Trappola

He stares down at the case files on his desk. All he's doing is hurting you, he reminds himself. "No. I'm busy," he replies.

Your brows lower, a frown replacing your happy grin. "I just wanted to pop in. I won't be long. You missed our date yesterday, baby."

He squeeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. Right, that. The fancy dinner date he'd planned at your favorite restaurant, the one he ditched for patrol. He ended up just sitting on a building, looking into the restaurant, watching you check your watch a thousand times. 

He hated how sad you looked, how embarrassed that your date hadn't shown up. Eventually, you'd paid the bill for the wine you ordered and left, tears shimmering in your eyes.

He hates himself for leaving you alone, but he has this notion in his head that you're simply better off without him.

"I know, habibti. Again, I was busy—I still am."

Your excited face has long since crumpled into a disappointed frown, your chest aching funnily. "So you want me to go, then?"

"Please. Go away."

His hard tone makes you flinch slightly, a small bit of anger coiling in your chest. "What did I do to you?" you ask finally, still through the door. "You've been awfully shitty to me lately."

Suddenly the door swings open. "Fine," he snips. "If you're not going to go, you can come in. But you better not bother me, I've got files to look over."

Ah, yes, you think to yourself. Of course, Robin is more important.

With a sigh, you take a seat on his bed, watching as he returns to his desk and resumes his task. You hate that you still find him so pretty; the way his lips purse in focus, the way his eyes narrow when something looks suspicious. You hate it.

It's not for a few minutes that you speak up. "You never answered my question," you murmur casually, staring down at your fingers. "Why are you angry with me?"

He shrugs. "Well it's quite simple. You've been bothering me while I'm busy."

"Bullshit. You never cared before—sometimes you'd even let me help! So what is it really, Damian?"

He lets out a long, troubled sigh, snapping the case file shut and tossing it aside. "I think we should take a break."

All you can do is blink. Stare, and blink. "What?"

"We should take a break, beloved."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Damian," you say firmly. "Why?"

He looks down. "All I am doing is putting you in danger. You deserve to be with a boy who makes you safer. Not me."

You roll your eyes at his idiocy. "You're not endangering me. Nothing's happened to me yet and it's been months."

"That doesn't mean it won't happen!" he exclaims, looking you dead in the eyes. "I can't risk you getting hurt or kidnapped or killed, hayati."

"I can handle myself!" you say. "And it's not like everyone knows you're Robin. I'm not dating Robin, I'm dating Damian Wayne. I'll be fine."

He shakes his head. "Even outside of Robin, I'm still a Wayne. People know B is Batman—dangerous people, beloved. I wouldn't put it past them to come for you to get to us."

"But—"

"—I'm not doing this with you," he says finally, turning around toward the door and holding it open. "Please go."

You frown, biting back tears. "Damian—"

"—No!" he snaps. "Nothing you can say is going to change my mind. Leave. Don't come back."

You stare at him for a moment, wondering what the hell happened to your sweet boy. In a matter of weeks, you'd lost him. Over something you couldn't control.

Finally, you nod, numbly standing from his bed and brushing past him out his bedroom door. "Will I see you soon?" you ask, referring to Robin—Damian likes to watch over you, and sometimes you catch him. Hopefully that habit still sticks.

He doesn't reply, only shuts his door.

It's been sixteen days, not that you're counting.

Sixteen days of staring at your ceiling, trying to resist sending Damian a call. A text. Anything to see how he's doing.

You haven't seen or heard from him since, not even as his vigilante persona. Robin has not come to check up on you even once since you'd left, and it seems as if he's patrolling an entire different area of Gotham just to avoid you.

You frequently look through photos of you two. You and Dami, cuddling in bed. You and Dami, doing face masks together. You and Dami, skin-to-skin after making sweet love. You always end your scrolling covered in tears and snot, missing your lover so deeply.

You've picked up a routine: wake up, eat, read, nap, eat, go to sleep. It's not healthy, you know that. But what are you supposed to do when Damian used to fill every inch of your day, and now he's gone?

It wasn't always easy with Damian, don't get it wrong. There were fights, silent treatments, stubborn attitudes on both ends. But it hurts worse to be nothing with Damian Wayne than it does to be something.

