leila ᢉ𐭩

For teachers, it was the final endurance trial of the semester — a marathon of polite smiles, lukewarm coffee, and careful phrasing like “spirited learner” and “unique approach to teamwork.” For most parents, it was a chance to beam proudly, compare grades, and pretend their child’s behavioral notes were “just a phase.” For students, it was dread. A long night of sitting two rows away, trying not to make eye contact as their academic sins were laid bare in a lecture disguised as informative discussions.

Parents’ evening meant different things to different people.

For Damian Wayne, however, it was none of those things.

Parents’ evening was a logistical inconvenience — an outdated ritual of forced social niceties that could’ve been summarized in an email. He had already assessed his performance, corrected his teachers’ errors, and determined that their opinions were, statistically speaking, of minimal consequence. Still, you insisted that parents evening was all part of being a "normal child". Alfred had agreed. Which meant it was happening, whether Damian liked it or not.

And so, on a crisp Gotham evening, while Bruce Wayne found himself halfway across the city at a shareholders’ meeting that he couldn't get out of, having already postponed it a multitude of times, you and Alfred — the human, not to be confused with Alfred, the cat — stepped through the shining glass doors of Gotham Academy — ready to discuss the education of a boy who could out-debate his teachers, out-run his coach, and very likely out-fence his instructor.

You'd already talked with Damian — well, more like strongly suggested, that he remains quiet and calm. Of course, it's with the strongest delusion that surely they have no notes on how your little robin acts in nothing but an exemplary manner, but because you live within reality, you're certain Damian has argued with staff enough times that at least one teacher must have resigned by now.

And so, you made your way down the polished hallway, the rhythmic click of Alfred’s shoes echoed softly against the marble. Damian walked half a step ahead, hands clasped behind his back like a young diplomat on a state visit, his expression the picture of stoic endurance.

You smiled faintly, leaning toward him. “You know,” you murmured, “if tonight goes well — I'm certain your father and I can agree that you more than deserve a reward."

That earned you a skeptical glance. “A reward,” he repeated flatly, as if the concept itself were beneath him.

“Mhm.” You kept your tone light, amused. “A treat, especially if you behave tonight. You pick.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed in thought — the faintest hint of curiosity flickering beneath his composed exterior. “Anything?”

You gave a small shrug. “Within reason.”

Beside you, Alfred’s voice carried, dry as ever. “I should remind Master Damian that purchasing an equestrian training facility or a private island does not fall within the established definition of ‘reason.’”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped you. “You heard the man. So behave yourself, and maybe we’ll stop by that bakery you like on the way home.”

Damian said nothing, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him — just barely — before he straightened his shoulders again. “Very well. I shall endeavor not to disgrace the family name.”

“Good,” you said, smiling to yourself as you approached the first classroom door — Mrs Hargreaves, English department.

You exchanged a quick look with Alfred — an unspoken pact of mutual patience — before you both stepped inside.

—

"Mrs Wayne," Mrs Hargreaves greeted as you entered with Damian and Alfred in tow, her hands perched atop her wooden desk. "It's wonderful to see you again. And hello to you, Mr Pennyworth. I hope you are fairing well."

It's not unusual that most staff know you by now, having already done this dance with each of your other boys and their teachers. Year after year when they were enrolled, there you were, right beside Dick, then Jason, and Tim, listening to all sorts of feedback — praise, thinly veiled exhaustion, concern, slight judgements on attitudes and approaches to schoolwork.

Pleasantries are returned as the three of you take your seats opposite, the darkened oak desk sat between your miniature gaggle and her.

The outside evening light filters through tall, arched windows dressed in heavy emerald curtains, illuminating rows of dark oak desks. The scent of old paper lingers here — the ghosts of novels read and essays graded. The walls are lined with framed literary quotes and shelves sagging under the weight of well-worn classics. A small reading nook sits in one corner, complete with a threadbare leather armchair and a brass lamp that hums faintly when lit. There’s something quietly romantic about this room, as if stories themselves live in the dust motes that drift through the air. It's almost a shame it's wasted on adolescents that'd rather be anywhere but school learning how to properly structure letters and the foundations of classic gothic fiction.

"Damian is quite the examplary literate student," Hargreaves begins. "His understanding and his comprehension of how to discuss works we cover during class in depth is sublime." Before Alfred and yourself can grow all too proud, and Damian all too smug, Mrs Hargreaves continues. "Although, perhaps young Damian here becomes a teeny bit too passionate, too...overzealous...during class discussions."

"Tt," Damian quietly scoffs accompanied with a diminutive roll of his eyes. But he spots the way you subtly roll your shoulders back and posture your head a little higher — though not in a smug, uppity display.

A magazine, the type that gossip about and idolise "celebrities" with the occasional one or two scandalous pictures and updates, once compared your smile to the sun in an article — nothing but bright, radiant, and emitting such warmth it could melt ice caps — a line you’d rolled your eyes at when you first read it, though even Bruce had conceded — in his own gruff way — that they might’ve been right. Gotham’s never had much sunlight, after all, but somehow, you’d managed to bring your own.

And that same smile was always present when talking or thinking about your family — Bruce, Alfred, your sons — even if sometimes, like now, it can appear a bit more, well, perhaps the best way to describe such would be wary.

"Well, our Damian," you begin, your tone patient and laced with fond amusement, "has always had a very sharp mind. When he’s interested in something, he doesn’t do it halfway — he dives right in, dissects it, debates it, sometimes to death if you let him."

You glance at Damian, whose posture stiffens just slightly under your calm gaze. "That passion can come off a little intense, I know," you continue, turning back to Mrs. Hargreaves, "but I think it’s less about wanting to be right and more about wanting to understand. He’s... wired that way. He likes answers that make sense — and if they don’t, he’ll pick at them until they do."

"And, well," you add, smiling that sun-warm smile of yours, "there are worse things for a young boy to be than enthusiastic about literature, don’t you think?"

Alfred, ever composed, gives a quick nod beside you and you catch the faintest twitch of his lips — amusement, pride, and approval all in one.

"While I agree your son's enthusiasm is admirable, perhaps he could reign in some of that enthusiasm so the class can make it through a full lesson without an added lecture detailing the supposed failures of well renowned authors. And my own teachings." She sounded a bit disgruntled at that final note and you could only internally cringe because of course, your Damian would be arguing with teachers and outright debating their personal approaches to teaching before the whole class.

And you can only prepare yourself to hear similar comments from the rest of the staff you're lined up to see this evening.

Alfred, always the picture of composure and charmed elegance, refolds his hands resting against his knee. "I am certain that Mr and Mrs Wayne will encourage Master Damian to perhaps participate during class with restraint — a more active listener than an active lecturer."

You swear you spot a tiny twitch at her left eye, her body screaming composed yet her smile not quite reaching her eyes; a little strained, forced. "Well, I'll be sure to keep my hopes and expectations at a reasonable level."

Damian, sandwiched between Alfred and yourself, sniggers which results in a quick and discreet nudge from you, your knee knocking his. Though, you did a job well done restraining yourself from mirroring your son.

Mrs. Hargreaves clears her throat, visibly deciding to steer back toward safer ground. “That said,” she continues, flipping through a folder on her desk, “Damian’s written work is consistently exceptional. His essays demonstrate an advanced grasp of both language and analysis. His recent piece on Frankenstein was... quite frankly, university level. The way he unpacked the moral implications of creation and responsibility—” she pauses, glancing up with reluctant admiration “—was nothing short of brilliant.”

You can’t help the little surge of pride that rises in your chest at that. Beside you, Alfred’s expression softens, just enough to betray his own quiet satisfaction.

Mrs. Hargreaves continues, her voice a touch lighter now. “His command of vocabulary is remarkable for someone his age, and his structuring — immaculate. Every argument, every quotation, perfectly supported. It’s a pleasure to read and mark his work.”

