Whatever It's Worth? @opheliawillowbrook - Tumblr Blog

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

This Chapter is for my Damirae readers and artists ❤️😜🤡

Chapter One: A Little Bird

“Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,

Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime.

They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed,

Speak not a whispered word of them, or they’ll send the Talon for your head.”

The room was silent; the only exception was ticking of his antique clock.

Tick.

Tick

Tick.

There was something to be said for simplicity—or at least that’s what Damian told himself as he drew his brush across the white canvas, leaving an inky swirl of black in its wake.

He followed the faint charcoal sketch beneath, letting the still-shining oil paint set just enough to feather the edges with practiced precision. The warm, earthy scent of linseed oil sweetened the air, undercut only slightly by the sharp bite of turpentine from the jar at his elbow. Not that he dipped into it often.

Damian was far too disciplined for that. Every stroke, every medium, every choice was intentional.

Oil paint demanded patience and punished impatience. It lingered. And Damian preferred it that way—over the childish safety of acrylics. He loved the weight of the brush, the resistance of the canvas, the way the surface remembered him long after the monotone colors dried.

Still… there was a disconnect.

Between him and the image taking shape before him.

A city—suggested rather than defined. Spires and arches rose in shadow and distance, framing the glow of a carnival below. Lights bled softly into the dark, halfway between memory and myth. Not Gotham. Not exactly. Something cleaner. Elevated. Idealized.

A poet’s city in the distance.

An artist’s heaven at its heart.

And watching it all from the periphery—a figure rendered in shadow. Timeless. Indistinct. As though he belonged to another era… or another lifetime entirely. The focal point meant to bind the inspiration together.

But Damian frowned.

Something about it didn’t land. The balance felt wrong. The story incomplete—caught somewhere between Heaven and Hell, observed rather than inhabited.

It seemed the devil just wasn’t in the details.

Off to his left, within easy reach, a slim, worn hardcover lay open face down, its jacket faded by time.

He.H. P. Lovecraft.

Damian hadn’t meant to leave it there. He told himself it was coincidence. Reference. Atmosphere.

Still, his gaze kept drifting to it between brushstrokes.

“The city was older than memory, and haunted by a thousand unremembered evils.”

The line replayed in his mind, uninvited.

His grandfather had once described his father’s home city the same way—a heaven rotted through to its core. A lost utopia. A shining city on a hill that could never be reclaimed, not so long as humanity refused to distinguish between the greater good and the lesser one.

It had sounded like a harsh judgment at the time.

Now, staring at the canvas, Damian wondered if it was simply inheritance.

The face—if it could be called that—hovered near the center of the canvas. Not defined. Not human. Just the idea of one. Observing. Waiting. Impersonal enough to feel safe.

“You should really try using more color,” a voice chimed behind him—far too casual for someone who had just violated his space.

A familiar spike of irritation crawled up Damian’s spine.

“Not really a colorful guy,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Ever heard of knocking, Logan?”

Gar—decidedly not knocking—ambled in anyway, leaning over Damian’s shoulder to snoop.

He watched Damian drop his brush into the solvent jar with a soft clink.

“What are you even doing in here?” Damian demanded. This was his room, after all. His sanctuary.

Gar gave a sheepish grin, the kind that always meant trouble.

“I was, y’know… just curious what you were up to.”

“Fly on the wall?” Damian deadpanned.

Gar nodded—way too quickly and with zero shame. “Pretty much.”

“Well, as you can see,” another voice cut in.

Both boys turned.

Raven was perched at the foot of Damian’s bed, book open, gaze steadfastly on the page.

“…neither of us are ‘up to’ anything,” she finished calmly, turning the page without bothering to look up.

Her tone was flat, but that subtle twitch of her eyebrow betrayed she was just as annoyed as Damian. Gar barging in wasn’t unusual, but lately his timing had become… suspiciously convenient.

Raven finally lifted her eyes, expression unreadable.

“If we were doing something,” she asked, “would you have stayed and watched?”

Gar froze, his green face turning an impressive shade of red.

“I mean… I wouldn’t have stayed the entire time.”