On the other end of things, Damian's not doing much better.

Damian doesn't have many regrets in his life, but this is definitely one of them. He hasn't reached out to you since he sent you away. He swapped patrol with Jason so he could take a part of the city that wasn't yours. He deleted social media so he wouldn't feel inclined to see your pretty face on Instagram.

Long story short, he's living in hell—he's sure of it. 

He can't sleep at night without seeing your sad little face the night you left. Those tears in your big eyes, your pink nose, your frown… He understands why Tim loves his energy drinks so much.

Damian continues to try and convince himself that the two of you would've never worked out, that one day shit would've hit the fan regardless and you'd be gone either way. He did the right thing, he did the right thing, he did the right thing.

That doesn't stop his thumb from hovering over your contact every night. Doesn't stop him from daydreaming about you kissing his forehead. 

One day, as Damian is walking through the Gotham streets, earbuds in and eyes tired, he sees you.

Except, no. It's not you. Is he dreaming?

He gives his head a little shake and rubs his eyes, looking at the girl in the coffee shop on the corner of Melrose and Peterson. Same hair, same eyes, same focused nibble of her lip…

Well, fuck him. He misses you. He even missed your clashing ideas, your attitude, the meaningless fights. He didn't even say goodbye.

Damian would've been just fine if it weren't for the girl in the shop. He would've let go of this. He wouldn't have contacted you, wouldn't have asked to come see you, wouldn't have picked out the biggest bouquet he could find at the florist. 

Yet, here he was, standing at your door with a batch of your favorite flowers.

His heart hammers almost audibly in his chest all the way up until you swing the door open. Suddenly, he can breathe again. He stares at you, taking you in. Yep, same hair as always—same eyes, same kissable lips, same cute nose.

That's his baby, right there.

"Hi," he whispers.

"You actually came," you laugh in disbelief, smiling softly.

His head tilts. "Did you not think I would."

"I thought you were either drunk at 9 am or pranking me," you admit, opening the door wider so he could come in.

The apartment looks the same. Empty coffee mugs by the sink, unfolded blankets on the couch, messy in your own chaotic way. He sets the flowers down in the kitchen before moving to you.

His hands tentatively find your hips, his touch feather-light, waiting for you to reject it. When you don't, he lets his hands settle heavier, sighing in pure relief. "Oh, habibti," he whimpers, his face dropping into your neck. You still smell the same.

He breathes you in, arms moving from your hips to engulf you in a tight hug. One arm around your waist, the other holding your back with utter tenderness and care. "I'm so, so, so, so sorry," he whispers against your warm skin. "You're my everything, ya eazizaa. I just wanted to keep you safe, I didn't mean to—…."

You shush him soothingly, returning his hug. "Oh, Dames. I missed you," you murmur, carding your fingers through his soft hair. 

"Just wanted to protect you," he whispers. "Shouldn't have been so mean. My poor baby…"

"I know, Dami. I know," you soothe. "Look at me."

After a moment, he lifts his head from your neck, looking so sad and devastated and regretful. Your heart clenches as you cup his cheeks. He leans into your hand.

"I'm safe," you assure him. "I wouldn't stick around if I was worried about getting hurt, baby. I love you, I trust you. We're going to be okay."

A tear slides down his cheek, then another, then another. "You still love me?"

You smile softly. "Silly boy. How could I not?"

He kisses your palm against his cheek, the kisses fleeting and gentle. "Habibti, habibti, habibti," he whispers almost worshipfully against your skin. "I'll keep you safe. I'll do better."

"Don't ever shut me out like that again? Please?"

He nods, his pretty green eyes looking into yours. "I won't. It hurt too much."

You lean down, pressing a sweet kiss to his salty lips. Both of your bodies visibly relax as your lips meet, then your tongues. "I love you," he whispers into your mouth.

You hum in response before pulling away. "I love you."

He reaches for your hand and guides you to the couch. "I saw this woman earlier. She looked just like you."

"Really?" you murmur in acknowledgment, ready to cuddle your baby once again. "You sure it wasn't me?"

He shakes his head adamantly. "Oh, habibti. She could never be you."

Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.

When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.

When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.

When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.

Was it all a ruse?

The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.

If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.