Damian, of course, looks entirely unsurprised by the praise.

“Even,” she adds after a small, pointed pause, “when he writes responses to my feedback on the margins of his graded essays and returns them to me. Corrected.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence. Then Alfred gives a polite, knowing cough.

You fold your hands neatly in your lap, your tone gentle but amused. “Well... at least you can be certain he’s...regarding...your feedback with much thought.”

Mrs. Hargreaves’ mouth twitches into something halfway between a smile and a grimace. “Yes. Vigorously.”

That earns the faintest huff of laughter from you, and even Alfred allows himself a quiet exhale that’s almost a chuckle.

“Well, Mrs. Hargreaves,” you say, rising from your seat, “thank you for your time. We’ll make sure Damian channels that enthusiasm a little more... constructively.”

“Please do,” she says, though there’s a note of reluctant fondness in her tone now. “He truly is a remarkable student.”

As you step back into the hall, you catch Damian’s eye and give him a look that lands somewhere between I’m proud of you and we’ll talk about those margin notes later.

“Come along,” Alfred murmurs, straightening his jacket. “One class down, several more to go.”

You sigh, the smile returning to your lips as you glance at the list in your hand. “Right. Where to next, my curriculum critic?" You ask teasingly at your son.

"Preferably home," he mutters, though he's quick to straighten up when he catches your raised eyebrow and slightly pursed lips. He finally relents with a sigh. "Mathematics with Mr Graves."

—

The conversations with Mr. Graves, followed by Ms. Patel — Damian’s history teacher — went as smoothly as you could’ve hoped. Naturally, they shared similar grievances about his *spirited* participation in class, but there was still plenty of praise to sing about your boy.

And it came as no surprise that Ms. Morin had no negatives at all to share about Damian in her art class. Well, perhaps Alfred and you had been a little surprised — but pleasantly so, you suppose.

But the evening wasn’t over just yet.

Because now, you found yourselves seated opposite Mr. Rivera in the science lab — Antony Rivera, fellow Gotham Academy alumnus who, like yourself, attended through a scholarship rather than family wealth or parental influence over the school board. He’d been two years above you back then, but all the scholarship students tended to stick together — study groups, shared bus rides, late nights swapping notes before exams.

He’s equal parts brilliant and scatterbrained — passionate about his subject to a fault and still approaches science like a kid in a candy store. He believes curiosity should never be punished, and mistakes are simply part of discovery.

His enthusiasm and genuine care for students make him one of the most beloved teachers at the Academy — though, if you asked around, a few colleagues might quietly describe him as *exhausting.* He’s charismatic without trying, the kind of man who remembers every student’s name, every parent’s face, and still occasionally calls you by your old school nickname — which, admittedly, is a tad inappropriate now.

Mr. Antony Rivera is the kind of teacher students adore yet live in mild fear of during experiments, the kind mothers fawn over and fathers quietly despise — because somehow, every interaction leaves their wives smiling a little too brightly.

Tall and lean, with that easy, natural sort of charm that comes from confidence rather than vanity, Rivera carries himself like someone who’s never quite lost his boyish spark. His dark hair has just begun to silver at the temples — in a way that, frustratingly, only seems to make the mothers swoon more — and there are almost always faint smudges of chalk or graphite on his hands or shirt sleeves from the day’s lessons.

And no man despises him more than Bruce Wayne. Because while other women may flirt harmlessly with the charming science teacher, Antony Rivera’s eyes have only ever followed one woman — the one he’s harbored a quiet, stubborn crush on since their own school days.

If anything, time had only made Rivera’s fondness deepen — mellowed it, perhaps, but never erased it. What had once been a harmless teenage crush had aged into something wistful, lingering just beneath his easy smile. To him, you weren’t just “Mrs. Wayne,” and by god, that name paired with yours tasted ever so slightly bitter on his tongue. You were the girl who used to beat him at chemistry quizzes and share your lunch when he’d forgotten his own.

So every time your paths crossed — at school fundraisers, science fairs, or nights like this — he’d light up with that same boyish grin, his voice dipping just a touch warmer when he spoke to you. You, of course, never cared to notice. You’d always seen Antony Rivera as what he was: a kind, passionate teacher and an old friend from a long time ago.

Everyone else, however, noticed *everything.*

Other mothers exchanged not-so-subtle looks, their envy disguised as politeness; their husbands pretended not to be elated that, with his attention on you, their wives had little chance of actually ending up in his bed. Alfred, ever the gentleman, carried himself with immaculate civility, though his gaze often lingered on Rivera for a beat longer than courtesy required — as if quietly deciding whether to remind Bruce about this particular man’s existence later.

And then there was Damian.

Damian had clocked the man’s interest the *moment* it existed. He’d noticed the way Rivera’s eyes softened when you entered a room, the way he laughed a little too easily at your remarks, and how he’d once adjusted his lab coat when greeting you — like that somehow made him more presentable.

He remembered when he first brought it up to his brothers after Bruce and you had been called in earlier that day for… oh, who even remembers for what. Dick had already left by the time Rivera got there, but Jason and Tim… they’d suffered plenty having to watch the man drool over you. And Bruce — well, Bruce’s jaw had clenched so tightly it was a miracle the man could still speak afterward.

“Should’a seen Bruce’s face when they first had to meet him at one of my parent evenings,” Jason had started, the vivid memory still enough to make him snicker. “Mr. R definitely got lucky walkin’ away without a broken jaw.”

Tim nodded, equally amused. “I don’t even *have* him anymore, and he still somehow ends up catching Mom for a chat when she’s supposed to be there for one of *my* things.”

From that day onward, Damian’s feelings toward his science teacher could only be described as… homicidally protective.

He scowled through every class, answered every question with surgical precision, and corrected Rivera’s equations before the man could finish writing them. Once, he even “accidentally” overheated a Bunsen burner while Rivera stood too close — a mishap Alfred had quietly described as “strategic.”

Regardless, to you, Antony Rivera was harmless — a familiar face from the past, nothing more. To Damian, however, he was a walking threat to domestic stability.

Which entirely explained why, in this moment, he was sitting stiffly between his mother and the closest thing he had to an actual affectionate grandfather — scowling so deeply at the man across the table that even Alfred had started to side-eye him in mild concern.

Antony — Mr Rivera — had welcomed you all in with a smile, even if he did gulp slightly at the way his student glowered at him as if his demise was being internally plotted in the young boys head. And he'd nervously adjusted his tie when you all took your seats, loosening the professional noose. Hell, Damian had sworn he swung open his door all too eager to be in the presence of his ummi.

You offer a polite smile, one that could thaw Gotham’s winter chill. Alfred is sat as calm and composed as ever.

“Mr. Rivera,” you return the warm welcome with an acknowledgement, voice pleasant. “It’s been a while. You look well.”

“I could say the same,” he replies, grin softening just a touch too much and his voice dropping a tad as he says your name — first name, not Mrs Wayne. “You haven’t changed a bit since—” He stops himself mid-sentence, catching sight of Damian’s narrowing eyes and Alfred’s subtle lift of an eyebrow. “—since the last fundraiser, I mean. You look… radiant.”

You blink, amused but polite. “That’s very kind of you.”

Damian clears his throat pointedly. “Perhaps, Mr. Rivera, we might focus on my *academic* performance rather than my mother’s aesthetic condition.”

“Right!” Rivera laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Of course, yes. Damian. Let’s talk about Damian.”

He flips through a few pages on his tablet, still smiling as though he hasn’t just been caught mid-flirt. “Now, I’ll start by saying Damian is one of the brightest students I’ve had in years. His grasp of chemical theory, molecular composition, and biological processes is outstanding — honestly, graduate-level at points. He doesn’t just memorize; he *understands*.”

