night, Robin trailing after her silently, and Damian is…lost, in the dark. 

He still has the accessories cupped in his hand, and he wonders who Gray Ghost is. 

He wonders why Robin reacted that way, if his memories are coming back. 

He wonders why Mother rewarded him tonight, when he should have been punished instead. 

He wonders throughout the night, but even as Dawn breaks through, he does not get any answers. 

===

Damian wakes up within the cradle of familiar arms. 

Robin has been shooting up, these past three years, what with the training and the food and the dealings of assassins in the night. Damian has not stooped so low as to be jealous, considering he is only 10 years old and will grow into his muscles yet, but he is definitely not pleased. 

Especially since Robin still insists on picking him up like a toddler. Damian is loathe to admit that even as a 10 year old, he is small for his age. According to the average heights around America, at least. 

He rubs his eyes, ready to scold Robin yet again per routine, but stops short. They are not in his rooms. In fact, they are not even heading to breakfast. 

It isn’t even light out yet. 

“Robin.” Damian growls out, looking around in the dark, “Where on earth are you taking me?”

It’s a useless question, considering Robin is mute and will not answer. But Damian has taken to talking to the damned teen in some kind of annoying habit he has not yet trained himself out of. Robin usually answers with an assortment of noises, or some kind of gesture, but on the whole largely ignores him. 

“Robin.” Damian tries again, he’s realizing now that he’s wrapped up in a winter coat, the bear and figurine that Mother asked him to keep secret placed carefully in the nook of his body so that they don’t fall. Damian secures them beneath the coat, just in case. 

“Robin! Are we in danger?” Damian asks, because Robin has so far respected Damian’s need to hide his treasures away only bringing the bear out at night. He had expected the same treatment with the figurine, but it’s been a week since he’s seen the toy, since his Mother dropped it off. 

If Robin has bundled Damian up to whisk him away another assassin might have visited without Damian noticing—though it is unlikely. Damian has not been caught off guard by an assailant in years. 

He glances around, noting that they are now heading towards the back of the compound, through the training halls that lead out to where they depart for missions. Perhaps an assassin visited Robin in the night instead? But then, Robin would have simply killed the assailant and be done with it. Robin stops abruptly, causing Damian to tense in preparation of battle, only to stutter.

Because it is not an enemy that faces them, but Mother. 

“Habibi? Robin?” Mother asks, perplexed. She looks dusty, but impeccable as ever as she discards a pair of bloody gloves. She must have just come back from a mission. She zeroes in on the little hump in Damian’s lap, the way Robin cradles him, as if shielding him from Mother. What in the world?

Damian looks between the two, confused and disgruntled and tired. He notes that a single bear paw is sticking out from under the coat, with the figurine’s face popping out beside it. He adjusts so that both are out of sight, but Mother has already caught it. She squints, flicking a glance at him before staring resolutely at Robin. 

Robin, for some reason, growls pitifully back. 

Mother sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Robin. Take him back.” 

Robin huffs, but does not move.

“Robin. It is bed time.”

Robin, again, does not move. They straighten, adjusting Damian as if mocking Mother for some reason. That seems to be the last straw. 

“Robin. It is not the time. We have talked about this before.” 

Robin twitches, but for whatever reason that seems to work. They sigh, theatrically as they are wont to do nowadays, and twirl around. Damian feels a little vertigo, nothing he can’t handle, but peeks over Robin’s shoulder to do a little wave towards his Mother. 

He’s not sure what’s happening, and it frustrates him, but he trusts Mother and he’s tired. She smiles softly, waving back at him, so this must be a one time thing.

Damian is asleep before he and Robin arrive back in his rooms. 

===

Except it is not a one time thing, because It happens again.

And again.

And again. 

Three times In the last month, Damian has woken up in Robin’s arms midst—he doesn’t know, escape? And it is frustrating him and his Mother. 

Each and every time Mother catches them, Damian waking up infuriatingly when the one-sided arguments get heated, and each and every time they are sent back to Damian’s rooms.

He doesn’t understand. 

Robin has been prowling around like a caged animal, picking him up more than usual, piling on food and carefully keeping track of the bear and figure almost obsessively. 

Mother will not explain, and Robin is obviously no help. 

Damian huffs. Tonight is thankfully a kidnapping free night, but there are no guarantees for tomorrow. He refuses to live like this. He will demand Mother explain in the morning, with the argument that if Robin won’t listen to Mother, maybe they’ll listen to him. 

Damian has successfully trained Robin to let him take care of any assassins that visit his room in the night after all. Surely, he can convince Robin to stop kidnapping him in the middle of the night. 

Mind made up, Damian falls into a blissful and determined sleep. 

Tomorrow.

===

Damian wakes up the next day peacefully for the first time in months.

Robin must be on a mission, which is odd but not entirely unusual. Mother usually tells him when Robin is sent out, but perhaps she did not have the time. 

He goes through his routine, blissfully unhindered, and goes over once more what he will say to Mother as he brushes his teeth. Twenty minutes later, he arrives at the breakfast table ready to wait for his Mother only to falter.

She is already there, sitting stiffly and sporting quite a few injuries. 

Alarmed, he makes to go to her, only for Mother to put a hand up, and gesture him to his seat with a shake of her head. He stays tense, but follows her directive, sitting straight backed and rigid as the servants serve their meal, leg almost bouncing if not for his training.

The table is set, and the servants leave with another wave of Mother’s hand, and then they are alone. Neither of them pick up their utensils. He waits and it feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff. 

Questions swirl around his head, what happened to Mother? Where is Robin? Is Robin brutally injured? Was Robin there when Mother was injured? Were they on a mission together without telling Damian?

“Habibi,” Mother starts, breaking the silence like a sledgehammer. She pauses, looking at a loss, before she adopts a solemn expression. Damian braces himself for the next blow. 

“Robin has…left us.” At first, Damian doesn’t understand. Left? Left where? On a mission?

And then it hits him. Us. Left…us. 

“I do not understand.” Damian’s voice is small, but not broken. He is too…too strong for that. 

“There were…complications.” Mother winces, imperceptible if not for the fact that Damian has known and loved her all his life. “His memories came back and we had a minor…disagreement.”

His gaze flickers over her injuries. Minor indeed. 

“And then he left.” Damian says, mechanically. 

“And then he left.” Mother confirms, but does not elaborate. 

There is a maelstrom of questions and feelings and, and doubt whirling through him. 

He opens his mouth many times, to say something, ask anything, but in the end do nothing. 

He goes through breakfast like that, in silence with his Mother, with questions unasked and things unsaid. It is laughable, truly.

Damian al Ghul, heir to the Demon Head, Son of Talia al Ghul, thwarted by a single emotion: 

His steps are quiet, his kills are quick, and his words hold weight. 

The problem is this:

Damian has just turned 11 years old, and he has forgotten how to be okay with the silence.

Three years of begging Gods he doesn’t believe in for a moment of quiet, of respite from an obnoxious mute who still managed to speak volumes, and now that he has it he doesn’t know how to act? 

Pathetic.

===

The first week, Damian oversleeps three different times.

Each teacher reacts differently:

The first one ignores it, and carries on. The second one, Damian is sneered at, and training that day is extra harsh.

The third one, Damian ends the day with a fresh scar to his neck, and a dead teacher.

The rest of the month does not fare much better.

===

The second month, Damian makes two small mistakes during a mission.

They are negligible, barely blips, not even enough to make it into the final report.

One: Damian had frozen for a split second when one of the targets tried to grab him by the back of the neck, It is not enough of a pause for the target to actually exploit, but the recoil of it begets a reactional and instinctual violence.

Two: By the time Damian comes back to himself, instead of a quick and silent death the target suffered an extra stab wound and broken arm before being dispatched. The arm is at an odd angle, and Damian had stared at it with heaving breaths and an anger that felt a lot more like pain and sorrow.

When he reports to his Mother on the success of the mission, he ignores the long look she gives him with aplomb.

He focuses, instead, on how his Mother has fully healed from the injuries she incurred that night.

===

The third month, Damian tries to ask his Mother more about what happened that night.

He fails.

===

The fourth month, Damian has stopped looking over to his left or right for someone who isn't there anymore.

He sits at the dinner table, and the quiet is no longer a loud ringing sound, simply the peaceful little noises that utensils make against dishware.

Food begins to taste dull again, but it makes meal times go by faster, so Damian cannot complain.

He rarely ever does now.

===

The fifth month, Damian has more night time visitors than a whore in a whore house.

He wakes up tired and weary, but as he is trained he does not show it. The pile of bodies start to become cumbersome.

Something is happening in the League, but Damian cannot really grasp it.

He has not seen his Mother in weeks.

===

The sixth month, Damian is pulling out the stuffed bear and figurine from the hiding space he and Robin created per his nightly routine, when he stops.

He realizes that there is no one here to enforce this secret anymore.

He realizes that Robin was the one who started this habit. Insisted on it.

He realizes that Mother asked him to keep them safe, sleeping with them was not a requirement.

He realizes a great many things that he cannot articulate, even to himself.

After a long moment, he puts the bear and figure back in their hiding spot, and goes to bed.

===

The seventh month, Damian finally sees his Mother.

She is angry, though she does not show it. Damian can simply feel it in the air, on his skin.

She visits him that night, and tells him that the League is changing.

She tells him to be vigilant, that she is handling it but that he must not let his guard down.

She tells him that Grandfather will not be joining them for meal times anymore.

The last time Grandfather joined them for meal time, Robin was still here.

He does not understand, but nods his assent. She kisses him on the forehead, grips his hand, looks him in the eyes, and nods back.

She leaves.

===

The eighth, ninth, and tenth month, Damian has changed rooms nine times.

Each and every time, he dusts off the bear and figure, and hides them amongst his things.

Damian lives out of a duffle bag, but it does not change much.

He did not have many personal effects in the first place, after all.

===

The eleventh month, Damian finally has enough.

He confronts his Mother, about that night, about what is happening in the League, about Grandfather.