You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.

“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."

I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.

“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”

His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.

His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”

“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.

His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.

“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”

It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.

His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.

You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.

Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.

His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.

He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.

He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.

"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."

He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.

Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.

You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.

All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.

This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.

You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.

Only for you to walk right past him.

He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.

You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.

“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”

Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”

“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."

“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.

Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.

“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."

Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?

“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.

Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.

“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”

“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”

You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”

Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?

"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.

You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.

There was something, very obviously wrong.

You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.

It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.

He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.

He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.

To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?

That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.

Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.

When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.

Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.

His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.

Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.

What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.

It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.

But—what does she mean to you, Dames?

What would your life look like without her?

In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.

It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.

He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.

He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.

He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.

He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.

Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.

He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.

He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.

He misses you... terribly.

It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.

Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.

"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.

"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.

His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.

A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.

He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.

You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."

His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.

“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”

Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.

It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.

Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.

That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.

“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”

“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”

You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”

He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?

He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.

Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.

At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.

Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."

A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.

Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.

You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.

“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”

He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”

It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.

“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”

“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.

His brow creases. “When have I ever—”

His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”

The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.

He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.

You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.

“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.

It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.

"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."

The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.

No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.

“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”

Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.

He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.

Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.

“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"

“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”

Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.

“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."

"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."

“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”

“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."

“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”

“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."

"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"

"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."

Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.

"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."

His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.

"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."

You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.

"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."

"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."

"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."

He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.

"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."

He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.

"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.

From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.

"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."

He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.

"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.

"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."

"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.

"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."

Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.

"I'd like to see that."

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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

“Do you not take a blanket or a coat with you?” he asked. “Gloves, at least?”

You smiled and rubbed your palms together. “Don’t have any good enough for the sea air. And dragging a blanket around is far too much work. But don’t worry too much about me, I’ll probably survive.”

He shook his head. “You have questionable survival skills.”

“At times,” you acknowledged.

The next morning when you joined him at breakfast, a second cup of tea waited by your usual seat. You smiled warmly at him as you picked it up, the heat seeping into your sore joints. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head toward you. “It’ll be the most effective way to keep you warm in the morning. Maybe your hands will defrost.”

You teasingly wrapped your hand around his wrist and he startled at the temperature. “We can hope.”

His eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers circled his wrist before he took another measured sip of tea as though nothing had happened at all.

It turned into a fun little game; resting your hand against him every time you returned from your night watches. He stopped startling eventually but he still gave you a look that made you laugh every time. He even started shifting his sleeve out of the way before you reached for him, subtle enough that you almost thought you imagined it the first few times.

He wasn’t the warmest person on the ship by any means. There were plenty amongst the crew who carried enough heat to chase the cold from your hands instantly. Somehow though, resting your fingers against Izou’s wrist or forearm always worked better than the tea he slid toward you every morning.

“I’m starting to believe you crawl down the side of the ship and sit with your hands in the ocean for hours,” he muttered.

“I think it’s the wind,” you said. “It’s been a little chilled.”

“I’m going to ask Marco to remove you from the night watch at this rate,” he warned. “Although you may enjoy the air, I think you’ll be far less useful once frostbite finishes claiming your limbs.”

“If I lose an arm, I’m sure he could reattach it.”

Izou gave you a firm look. “That’s decidedly not how his powers work.”

“Maybe he couldn’t with his phoenix fire but I trust that he’s a good enough doctor.”

Izou shook his head slightly. You snuck a hand under his sleeve, pressing your fingers into the warmth of his forearm. If nothing else, he was rapidly learning how to function at breakfast with one hand.

Days passed with the same routine until one morning when you wandered into breakfast and found a fine black box sitting neatly beside your cup. Dark silk ribbon had been wrapped carefully around it, the knot pristine enough that you immediately looked toward Izou.

He nudged it toward you once you approached. “For you. Seeing as you insist upon inflicting pain onto yourself.”

You frowned but lightly pulled on the ribbon. Inside the box lay a pair of perfect leather gloves, stitched in a fine, strong thread. Their rich colour was mesmerising. They were the most beautiful gloves you’d seen and you had no idea where Izou could have even gotten them from.

“These are beautiful,” you breathed out, gently lifting them from the box. “Where did you get them?”