You nod, pride softening your expression. “That’s wonderful to hear. He’s always been quite curious.”

“Curious is one word for it,” Rivera says with a short laugh. “Determined might be another. Though…” He hesitates, glancing down at his notes. “He can be a bit, ah — *assertive* in the lab.”

Alfred hums lightly. “Assertive?”

Rivera chuckles, a little sheepish. “Let’s just say, he’s… very sure of himself. Once, he corrected my formula mid-lesson — in front of thirty other students. He was right, of course, but…”

“I was *saving* the class from embarrassment,” Damian interjects flatly.

“Of course you were,” Rivera says good-naturedly. “And, ah, there was that one time with the miniscule, teensy tiny chemical spill—”

“That was a *miscalculation*,” Damian cuts in again, eyes flicking up sharply. “Entirely circumstantial.”

“I see,” Alfred murmurs, clearly suppressing a smile. “A most tactical miscalculation, then.”

You press your lips together, fighting the same urge. “Well, I’m sure no harm was done?”

Rivera waves it off with an easy grin. “No, no! Just a bit of excitement. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Besides, it’s good to see a student so… *proactive* in this field.”

At that, Alfred’s brow arches ever so slightly. “Proactive, indeed.”

Rivera clears his throat, shifting the topic quickly. “Overall, Damian’s work is exemplary. He leads by example, challenges his peers, and isn’t afraid to ask difficult questions. He’s got a brilliant scientific mind — one I’d encourage to keep exploring, perhaps even pursue higher-level courses next term.”

You smile warmly, genuine and full of pride. “Thank you, Antony. That means a lot.”

Damian’s jaw tightens at the use of his first name. His hand twitches near yours under the table — a silent claim of territory.

Alfred coughs into his fist, just loud enough to break the silence. “Well, Mr. Rivera, I daresay Gotham Academy is fortunate to have such… devoted faculty.”

Rivera beams, oblivious to the double meaning. “Thank you, Mr Pennyworth. I do my best.”

“I’m sure you do,” Alfred replies dryly, standing with practiced grace.

You follow, shaking Rivera’s hand once more. “We appreciate all you’ve done for Damian. Really.”

“Anytime,” Rivera says, his smile lingering a beat too long. “Always happy to help.”

As you turn to leave, Damian mutters under his breath, incomprehensible to you, “He’s insufferable.”

“Now, now,” Alfred chides softly. “No need for such hostility.”

“He stared at her for *five minutes* straight,” Damian hisses as you offered your final goodbyes to Rivera before walking to catch up with the two. “Father should have let me bring a sword.”

Alfred gives a patient sigh. “Master Bruce did insist on civility this evening.”

“Yes,” Damian replies through gritted teeth, “and it is *rapidly* deteriorating.”

—

Damian's mood seemed a little sour by the time you three finished chatting with Mrs bloom next — music teacher and drama club supervisor. She mentioned how Damian plays piano beautifully but lacks the emotion and heart, and how she's been desperately trying to get him to join any production they try to put on, but he refuses, the most he willingly participates in is the stage fighting with fists or props.

Which usually ended with someone suffering an injury at his hand.

But Damian seemed to have grown a little lighter by the time you three reached Coach Reilly's office — probably because of the distance it puts between you and Antony.

The itself office is functional, but lived-in — the kind of place that smells faintly of liniment and gym mats. A clipboard wall, trophies, and a shelf of old footballs give it personality. There’s a whistle somewhere on the desk, half-buried under paperwork. And the window looks out onto the field, where the students would run drills rain or shine. You can imagine you'd hear the echo of sneakers squeaking on gym floors through the connecting door to the locker rooms. It’s equal parts chaos and discipline, held together by sheer routine.

And at the epicenter of it all sits Coach Reilly. He's your classic stereotypical PE teacher — broad shoulders, perpetually sun-tanned face, and a voice that could probably carry across Gotham Harbor without a megaphone. His salt-and-pepper hair is cropped short, his polo shirt tucked neatly into track pants that have seen one too many semesters, and there’s a stopwatch always hanging around his neck like a badge of office.

But unlike the stereotypical barking type, Reilly’s got an easy humor about him — the kind that makes even the laziest students try a little harder. He’s firm, fair, and utterly immune to excuses, though there’s warmth behind his gruff exterior. He believes in effort over talent, teamwork over ego, and that getting muddy or bruised builds more character than a dozen classroom lectures ever could.

He’s an older faculty member — not old enough to have taught yourself, but old enough to remember teaching both Dick and Jason — which, frankly, explains the small twitch at the corner of his eye when he first spots your surname on any roster. The man’s seen things.

Still, he’s always been fond of your family — if a little wary of the chaos that tends to follow your sons like a curse. And to his credit, he treats Damian, and Tim, no differently.

So, when you step into his office, he greets you with a wide grin and a booming, “Mrs Wayne! Mr Pennyworth! And the man of the hour himself — Damian!” before gesturing toward the chairs across his desk.

"Hello, Coach Reilly," you offer warmly, Alfred mirroring.

Coach Reilly leans back in his chair, that ever-present grin softening into something a little more genuine. “I’ve gotta say, Mrs Wayne, Mr Pennyworth — this one’s a natural. Fastest sprint time in his year, sharpest reflexes I’ve seen in a long while. Kid’s got discipline, focus, drive — the kind that can’t be taught.”

You can practically feel Damian straighten beside you, posture snapping into proud attention at the sound of such high praise.

Reilly continues, resting his elbows on the desk. “Now, don’t get me wrong — he’s competitive as hell, and not exactly what I’d call a *team player* just yet, but he’s got leadership in him. You can’t fake that. Reminds me of another one of your boys I used to teach.”

Your lips quirk, sensing where this is going.

Reilly chuckles, shaking his head with the kind of nostalgia that only long-time teachers carry. “Your Dick was a picture of athleticism back in the day. That kid could run circles around half the upperclassmen — charm the socks off the other half, too.”

You blink, caught off guard — and before you can even attempt to school your expression, Damian lets out the softest huff of a laugh through his nose. A smirk ghosts over his lips, subtle but unmistakable.

Alfred’s brow arches ever so slightly, and you catch his eye — both of you clearly fighting the same losing battle not to grin.

Reilly, blissfully unaware, presses on. “Jason wasn’t too bad either — raw power, that one. Bit of a temper, but you could always count on him to give a hundred and ten percent. And Tim — well, we'll get to him in a couple days for his own parents evening, aye. You’ve got yourself quite the line-up, Mrs Wayne.”

You smile softly. “They do keep me on my toes.”

“I’ll bet,” Reilly says with a laugh, tapping his clipboard. “And this one—” he nods toward Damian, “—might just outdo them all someday. Though I’ll admit, I’ve had to *gently* remind him that friendly competition doesn’t usually involve actual combat maneuvers.”

Damian’s eyes narrow slightly. “If the objective is victory, then one should be prepared to win through all means available.”

Reilly barks a laugh, the sound booming in the small office. “See what I mean?” he says to you, grinning. “Confidence for days. Kid’s gonna run Gotham one day — on or off the field.”

You can’t help but return the grin, warmth blooming in your chest. “Let’s hope he channels that energy into something slightly less… bruising.”

Reilly chuckles, standing as he offers his hand across the desk. “He’s a good kid, Mrs Wayne. One of the best I’ve got. You should be proud.”

“Oh,” you reply with an easy, radiant smile, glancing at Damian with unmistakable fondness, “we are.”

As all three of you make to leave the office after shaking hands and bidding farewells, coach Reilly suddenly calls out to you like he's just now remembered something oh so important.