It becomes a fight, as close to a temper tantrum a trained assassin can get.

His Mother only half indulges him.

He learns about the Lazarus Pits, a thing he's been taught about, a thing he's been told to revere, a thing he's seen on the rare occasion in the distance but has not had the chance to actually touch—to actually know it.

He learns that Grandfather has become erratic, that the League's political landscape is much more complicated than it needs to be, that Damian was created in a lab and artificially aged to four years old, that Damian is not the only one, but the only one allowed to live.

He learns he has a Father.

He learns about Batman, about the context of the many expectations put upon him, about Father's years in the League.

He learns about Mother's love.

===

It isn't until the twelfth month, once he has had time to settle with this new information, that Damian realizes Mother has never actually told him anything about that night Robin left.

He knows it's something to do with the Pits, but nothing about the aftermath of it.

He resolves himself to ask in the morning.

He doesn't get the chance.

===

A year and 21 days after Robin left finds Damian swiftly and efficiently packing his meager belongings into his duffle bag.

Most of it is already in there, it is simply toiletries and the bear and figurine that must be retrieved.

Mother is standing guard at the door, and they have very little time.

He is being sent away.

Grandfather is trying to kill him, and Mother has seen fit to send him to his illustrious Father.

It is temporary. She had said. For your safety, whilst I sort the League out.

Damian zips up his bag, heads towards his Mother to say their goodbyes.

She looks into his eyes, and they share a long, loaded look.

She looks sad, pained, as she runs a hand through his hair, whispers a soft "We will meet again soon, Habibi."

She looks like she's lying through her teeth.

He's taller than Mother by a scant inch or two, his shoulders broad. He has a strong jaw, and though it is too early to know with certainty, Damian's jaw is squarer than Mother's, so this must be the origin.

He knows he has his mother's eyes, and darker skin tone, but he has no idea what he's inherited from Father beyond possibly his jaw. The cowl does give him much to work on, which he supposes is the point.

The talk is simple.

Damian's life is in danger, he will be here temporarily, and Mother will pick him up at a later date.

Other than the life-threatening aspect of it, it is a fairly mundane conversation that any divorced mother and father would have regarding dropping off their child.

Not that Mother and Batman ever married, as far as he knows.

He realizes now that the oft used insult, "bastard" is accurate for him. Somehow, that amuses him to no end.

Mother and Batman are having a silent conversation now, and though Damian is loathe to be left out of a conversation, he understands that perhaps dropping sudden news of a child he never knew existed would require some time to process. Nevermind that said child is closer to a clone with two donors, as opposed to the actual children Batman seems to have.

Damian had a whole month, he can give his father more than a couple of minutes.

He focuses on their surroundings instead, eyeing his temporary home. Gotham is bleak, foggy, and though there are lights aplenty in these many windows, they are dim and small.

But Gotham looks endless, the edges of her are blurred from the fog and the murky waters give off the slight smell of salt, tempering the smog.

She's beautiful, imposing, even with all the cracks and crumble, because of it, even.

She has Gargoyles adorning her buildings, protectors, reminding him of another protector—he cuts off that thought and focuses beyond, instead.

There's another person, two rooftops away, eyeing them and hiding in the shadows, and another atop a building further away.

He tracks them both, watches as they converge.

One of them waves to him.

He does not wave back.

Batman twitches, as if hearing something in the middle of his heated and whispered conversation with Mother, and Damian realizes this must be his father's cohorts.

The other, permanent, children who have taken up the Batman mission the way Damian will take up the League's mission. Batman must have some kind of communication device with them.

Damian watches as another shadow joins the other two. Then another.

He squints, trying to recall how many children his father collected altogether. Will they all come to ogle him?

"Beloved." The tone of Mother's voice has Damian standing to attention, ignoring his nosy…siblings, "If you do not wish to reveal your precious identity to him, place him in a safehouse. I assure you, as long as he is in your domain, he can take care of himself."

Damian looks his father in the eyes, as best he can, to convey how capable he is. Damian, frankly, is still at a loss on what to do with a father, much less an abundance of apparent siblings. Living alone in a safehouse, albeit boring and quiet, might be boon.

He puffs out his chest, and smirks placidly, confidence oozing from his pores like he was borne with it (he wasn't, he wasn't, but he was borne capable, at least). It feels childish, but Robin was childish, and Damian has not yet outgrown his antics, despite his best attempts.

Batman crouches, and it is hard to tell through the white lens of the cowl, but Damian thinks he is search for something. His eyes snag on places Damian is unsure the significance of: his ears, his chin, his brow.

Damian obediently waits for judgement, trying to ignore the shadowy shape of his collected siblings jumping and flipping and changing shape in apparent glee.

For some reason, a number of hands shoot up, as if to say hi, one of the shapes standing up and tall and urging them to put them down.

He's so distracted by it, a foolish mistake, he misses Batman reaching up, misses the rustle of the cape and the unbuckling and zips.

The shadows hoot and holler before shooting off, one by one into a distance Damian can't even begin to guess. One of them, the same shadow from before, waves delicately at him before they turn to go.

He blinks.

Damian supposes inheriting his father's eyebrows and nose isn't too bad of a deal.

Besides, pretty as his father's blue eyes are, Mother's green definitely suits him better.

===

The Wayne Manor is large, and imposing.

It looks manicured, well-kept and picturesque.

But Gotham, true to its reputation, is ominous and there is no other way to say it: Gothic.

Wayne Manor, despite its photoshoot ready landscaping, still looks like it belongs here, on this high hilled cliff and formidable height.

Father does not speak a word to Damian the entire ride there.

Damian suspects he is also at a loss for what to say.

Like Father like Son.

The Bat-mobile drives like a dream, rumbling through the streets with ease despite it's very long silhouette.

Entering the Bat-Cave was easy, but getting subsequently swarmed by siblings was definitively not.

He is crowded by questions, many of which Damian ignores, and is assaulted by hands reaching to pat him or shake his hand or what-have-you.

Damian dodges all of them, cataloguing what little he knows. As a butler who introduces himself as Alfred Pennyworth offers him refreshments. He refuses, and does not let the man take his duffle.

Your Father has many children, Habibi, Mother had said on the way to Gotham. Memorize their names, be amiable. Do not pry.

Nightwing flips into a chair, calls himself Richard "Dick" Grayson.

Spoiler and Blackbat lean against each other, introducing the other between giggles and laughter as Stephanie Brown and Cassandra "Cass" Cain.

Robin stands hunched over a cup of coffee, the name jolting Damian into an anger so misplaced it must be back at the Compound.

The older teen is distrustful, and does not unmask until it is basically ripped off him by Spoiler—Brown. This caution, and the clear difference in stature and face from the figure in his memories, soothes Damian at a speed the Batmobile might be jealous of. Damian can appreciate competence when he sees it, at least.

You are not here to cause trouble, Mother had said, You are here to stay safe.

Robin is a common name. Grayson implied that it's inherited. A mantle. Damian will have to get used to it. He is not here to cause trouble.

The distrustful teen is summarily introduced as Timothy "Tim" Drake-Wayne. Damian wonders if Drake or Wayne would be appropriate, or if he will insist on the hyphen.

Two sets of footsteps, one thumping rapidly down and another sedate, echo through the cave.

The first to arrive is an older teen, perhaps more accurately a young man, of African descent, clad in a gray pajama ensemble sporting Gotham University on the chest. Duke Thomas, the man behind the one and only day time hero in Gotham, Signal.

And then the second set, the heavy boot falls trailing lazily behind, steps into view.

Damian's entire world freezes, for just a moment.

It’s Robin. He knows it’s Robin—but how? There’s a white tuft to his shiny black hair that wasn’t there before, and he’s paler now—as pale as he was when Damian first saw him as a teen, before he filled out, before he started tanning under the sun with Damian—

“Who’s the kid?” Damian jerks at the sound—that was, what was that? Instantly, he is climbing Robin and gripping at the older man’s face, pressing into the joint of the man’s jaw, where it meets the neck.

“You can speak?” Damian gruffly demands, ignoring the large hand pushing at him. Damian slaps it away, ignores it—if Robin wanted him off, he would be off by now.

“What the fu–get off!” Robin demands, grabbing at Damian’s waist to pry him off. Damian is more focused on the vibrations he felt when the man spoke—so it was psychosomatic. 

It makes sense, his mind was rapidly deteriorating, but Robin’s body was the epitome of healthy and hale. Something must have happened, that night Robin left—during the argument Mother had with them. Damian ruminates on this as he is placed on his feet when suddenly, realization washes over him.

This is Robin. Robin who—Damian whips up, startling the man into stepping back a step. Robin with the jagged scar running from his temple to his lip, Robin with familiar hands and warmth, Robin who—who isn’t dead or in a far off place, who left. 

Robin who abandoned him.

“Of course I can fu—” Robin darts a glance at Pennyworth, before coughing, “Yes. I can speak. You know me or something?” 

Damian stiffens under the calculating gaze Robin gives him, but does not otherwise react, simply turns away with a grit to his jaw and the white hot feeling of humiliation crawling up his spine.

He’s better than this. He got better. Robin being here, walking, talking and, and not recognizing him changes nothing. 

He is here temporarily. This too, shall pass. 

Perhaps, Mother had said, This is an opportunity for you to…relax. Heal from…certain wounds.

"No." Damian lies. "I was mistaken." Nobody in the room believes him, but it does not matter. Did Mother know?

His father introduces his second eldest brother as Jason Todd, otherwise known as Red Hood.

Robin–-no, Todd eyes him through furrowed brow and distrustful eyes, an expression entirely new to Damian, grumbling out a confused but threatening "Stay outta Crime Alley and we'll work just fine."

Damian nods to show he understands, despite not understanding at all. He turns towards Pennyworth instead, shouldering his duffle and straightening up. "My quarters, if you would."

Pennyworth inclines his head with a raised eyebrow, but does not further comment.

The old man leads the way, and this time, Damian leaves Robin behind.

It is not as cathartic as he was hoping it would be.

===

Damian is learning the lay of the land. 

