#assassin!reader

Batman stood over the corpse in silence.

Nightwing crouched near the shattered remnants of a fear toxin canister, expression stripped of its usual brightness. Red Robin moved through the room in slow, exact lines, scanning everything twice, then a third time because Tim Drake did not trust anything that behaved too neatly. Red Hood leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, helmet angled down at the body.

“Gotta say,” Jason said, voice crackling through the modulator, “I’ve seen worse interior decorating.”

“Not helpful,” Nightwing muttered.

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

Batman said nothing.

That was the second strange thing. Bruce had gone still in that terrifying way he did when the world presented him with an answer he didn’t want to understand. His cape pooled around him like a shadow trying to remember how to be human.

Tim straightened, tablet glowing pale across his face. “No forced entry. Security disabled from inside the system, but not remotely. Whoever did this physically accessed the building.”

“Crane has guards,” Dick said.

“Had,” Jason corrected.

No one laughed.

There were twelve of them, all unconscious. Alive. Bound with their own belts, positioned where they would wake slowly and painfully, but wake. No unnecessary casualties. No collateral damage.

A clean path through chaos. A blade through the throat of a monster.

Damian stood apart from the others, frozen near the far wall.

At first, Dick thought he was staring at Crane. Then he realised Damian wasn’t looking at the body at all.

He was looking at the cut.

A single wound. Precise. Merciful, almost, in its efficiency.

Damian’s face had gone pale beneath his mask.

“Robin?” Bruce asked.

Damian did not answer immediately.

Jason’s helmet turned toward him. “Kid?”

Damian swallowed. “I know this work.”

The cave went colder than winter.

Tim’s fingers paused over the tablet. Dick rose slowly. Bruce turned his head, just enough to make the cowl’s white lenses catch the dim light.

“Explain,” Batman said.

Damian’s mouth tightened.

“That is not merely League technique,” he said. “It is older. Ceremonial. Reserved for correctional executions.”

Jason pushed off the wall. “Correctional?”

“When an enemy of the League acts beyond the bounds Grandfather permits.” Damian’s voice was flat, but something underneath it trembled like a wire pulled too tight. “When an example must be made quietly.”

Tim looked at Crane’s body again. “Scarecrow stole from the League?”

“Or poisoned something they wanted,” Dick said.

Bruce’s gaze did not leave Damian. “Who would Ra’s send?”

Damian’s silence answered before he did.

A small, terrible thing passed across his face.

Not fear. Not exactly.

Recognition.

“There were rumours,” Damian said softly. “In Nanda Parbat.”

Jason went still.

Damian never sounded young when he spoke of the League. He sounded carved. Like every memory had been sanded down until only edges remained.

“Rumours of an heir before me,” Damian continued. “A child raised deeper within the citadel. Not displayed. Not praised. Not allowed failure.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

“Talia’s child?” he asked.

Damian did not look at him.

“My mother’s,” he said. “Not yours.”

The words landed like a blade placed gently on a table.

Dick inhaled. “Damian…”

“I never met them,” Damian said quickly, too quickly. “Not properly. I saw them only once.”

His eyes flicked toward Crane again.

“They were training in the eastern courtyard. Seven assassins against one. They were older than me. Perhaps by five years. Perhaps more. It was difficult to tell. The League does not allow children to remain children.”

Jason’s hands curled at his sides.

Damian’s voice lowered. “They won.”

Silence swallowed the room whole.

Then Tim’s tablet chimed. He looked down, and every bit of colour left his face.

“Bruce,” he said. “You need to see this.”

On the screen, a symbol appeared. Not carved. Not painted. Burned into the underside of Crane’s desk, hidden where only someone investigating properly would find it.

A black blade crossed through a green flame.

Damian stepped back like he’d been struck.

Bruce saw. “Robin.”

Damian’s lips parted.

“That is them,” he said.

Jason looked between them. “Them who?”

Damian’s eyes lifted, and for the first time since entering Crane’s hideout, he looked afraid.

“The Blade of Al-Ghul.”

You left Gotham before dawn.

Not because you were afraid of the Bats. Fear was a tool. A chemical. A weakness in the breath before pain. You understood fear intimately, the way a surgeon understood the body: by opening it, studying its shape, learning what made it stop.

You left because the mission was finished. Jonathan Crane had taken a vial of Lazarus compound from a League caravan six months ago. He had diluted it, corrupted it, tried to lace it with fear toxin and sell the result to the highest bidder. He had not known what he carried. Men like Crane rarely did. They saw the sacred and wondered how much it would fetch in dirty money.

The Demon’s Head had spoken. You had obeyed.

That was the whole world.

A command. A target. A blade. Silence after.

Gotham sprawled beneath you, ugly and glittering, all bruised neon and rain-slick rooftops. It was a city with too many heartbeats. Too many witnesses. Too many ghosts.

You understood, now, why Damian had changed here.

The city was a disease.  Or perhaps a cure. You had not decided.

The wind shifted.

You stopped walking.

Three rooftops away, a shadow moved wrong.

Not civilian. Not police. Not League.

Bat.

You tilted your head.

“Come out,” you said.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the shadow detached from a gargoyle, and the Red Robin stepped into view.

He was smaller than you expected.

No. Not smaller.

Young.

Sharp-eyed. Tired. Dangerous in the way of people who had taught themselves to survive by noticing everything.

“You’re hard to find,” he said.