You've paused as Coach rounds the desk, small crisp envelope in hand, Damian's first and last name nearly scribed along the front. "Ms Zhang asked me to hand out her personal reviews of all students partaking in her fencing classes."

Ah, Ms Zhang — internationally renowned fencing champion, Olympic medalist, and the school’s not-so-secret bragging right. Gotham Academy loved nothing more than to casually mention her name during donor galas, a living testament to their “commitment to excellence.”

You take the envelope from Coach Reilly with a polite smile. “Thank you, Coach. I’ll be sure to read it once we’re home.”

—

God, you were exhausted by the time you'd finished the last of the rounds with Mr. Sloane, Mrs. Cole, and Headmaster Thornwell — you're certain Damian scares the ever-living hell out of Thornwell, but suppose he can't really complain considering the generous donations your husband and yourself give to the academy.

So the second you'd walked through the manor’s front doors, you were quick to kick off your shoes and sigh, rolling your ankles out as Alfred hung up his coat and Damian made a direct line for the kitchen — the little paper bag from the bakery already in hand.

The sound of familiar footsteps descending the grand staircase drew your gaze upward. Bruce appeared halfway down, his tie loosened, jacket not long obviously discarded, and that quiet, weary look he always carried after an evening spent with people who smiled too much and said too little.

But that softened the second his eyes landed on you.

“Welcome home,” he murmured as he reached the bottom step.

Before you could even reply, he was already there — one arm slipping around your waist, the other resting against your back as he leaned in to kiss you. It wasn’t hurried or showy, just soft and certain — the kind that said I missed you far more clearly than words ever could.

“Shareholders’ meeting?” you asked against his chest, voice still drowsy from the long evening.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “As thrilling as ever. I think one man spent twenty minutes debating the price of light bulbs.”

You chuckled softly. “And here I was thinking you might’ve had the more interesting night.”

He tilted his head, smirking faintly. “I doubt it. How was parents’ evening? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it this time.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Mostly positive feedback, actually. A few… spirited remarks about enthusiasm and debate habits, but no detentions or formal complaints this time.”

Bruce arched a brow, amused. “Mostly positive?”

“Mhm.” You gestured toward the kitchen, where Damian sat perched on one of the stools, methodically eating a chocolate pastry with the precision of a surgeon. “Evidence right there. I promised him something sweet if he behaved himself and the feedback leaned more praise than concern. He earned it.”

Bruce followed your gaze, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched his youngest chew with careful dignity, pretending he wasn’t enjoying it as much as he was.

“He looks content,” Bruce murmured.

“He should be. He worked hard.” You nudged him lightly. “And before you ask — yes, we survived the Rivera encounter.”

That earned an unmistakable groan. “Him again.”

Alfred, passing through with his usual composure, interjected mildly, “Master Damian handled himself admirably, sir. If murderous glaring counts as restraint.”

You laughed quietly, pressing your face briefly into Bruce’s shoulder. “He behaved. I promise. Though, I can’t say the same for his internal monologue.”

Bruce huffed out a laugh, his hand gently rubbing your back. “I’ll take your word for it.”

For a few long moments, the house was quiet — the kind of quiet that felt safe, earned, like the world outside could wait until morning. Then, you're leaning back slightly to look up at your husband, eyes looking a little drowsy. "Patrol tonight?"

"Mmh," he hums confirmatively, dropping a kiss to your forehead. "Should head out soon."

"Have you eaten?" When he doesn't answer, your eyebrow is quirking up unimpressed. "You and Dami aren't going anywhere until you eat something actually substantial and let it settle for at least half an hour."

Bruce's chest rumbles from the deep, quiet chuckle that shakes his shoulders softly but he doesn't dare argue. He knows you could easily put your foot down about Damian not patrolling at all tonight because of school the following day so he supposes he should relent before he ends up defying that good old saying altogether — happy wife, happy life.

—

The manor was now silent, the kind of silence that only came after midnight — when even Gotham seemed to hold its breath for a while. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked steadily, soft against the hum of the kitchen lights.

You moved about quietly, half out of habit, half out of muscle memory. One mug for you, one for Alfred — his always with the faintest splash of milk, yours strong enough to wake the dead. The kettle whistled low and sharp, and you poured, the steam curling lazily through the air.

On the counter beside you sat the crisp envelope Coach Reilly had handed over hours ago — Ms. Zhang’s fencing report. You’d meant to read it earlier, but one thing had blurred into the next. So, with your tea warming your hands, you finally slit it open.

To whom it may concern regarding Damian Wayne,

It is with professional regard and genuine respect that I provide this update on Mr. Wayne’s participation and progress in Fencing this term.

From the beginning, Damian has demonstrated a remarkable grasp of both the technical and philosophical aspects of the discipline. His understanding of tempo, distance, and intent is exceptional for his age, and his reflexes and composure under pressure suggest a level of training far beyond that of a typical student. While his natural competitiveness can at times eclipse his sportsmanship, he has shown increasing discipline in balancing precision with restraint — a skill I consider equally valuable as any physical ability.

In paired exercises and tournament-style bouts, Damian has consistently outperformed his peers. His footwork is efficient, his bladework precise, and his strategic thinking is of the highest standard. He possesses an instinct for reading his opponent that cannot be taught, only refined. I have observed him applying classical principles of fencing with almost uncanny instinct — his parries are measured, his ripostes exact, and his timing nearly flawless.

Given his progress and clear aptitude, I strongly recommend that Damian consider participating in regional or national level competitions. The experience would challenge him in an environment that matches his capability and provide the opportunity to engage with opponents of comparable skill and discipline. I have no doubt that he would distinguish himself with honor.

In my years of instruction, it is rare to encounter a student who approaches fencing not merely as a sport, but as an art form and code of conduct. Damian Wayne does both, with exceptional focus and an intensity that commands respect.

Please do not hesitate to contact me should you wish to discuss potential next steps for his competitive involvement.

Respectfully,

Ms. Lin Zhang

Independent Fencing Instructor

Gotham Academy

By the time you folded it back into its envelope, you were smiling faintly — proud, unsurprised, and maybe a little amused at how earnestly your son approached everything like a matter of life and death.

Balancing both mugs, you padded softly through the hall, down the lift, and into the cool hum of the Batcave. Alfred looked up from his workstation the second he heard you.

“Tea delivery,” you murmured, setting his cup down beside him.

“Ah,” Alfred said, his face easing into one of those rare, fond smiles. “You’re a saint, ma’am.”

“I’ve been called worse,” you said lightly, placing the fencing letter on Bruce’s desk nearby. A small sticky note sat on the front in your handwriting:

'Don’t let Damian read this unless you want to deal with an inflated ego. Love you.'

You took one last look around the cave — the quiet monitors glowing, the faint sound of static from comms, the city skyline reflected in a dozen black screens. Somewhere out there, Bruce and Damian were doing what they did best, and somehow, that thought no longer filled you completely with worry — you're confident that your boys will come home alive and well, lest you kill them yourself.

“Be safe, boys,” you whispered under your breath, before turning back towards the stairs.

By the time you reached your room, your tea had cooled, but you didn’t mind. You set it on the nightstand, slipped beneath the covers, and let exhaustion finally pull you under.

And just before sleep claimed you, one stray thought drifted across your mind — half dread, half amusement.

Tim’s parents’ evening on Thursday.

You groaned softly into your pillow.

Maybe you weren’t ready to do this all over again.

_______________

Nothing to really add down here

This is just sort of an idea I had in my head before I disappeared for like 4 years

But anyways

I hope you've enjoyed

Gotham was quieter than usual.

The rain had been falling since sundown, turning the city’s edges into watercolor smudges of gray and gold. From the rooftop of your apartment building, you could see the glow of the Narrows in the distance—flickering, broken light that refused to die.

Just like him.