That is to say, he is snooping. 

But if Damian is to pass his term here safely and quietly, he must know the layout of the Manor, and which places are most frequented. 

He refuses to be caught off guard once more. 

Someone is tailing him, but it is of no consequence; it would be stranger if his actions weren’t monitored.

The movements are familiar somehow, but even so he knows instinctively that it is not Rob—Todd, so it matters not. 

The underground level seems to be filled with various entertainment areas, which hold no real interest to him, beyond the Gym and Indoor Pool areas. He makes note to figure out the residents’ schedules as soon as possible in order to limit contact.

The first floor seems to hold the most traffic, so he takes note of the most used areas: the Library is gorgeous, the Dining Room immaculate, whilst the Sun Room and Living Room see the most traffic. There are traces of the other residents everywhere—picture frames and little knick knacks littered tastefully and neatly around the shelves that decorate the rooms, keys in a bowl on a side table here, shoes that have been neatly lined up in tucked away corners, even a book or two that have personalized bookmarks tucked into them. 

It is impressive for one man to keep this much order in such a large estate housing a good many residents that come and go as they please—the Compound was maybe twice and big and it employs numerous servants just to keep the kitchens in a serviceable state. Perhaps Pennyworth hires people on a schedule, so that the residents know when to avoid the Manor and limit the possibility of revealing secrets? Damian puts it out of his mind and heads back to explore the second floor more thoroughly instead.

There are a plethora of rooms here, though most of them seem to be bedrooms. The Compound had housing areas, he knows, but he was always kept separate and had never explored those areas for his own safety and disinterest. He doesn’t linger long, lest he be accused of rifling through other’s affairs. It is curious that the person trailing him hasn’t said anything, but then again—Damian is simply opening doors and closing them when it’s confirmed to be a bedroom. 

Just as he is wondering if the entire second floor is comprised of bedrooms, he comes across a study. He leaves the door open as he wanders in, examining the books on the large floor to ceiling bookshelf built into the back wall. 

The office space is immaculate, and the books vary from medical tomes to business manuals to even travel guides of varying languages. What really catches Damian’s eye is a middle shelf that seems to be dedicated to…paraphernalia of a very familiar variety.

He reaches up to touch the garish orange paint of a very familiar RC car, tracing the number one decal on its side. There’s a trilby too, gray with a wide black ribbon trim, and a pair of bright blue lensed goggles sitting right next to it in an artful display. There is even a clearly fake gun settled on a stand with a glass cloche over it. The items are framed by a plethora of DVD cases, and Damian slowly pulls out the case labeled “1” on its side with hesitant fingers. 

Bright yellow and familiar, albeit larger than he’s used to seeing it, lay the words GRAY GHOST on the dark red cover. In the corner, a man’s face he’s only seen in the form of a figurine is pasted on. 

“Favorite Series.” A soft, raspy voice says from over his shoulder. Damian does not flinch, because he knew someone was there, but he is still surprised by how he could not hear her footsteps, could not feel her come this close. Those are League steps, League movements, he recognizes.

“Pardon?” He looks up at his stalker, Cassandra Cain, if he recalls her name correctly, and raises an eyebrow in question as he wonders absently if they've ever crosses paths. He recalls faintly of a Cain skulking around the Compound…

“Gray Ghost. Favorite Series.” She says again, eyes glinting with curiosity despite not actually asking a question, seeming amused by his expression for some reason. It's enough to bring him back to the present, to the tableau before him.

“Whose?” Damian asks, sliding the DVD back in its place.

“Bruce’s.” That brings Damian up short, making him stutter in place. 

“I see.” A swirl of emotions flood through him but he does not let it show. Did Mother know? Of course she would. Is that why? 

“Yours too?” Cain tilts her head, tracing a finger along the cases with a blank smile. It reminds him of Robin, so he wrenches his gaze away. 

“No. I have never seen it.” Damian says truthfully, stalking away and deciding that he is done exploring. He knows enough. “I will be retiring now, Cain. You are relieved of your duties.”

His room is only just down the hall, four doors away, and it is a blessing. He hears the study door snick closed just as he opens his, but he does not close his door fast enough. 

The last thing he hears are actual footsteps, and Cain’s low, sad voice. “Not here to monitor. Safe.” 

He does not believe her, but he does not refute her either. 

He closes the door.

===

Pennyworth seems to have the run of the Manor, so Damian seeks him out first.

The older man seems to find him amusing, but Damian grits his teeth and uses his manners.

Mother had said he was to learn, to not make trouble, to be safe.

Naturally, assisting Pennyworth in the care of the Manor would be in his best interest.

Not only will it allow him run of the Manor, he will also be privy to the resident's schedules and preferences through simple observations.

Like any mission, information is key to survival.

Pennyworth must surely see through him, but his amused smile seems to convey that he will indulge.

He starts with simple tasks.

He learns how to properly wash dishes, the ratio of detergent to use when doing single loads of laundry, proper procedure for cleaning furniture, and how to cook eggs 6 different ways.

Damian absorbs the information like a sponge, easy and quick, and Pennyworth seems impressed.

Damian graduates to Kitchen Helper within two weeks, apparently high praise in the Manor. Food begins to taste again.

He learns that some residents have been banned, and feels a certain smugness flood through him as he cooks his first Chicken Pot Pie.

Three weeks later than that, Damian learns that the residents of the Manor have no consistent schedule, are picky with food, and like to be hindrances to Pennyworth's work. To Damian's work.

It takes him an extra week to do something about that, enough to at least make the other children hesitate before they enter rooms, but nobody can prove anything so Damian will not dwell on it.

Damian has been at the Manor for two months when he realizes something significant:

Todd has not been by the Manor once.

Damian does not sulk, but if he did, that's no-one's business except his, and the bear and figurine hidden away in his bag.

===

Father is busy, constantly, whether it be for Wayne Enterprises, for the Justice League, or for his copious number of children.

Father tries to spend time with all of them, in some way, and it is admirable.

Damian is not sure how he factors. He is technically a clone, after all, but he has heard that Superman has a clone, so maybe it's a non-issue.

Still, having a Father is a new experience to Damian.

His erstwhile…siblings are another matter entirely, but he is, at least, used to deal with nuisances.

They call him Demon Brat, and he knows that they do not mean it literally.

He wonders, in the back of his mind, what Robin would have called him.

He wonders, in the darkest parts of his mind, what Damian would have called them.

(Deep within the recesses of his mind, beneath the dark, almost six feet under, he knows what it would have been. He knows.)

But a Father is new.

"How was your day, chum?" Father asks one night at the dinner table.

There is a long silence before Damian looks up from his plate of seafood risotto in irritated confusion, wondering why Drake isn't answering.

Drake, however, isn't looking at Father. The other boy looks, per usual, a tone-deaf lullaby away from falling asleep.

Damian's brows furrow, glancing at the other members of the table. Cain is smiling at him, encouragingly, head tilted like a bird. Father, equally, is smiling at Damian as well.

Ah. So he is the chum in this situation.

He wonders if Father nicknames all his male children chum, and all his female children sweetheart.

Damian looks up from his plate in confusion, but answers dutifully nonetheless.

"I assisted Pennyworth with his duties," Damian reports, "Mostly with kitchen work, as I do not have much experience with the other areas."

Father hums, but still looks expectant. More detail then. He straightens up, trying to remember how he talked to his Mother when she asked, but he does not have missions to report here, and Robin…

"I have not done anything else, Father." Damian says carefully, unsure if this was on purpose or some kind of miscommunication in the line of order, "No-one has given me any tasks but Pennyworth."

There's a long silence, Cain stiffening up, eyeing Father in a way that Damian isn't sure if he should be offended by.

Does Father need protecting? Mother did not, but she—she liked it when Damian created a united front with her. What is his role here?

"Sweetheart," Father begins, before stutter stopping to think his words through.

Damian waits, thinking distantly that perhaps Father only has two petnames for his children, and uses them intermittently.

"No tasks. Free." Cain cuts in vehemently.

"This isn't the League." Drake mumbles, stuffing his face with more risotto.

Damian tilts his head, as Cain does, before looking to his father for clarification. He does not understand. Father coughs, clearing his throat.

"Sweetheart," Father tries again, "There is no mission here for you to pursue. You can spend your time as you like."

"I enjoy assisting Pennyworth." Damian informs them, because he does.

"He's talking about hobbies, Demon Brat." Drake rolls his eyes, leaning forward to rest his cheek upon the hand he's not using to eat more risotto, "What did you do in your free time at the League?"

Did his best to survive.

"I trained." Damian says instead, which is the same thing. With Robin, he doesn't say. The year after they left was filled with unwelcome assassins, missions, and constantly moving rooms. "Or I slept."

Silence permeates the dinner table.

"We find out," Cain finally says, gripping her spoon like a knife, "Learn."

"But not tonight." Father agrees, making an unfamiliar expression. He remembers Mother making this kind of face when she gave Damian his bear. She made it many times, when Robin was around.

Drake eyes him almost pityingly. "Dick's going to eat you alive."

===

Grayson does not, in fact, eat Damian alive.

Damian does, however, accidentally stab him.

Lightly.

On the thigh.

"Do not," Damian admonishes, "Touch me without permission."

"Sorry about that, baby bird!" Grayson chirps as he is bandaged by Pennyworth.

"Apology accepted. I do not wish to accidentally kill one of you."

Drake scoffs, but does not look up from his tablet. As usual, he drags bags under his eyes and looks like a fright.

Cain, Brown, and Thomas chat amicably around them, uncaring, more concerned about the clipboard Grayson had brought and going through the seemingly endless pages.

Damian glances over, and notices they are activities.

"What is this, then?" Damian crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow.

"It's a list of possible hobbies!" Grayson beams, "We've got most of the stuff to do any of them on there, so I thought we could go through and try 'em."

Damian looks at the stacks of papers again. "It is unrealistic for you to think we could more than five."

This time, the trio perusing the list scoff.

"We could get through at least eleven, easy." Brown says, grabbing a pen from somewhere to mark something down.