Damian groaned and set his palette down, as if whatever artistic muse he had simply died from witnessing Gar’s audacity. “For God’s sake, Logan—doors close for a reason.”

“A concept lost on him,” Raven added, lips curving in a subtle, traitorous smirk.

“Well maybe if you two didn’t spend so much time together?” Gar shot back. “I mean, come on—there’s no way all you do is read while Damian paints the same tired black-and-white thing for the fiftieth time this year.”

Raven finally looked up—partly to defend herself, partly in the faint hope Damian would put Gar’s head through the same monochrome canvas he had just insulted.

“Since when are you concerned with my work?” Damian asked, tone bristling. Not quite murderous, but close enough for Gar to consider his life choices.

“Since I overheard you complaining about it.”

Damian’s scowl sharpened. “What do you mean, overheard?”

Again, Gar flushed tomato-red, a color that did not flatter him. “I may have been… y’know… a fly on the wall.”

Damian’s expression went blank—the dangerous kind of blank—as he remembered that night a few weeks back.

He’d returned from his painting class in a foul mood, storm rolling off him like a pressure front. Raven had followed him to his room, only to stop him from annihilating every canvas in reach.

“Get out,” Damian said flatly. “And if I catch you sneaking in here again, I’ll make sure you meet the business end of an electric fly swatter.”

“I second that,” Raven added.

“Okay, okay!” Gar said quickly, realizing just how spectacularly he’d misplayed this hand. “Anyway—I originally came to ask if you guys have your costumes ready for tomorrow?”

“I’m not wearing a costume, Logan.” Damian began gathering his brushes and jars with a level of dignity he absolutely did not feel. “Why do I need one?”

“Because it’s a costume party,” Gar said, staring at him as though this were the most obvious fact in the known universe. “Y’know, for a guy with an IQ north of 180, you seriously don’t understand the basic concept of fun, dude.”

“I understand the concept,” Damian snapped. “I simply have no desire to participate in it.”

“It’s Halloween!” Gar groaned. “When else do you get to be something you’re not?”

“Technically, the work is sound,” his professor told him, as his classmates tore into his piece with the enthusiasm of piranhas stripping a carcass. “You execute the fundamentals with precision and discipline. But it tells me nothing about you. There is no vulnerability—no thread for the viewer to follow. Without that, the work is empty.”

Every day, Damian thought bitterly.

He didn’t say it aloud—God forbid he hand Gar that kind of insight—but the truth landed with an uncomfortable weight. It was, in fact, the very reason his latest art assignment was falling flat.

She paused, studying him as if expecting contradiction.None came.

“The carnival scene is the strongest,” she continued. “There’s narrative there. But the figure at the center—the thematic center—is vacant. It’s as if he isn’t allowed to exist. When I look at it, I see nothing.”

Damian didn’t answer.He never did.

Vulnerability had been trained out of him—treated as liability, as weakness, as something to be cut away until only function remained.

His gaze drifted instead to another piece—one no assignment had asked for. Something he’d painted in the solitude of the tower.

A confrontation with a version of himself he refused to acknowledge, yet carried everywhere regardless.

On the canvas, a humanoid figure loomed—its body human, crowned with a goat’s broken skull. Hollow eyes stared down at its reflection, mirrored by a version of Damian clad in dark, ornate armor.

Judgment without expression. Control without mercy. Identity reduced to inherited violence.

Stark black-and-white strokes defined both figures, while faint crimson accents bled through like an unhealed wound.

It was both accusation and confession: control, consequence, and the uneasy boundary between human and something made.

Damian exhaled sharply, turning away from it.

“Easy for her to say,” he muttered under his breath.

The door shut behind Gar with more force than necessary, the sound cutting cleanly through the room.

Silence followed.

Not empty—heavier. Settled.

And in that stillness, Raven’s gaze remained on him, steady and unreadable, like she had been waiting for exactly this version of him to resurface.

She sat cross-legged on his bed, book still in hand, but her attention shifted fully to him—his bruised pride and the storm cloud that never quite dispersed above him.

“Y’know,” she said gently, “criticism helps us grow.”