Jason sat beside you on the edge of the roof, his red helmet resting between his boots. The air smelled of wet asphalt and smoke, but under it all was something softer—coffee, leather, and the faint trace of gunpowder that never seemed to leave him.

You’d both stopped talking a while ago. Words weren’t necessary when silence felt this easy.

He broke it first.

“Didn’t think you’d wait up,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges.

“I always do,” you replied, pulling your knees close to your chest. “You just never notice.”

Jason chuckled—soft, short, a sound that didn’t belong to the Red Hood, only to him. “Guess I’m not used to people waiting for me. Feels… different.”

You turned your head, studying him under the glow of the rooftop light. The rain had soaked through his hair, darkening the streak of white that cut across it. His jacket was damp, and you could see the small bruises blooming along his throat—reminders of another night spent fighting for a city that rarely thanked him.

You reached out, brushing a raindrop—or maybe a tear—from his cheek.

“Different doesn't mean impossible, Jason.”

For a moment, his expression softened. The hardness in his jaw eased, and his eyes— tired but endlessly searching—found yours.

“You make it sound easy,” he murmured.

“It is. Loving you isn’t the hard part,” you said. “It’s watching you forget you deserve it.”

He stared at you like the words were foreign. Then, quietly, he leaned forward until his forehead touched yours. The rain drummed softly against the rooftop, the world shrinking to the space between your breaths.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered. “Not after everything.”

“You do,” you answered, without hesitation. “Especially after everything.”

Jason sighed, and for once, it wasn’t a sound of frustration or pain—it was relief. He pulled you into him, arms strong and careful, the scent of rain and leather wrapping around you both. The city faded; there was only warmth, heartbeat against heartbeat.

The steam curls around you like a gentle blanket as the bathroom lights cast a golden haze throughout the room; you begin to shed your clothes, stepping out of your pyjamas as you glance at your boyfriend. Jason leans against the tile, the tension in his shoulders barely contained under the flow of the scalding hot water. You step closer, careful not to startle him – especially when he had a rough patrol like tonight – letting the heat of the shower water wash over both of you. Water runs down his back, dripping along the old scars and fresh bruises, and your finger lifts, softly tracing over the faintest purple blooming across his shoulder. He stiffens, but only for a moment – the nod he gives is subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough.

You lean forward before realising, lightly pressing a kiss to his shoulder, careful not to put any pressure on his fresh bruise – just a touch of your lips, so he knows you’re there.

“Rough night?” You ask softly, your voice gentle against the hiss of the water, as you reach around his arm for the shampoo, twisting the lid open and squeezing a small dollop in the palm of your hand. He lets out a hum when he feels your lips brush against the back of his spine before you bring your hands to his hair, massaging the shampoo into his hair gently, your fingers threading through the strands, getting rid of all the sweat and grime gathered from the night.

He turns his head to let the water run through his hair, suds running down his back and towards the drain. “Something like that,” he murmurs, tone low, distant. His hands press against the tiles, knuckles tightening.

He got like this sometimes. Distant, quiet, almost pensive. As if he’s still out on the streets, still fighting all that crime; instead of being in your arms in your shared apartment, he’s still getting used to calling home.

You don’t press any further, just letting your touch follow the lines of his body as the water washes away his sins. Slowly – deliberately – your fingers trace the older scars, the long jagged cuts – reminders of the battles he fought and sometimes, barely survived. You can feel the heat from the running water, the way his skin is warm under your fingertips, slightly reddening because of the temperature of the water – something you’d tease him about, but not tonight.

You realise just how fragile he looks in the steam – unguarded, exposed in a way that no armour can protect. You see the version of him he hides from everyone – Dick, Tim, Damian, Alfred, Cassandra, and Bruce, especially Bruce.

“You know, I have a few scars too,” you murmur, like he hasn’t memorised every dip, every beauty mark, every freckle that dots your body. You tilt your knee so he can see the thin line running across it, something he’s traced many times in the past but never asked what it was from. A childhood memory – you were six or seven; you’d just upgraded to a bigger bike after being taught how to ride on wheels, convincing your parents you were ready for the bigger vehicle. The next morning, when you tried to cycle around the street, you struggled to turn the handle, the bike tilting on its axis, causing the skin on your knee to get scraped, skin raw and bleeding, but the scar still stayed. It took you weeks to gain the confidence to get back onto that bike; even then, you needed someone to hold onto you.

You point out the small cut on your hand from cooking dinner last week. The two of you decided to try out a recipe you saw on TikTok – well, you saw it and convinced Jason to help. You asked him to check on the chicken while you prepped vegetables, singing along to the song shuffled on your phone when the red pepper slipped off the chopping board, the tiny accident that had seemed so dramatic in the moment but now feels almost laughable. Jason refused to let you back in the kitchen, forcing you to sit on a stool and keep him company as he finished making the meal – it was the best thing you had ever tried.

Then there’s the scar on your face, the one you got from falling as a child – it has always made you feel a little self-conscious.

Green eyes follow every movement of your fingers as you touch your own scars, tracing them with the same gentle care you show his. He brings your hand up, pressing his lips gently to the faded scar on your hand, letting his lips rest there for a second before pulling away, wet lashes brushing his cheeks.

He watches you, and the tension in his jaw eases slightly; you can see his demeanour softening. You glide your fingers over his chest, past more familiar scars, the ‘Y’ shape along his torso, and he exhales softly, trying to hide the shudder his body lets out, letting him relax against your touch. You remember the first time he took his shirt off in front of you; it was months into your relationship, and you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

“You’re – wow,” you whispered, and he huffed, eyes darting across the room, avoiding the look in your eyes, saying the words you still hadn’t said to each other yet.

“Never thought someone would… care like this,” he confesses quietly, like he wasn’t sure if he’d want you to have heard.

“I care,” you whisper, brushing your fingers across the line of his jaw. “All of it. You don’t have to hide from me.”

A faint, almost imperceptible – very Jason-esque – smile flickers across his face, and he leans back into the warmth of the shower, his arms loosely wrapped around your hips, letting the water wash over both of you. Your trace lingers over each scar, following the lines, letting your touch speak when words aren’t enough.

After a while, you pull a washcloth over his shoulder, careful and methodical – on better days, he’d grumblingly comment on the vanilla-scented products you were using on him, but tonight he just gives in, letting his eyes flutter shut, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he hums low in response. The sound vibrates against your chest, and you realise he’s starting to trust you in a way he hasn’t with anyone in a long time.

Eventually, the two of you step out of the shower. Moving in front of the bathroom mirror, steam fogging up the glass, you lift up to your toes, lightly pressing your forehead to his, your fingers tracing his cheekbones down to his collarbones gently. “See?” You murmur, “This is all a part of you… and it's safe with me.”

He leans forward then, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, and then, almost instinctively, his lips press against the scar on your face softly. “Superhero origin scar,” he teases lightly, voice rough but playful and so very Jason, and your lips twitch into a smile. “Fits you,” he adds, and you laugh softly, warmth spreading through you.

Once you’re both wrapped in towels, his draped loosely around his waist and yours tucked tightly and securely around your chest, you move to the bed. The sheets smell faintly of laundry detergent, and the lavender pillow spray you convinced yourself helps you sleep quicker – it doesn’t. Jason practically collapses onto his back, letting you lie partially on top of him. Your fingers continue their slow tracing – shoulders, chest, arms – following each scar and fading bruise as if memorising them.

“Used to hate people touching me when I got hurt,” he admits, voice low in the quiet room. “I would rather bleed to death than let anyone patch me up. Made me feel… weak.”