"Nah, twenty, max." Thomas challenges, stealing the pen to cross something out.

"Twenty-seven." Cain says, taking one of the papers and ripping it up entirely.

"Bet?" Brown responds.

"Patrol for 3 days?" Thomas goads.

"Condiment Man." Cain counters.

The trio shake on it.

Damian wonders what information, exactly, enables them to make such precise and specific numbers.

Even if all of them are wrong, he still wants to know.

===

They get through thirty-four different hobbies.

Whilst Damian was good at most of them, he simply did not have time to consider whether or not he wanted to continue such hobbies.

The fact that he indulged them at all is a miracle.

When Mother had said try to make the best of your time in Gotham, surely she did not mean this.

Brown, Cain, Grayson, and Thomas head towards the dining room loudly discussing possibilities for him, but Damian does not indulge that.

He slows and keeps pace with Drake instead, in the quiet.

"Any of them strike your fancy?" The older teen asks, ruining what little positive feelings Damian may have had for him.

For the most part Drake had supervised, unlike the other four, largely staying a little ways away and working on that tablet of his. Whilst Damian hadn't exactly enjoyed being thrust into a variety of activities, he did appreciate that Drake did not inundate him with questions and comments like the others had.

"No." Damian answers, before thinking carefully once more. "I don't know."

"We didn't exactly give you much time to think on it." Drake agrees.

"I am just glad that it is over." Mumbling is uncouth, but Damian has learned that his siblings are uncouth, so he will match their energy, as Brown says.

Drake laughs, a honking one that startles Damian enough for him to abortedly reach for a dagger. Damian has never heard Drake make such a loud noise before.

"Today was the kinesthetic hobbies, Damian." Drake's face is doing something new—smiling wide and grin a little sharp, "Tomorrow, it's the creative outlets."

Damian does not swear. but it's a near thing.

He goes to dinner feeling resigned and defeated in a way he hasn't felt in a year and 3 months, Drake's laughter ringing in his ears like a death knell.

===

Todd joins for the festivities the next day, dragged kicking and screaming by the ear, metaphorically.

Mostly metaphorically, Damian amends, as he watches Todd kick Grayson squarely in the gut to let him go.

For the most part, Todd stands sentinel behind the group, grumbling and insisting he is not part of the activities.

He is not fooling anyone.

He has opinions on every little thing they do—acting, papier-mâché, clay sculpting, jewelry making, sewing, knitting, crochet—snide little things that mostly offer advice if you listen hard enough.

Damian is ashamed to note that he listens with a rabbit's ear and a dog's attention.

His origami dragon suffers from the frustration of it.

They go through 24 different 'creative' hobbies, all of which Damian excels, for the most part.

But they do not, as Brown insists, spark joy.

It isn't until they pass by one of the libraries in the Manor that Todd offhandedly wonders aloud, "Does the tyke even read?" that it occurs to them that they completely skipped a multitude of simple common hobbies.

Damian follows Todd, feeling an odd deja vu in a sort of reversed order, through the stacks as he plops down book upon book into his arms, commenting on the genre and general tone of his one, extolling a fact or two about each new author.

The rest of them lounge around an group of armchairs, clearly used to Todd's voracious reading list.

By the time Todd is finished with him, there are 12 books in his arms, stacked tall enough to warrant Damian leaning it on his shoulder for balance.

"So how is this gonna go," Thomas quirks a brow, "We gonna just sit here and read?"

The long silence is enough for all of them to realize this might be a hobby better suited for Damian to try on his own.

It's a mad shuffle then, Brown rushing everyone on to try their hand at painting.

It isn't until after they've dropped off the stack of books in Damian's room that he realizes Todd has taken the opportunity to abscond from the festivities, Cain informing him that Todd had a sudden case

Damian ignores the familiar feeling in his chest that feels like a canyon opening up.

He focuses on the smell of acrylic paint, and the feel of pencil across canvas instead.

It mostly works.

===

Damian is in the Cave, watching.

There is an older teen sitting in front of a large console—the BatComputer, a ridiculous but apt name—and typing away with the sort of single minded haggardness Damian has seen in men twice his age and with more to lose.

Timothy Drake-Wayne, from what Damian has learned, fought his way to the Robin Mantle.

The slovenly teen fought through sweat and tears, bullying Father into so-called 'ethical vigilantism,' went toe-to-toe with Todd and managed to survive, and as a result?

Timothy Drake-Wayne is doggedly working away, with little sleep, on a case for Todd in Crime Alley.

Since finding out, Damian, predictably, has started to hate him with every single fibre of his being.

"What are you doing here?" Drake mutters, not looking away from the monitors that dwarf him.

Damian doesn't answer. He is not here to make trouble, not when his stay is temporary, but he reminds himself that he is also not here to make nice. He stays right where he is.

Drake heaves a heavy sigh, pinching his brows together and rubbing his eyes with a gloved hand. Disgusting.

"Damian." The blue of the monitors wash Drake out, make him saturated, makes the bags under his eyes and the tiredness in his muscles stand out in stark contrast.

"I am observing." Damian finally huffs, "Temporary though my stay may be, I am not accustomed to being…inactive."

"Last month's hobby search wasn't active enough for you?" Drake chuckles.

Damian huffs, but does not answer.

"I thought you liked painting?" Drake asks softly, though he's still not looking over at him, "And the books?"

"I do." Damian begrudgingly answers. His fingers twitch, even now, for a brush. "But I've done nothing but painting and reading since."

And Todd's the only one who Damian can actually talk about the books to, Damian doesn't say, and he hasn't seen Todd since the books were given to him.

He crosses his arms against the feeling, muttering, "Pennyworth will not give me anymore tasks until the contractors have finished up their renovations of the Garden."

Drake seems to think on that for a moment, quirking a little smile. "So you're bored, and want to play."

"I am being wasted." Damian corrects, bristling. Drake seems to find that amusing, and though it boils his blood, he can use this to his advantage. He makes a show of crossing his arms and doing an approximation of a pout. "And training only gets you so far before you get rusty."

After a moment's pause where he seems to think for a moment, Drake finally relents. "I'm about to head to Crime Alley. Do you…want to come along?"

What is that American saying? Right: Hook, line, and sinker.

===

"Keep up." Drake says as he shoots a grapple line.

Damian scoffs, but does so with less grappling and more parkour.

There's chatter on the comms he was given, Brown and Lee conversing about some college professor, the occasional taptap from who Damian suspects is Cain, the smooth timbre of Gordan directing one vigilante or other towards some destination Damian doesn't care too much about.

When they arrive at the meeting point, Todd isn't alone.

That is, Red Hood has unpleasant company in three muggers and a victim who is told to run away.

Thankfully, they do.

Drake, Robin jumps into the fray.

Damian hangs back, as is customary for guests tagging along on missions.

He watches Hood dispatch one of the muggers swiftly, careful of the knife they wield but overall unbothered.

Drake is engaged with the largest of the bunch, for some reason, and Hood is already turning towards the third, who has a gun up and ready to shoot.

Reflex from hundreds of missions causes Damian to join, despite it being against his own protocol.

He hooks a finger through the metal loop at the end of his kunai and tosses it unerringly at the mugger's wrist. The mugger screams loudly as they drop the gun, Red Hood kicking it under a nearby dumpster to no doubt pick it up later. The former Robin eats up the distance with his significant height, quickly wrestling the mugger into a set of zipties.

"Aim for weapons, Demon Brat, not for limbs." Drake's voice admonishes. Damian ignores the words but looks over to where Drake is engaging the other mugger, using his bo staff to trip them up and jabbing them in the shoulder to spin them face first into the concrete.

"Hypocrite." Damian scoffs under his breath. He feels a presence behind him, and ducks the arms that tried to grab him to choke him out, hooking another kunai out and stabbing swiftly downward into the thigh of a surprise fourth mugger. Tt. Now where did this one come from?

The dolt screams right in his ear, making Damian jab his elbow out into the man's neck to shut him up.

"Nice." Hood laughs, holstering his guns and giving the mugger another kick before putting him in zipties to join his friend. The praise washes over him, familiar and unfamiliar at once. He stretches up, as if waiting for a pat on the head, before he even realizes what he's doing.

Hood gives him an odd look, and Damian immediately hates his body and wishes swift death to his memories.

He was over this.

Resolutely ignoring Hood, Damian looks over towards Drake, who is sluggishly dragging the second mugger over. Hood takes pity on him, and grabs the guy by the collar, tossing him effortlessly into the pile.

And then Drake tilts, and Hood picks him up by the collar.

Rage is familiar, and Damian almost—almost reaches for another kunai.

But he is not here to cause trouble.

They make their way to the nearest safehouse, Todd and Drake bantering and bickering in a way only siblings ever can, familiar and assured of each other's place in the other's lives.

Damian stays silent, both unwilling and incapable of adding in, as he watches Todd wrap up Drake's injury smooth, familiar movements. As if second nature.

Damian reaches over to help undress Drake and redress him in civilian clothes, in preparation for Pennyworth picking them up in a town car later, but is summarily told to handle his own clothing change instead.

Logically, he understands. Both of them are more familiar with the intricacies of the Robin uniform and its various belts and buckles than Damian is, and there is that American saying, too many cooks in the kitchen, after all.

Logically, he understands, of course.

It still does not take away the sting of it..

Perhaps this is an opportunity for you to…relax. Mother's voice echoes once more. Heal from…certain wounds.

Damian trails along behind Todd, who is carrying a sullen and loudly complaining Drake to the car.

He stays silent the entire car ride home, pondering unseen wounds and the best method of healing.

===

Todd is sleeping in the library.

It is Sunday, and Grayson has tricked him into coming to Sunday Brunch.

It was a noisy affair, rambunctious and happy.

Damian had tried to stay out of it, being an outsider, but mostly failed on account of Cain and Brown's insistent meddling. There was a newcomer, Barbara Gordon, who doubled as Oracle, that Damian tried his best to be amicable to as well.