“I commissioned them for collection prior to our arrival on the last island,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “They should fit.”

And they did. They were warm and elegant but flexible too. You ran your fingers over the back of one after you put it on, rolling your hand around to test them.

“How did you get it so perfect?” you asked.

He inclined his head, smile faint but proud. “They’ll take some time to break in but at least now you should keep all your fingers.”

You placed them carefully back into the box. “Thank you. You’re the best.”

“Try not to ascribe too much selflessness to it. This is an act of self-preservation.”

You laughed and reached for your cup of tea. The warm ceramic was a welcome balm against your still chilled fingers. It was impressive that Izou always managed to have it at perfect drinking temperature by the time you arrived.

You were halfway through breakfast when Izou glanced over at you. “Are you not cold this morning?”

“Hm?”

He nodded to your hands. “You only received the gloves now. I imagined my suffering might still last until tomorrow.”

You held your tea up for him to see. “As a thank you, I’ll give you a break from your torment,” you teased. “I did see something pretty interesting last night though. A young sea king or… at least a very small one.”

For a second, something strange flickered across Izou’s face; a slight displeasure that was smoothed away back into perfect composure immediately. He adjusted the sleeves of his kimono and nodded to you to continue.

“That’s quite unusual.”

You nodded, not quite sure what to make of his momentary unhappiness. When it didn’t come back, you brushed it off as nothing. If it truly bothered him, you assumed he would mention it eventually.

The gloves quickly became part of your usual wardrobe. The leather softened more with every wear until they fit like they had been made with your hands in mind from the start. Even on warmer days, when the sea breeze carried no bite at all, you still found yourself reaching for them before leaving your room. They were fashionable enough to suit just about any outfit and they provided a nice talking point.

Mainly because of you. You wouldn’t stop talking about them.

Everybody on the ship had heard at least one explanation about how amazing the gloves were and how much you appreciated Izou for the gift. By the third day, several members of the crew had started finishing your sentences for you whenever the subject came up.

It got to the point where, when you joined Izou and Thatch for dinner, the chef pointed a spoon at you the second you approached the table. “I don’t want to hear about the gloves. I know they’re nice but I’ve heard it enough.”

“I haven’t even said hello yet,” you protested softly.

“Because you were about to start talking about the gloves.”

Haruta snorted loudly from further down the table. “He’s right. You’ve talked about nothing else for days.”

Izou looked toward the gloves with an expression you couldn’t quite place. Not pleased but not exactly annoyed either.

Thatch noticed immediately. “Oh, now that’s interesting,” he muttered into his drink.

“Be quiet,” Izou said without missing a beat. “It’s warm enough that you don’t need gloves right now.”

“I know but they’re so soft and lovely,” you said, holding them up for him to see. “It’s not a problem, is it?”

“No, I just didn’t anticipate such enthusiasm for them.”

You smiled fondly. “They’re such a lovely gift. I appreciate them a lot.”

“They’re only gloves.”

You frowned, not having expected the sharp dismissal. You were far from the only person giving him strange looks; even Thatch had paused in his conversation with Jozu, his brows furrowed in Izou’s general direction.

“Only gloves?” he repeated.

Izou ignored him.

“But they’re so thoughtful and well-crafted,” you protested.

“You might be overstating their features. You praise them so much you would think I forged them from gold.”

“They’re the nicest thing I own.”

“I think that says a great deal more about the quality of your wardrobe then,” he said. “I should consider getting you some more articles then.”

You smiled, tension somewhat broken by his dry comment. You nudged him with your elbow gently. “Izou, they’re my favourite because you gave them to me. I would love them no matter what they were.”

Something softened briefly in Izou’s expression before he lowered his gaze toward his drink again. He hummed in acknowledgement but said nothing else about the subject.

Two days later, the gloves disappeared.

There was no way you could have lost them. You’d worn them for the first portion of the night before you went to bed. And whenever you did that, you’d always take them off and delicately put them into their box which sat atop your dresser.

But when you went to get them before breakfast, they were gone.

The box still sat where you had left it but when you pulled it open, the folded paper inside rustled empty beneath your hands. No leather. No gloves. A strange cold panic settled in your stomach almost instantly and within minutes you were dragging through your room hard enough to rattle furniture against the walls.