“Scars aren’t a weakness,” you murmur, fingers gently brushing the damp strands of hair from his forehead. “They’re proof you survived, and you don’t have to survive alone.” Your fingers linger on his scars longer now, careful and deliberate, lulling him into calmness. And when your fingers reach back up to his forehead, you lean forward, pressing a soft kiss there, familiar- tender. “You’re safe with me,” you whisper, letting your cheek rest against his shoulder, despite him being the vigilante and you, the civilian he’d do anything for.

He shifts slightly, tracing a line down your arm in return, fingers trailing down your body, ghosting over your knee scar. “You too,” he murmurs, once again kissing your cooking cut. Then, finally, his fingers brush against your cheek, lightly, teasingly. “Guess we both have our own hero origins,” he says, voice roughened now by sleepiness, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You grin, kissing the smirk at his mouth, before letting out a little laugh. You press closer, fingers intertwined – tracing, brushing, admiring. His breathing slows, muscles relaxing completely under your hands. He whispers into the dimly lit room, almost to himself, “No one’s ever touched me like that.”

“I love you,” you whisper back, almost immediately, pressing a kiss gently to his temple. “All of you.”

And there, in the soft glow of the late night, Jason Todd realises something before sleep carries him away.

There was not a single defense you built to keep him out. He had everything you could give, and you thought you had the same. Until soft words turned to poison, biting remarks. Until your bed was colder more often than it was warm. 

You don't know what breaks you apart. It could have been anything, it could have been nothing at all. One day he's just gone, and all you have left are pieces of how it should have been, an empty space where your best friend, then your partner, the light of your life, used to belong.

It's strange that the person you used to talk to every single day is now nothing more than a stranger, a passing thought for when your nights are quiet and lonely. 

It was you. It was him. And then it was nothing.

Nothing is how it should stay. There's too much history to fix anything between you, too many fights and words that were better left unspoken. 

But Jason Todd always has a way of coming back. That's the thing about him, he's never been good at letting go, and when it comes to him, neither are you.

It's inconspicuous. A knock at the door. Simple, a break in the calm, quiet morning of your apartment. An accident, maybe. Someone at the wrong-numbered apartment. A neighbor dropping off a package that was meant for you.

You open your home to a sight that's distinctly not a mistake. 

Jason looks like a mess. Hair sticking out every which way, bags under his eyes, clothes rumpled and clearly thrown on haphazardly. If the sun hadn't already been up for a few hours already, you would have assumed he showed up straight after patrol.

There's a long beat of silence as your eyes dart over him. He doesn't look hurt, but he's always been good at hiding that sort of thing. You open and close your mouth, too many and too few words to say to him. The air feels heavier as he stares back at you, and the almost desperate look in his eyes makes your skin prick.

You try to find your words again, maybe offer him a cup of coffee to give yourself something to do with your hands, maybe to demand he leave and never comes back, when he breaks the stifling quiet. 

"I– had to make sure you were okay," he murmurs, too raw, too honest for all the bad blood between you.

"Why wouldn't I be," you question, surprise and concern lacing themselves into your words despite your attempts to stay neutral and guarded at the sight of him. (You try to ignore the way your heart softens as the relief in his eyes, you still haven't learned how to defend against Jason Todd)

He shakes his head, "No, you are," he starts, the words final and true in a way that makes your stomach flip at the familiarity. "I just– had a nightmare," he finishes lamely, "I had to check. In person. Not– from a distance."

You both know he's telling you far more than he probably should. You've known him long enough to read between the lines. He still trusts you enough not to poke at his vulnerabilities, to hold his secrets– his nightmares and fears– like they're something precious. 

But it's more than that. It's the silent admission that he still checks in on you, still watches, even if you never see him. It should upset you. It should make you angry that he's bringing you back into his life like this and that neither of you will ever be able to let go if he still feels responsible for your safety. You should snap at him, ask if he's seen everything he needs to, and demand that he goes. 

You step to the side instead, "Do you wanna come in?"

"I should get going," he tells you, voice quiet and uncertain, but he's already in your apartment before the sentence finishes off his tongue. You watch the tension melt from his shoulders as he looks around, voice growing more steady as you click the lock shut, "The place stay looks the same."

"Mostly," you agree, pointedly ignoring the way he stops in front of the place the photos of you and him together used to be framed. You end up in the kitchen, unable to watch whatever look is forming on his face. 

The memories lingering in every corner are heavier with him here. Nights spent spinning in lazy circles in front of the fridge, dancing to music only the two of you can hear. Evenings with his mouth on yours, pressing you against the counter, and hands on your thighs so he can lift you onto the granite countertop. Mornings when he would sneak up behind as you started breakfast, pressing soft kisses to your throat just to listen to you giggle.

Lost moments that make you sick with longing. You try not to let your fingers shake as you pull two mugs from the cabinet, body on autopilot as you set about boiling water. Tea is better for him than coffee right now. You know it by the way his fingers curled and uncurled as he hovered in your doorway.

Jason is silent behind you. You wonder vaguely if you turned around he'd be gone, satisfied that you're safe, regretting that he ever came. 

You make your drink, then his, and the familiarity of it draws such a sense of bittersweetness and longing into the cavity of your chest that you want to sink to your knees and heave. 

You turn, expecting to tell the empty air that the drinks are ready, but the words catch in your throat. Jason's close, too close, fingers reaching up for something– for you– not even an arms length away and heat radiating from his skin in a way that's achingly familiar. 

But what's worse is his eyes. Fixated. Dark. More desperate than either of you are willing to admit. The same eyes you can't forget no matter where else you look. The same eyes that would watch you in the dark and light up the night with a four-letter word you were both too scared to name.  

Jason's the one that breaks the silence again. "Sorry," he says, voice lower, quieter, than normal, like he's trying not to set off a weary animal, "Had a piece of fuzz on you."

You both know it's not true. Not when he's looking at you like that. Not when he hasn't moved. You want to be angry again. You want to scream and hate him and sob that he can't waltz back into your life again after you've barely started to patch the broken parts he left back together. It's not fair. It's too cruel.

"Don't do this to me," slips from your mouth before you can stop it. Your voice is sad, cracking. You don't mean it to be. But you're so tired of fighting Jason Todd when all your heart ever did was love care about him.

His gaze flicks down to your lips. It's mean of him. But you think a part of him is feeling vindictive today. "You're the one that invited me inside, doll," he drawls, but his hand lowers, even if he makes no move to step back.

"You seemed sad," you say weakly, like it explains everything. And it does. An admission that tells him everything he needs to know. The same way he told you that he checks on you from a distance. He's still important. You still love him, even if neither of you ever said it.

You watch him connect the dots, watch as he takes a half step back. 

"Coming here was a mistake," he tells you, drawing a line. Or maybe not. His voice is soft, dripping with emotions too heavy to pick out while you're trying to bury your own.

You used to want to take all his mistakes from him. You used to want to help carry them. Now you wish he hadn't burdened you with this one, that he'd just sipped the tea you made him exactly the way you know he'll enjoy it and pretended that still remembering how to make it didn't mean anything. That he left like he was never a part of the foundations of your existence.

You close your eyes instead, not able to bear watching him walk out the door. You breathe in. Out. Count to ten. And when you open your eyes, he's still there, watching you, weighing you and everything between you. 

It hurts. A part of you must be feeling vindictive too when you speak, "Don't check on me anymore."

He blinks at you, then drags his lip between his teeth the same way he used to when he wants to tell you that he's planning on doing the exact opposite of what you said. "Don't do that to me," he breathes out, throwing your own words back at you.

That does spark some kind of rage in your gut, and he must see it on your face because Jason grins at you– really grins at you– and says, "There's my sweetheart."

You make an indignant noise, anger trying to mask the way your heart still flutters when he calls you his, "You know I stopped being yours the second–" 

He steps back into your space, fingers finding your jaw before you can finish your sentence. Jason looks just as surprised as you do by the motion, but he doesn't stop tracing your jaw, or studying every hint of emotion that hides behind your eyes when you don't shove him away. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, thoughtful, gentle, and again, far too familiar.