Todd had joined in on the entire affair, albeit a little more subdued, jibing at Grayson and tossing grapes at Drake with frightening accuracy.

Afterwards, the other children started scattering in groups. Todd had disappeared by that point, and whilst Damian had wanted to follow suit, he was commandeered by Grayson to get ice cream along with Thomas and Drake.

The only other option was to play board games with the women, but Damian was told he was 'a stinky boy' so he stayed out of it.

Ice cream was not a quiet outing either, and by the time they get back to the Manor Damian is more exhausted than when he had run two missions back to back in Syria.

So here he is now: Simply wanting the second book in a trilogy that Todd had given him, and staring at the man himself, guilelessly sleeping in the library.

The older man is being foolish, letting his guard down this way. Damian can see at least 8 different ways he could kill him, just from where he is standing at the entrance of the library, 15 feet away from where Todd has taken up residence.

The number goes up as he walks closer, to about fourteen.

Damian is standing right next to where Todd has decided to rest, and the older man has not so much even twitched.

There are 29 different ways Damian can kill Todd from this distance, with just his hands.

He drops to his knees, staring at the familiar planes of Robin's face.

He reaches, almost involuntarily, to…to do something. What, he does not know.

Robin grunts, familiar. It's a deep sleep. Even if Todd does not know Damian, Robin remembers he is safe.

Damian drops his hand, thinking without thoughts. He stares at Todd, arms crosses and snoring softly, leaning against the armchair with a book open on his lap. Why he simply does not sit in the chair itself and chooses the floor, Damian has no idea.

There is a blanket, almost kicked off, covering Todd's foot.

Damian stares, having an out of body experience.

Robin makes that noise, again, the grunt.

Damian reaches over to adjust the blanket, curling up with it, remembering the bear and figure in his room.

Robin has always been warm, even when they weren't touching, Damian remembers the heat of them radiating the way it does now, where Damian is only a few inches away.

He curls in tighter, listens to the familiar sounds of Robin asleep next to him, floor hard with only a single blanket between them, just like a mission.

In his memories, it is his watch.

In the present, his eyes fall closed.

Just for a moment.

===

Damian wakes up alone, with the second book tucked in his arms and a jacket that isn't his draped over him.

Alfred the Cat is purring in a curled up ball next to him, where Todd once was.

Damian tries not to feel alone, and mostly succeeds, as he follows Alfred's lead and curls up under Todd's jacket as best he can.

Always remember, Habibi. Mother's words flood through him as he tries to keep the warmth around him, I will support you, even as the world comes crashing down.

He falls back asleep within seconds.

===

Damian is running an errand for Pennyworth when the other shoe, proverbially, drops.

He swerves past a mother and child, turning a corner to walk quickly into an isolated alley. He turns quickly, swatting the knife that cuts through the air towards him, kicking up at the assassin that has come to prey upon him.

Eyes had been following him for the past thirty minutes, and it's shameful how long it took to realize it wasn't one of his siblings keeping an eye on him.

He dances with the assailant, still in top form despite the less intensive training schedule Father had allowed, parrying each slash with his own dagger.

He gets a foot jammed into his shin, but easily turns it into one of those front rolling somersaults Grayson had jokingly added to this repertoire.

He grabs the bo staff Drake had stuffed into his pocket and uncollapses it, tripping the the assailant from his vantage point below and subsequently bashing their head to unconsciousness.

He jabs the staff into the back of the neck, standing on their back to keep them down. He doesn't have any zipties, so he quickly sends out a text to Gordan for help in dispatch.

Of course, because this family is nosy beyond compare, his phone starts to flood with messages of concern, quickly devolving into who has what bingo, and who bet on when the first assassin would come.

Damian shakes his head, amused despite himself, and tries to keep up.

The click of a gun startles him into movement, and it's then that he realizes he's made two mistakes.

One: He didn't check if the assassin was alone.

Two: He's accidentally run into Crime Alley territory.

A rough hand pushes him to the ground before two gunshots shatter the air, one after another.

When he turns around, Red Hood is on the floor bleeding, and it is all Damian's fault.

He quickly confirms the other assailant is down—they are—and takes extra care in making sure that they are alone before running over to Todd.

He takes off his jacket, bunches it up to press against the wound with one hand, taking out his phone to apprise Gordan of the situation. It's difficult, he did not realize both his hands had been bloody, and slippery.

"I know you." Todd suddenly says, teal eyes clearing from its painful fog, haze cut through with a clarity Damian doesn't like.

Damian scoffs, pressing down more firmly wit heavily trained, steady hands. "Tt. Of course you know me, I've been here for—"

"No—no, don't—don't do that." Todd growls, clutching at his head with his less bloody hand, "I know you. We…I…I took care of you. We've been here before."

"Robin took care of me, and I took care of them." Damian sneers, involuntary in his stupid, stupid panic, "You and I have no such history."

"I am Robin. Was." Todd stutters, before piercing Damian with his gaze. A knife would have been better. "What am I missing?"

Damian says nothing, focusing on finishing up first aid, comm'ing into the other Bats and Birds for extraction. He's already said too much, and he is only here temporarily.

Todd's voice goes low. "What did Talia not tell me?"

Damian, he reminds himself, is not here to cause trouble.

===

Damian is not a coward.

Damian is not a coward, but he does pick his battles.

He's learned to, had his teeth metaphorically pulled bit by bit when Robin was a fixture in his life. It was easy to learn loss, in his three years with Robin. To take it with grace, to let go.

It was hard the first time, and it was hard again the last time, but just as he always does Damian learned.

All this to say, Damian knows a losing battle when he sees one.

Todd is as stubborn as Robin was—or perhaps, Robin was as stubborn as Todd is—and Damian is too experienced with losing against Robin and not experienced enough to thwart Todd, and so he is not a coward.

Damian is avoiding Todd.

It is strategic.

Fate is on his side, anyway. As Todd has been busy being accosted by the other residents of the Manor to properly rest and heal. It's been a good week: peaceful and Todd-free. Even his siblings have been busy with one thing or another—a final, a Wayne Enterprises meeting, dealing with Father, vigilante business here or there.

Mother had even sent word that she had taken care of most of the assassins after him, that this incident helped weed out the insurgents enough for Mother to get a firm foothold of power that even Grandfather cannot deny.

Overall, Damian is safe. Or, at least, lulled into thinking he was safe.

All this to say Damian completely forgets that Todd is not the only Robin in this Manor.

He also completely forgets that the current Robin is a nosy, meddling, piece of—

"Calling me names will not get you out of this conversation." Drake's irritating voice interrupts him, tiredly.

"This is none of your business, Drake." Damian huffs from where he hangs upside down in the Bat Cave. His ankle is starting to hurt, and the blood is flooding to his head, but he's been through worse for far longer. "I thought you and Todd were on the outs."

"We talked it out like adults." Drake sighs, "It's not all better, but I did take the mantle by force, and Jason was under the influence."

"Tt. Comparing pit-madness to marijuana is hardly an accurate metaphor." Damian wiggles, "And I was under the impression that this household didn't talk about their feelings." He tries to find weak points and escape routes before—

"Timberly's not the reader in this house anyway." Todd's voice is smug, whilst Damian feels the sting of a losing battle wash over him. "And you're sorely mistaken if you think you can escape from this conversation, Demon Brat."

Gods, does Damian miss when Robin was mute.

===

"When I was seven," Damian starts, "I almost died."

Damian resolutely does not look up, feeling Todd's eyes like shackles.

Drake has left them be, for better or for worse, so it's just the two of them in one of the offices on the third floor.

It's neutral ground.

"It wasn't a particularly interesting attempt at my life," Damian continues, bland.

"It wasn't the first," Here, Damian smiles wryly to the ground, "and it clearly wasn't the last."

He hears Todd huff, and it makes Damian feel a little better against all his judgement and denials.

"But this one," Damian pauses, takes a deep breath, "Someone saved me."

There's a long silence that follows, Damian half-expecting some kind of response. When none comes, Damian plows on.

"Mother introduced them to me as Robin." Damian finally meets Todd's eyes, who looks furrowed, confused, as if he knows he should remember something, but can't.

"They were violent in a…" Damian searched for most fitting word, "protective way."

Todd tilts his head, assessing, wondering.

"They were mute," Damian tilts his head, mirror Todd and smirking, "Though we suspected it was psychosomatic."

Todd's expression scrunches up, as if remembering their unpleasant 'first meeting.'

"They…" Damian hesitates, unsure if it needs to be said, "They were amnesiac, and only responded to the name Robin."

Todd perks up, though Damian is sure this part is the least surprising.

"They had fixated on me," Damian explains, gritting his teeth against the annoyance that he refuses to call fond, "Under the wrong impression that I could not take care of myself."

Todd snorts, but when Damian glares at him he puts his hands up in surrender.

"Mother trained them, and they were good, and listened to orders," Damian watches as Todd takes issue with that, tries to lessen the blow, "But when they fixated on me, Robin refused to leave my side, and Mother knew when to cut her losses."

Todd looks smug about that, which annoys Damian.

"They were thusly assigned as my…companion, of sorts." Damian bites his lip, relents. "A bodyguard."

Damian does not wish to dwell on the ups and downs of their companionship, so he speeds it along.

"We spent 3 years together, going on missions and training." Damian looks down at his hands, fidgets the way that Grayson does. Stops himself. He's been in Gotham for too long.

"And then something happened." Damian purses his lips, "Something frightened them."

Damian drags his duffle bag, which he had gotten from his room specifically for this conversation, up from the floor to rifle through and pull something out.

"Mother gave me this," Damian hands over the Gray Ghost figurine to Todd, who takes it delicately in his large hands, "After another attempt at my life."

"I had gotten hurt, just a flesh wound," He smirks, but it is wry and unamused, "Robin was very fussy and angry,"

Jason's eyes flash, almost literally, before he goes back to inspect the figure.

"Robin was very bothered by the figure," Damian continues, placing the bag back down on the floor. "They attempted to…well, I assume steal me away to protect me."