You went through every other person’s hammock or bunk in case it had been moved. You stuck your head into the dustiest parts of the room and got rewarded with nothing but several sneezing fits.

Your next stop was the crow’s nest where you almost gave Haruta, who was half-asleep on his watch, a heart attack. He insisted there were no gloves up there and you almost landed on Fossa when you clambered back down.

You moved across the deck with enough frantic speed that crew members had to step aside before you collided with them. Boots hammered against the wood as you cut between groups, your eyes catching desperately on every dark corner and unattended surface.

Vista caught you as you rushed out of the dining room, already planning on making your way toward the galley. You were never in there but maybe somebody else had seen it.

“Missing something?”

“My gloves,” you said. “You know, the leather ones that – ”

“I know your gloves,” he interrupted. “The ones that Izou had specifically made for you. The same pair he spent weeks planning for.”

“I mean, I don’t know about him spending weeks on them…”

“I do,” Vista reassured. “Thatch wouldn’t stop complaining about Izou hovering around the galley while organising it.”

That made it so much worse… You rubbed your arms and gave him a desperate expression. He shook his head with a slight chuckle.

“Alright, let’s see if we can find them then. I remember you wearing them last night.”

“I was,” you said with a nod. “I remember taking them to my room but I’ve looked there twice now and found nothing.”

On Vista’s instruction, more than half of the fifth division found time between their daily duties to search the entire ship for your gloves. You helped where you could, buzzing about between the group as they checked every barrel and table.

Enough people climbed into the crow’s nest that Haruta eventually leaned over the railing with murderous intent in his eyes.

“There are no gloves up here!” he shouted across the deck.

“Check again!” somebody yelled back immediately.

“I will start kicking people off this ship!”

You winced when he did so, looking around to see if Izou was anywhere to be seen.

You weren’t sure you were ready to tell him yet.

“I know you’ve lost your gloves,” Marco said when you made your way to the infirmary before you even started explaining yourself. “I don’t understand why half the ship needs to come to a halt because of it though.”

“It’s only the fifth division,” you defended.

Marco gave you a flat look. “It’s not only the fifth,” he muttered. “I’ve caught about a third of my division looking around the medical bays. Fossa just checked my office for gloves.”

“Maybe they ended up there.”

“Why would they end up there?”

“They’re really important to me, Marco. If I’ve lost them, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Have you checked the rooms?”

“Twice. Just not the commander’s quarters aside from Vista’s.”

“Why would they be there?”

“They wouldn’t but I’m leaving nowhere unchecked. Speaking of…”

Marco sighed and still allowed you to go through both his office and personal quarters despite you never having been in either before. You were also needing to avoid Izou as best you could, ducking away when you spotted him on the storage deck.

You convinced some of the other commanders to let you look through their quarters too but eventually ended up pacing empty-handed next to Vista.

“I have an idea,” he said. “But I don’t know if you actually lost them.”

“Do you think somebody could have stolen them?”

He tapped a rhythm against the hilt of a blade, his gaze scanning over the deck. “I don’t think anybody would steal them but if they were truly lost, my men should have found it by now. Did Izou simply give them to you because your hands were cold?”

“That’s what he said,” you acknowledged quietly. “Though I think he was getting tired of freezing every morning. I have watch again tonight and I’m not used to this weather anymore.”

Vista hummed, clearly thinking. “I think I know where they might be. I’ll check and keep you updated.”

Unfortunately, whatever his plan, it didn’t result in your gloves returning before evening came along. The only reprieve you got was that Izou didn’t arrive at dinner and that both reassured and panicked you in equal measure. The guilt you had about him knowing that you’d lost his precious gift weighed heavily on you.

And your night watch started out even more miserable.

Marco offered to switch your schedule for the evening but you rejected it, planning to spend your free time searching over the deck. Again.

Instead, you ended up leaning uselessly against the railing, accomplishing very little beyond staring out across the dark ocean. The wind curled relentlessly around your fingers and knuckles, cold enough now that every flex of your hands felt tight and uncomfortable without the gloves.

It was far from the coldest temperature you’d sat through but it felt all the worse.

And you were kind of missing Izou too. You weren’t used to avoiding him.