It tempers the fire licking at your bones, but not enough to keep the spite out of your voice, "You're going to have to be a lot more specific about what you're sorry for, Todd." 

And you know he's about to do something stupidly cliche when his face brightens like you've given him permission, his fingers tightening against your jaw just enough to betray the nervousness he feels. You could stop him. You really could protest. But it feels like coming home when Jason dips his head down to kiss you, his free hand coming up to the small of your back to draw you closer. 

You let your eyes close, let yourself feel, let yourself grab onto his jacket, let yourself kiss him back and keep him against you just for one moment longer. One moment becomes two, two becomes three, and he's kissing his way from your jaw to your throat when you finally pull back to suck down oxygen into your aching lungs. 

By the time you've gotten your head to stop spinning, Jason is tracing his thumb over your hip and leaning in closer to lick the shell of your ear, all to watch the way you shiver. "I'm sorry for that," he says, voice low and almost unsure, a sharp contrast to the confidence of his mouth against your skin. He kisses back down your throat to nip at your pulse, "and this. And–" he pulls back just enough to dart his eyes over your face before kissing you. He pulls away too soon, "And for leaving."

You blink at him, letting your world tilt on its axis, pieces slotting themselves back into place. It doesn't fix everything, in fact, it hardly fixes anything. "Does that mean you're staying," you ask despite yourself, words betraying your brain. (But not your heart)

He laughs, quiet, disbelieving and drops his head to your shoulder, fingers flexing against your waist, "I want to. I wasn't– I didn't plan on this. You. But now that I'm here…" he pauses, then breathes out your name with such relief and devotion you have no choice but to hold him tighter, "I don't know how I could stay away." 

"I'm sorry too. I missed you," you admit, hiding your face against him too. It sounds a lot like I love you, and you don't really know what to do with that. 

Jason arm snakes around your waist and it feels like it belongs.  "I missed you too," he says into your throat. His voice is muffled, but it clearly sounds a lot like I love you too. It doesn't make it– you, him, all of it– right, but it does mean something when his heart starts to beat in tune with yours. 

When Jason was in one of his moods, it was really hard for you to get through to him. The longer you were with him the more apparent it became that you were going to have to really try to break down the walls he had built up. You know he has a hard time with trusting people, so you try to make it easy on him. You know he’s trying to be better and open up to you, you can tell in the way he decides to elaborate on a story from his youth without you having to prompt him, with the way he visibly relaxes when you keep your promises.

And it’s not as though you felt like he just started pushing you away; no, it’s been building up to this moment, and you’re about to be the reason it implodes.

“Why won’t you just talk to me?”

His knee that was bouncing stops as he turns his head to look at you, his knuckles once pressed against his lips drop to the arm of the couch. “What?”

You swallow. “Something is wrong, and I want you to tell me,” you try, voice less accusatory and more gentle. Jason’s lip twitches and you see his hand tighten against the arm of your couch.

“What are you even talking about?”

There it is, that tone as if you’re just talking to talk, like you’re aiming to piss him off. It infuriates you every time, but for the sake of keeping the peace you push it down every time.

“Never mind,” you mumble, curling up into the opposite side of the couch. Jason rolls his eyes behind you and scoots closer to you.

“No, you want me to talk and now I am,” it’s all in his tone, like he’s annoyed to even be speaking to you. It stupidly makes your eyes well up and you blink a few times to push them back. No, you won’t cry over something as trivial as tone.

Jason scoffs when you don’t say anything. “You’re insane,” Jason grumbles. He rolls his eyes again and scoots back onto his side of the couch. You frown and sit up, looking over him. His knee is bouncing again, his fist gently knocking against his lips.

“What is your problem?”

“What is yours?”

“You!” Your voice raises an octave or two, not quite yelling but enough to make him frown at you before his lips quirk into a small smirk. Your frown deepens, eyebrows drooping at the edges. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

“Because you’re being fucking annoying!” Jason finally spits out, the words hitting you straight in the middle of the face like they’d been thrown at you. “Get off my dick, goddamn.” He adds, and that’s what does it. The words leave his lips and he knows he’s fucked up, maybe for good. He doesn’t mean it.

It’s almost poetic how two single tears slide down your cheeks, followed by the entire dam breaking; and then you’re trying not to cry, which only makes it worse. Why he insists on hurting your feelings, you’re not sure.

Jason’s face remains hard, but his heart pangs in his chest he watches you cry. His stomach aches with guilt and shame, but it’s too late now. He knows it, he can hear it in the way you sob like you’ve been meaning to let it out for some time. Jason wonders just how much he makes you cry when he’s not here, and he feels like he could throw up at the thought.

Instead of keeping quiet, it’s like he can’t stop talking. “Please stop crying,” Jason pleads, moving closer to you. You back away from him and wipe your face with your palms, and shake your head at him.

“Please get out,” you whimper, sniffling. Jason opens his mouth to say something else, but you shake your head. “Get out!” Anger takes over your tone and Jason springs up from the couch, pretending to be as pissed as he was before. He tells himself that him leaving isn’t bad because you kicked him out. That it absolves him from some of the blame.

But Jason knows it’s not true, because the moment he slams your front door behind him, the lock clicks and he can still faintly hear you crying through the door.

Four days. It takes Jason four days to get the courage to come back to you and apologize. He didn’t text or call you, and you didn’t either. He didn’t expect you to, actually. Part of the reason he didn’t try to reach out was because he wanted to give you some space. The bigger part is because he’s afraid you’ll reject him and leave him for good. You two have never fought that bad, and he’s never said things that cut that deep.

Jason’s hand shakes as he brings it up to knock on your front door. Flowers are getting crushed in the other.

He waits a few seconds and nothing, so he knocks again. Seconds tick by like minutes, and his underarms begin to sweat. He knows you’re home because he saw your car outside, and he’s accustomed to your routines. If you’re ignoring him, he doesn’t blame you.

Raising his fist to knock for the third time, it hangs in midair when the door is ripped open, the faint smell of vanilla wafting through. You stare at him, face blank except for the crease in your eyebrows. “What?”

Jason swallows, his hand that was raised falling to his side. “I came to apologize,” he says, voice wavering.

“Save it,” you say. “It’s fine, Jason. I know how you really feel, so don’t bother. You can just grab your things.” He pales and his grip on the flowers tightens, the crinkle of the paper catching your attention. Grab his things?

“Y/n, please,” he pleads, holding out the bouquet to you. You eye it, wanting to take them because they’re beautiful and from a flower shop you go to sometimes. But you can’t give into him so easily, because if you take him back every time then what’s the point of even being upset? “Please. I’m sorry—I mean it. I shouldn’t have said those things, I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry, baby.”

“I’ll grab your things,” you say, a lump in your throat. His face falls, shoulders slumping and eyes going wide like a pitiful baby animal. You turn away from him quickly and pad down the hallway to your bedroom, nose burning from a fresh set of tears that you’re keeping st bay.

A short stack of his clothes that he had at your place sits atop your dresser. Picking them up, you cough out a quiet sob, pressing your lips together and taking a deep breath in through your nose. You folded them last night in a fit of rage when your phone hadn’t rang for the third day in a row. You almost caved and called him, but you didn’t need him to know how bad you missed him and needed him around. You wanted him to show you how much he needs you, and last night was proof of just how much he doesn’t.

Jason is still outside when you come back, only he’s digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. The flowers are placed on the entry mat, the stems pointing at his feet.

“Here,” you say quietly, holding out his clothes. His eyes are glossy and bloodshot. Jason clenches his jaw, wanting to knock them out of your hands but he knows better and takes them from you.