"It went on for about a month, at least once a week." Damian breathes a sigh, "Robin was deteriorating. Not physically, but mentally."

This time, when the silence lingers, Damian is unsure how to continue.

"I started to remember." Todd breaks the stillness, voice low and rusty and wiggling the figure before saying sarcastically, "Gray Ghost saves the day once again."

Damian scoffs, sobering up and scrunching his nose as he nods. "Robin had an altercation with Mother, one night whilst I was asleep." Damian closes his eyes against the memory, "I woke up and they were gone."

"To this day, I don't know what happened." Damian looks the the side, resentful, "Mother would not tell me."

"Talia dunked me in the Pit." Damian freezes, mind going overdrive, "She took me in because she wanted to help her Beloved, but my mind…"

"I got my memories back, and then some," Todd scoffs, "I recognize now that Talia was trying to…I don't know, relate to me. Placate me, in a sense."

Todd scratches his head, "But the Pit Madness changed me. I was angry, and she let slip that Joker was still alive, that there was a new Robin on the scene."

Damian can't breathe. "She tried to stop me, but I'm scrappy." Todd smirks with no humor to it, "Helps that she didn't want to hurt me, hindsight is 20/20 I guess."

"Mother is…not good with words." Damian admits. Living in Wayne Manor, seeing how they interact, Damian knows now. Mother was awkward in her attempts to connect with Damian. He just didn't see it because she was so capable elsewhere, and he didn't know better.

"Understatement of the year, Brat." Todd smiles, a real one this time. "You know? I think the whole Joker lives and there's a new Robin shit she was saying was her attempt to make me stay."

Damian's head whips up, eyes wide.

"She mentioned brothers." Todd shrugs, a little guilt tinging the action, "Didn't understand it at the time, thought she was talking about Timbuktu."

Damian clenches his fists, grits his teeth. Feels something well up and refuses to let any of it go. The Gray Ghost figure is thrust into his face, causing him to back up as best he can in his chair, staring cross eyed at it for a moment before he takes it back from Todd.

"Listen, I don't remember my time as," Todd flaps a hand, "your Robin, but that doesn't mean I don't care."

Damian slants him a skeptical look, he's seen how he interacts with this entire family, which Todd responses by rolling his eyes exaggeratedly.

"I don't care care," He amends, as if that makes it any clearer, "but we're here. For better or worse, you're part of this family now."

Todd reaches over and grips Damian's shoulder. Damian, through years and years of body memory, slumps forward, relaxing, and hates himself for it.

Todd pauses, no doubt noting the strange reaction, but thankfully does not bring it up. He continues, "If you think you're leaving this Manor anytime soon, then you're dumber than you look."

Todd grins, almost like he's baring his teeth, "And you look dumb, Brat."

"I am not—" Damian pauses, eyes narrowing in suspicion as the words catch up to him, slapping Todd's hand away belatedly, "What do you mean?"

Todd crosses his stupidly bulky arms, leans back to cross one leg over the other, eyebrow quirked. "You're telling me you believe all the bullshit that this," He twirls a hand around the office, signifying the Manor, "is temporary?"

"Mother said she would be back. I am heir to the Al-Ghul name." Damian bristles, hissing, "Just as you and our…siblings are taking up the Batman mantle, my duty is to the League."

"Demon Brat." Todd shakes his head, "Damian. Kid, Bruce was never gonna let that fly. Dick wouldn't, none of the others either."

Damian stands up, abruptly. "That is not for them to decide!"

He grabs his duffle to place the figurine back in, jerkily, which causes the things inside to tumble. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid mistake. Damian falls to his knees, hastily stuffing his clothes and—

"I remember this." Todd's voice is piercing to his ears, despite how soft the rumble. Damian, freezes when he sees what Todd is holding.

"I made you sleep with this." Todd is cradling the bear, the one he was supposed to hide and has hidden since he received it. "You were tiny." Todd is on one knee, probably trying to either stop Damian or help him, holding the stupid fucking bear. "Well, tinier."

Damian rips it out of his hands, taking a breath to make sure he didn't actually rip it, and goes back to putting everything away with a calmer, trained manner.

"Robin made me sleep with it." Damian mutters under his breath. "Gods know why."

Task done, Damian shoulders the bag and strides to the door, intent to leave Todd and this entire conversation behind.

"Damian." He freezes, hand on the doorknob, against all his wishes, but does not turn around. "Think about what, exactly, Talia said to you when she dropped you off."

Damian's hand clenches tight on the cool metal of the knob. "She's bad at words, remember?"

Damian doesn't answer, disliking his own words being thrown back at him. He swings the door open and slams it shut, starts heading towards his room without stopping.

Your Father has many children, Habibi. Damian turns a corner. Memorize their names, be amiable. Do not pry.

It's late in the evening now, Drake and Todd having ambushed him after dinner to have this talk.

You are not here to cause trouble. The moon is full and high, and its light feels much too delicate on his skin. You are here to stay safe.

Perhaps—Damian is breathing heavy, despite running twice as long without breaking a sweat before—this is an opportunity for you to…relax.

He opens his door, locks it behind him to try and keep his Mother's voice out. He fails.

Heal from…certain wounds. Damian breathes, walks to his bed, setting the duffle bag down.

Try to make the best of your time in Gotham. Unwillingly, he takes out the bear once more, holds it in his hands as he sits on his bed. It's smaller now, in perspective. Damian had gotten a slight growth spurt in his time here.

Always remember, Habibi. In the darkness of his room, Damian hugs the bear, curling up atop the sheets. I will support you, even as the world comes crashing down.

And the world, as Damian knows it, comes crashing down.

===

Damian locks himself in his room for three days.

Pennyworth gives him his meals on a tray wordlessly, knocking thrice before leaving him to it.

His siblings knock to leave things too: A new set of shuriken, shiny and sharp, tucked away in velvet bag with a bat symbol on them. A children's coloring book, Justice League themed that comes with a set of stickers and a case of colored pencils. A small accordion sketchbook the size of a post-it, with a charcoal pencil attached to it via a small elastic. The fourth installment of a series of books he's been reading. An expensive-looking brand of linseed oil, with a polishing cloth for his weapons. A Rubix cube, still in its plastic encasement.

The thing that catches his attention the most is a small, unassuming plastic bag that's been closed with a ziptie. There's a note that reads can't have the little guy running around naked. There are little comments from the other siblings expressing confusion and exclamations, but he ignores it completely.

When he delicately cuts the bag open, inside is a set of clothes. A miniature, new version of the ragged and torn Robin uniform Damian had seen displayed in the Cave.

There's a birth certificate, from a place called Build-a-Bear Workshop, denoting the birth of one Robin Al-Ghul.

And there, written on the last line…

Belongs To: Damian Al-Ghul Wayne

On the fourth day, Damian goes to see his Father.

They talk for a very long time.

===

"Hello, Mother." Damian's voice does no shake, but some part of him is unsure if he's deluding himself.

He's sitting on the Wayne Manor rooftop, the part that's just above his bedroom window. The night is breezy, and there are no stars strong enough to peek through the ever present smog.

"Hello, dear heart." Mother's voice is smooth, soft, even through the tinny speakers of the phone. Loving, now that he knows. Doting, now that he has learned.

"Was this always your intention?" Damian hates how he sounds so childish, but who else could he be childish with, if not his own mother?

Mother does not say anything for a long time, long enough for Damian to think that perhaps the call has dropped if not for the soft sounds of wind blowing on her end of the phone. He wonders if she's outside the Compound, or on a mission. He thinks about the arid air, about the scent of his Mother, about the feel of the hard packed dirt and sand of the training grounds, the uneven cobble of his rooms—the first one, the one where he essentially met Robin in when he was seven.

"When Robin came to us," Mother whispers, the breathe of it crackling over the speaker, "I only intended to…fix him. Return him healthy and hale in respect for the love your father and I shared."

Damian hums, adjusting himself. He's been through colder nights, but he's learned that it's okay to…express discomfort.

"When he fixated on you, it elated and frustrated me in turn." Mother laughs, "I am not a good Mother, and his presence made it all the more apparent."

"That is not true—" Damian protests, vehemently, but it's cut off.

"I did well," Mother agrees, stopping him short, "For the upbringing I had. But we were raised different, you and I. And Robin—Jason had no memories, but he knew it wasn't right."

She sighs over the line, static crunching through, "So I tried. And failed. And realized I wanted more for you."

Damian stays silent. He thinks about the bear, sitting on his bed in his new costume. He thinks about the figurine, still hidden away in his duffle. He thinks about the knife he was given to play with when he was four years old.

"When Robin left, and the League started having…issues," Damian snorts, but quiets at his Mother's admonishing tsk, "I saw an opportunity."

"And what of the League?" Damian challenges, "Who will be heir?"

"I am still alive, no?" Mother taunts, "And I will be alive for a long while yet. If you…well. When the time comes, we will deal with it. I do not, and will not, regret the choice to give you this…experience."

"You thought that Father would do a better job," There's an ache in Damian's chest when he whispers this, "Raising me, giving me…a semblance of a regular childhood."

It cracks through him harshly when Mother does not answer.

"Father is…good." Damian hesitantly tries to find the words, "He is more than adequate, is very patient with me. But I am new to having a father…and I miss my Mother quite a bit."

"Really?" Damian smiles, having never heard Mother use this tone of voice before—a hopeful lilt, excited.

"I am of the firm opinion," Damian shuts his eyes, trying not to cry, "that there is no better Mother for me."

There's sound across the speaker, a shuffle, Mother taking a deep breath. Tears start to fall, quiet and warm, down his cheeks.

He has not cried since he was a child, little more than a toddler.

"I am glad," Mother's voice shakes a little, "for I am also of the opinion that there is no better son for me as well."

Damian huffs, wiping his cheeks and letting the silence float in the air, comfortable in the space between one phone and the next, enjoying each other's breath.

"Father wishes for me to go to school." Damian finally says.