You didn’t know how long you stood, watching the ocean pass instead of actually doing what was required of you, but your mourning was interrupted by a smooth voice.

“Are you plotting the best way to get frostbite again?”

You startled; turning to find Izou standing far closer than he should have been able to get without you noticing. You must have been completely lost in your thoughts to not notice his approach – as quiet as he moved, it was still with a steady enough pace that you normally recognised his approach.

The wind shifted strands of dark hair loose across his face, silk catching briefly in the moonlight as he waited for your answer. The lantern glow from further down the deck softened the sharpness of his expression but did little to hide the quiet attention in his eyes. You smiled, a shaky and uncertain thing.

“It’s a nice evening for it,” you answered.

You wrung your hands together, joints slightly stiff from the cold. Izou’s gaze dropped to them for a second before he met your eyes.

“You look cold.”

“I am,” you admitted, slipping them behind your back on instinct. “But nothing too bad… I… I lost the gloves. I’m so sorry Izou. I searched everywhere for them and they’re nowhere. They must have gone overboard because I checked every corner of the ship.”

“I know,” he said. “I noticed how many on the ship were looking for them today.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologised again. “I tried my hardest to keep them safe.”

“Don’t apologise. There’s nothing to be so upset over. They’re only gloves.”

You brought your hands back around to breathe on them, pressing your palms together. “I know but I appreciated how warm they kept me. And they saved your arms too.”

Izou sighed, stepping closer smoothly. “I hardly complained about it though I fear on a night like this, my sleeves may not provide you with enough warmth at all.”

“It’s really okay,” you said with a small laugh. “I’m not losing fingers yet.”

His gaze lingered on your hands for a moment too long and then he held out his hand. “I’m not certain we should take that chance. After all, you clearly have poor circulation.”

You almost laughed but rested your palm carefully against his. His hand was far warmer than the night air, heat sinking quickly into your stiff fingers. Before you could pull away again, Izou stepped closer and guided your hand toward his waist, settling it lightly against the overlapping silk of his kimono.

Your heart stuttered almost to a stop, breath catching.

“Unless I’ve misunderstood your interest?”

His words were softer now, not quite unsure but still testing. As though he was waiting on you for an answer you’d yet to give.

“No,” you said, a little too fast and a little too honest. “I mean… that’s… thank you.”

You hesitated for a second before moving your hand properly. Your fingertips dragged lightly over the cool silk first, testing, before slipping beneath the edge of the fabric. The warmth of his skin startled you almost as much as the quiet breath Izou drew in. You immediately tried to move back but he caught your wrist before you could do so.

“Sorry,” you said. “I know it’s cold.”

“That’s why we’re doing this in the first place,” he said. “You already reach under my clothing all the time to touch my arms. I’m surprised this embarrasses you.”

A nervous chuckle slipped out before you could stop it. “This is very different to that.”

“Is it?”

You unfurled your fingers, pressing your hand gratefully against his warm side. You could feel his breathing beneath your palm, the steady rise and fall of his very well-muscled chest moving softly. Your heart stuttered dangerously hard in your chest but you managed to get yourself to breathe.

Izou leaned closer until his forehead rested lightly against yours. The gesture was so careful it made your chest ache. At some point, his free hand had found your other one too, fingers threading slowly through yours despite the cold still clinging to your skin.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The ship creaked softly around you and somewhere higher above, the sails shifted against the wind. Izou’s fingers remained loosely threaded with yours, steady and warm.

“I made a mistake,” he admitted. “Two, if only one that I truly regret.”

“What do you mean?”

“I shouldn’t have given you those gloves,” he said. “I thought they would help you stay warm but failed to realise you would seek me out less in return.”

You smiled at that. “They were very nice gloves though. I liked them a lot.”

“I noticed that today. I’m considering returning them but I’ll only do so if you promise that you’ll continue to come to me when you’re cold.”

“Wait, you took them?”

“I thought that would be obvious.”

You huffed, unable to find space in your heart for any emotion other than relief. “Izou, that’s terrible. I was worried sick.”

“And I’m sorry for that but I don’t regret this outcome. Do you?” You laughed and tilted your chin a little closer to him. “Not at all.”