He paused mid-wipe of his palette knife. “I know that.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The thought didn’t finish. It broke.

Damian rolled his eyes, but the deflection was weaker this time.

“It’s deeper than that,” he muttered. “I can’t exactly be an open book.”

His father’s world had nearly gone up in flames.

The last time he let his guard down without knowing it was safe—

the last time he was seen too clearly—

A memory surfaced, not fully formed. Not linear.

Damian’s grip tightened on the palette knife

A voice—almost right. Almost human.

Too precise in its praise. Too careful in its attention.

Like it already knew what part of him was missing.

He’d mistaken what he thought was guidance and mentorship--it was in reality--

assessment.

And when the truth broke through, the shape of it—

it wasn’t understanding that followed.

It was classification.

The Talons.

Not violence.

But correction.

“And they’re gone,” Raven said, trying to ground him. “He’s gone. The Court hasn’t resurfaced in years.”

The night the Court descended on Gotham’s elites, half its aristocracy was slaughtered in hours. The papers called it a purge.

Damian knew better.

A failure state.

A failure to recruit him.

Damian didn’t answer.

Because somewhere deep down, he wasn’t convinced.

Not entirely.

Something he called the Circle Behind the Court.

Because the man hadn’t just spoken of the Court.

He’d spoken of something older.

Something just out of sight.

Damian exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the solvent jar.

As if the Owls were only the mask.

As if something else was wearing it.

“You may think that…that’s how it appears,” he murmured, barely audible. “But the greatest slight they ever pulled was convincing my father they weren’t real.”

He set the jar down carefully, almost surgically.

“And I don’t plan on giving them anything to use against me ever again.”

Raven’s expression softened—not pity, never pity—but a deep, steady understanding.

“Well then,” she said, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, “if they ever show up again, cue me in on your little vengeance plan.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replied, lighter now, sinking down next to her on the bed. His eyes drifted to the open page in her lap and caught the text:

“In the ninth circle, betrayal is not just sin—it is absence, a void where warmth and mercy once lived. But now, in hell, no more.”

“Uplifting,” Damian muttered, not taking his eyes off the page.

“You don’t say,” he replied. Not that he had any issue with her taste in literature; they often shared overlapping interests. But Raven had always nursed a deeper fascination with the occult—an inclination that made sense, given her lineage.

Raven glanced down, catching the edge of his sarcasm.

“It’s a modern retelling of Dante’s Inferno,” she said.

“What?” she challenged playfully.

“Nothing… just seems a little too on-the-nose for you,” he teased.

Raven rolled her eyes, taking in the horned figure she had lovingly dubbed Unhallowed. It was a stunning piece, she had to admit—haunted by ghosts older than his escape from the womb. Beauty and torment intertwined in every shadow, crimson bleeding into the darkness.

“Y’know,” Raven said lightly, “you could always swap out the paintings.”

“Or I could just give up and apply to medical school,” Damian replied with ironic defeat.

“Hm,” Raven hummed, considering. “I can’t see you tolerating people complaining all day.”

“That’s why I’d specialize in trauma surgery,” he added, as if it were a mundane detail. “Can’t complain if you’re under anesthesia.”

Raven smiled and shook her head. “Solid plan—if the whole starving artist thing isn’t your jam. But maybe consider switching the painting out first before you give up and follow in your grandfather’s footsteps.”

She didn’t mean it that way, but the shadow of that sentence hit him harder than he wanted.

Damian followed her gaze, then shook his head. “You’re lucky I even let you see that.”

“And I feel privileged,” she admitted, sensing he wasn’t entertaining the idea. “Just a suggestion. I know you’re really struggling with this.”

“I know, Raven. But I’m not ready to be that open. Especially not with people I don’t trust.”

Raven leaned a little closer, tilting her head as she studied his brushwork. “Y’know,” she murmured, her voice low and almost playful, “there’s something kind of… hypnotic about how precise you are. Even when you’re frustrated.”