"Is that so?" Damian has never realized that you can hear someone's smile until this very moment, "The League is almost under control. They have those…parent's nights, no? Where the children show off their drawings? Your father says you have quite the talent…"

Even from so far away, it is hard to forget the woman who gave her candy once, all those years ago.

It is hard to forget her words then too.

I have a son, Talia Al-Ghul had said then, but I'm afraid he does not like sweets, will you throw them away for me?

Cass hears TimRobin and StephSpoiler bicker quietly behind her, lets BabsOracle's soothing voice demanding explanations wash over her in harmony.

JayHood's low timbre joins the cacophony, DickieWing's excited chatter echoing in the comms as he makes his way over. It is Sunday, that Sunday, brunch Sunday, so he is in Gotham tonight.

Bludhaven must be lonely.

She squints. BabsOracle starts to hiss, TimRobin and StephSpoiler tumbling over each other now.

DamianBabyBrother stands at attention, but his gaze is on them.

She waves. He does not wave back. That is okay.

DickieWing cartwheels onto their roof, gives Cass a pat on the head before wrangling the other two.

Cass observes their new baby brother, but does not get much. He is well trained. It does not matter, there will be time to learn.

"Show of hands," BabsOracle's voice is strict, commanding. They all freeze, trained in a better way, "New family member."

Immediately, all hands go up. TimRobin hesitates. It is okay. There will be time.

Cass smiles, watches DickieWing whoop, leading the race back to the Cave.

Cass waves again, but knows not to wait this time, twirling her way through her siblings.

She intends to win the race back home.

===

Alfred contemplates his newest ward as he wipes his hands.

The little one wants to know if there are any tasks assigned to him, which is new and refreshing.

This is, of course, sarcasm.

Master Jason refused to accept food without some kind of chore to exchange.

Miss Cass still shadows him occasionally, on alert for anything Alfred should need.

Even Master Duke is in the habit of asking Alfred if he can help anywhere.

Alfred had indulged them, of course, once in a while. Help them feel at ease.

The problem now is that Master Damian is not actually asking for tasks.

He is asking for information.

That is what intrigues him.

Master Damian stands quietly at attention, patiently, as Alfred considers the best way to navigate this.

"Well," Alfred lifts an eyebrow, "It isn't entirely necessary, Master Damian."

"I must earn my keep," the young master insists, "Blood son or not, I do not plan to waste away here."

Alfred hums. "Then I suppose it would depend on where your skills lie, Master Damian."

"I was trained in survival," Master Damian replies with nary a pause, "I can cook, and do basic cleaning." He tilts his head, reminding Alfred of a Young Master Bruce. "Admittedly, I am unsure of my skill level with no-one to compare to, as it was not necessary to my training."

Alfred lets that ruminate. He could have the young master help with dishes first, chat as he cooks for the family. It would be nice to have someone in residence to help with cooking again. Master Jason still avoids the Manor quiet often, after all.

"It is at least edible," Master Damian must mistake his silence as refusal, "And I learn quick."

"Yes," Alfred reassures the boy, "I am aware. Let's have you start with dishes, shall we?"

Master Damian's lip quirks to the side, small and so very familiar, and rolls up his sleeves.

Yes, this will do. Alfred smiles back, turning around to work on tonight's dinner.

Now, how much to reveal?

===

Steph watches the newest baby Wayne scrutinize Dick's somersault with the kind of concentration of a life and death threat.

It's impressive and at once entirely so sad that Damian executes a perfect somersault two tries later.

Once to get the feel. Twice to adjust.

Genius? Or training?

Steph doesn't really want to know.

It's the 16th item on the list that Damian has excelled at within the first five tries. Steph wants so badly for this little baby to let loose. He's been here for a couple months and he still thinks his stay is temporary.

As if Bruce would let his babiest bat go back to that asshole Ra's.

Talia might be cool, Steph doesn't know. Damian sure loves her, just from the scant sentences he's said about her. But sometimes love just…isn't enough.

Damian does a perfect one handed handstand, twirling around just like Dick did and stepping delicate down, and eyeing the tightrope Duke and Steph had set up for him to try. There's a unicycle somewhere in the gym, they just have to find it.

"Does this spark joy?" Damian tilts his head, from where he's perfectly balanced on the stupid unicycle and looking way too smug about it.

"It does not." He finally answers, dismounting with boring aplomb.

The next hobby is skateboarding—Tim shows Damian how to do an ollie, once the kid has the hang of standing on the board.

It is a special kind of delight to watch a trained-from-basically-birth assassin eat shit on a skateboard.

A pencil is tossed unerringly at her forehead whilst she loses breath laughing, and you know what?

It's totally worth it, especially when it devolves quickly into an office supply version of a food fight between the five of them.

They try new hobbies, and each time, Steph asks "Does it spark joy?"

And each time Damian considers, before he answers very seriously, "It does not."

Steph's gotta admit, the sincerity is what does it for her.

By the end of it, Steph loses the bet, but it doesnt matter.

Babybat'll fit in fine.

===

Duke comes down to breakfast and immediately realizes something is wrong.

Damian has been in the Manor for a while now, and it's been routine for Duke to see him making breakfast with Alfred every Tuesday and Wednesday.

Today is Friday, and Damian is at the stove, alone.

"Hey, little dude." Duke cautiously greets, "Where's Alfie?"

"Pennyworth went to fetch more eggs." Damian doesn't turn around, but he answers, and that's all Duke can really ask for. "Someone had used it up last night, without permission."

Duke whistles. "Enough of them to warrant an emergency shopping trip?" Alfie usually keeps a burden's amount of eggs in the fridge always stocked up.

"Brown and Grayson," Damian carefully says, smirking over his shoulder and obviously trying not to laugh, "decided they wanted pancakes."

"Oh my god." Duke laughs, already seeing disaster and trying to keep it all in to ask his question, "What—what did they do?"

"Apparently," Damian drags out, "They thought that eggs and flour was enough to make the batter."

Damian comes to the table, placing a perfect plate of sunny side up eggs, bacon, and hash in front of Duke.

"Needless to say, they made almost two kilos of pasta instead." He places the second plate at the head of the table. "They tried to fry some of it anyway, and ruined two pans before they realized that perhaps, maybe, pancake batter should look a little more…liquid."

By the time Damian has his own plate sitting across from Duke, he can't breathe from how hard he's laughing.

Bruce walks in, and they no doubt paint a peculiar picture: Damian, smirking and daintily eating his eggs. And Duke, curled over the table and trying to recover and succeeding at a snail's pace.

"Good morning Father." Damian primly greets.

"Good morning, sweetheart." Bruce's voice is confused, but amiable. He carefully picks his way to his spot and compliments Damian on breakfast, who nods in satisfaction.

"Duke, are you alright son?" Bruce asks, when Duke can finally straighten up take one deep breath.

"He'll be fine, Father." Damian waves his fork, "On an unrelated note, would you perhaps be opposed to pasta for lunch?"

Duke fucking loses it.

===

"Well?" Damian sits himself down delicately, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, expectantly.

They're down in the Cave, sitting across from each other at the round table in the main area, side by side.

Tim rolls his eyes, fine. No pleasantries then. "Are you considering joining the family business?"

Damian tilts his head, puppy-like, not that he'll ever say that to his face. "Which one?"

And that's a fair point. "Either. Any."

Damian purses his lips, in the same exact way Bruce does, thinking. "I am undecided. Why?"

"I was thinking that it was time for me to start making moves to…" Tim wants to be delicate here, considering the history Damian has, "…well, move on."

"Be more clear, Drake." And wow, the way Damian furrows his brow in annoyance is identical to Jason, "Use your words."

Tim huffs. "Robin, Demon Brat." Tim enunciates his words, trying not to smile at the way Damian perks up. "I want to retire."

Damian eyes him mistrustfully, darting from Tim's coffee cup, to his tablet, even to the BatComputer where Tim has a DNA sample running. "…I highly doubt that."

"UGH," Tim groans, "I want to rebrand, so I'm giving you the Robin domino or whatever."

"The Robin mantle must be earned," Damian puffs up like an irate Pomeranian, making Tim laugh for more reasons than one.

"I already retired once." Tim informs him, "Steph was Robin for a hot minute, making her own suit from a Halloween costume."

"She what." Damian's voice is dangerous, but Tim flaps a hand. He can blow steam as much as he wants, he's the baby of the family and despite it all Tim's 87% sure Damian wouldn't hurt a fly.

…Maybe a solid 66%. He'll have to run the numbers.

"She gave it up to be Spoiler real quick," Tim continues, "And then some shit happened, and though he wasn't officially a Robin, Duke was part of the We Are Robin movement."

Damian fumes in silence, which shouldn't be funny, but is.

"In other words, Demon Brat," Tim smirks, "Lots of people have been Robin. And if you don't take it now, well…who's to say someone else won't just…make their own costume?"

Tim waits out Damian's breathing exercises, patient and frankly, uncaring. He fiddles on his tablet, sips at his coffee, considers new vigilante names. With Dick now acting as Nightwing, the transition to Young Justice won't be as confusing even if he did join up as Robin, but Tim would rather not.

Just thinking about the mistaken identity issues with Dick's romantic history is already giving him nightmares. Slim as the chances are, with their builds being so different, but Tim just doesn't want to take that chance.

"Fine." Damian finally says, "I concede. When will training start?"

Tim scoffs. "You're League trained, so you'll just be shadowing for protocol. There's a manual somewhere that Bruce made, but we mostly treat it as a guideline. The Batkids have their own that they update, and you already have access to that on your tablet." Tim gives him a look. "Tell me you need access."

Damian wisely stays silent. Tim remembers that the League isn't really attuned to the intricacies of hacking and coding, but Damian has had no trouble snooping through the system from what Tim has seen. He wonders if the League just got upgraded since Cass got trained, or if Damian is self taught. It doesn't matter.

"Right. Well, Dick said he'll take you on a mission whenever your schedule is open, and you can shadow me on my current patrol, move around. You won't be able to patrol on your own for a while but—"

"What will be your new name?" Damian interrupts, eyebrow raised. Curious.