“Baby, can we talk? Please? I’m sorry—I know I fucked up, but I’m sorry,” there an urgency in his tone you haven’t heard before. It’s desperation.

You bite your bottom lip before nodding apprehensively. You walk back towards the living room and Jason follows, picking up the flowers and dropping them off in the kitchen before joining you at the very couch he broke your heart on five days ago.

The two of you mirror your positions from only days ago, an ocean of space between you. You sit with your back against the arm and your knees against your chest. Jason angles his body to face you, and you can barely look him in the eye without feeling a ton of different emotions: hurt, anger, sadness, longing. Most of all, love. Above everything, you care about Jason—more than even you can understand.

“I’m sorry for making you cry,” Jason says after some silence. You fold your lips together and look down at your legs. “I’m sorry for the things I said, I shouldn’t talk to you like that. Please say something.”

You blink a few times and look up at him. “Why do you keep pushing me away, Jason?”

“I don’t mean to.”

The words hang in the air—you don’t know how to feel. He obviously knows he’s doing it, even if he’s unsure of the reason.

“You do it all the time. I don’t know what to do, I’m confused about how you really feel about me. If you don’t like me anymore, just tell me,” you say, wiping the corner of your eye. Jason’s face falls and he scoots close to you, a hand coming to rest on your knee.

“What? No, baby. I still like you—I love you, y/n,” he brings up a gentle hand to wipe the tears that fall despite your efforts to keep them at bay.

You can’t help when you lean into his touch after he places his palm against your cheek. “I just want you to let me in,” you whimper, closing your eyes. Jason bites his bottom lip and lets out a breath.

“I know. I’m… I don’t know what why I do it, or else I’d stop,” he admits. You wrap your hand around his wrist and let out a shuddering breath, fresh tears sliding down your cheeks and pooling under his hand.

“Am I too clingy?”

“God, no.”

“Are you lying?”

Jason can’t help but smile at your accusation. “No, y/n. I promise,” he says. You open your teary eyes and he wipes underneath them. “I’m pretty sure I’d die without you on my case. I need you to keep going—I was starting to lose my mind after the first night.”

You look away from his face and focus on the collar of his jacket. His words seep into you, spread across your chest and bleed into your heart. “I don’t want you to ever leave me alone, and I don’t want to break up.”

“You’re going to have to start talking to me, Jason,” you say. He nods quickly and scoots closer until your knees are in his side. “I don’t wan to break up with you either.”

Jason feels like a weight is being lifted off his chest at your words. His shoulders drop and he lets out a breath he was holding, and you sit up on your knees. Jason pulls you into him and onto his lap, arms cradling you against his hard body. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs and presses his lips to your forehead.

“I know,” you run your hand through his hair and look at him, dragging that same down to his cheek. He peers down at you and you’re certain that you’d pick him every time, without fail.

The clock had long since ticked past midnight, and still you couldn’t sleep. The manor was quiet, but your heart wasn’t—it kept skipping in restless anticipation. Word had finally come in earlier that day: Dick was coming back.

It had been months this time. Too many nights with unanswered calls, too many days wondering if he was even still out there—breathing, fighting, smiling that easy smile you missed more than anything. You reminded yourself over and over that this was the life you both chose.

The two of you started out in Gotham as kids, side by side. Over the years you each grew into your own vigilante personas. You stayed central, keeping close to Gotham, while Dick—Nightwing—always seemed to be pulled further and further away. Blüdhaven. Other cities. Sometimes even off-world, like this last mission.

You hated those missions most of all. They left you with nothing but silence, and in that silence your mind always went to the worst places. The worry kept you awake more nights than you could count.

You loved him. You had for years, since the two of you were teenagers. But you never told him. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you couldn’t risk losing him as a friend. Your friendship with him was the most important thing in your life, and you weren’t sure you could survive wrecking it. Yet, the longer he remained gone, the longer you regretted not saying anything.

The sound of tires crunching against the wet gravel outside had you on your feet and jolted out of your thoughts. You didn’t think, you just ran straight of the door, the cold drizzle instantly causing your clothes to cling to your skin.

And there he was.

Dick stood at the edge of the drive, dropping his duffel from his shoulder. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his clothes damp from the rain but everything about him was the same as you remembered. His blue eyes instantly softened the moment they found you. 

He barely had time to drop his bag before you collided with him, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Easy, I just got—” he started, but his voice cracked, and his arms crushed you back against him.

“You’re late,” you mumbled into his shoulder, trying to sound teasing but choking on the lump in your throat.

“I know,” he whispered, holding on like he never wanted to let go. “I’m sorry.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear was enough to undo you, reminding you of every fear, every sleepless night you’d spent waiting. You pulled back just enough to see him, rain dripping down your cheeks and mixing with the tears you hadn’t realized had spilled over. 

His thumb brushed your cheek. “I missed you.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I love you.”

His eyes widened.

You knew you should’ve stopped talking, but once those words came out so did everything else. 

“I’ve loved you for years, Dick. Every time you left on a mission, I told myself I could handle it, but I couldn’t. I hate waiting, because every night I worried maybe you wouldn’t come back. And I never said anything because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. But God, I can’t keep pretending anymore. Not after all these nights wondering if I’d ever see you again—”

Before you could continue, Dick’s lips were on yours, cutting you off. You froze for a solid second in shock before melting into him. The kiss was everything—hungry, desperate, tender all at once. His lips were warm, and it felt like coming home. His arms wrapped around you as if he could make up for every second lost, every mile of distance that had stretched between you.

You felt dazed when the two of you finally pulled apart for air. For a moment you could only stare at him in shock, your chest heaving, and then he exhaled a shaky laugh as if he still couldn’t believe this moment was real. His hands came up to cradle your face, gentle but trembling.

“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed to hear that,” He breathed.

Your breath hitched. “You—”

“I love you,” he cut in, firm and certain. “I’ve been in love with you since we were kids. I thought I was doing the noble thing by keeping quiet—because let’s face it, my life’s a mess—but…” His smile was soft, a little self-deprecating. “Turns out I was just being a coward.”

“Dick—”

You didn’t get to finish. His lips crashed into yours, pouring out the years of unspoken feelings he’d been holding back.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and clinging to each other, he rested his forehead against yours. His voice was low, almost reverent. “I’m not letting you doubt it again. Not ever. You’re it for me.”

Your chest swelled, relief and joy tangling until you could hardly tell one from the other. You smiled through the tears welling in your eyes. “Good. Because you’re it for me too.”

He kissed you again, softer this time but unable to get enough of your lips now that he tasted them.

“God, we’ve been such idiots.”

A laugh broke free from your chest—wet and shaky, but real. “The biggest idiots.”

He grinned, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face. “All this time, all those nights I wanted to tell you…” He shook his head, almost incredulous. “Guess I should’ve just said it when we were sixteen.”

“Sixteen?” you scoffed lightly, nudging him with your shoulder even as you stayed pressed close. “Do you know how awkward we were back then?”

“Speak for yourself.” His smirk softened into something warmer, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. “But I knew even then. And I know now, without a doubt.”

You leaned into his touch, your smile trembling. “Better late than never.”

“Exactly.” He kissed the tip of your nose, playful despite the rain still pouring down around you. “And I promise, I’m not going anywhere without making sure you know how much I love you. Now, Let me take you inside,” he murmured. “You’re freezing.”

You almost laughed, because he was just as soaked, his clothes nearly see through as they clung to him. Still, you nodded, letting him lace his fingers with yours. The simple contact was grounding, his hand warm despite the cold rain.

And as he led you toward the door, the storm still pouring down around you, you realized something: it didn’t matter how many missions took him away, how many sleepless nights you spent waiting. Because now, at last, he knew. You both knew. And there was no going back.