Damian felt the heat rise to his cheeks, a rare burn of awareness. He shifted slightly, careful not to draw too much attention to himself. “It’s not… hypnotic,” he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Sure,” Raven said, amusement dancing in her eyes. She reached over, brushing a stray smear of black paint from the edge of his chin with the tip of her finger. It was rare to see him with even the smallest speck out of place.

“Some cosmic force must be at play,” she quipped. “You’re always so meticulous.” Her touch lingered just a moment too long, and Damian’s pulse stuttered.

He swallowed, caught between the magnetic pull of the moment and the walls he had carefully built around himself. If he were honest, he ached to lean in, to bridge that gap. But they were friends—teammates—and letting it become anything more was reckless… yet tempting.

“Maybe you should… go back to your book,” he suggested, his voice tighter than intended.

Raven’s smirk widened. “Or maybe I could just stay here and…”

Damian’s chest tightened. Part of him wanted to—no, needed to—close the mere inches between them. The air felt charged, alive. They were too close, too attuned, breaths mingling, the quiet hum of the tower fading into nothing.

Her eyes flicked to his lips for the briefest moment. Damian felt the pull—the unspoken invitation—but his resolve wavered.

He straightened and rose, exhaling sharply. “I—I need to… finish cleaning up before patrol,” he said, stepping away. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the sudden awareness of how close they’d come to crossing the line.

Raven studied him for a beat—teasing, soft, understanding—and then, mercifully, let the tension loosen.

“Okay,” she said lightly, the corners of her lips tugging up into a knowing smile. “I’ll see you later.”

Damian busied himself gathering his brushes, solvent, and paints, each motion careful, practiced, painfully aware. The moment lingered anyway—heavy, unresolved.

“…So,” he added, a little too casually, “what do I owe you for the therapy session?”

Safer this way, he told himself.

For now.

Raven paused at the door, amusement flickering across her face. “I should bill hourly,” she said. “But I’m feeling generous.” She glanced back at him. “Buy me a tea on patrol tonight.”

Raven’s deep violet eyes fell from his indecisive shade of green and on to the black and white contrast of his sketch pad. It wasn’t like him to leave it out in the open, but then again, she was the only person he allowed in his space. He let her flip through from time to time.

Damian smiled—small, genuine. He always paid for her tea.

“Deal,” he said, then hesitated, wanting to say more, but could not find the words.

Or better still, he had the words, but to say them aloud felt too raw.

So when her eye traced the soft charcoal line of a pretty young girl, about their age, gilded in the glory of a Valkyries armor and holding her sword toward divinity in a moment of triumph, she couldn't look away. Not without asking.

“Who is she?”

Damian looked down and saw the Valkyrie he’d sketched the night prior, all he could say was, “I don’t know.”

Raven smiled, finding the imagery endearing in a way. “As long as this isn’t your way of telling me I have competition,” she teased.

Damian shook his head. The idea absurd. “You have nothing to worry about.

“Good,” she turned and made her way to the door.

“And, Raven… thanks.”

“Any time, Boy Wonder,” she replied with a soft smile, glancing once more toward the painting. “And don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s still a good painting.”

Damian turned back to the canvas, the wet oil paint faintly glistening beneath the low light in stark blacks and whites—full, yet vacant.

That wasn’t the point.

“No,” he sighed, not taking his eyes off it. “It’s not.”

Without warning, he stepped toward the work and, to Raven’s surprise, dragged his hand across the empty figure, smearing the paint and any trace of himself along with it.

The oils shifted beneath his palm with a wet hiss.

Damian took a step back and studied it.

“That’s an… interesting creative choice.”

Was it an improvement? No.

But it would do. Better this than risking exposure.

Damian pivoted toward her, his hand slick with monochrome paint. “If nothing else, I can spin it as an exercise in creative abstraction.”

A soft laugh escaped her. “If by ‘creative abstraction’ you mean erasure… how very Damian Wayne of you.”

“Entirely the point.”

“You are the artist,” Raven quipped, moving toward the door. “Who am I to argue with artistic suffering?”

Damian said nothing. But he didn’t regret the choice.

“I trust you,” he said quietly.

Raven lingered in the doorway a moment longer, her expression softening as she looked back at him.