"Oh—uh. I haven't thought about it." Tim stutters. He didn't expect Damian to ask—

"Liar." Damian accuses, squinting at him.

Tim sighs. "I dunno, Red Robin?"

"That's a terrible name." Damian's nose scrunches. "A stupid name, even."

"Wha—it is not!" Tim slams his tablet down. Damian's eyes suddenly go wide, horror dripping through his tone.

"Drake—tell me you did not simply combine Red Hood and Robin."

Tim stays absolutely fucking silent, grabbing his coffee to keep his mouth occupied.

"Drake, I implore you to be better than this." Damian slaps a hand over his face, which is rude.

"Hey! That is—that is just uncalled for—" Tim pulls his cup down, almost spilling it. He swears, but Damian pays no heed to him.

"I knew you were a fan of Todd's Robin, but this cannot go on. Did you expect me to graduate and become Green Robin?"

"No! That's stupid, there's not such thing as a green robin—"

"There's no such thing as a red robin either! Unless you wish to be named after a subpar restaurant." Damian throws his hands up.

"You've never even been to a Red Robin!" Tim sputters, and tries to get a handle on the situation.

He fails.

"You have at least sixteen unique aliases with full on back stories that you successfully keep track of and disguise yourself into, and you cannot do any better than Red Robin?" Damian says, loudly, over his protests and effectively silencing him,

Tim opens his mouth, closes it. Shuts his eyes. Grumbles. "Well I'd like to see you come up with a better name…"

"Cardinal." Damian gets up, stalking towards the secret entrance, clearly done with this conversation. "I cannot fathom how little sense you have. Ridiculous."

And well. Tim hates to say it, but Cardinal is much better than Red Robin.

Gods damn it.

===

"I will name her Batcow." Dick refuses to coo. Damian is covered in blood and wielding a sword, this is not cute behavior!

How did this happen? This was their first mission. It was supposed to be easy. Tomorrow, Tim was going to take him out on patrols. The weekend after that, Jaybird was going to take him paintballing. Steph and Duke were going to teach him how to prank people harmlessly. This was supposed to be nice, easy Robin bonding!

"That's nice, baby bird." Dick tries to placate, "We can shuffle her with the other cows to their new home—"

"Nightwing," Damian's voice brokers no argument, "I have claimed her."

Dick has to wonder if he was as much of a menace when he was this age. He wasn't, surely. Sure, he got Ace in an unconventional way, but Ace was practically made for hero-ing.

Not to mention Ace was a dog.

"It's great that you want a pet," Dick tries again, "But how about we start with a dog first? Maybe a cat?"

Damian thinks on that a bit, before nodding. Dick sighs a great sigh of relief.

"I would like one of each." Wait. What? No. Nononono—

Cackling echoes in the comms, the hysterics of Steph and Jaybird loud and guffawing in his ear.

"Stop laughing and help me." Dick hisses into the comms as Damian starts flicks the blood of his sword.

"I used to put him in, in air jail." Jaybird says through gulps of air, "Y'know, pick him up wh-hen he was acting n-naughty."

"That isn't exactly applicable here, Hood!" Dick grits through his teeth, causing Steph to shriek in high pitched laughter.

"We will have to take the jet," Damian interrupts, "Batcow will not fit on our motorcycles."

"No, Robin—we, uhm. We don't have room for a cow at home—" Dick wants to tear his hair out. He's too young for this, surely.

Heedless of his words, Damian starts to gently lead the cow towards him, raising a single eyebrow.

"Okay, well. We do have room, but that doesn't mean—"

"Nightwing. Robin." Dick has never been more glad to hear Bruce's voice, "Leave the cow with the proper authorities and report back to the Cave."

"Father," Damian's voice suddenly changes, "I would like to take Batcow home."

"…Robin," Bruce starts, but is summarily interrupted.

"Father, you have missed twelve of my birthdays." Damian's voice goes wobbly, despite Dick physically seeing that his face is stone cold, "And I have not once received a gift."

There's a long silence, and Dick slumps. What the fuck do you even say to that?

"…The jet will pick you up in 3 minutes."

"And the dog and cat?" Damian's voice is smug.

Dick sighs. "I'll take you to the shelter tomorrow."

The comms peak, from the sheer volume of Jay and Steph's mocking laughter.

===

Bruce enters his study with a tablet in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. 

It's been a long day.

He’s tired, preoccupied with thoughts of Damian starting school soon. The rest of his children seem to be causing some kind of trouble trying to celebrate it in their own way, and it's giving Bruce a minor headache about it.

Talia's continuous demands of pictures and actual reports is both heartwarming and excessive, but Bruce can hardly blame her.

His eyes should be scanning through the documents that Lucius sent over this morning and is still awaiting approval for. 

What his eyes catch on instead is a new addition to his Gray Ghost shelf. 

It’s an action figure of the eponymous hero, one in almost pristine condition. A first edition. 

Inside the cloche with the Gray Ghost gun is a miniature version resting just beside it. The RC car also has a miniature version perched next to its front wheel. Between the trilby and the goggles lay two hands and a miniature case of the first DVD release.

He tilts his head, feeling his eyebrow raise and a smile crawl up as he picks up the action figure to inspect it. It looks old, but clean. Not quite used, but not sitting on a shelf either—there’s little knicks here or there. Perhaps found in a garage sale somewhere? It’s not even his birthday—still, the gift warms his heart as anything involving his children does.

Now, which one of his kids did this, he wonders?

No matter, he’ll find out soon enough. His children are terrible at keeping secrets, and he isn't Batman for nothing.

He places the figure gently back down in its place, and settles in for the long haul.

===

Talia sits, straight backed with her legs crossed in a highly uncomfortable chair.

Next to her, her Beloved looks lovely in his turtle neck and slacks, comfy, even.

She looks around the room, noting the whiteboard and assortment of small desks behind them,

There are motivation posters, and informational ones with equations listed upon them.

Talia refrains from scoffing, but really, what is the point of putting the answer up on the wall? How will they learn if they have such a crutch?

"Now," The portly man sitting across from them behind a large desk coughs to clear their throat, "Damian has shown high intelligence, his grades are top of the class and he has shown such high promise that the other teachers and I have discussed whether or not it would be beneficial for him to move up grades."

"I believe the principal and I already had this conversation, Mr. Porter." Bruce smiles, but it isn't the nice one, "Dami has always been a smart boy, but he was home-schooled, and we were more concerned about his socialization."

"Ah, yes. Well. The girls in the class seem to find him charming, albeit stoic. He is gentlemanly for his age, and doesn't really participate in…" Mr. Porter coughs once more.

Talia rolls her eyes. "In idle immaturity?"

"Well, yes. It's just—well," Mr. Porter tugs at his collar, "It's just boys being boys really."

"Has he made any friends? Of either gender?" Bruce asks, giving Talia a warning look. She shrugs, putting on her best innocent smile.

"Oh! Yes, one boy, Colin Wikes." Mr. Porter takes out a handkerchief to wipe his brow, "They seem to get along, in their own quiet way."

"That's lovely!" Talia's voice goes high, fake. Bruce winces, but she ignores him, "So his grades are up, he's made a friend, and overall he's popular with the ladies!"

"W-well, yes, but the other boys—"

"Now, now. Bruce is a lady-killer himself, and he managed to figure out male friendships eventually!" Talia simpers,"He had such a close friendship with Harvey Dent after all, before that whole...fiasco."

Bruce sighs, but again, Talia ignores him. "Now, I hear that my son has a talent in art? I see that none of them are hung up—"

This is very important business after all.

No-one can stop her from achieving her mission.

===

Jason opens his door carefully, quietly.

His traps have been disabled and reset, and Jason can only think of two people who would do that.

Both of them came from the League, and both of them don't take kindly to being startled.

He drops his work bag, the one for his mechanic's job, down in the entrance way. He takes of his heavy boots and treads silently through the apartment to find out which sibling came to visit.

He's greeted by Damian, asleep on his couch with an open and currently in danger of falling copy of Pride and Prejudice.

Jason quickly tiptoes over, grabs the book before it can fall to the ground, grabbing the kid's bookmark—a pressed flower that Cass made for him—and placing it to the side.

The fact that the kid hasn't woken up is testament to their time in the League.

Jason's been getting bits and pieces back, ever since he got shot and saw double vision of Damian and a younger version of the kid administering first aid to him.

Talk about shock therapy.

It's not all that pleasant, the memories.

He remembers the grueling training, the pain and anguish and fear of not remembering. Not knowing who he was, knowing Robin was important, not knowing what to do.

But not all of them are bad.

He remembers forcing Damian to brush his teeth for longer than 2 minutes, remembers tucking the tyke in with the bear, even the figure.

He remembers various missions, where he would pick up Damian and carry him to the nearest food stand to make him try an assortment of street foods with a series of flailing movements. Remembers the feeling of accomplishment and pride whenever the little guy would express it was adequate, because that was as good as a 5 star rating.

He remembers carrying him, hastily packed duffle bag and all, and thinking Gotham, Gotham is the safest place to be but not knowing why.

Mostly he remembers watching Damian sleep, peacefully, like he is now.

Because it's novel, then and now, how Damian trusts him enough to do it.

He sits himself down for a moment, always a little woozy when memories come surfacing up, breathing deep and leaning back. It's getting easier to remember, and Leslie had said it would stop eventually, so he weathers it out.

A second later, something warm thumps into his lap.

Damian has his head there, hands fisted like kitten's paws, curling up like a little ball.

Jason sees double, triple, memories and memories of watching this boy sleep and feeling honored and responsible and attached to him.

Brothers in arms, Talia had said, back when he wasn't quite himself, but wasn't Damian's Robin anymore either. You have a brother—

Jason had cut her off then, yelling that no replacement could ever be his brother.

He had eaten his words then, and he's eating them now too.

He lays a hand on Damian's back, rubs up and down his tiny shoulder blades, the way Bruce did when he was first adopted.

Brothers indeed.

He shuts his eyes, just for a moment, to breathe in the peace.