You watched him.

He smiled faintly, but it did not reach his eyes. “That was almost a compliment.”

“You followed the wrong trail.”

His expression flickered.

Then something clicked behind you.

A gun.

You did not turn.

“Did I?” Red Robin asked.

Red Hood stood at your back, weapon trained between your shoulder blades. His stance was aggressive, but not careless. He had positioned himself outside the most obvious range of your reach.

Good.

Not good enough.

“Hands where I can see them,” Hood said.

You lifted your hands slowly.

Red Robin’s gaze narrowed.

He knew.

Smart one.

The wire around his ankle went taut.

You moved.

Not fast.

Perfectly.

That was what the League had carved into you. Speed was sloppy when worshipped. Strength was crude when indulged. Perfection was not the rush of movement. It was inevitability.

You stepped sideways as Red Hood fired. The bullet struck the rooftop exactly where you had been standing. You pulled the wire, and Red Robin hit the ground hard enough to lose breath but not consciousness. Hood advanced; you turned into him, caught his wrist, redirected the second shot into the sky, and drove your elbow into the seam beneath his ribs.

He grunted.

You almost admired him for staying upright.

Almost.

Red Robin swept for your legs. You let him catch one, let his hope bloom for half a second, then twisted with the momentum and dropped your knee beside his throat.

Not on it.

Beside it.

A warning dressed as mercy.

Hood lunged again.

You threw one of your blades.

It pinned his jacket to an exhaust vent.

His helmet snapped toward the knife, then back to you.

“Okay,” he said. “Rude.”

Red Robin’s staff extended beneath your arm.

You caught it.

For one breath, the two of you stared at each other over the weapon.

His eyes widened slightly.

He knew he had lost.

Before you could break the staff, a body dropped from above.

Blue and black.

Nightwing came down like a falling star.

You released Red Robin and rolled away from the strike, cloak snapping behind you. Nightwing flowed after you, escrima sticks sparking to life. His movements were acrobatic, beautiful, almost joyful.

You hated that. Combat was not meant to be joyful.

Combat was prayer.

He struck high. You ducked. He spun. You moved inside the arc, fingers finding the pressure point beneath his arm. He saw it coming at the last possible second and shifted enough that you caught muscle instead of nerve.

Impressive.

He smiled despite himself.

“You’re definitely related to Damian.”

That name did what bullets had not.

It made you pause.

Only slightly. Only for the width of a heartbeat.

But a heartbeat was an eternity to the Bat.

Smoke exploded across the rooftop.

You held your breath before it bloomed fully. Standard concealment tactic. Irritant compound. Mild sedative underlayer. Designed for human reflexes.

You had been trained out of those.

Something moved in the smoke.

Small. Fast. Familiar.

A sword rang against your blade.

You turned.

Robin stood before you, cape whipping around his slight frame, katana held in both hands.

Damian Wayne.

Blood of your mother. Son of the Bat. The child who escaped.

For the first time in years, you felt something that did not have a name.

He stared at you through the white lenses of his mask. His jaw was clenched so hard it must have hurt.

“You,” he said.

You inclined your head. “Little brother.”

Everyone froze.

Nightwing’s escrima sticks lowered a fraction. Red Robin stopped trying to rise. Hood, still pinned by his jacket, went utterly silent.

Damian flinched as though the words had touched bare skin. “You are not permitted to call me that.”

“Am I not?”

“You do not know me.”

“No,” you said. “I know what you were meant to be.”

His grip tightened on the sword.

You studied him. He was smaller than you had imagined. Not weak. Never weak. But there was softness in him now, hidden badly beneath all that anger. Gotham had infected him thoroughly. It had put warmth in the cracks the League left behind.

How strange. How terrible. How lucky.

Damian lifted his chin. “Surrender.”

Behind you, Red Hood gave a rough laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll work.”

You ignored him. Your gaze stayed on Damian.

“And if I do not?”

“Then I will stop you.”

You looked at his sword. His stance. The tremor he thought he was hiding.

“You will try.”

He attacked.

For half a second, he was magnificent. The League had not wasted its training. Damian moved with the precision of a prince raised in war. His blade cut the air in clean silver arcs. His footwork was disciplined, his rage contained, his eyes always searching.

But he had left too early. Or perhaps you had stayed too long.

You caught the first strike, redirected the second, avoided the third by less than an inch. He pressed you toward the edge of the roof, exactly as he had been trained to do. He expected resistance.

So you gave him none.

You stepped backwards off the roof.

Damian’s eyes widened.

He lunged after you on instinct.

Predictable. Painfully brave.

You caught his wrist as you fell, hooked your line around a gargoyle, and swung both of you hard into the side of the building below. Glass cracked beneath your boots. Damian gasped, but did not cry out.

You pinned him against the wall with one arm across his chest, blade angled beneath his chin.

Above, the others shouted.

Damian glared at you, breathing hard.

“You should not have followed,” you said.

“You should not have come.”

“I go where I am sent.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one I have.”

Something shifted in his face then.

Not pity. Damian would never insult you with pity.

Recognition. He saw the shape of the cage because he had once lived inside it.

“You can leave,” he said, very quietly.

The words were absurd. Almost cruel.

You stared at him.

Below, Gotham traffic whispered like distant rain.

“No,” you said.

His brows drew together.

“You think you cannot,” he said.

“I know what I am.”

“You are not a weapon.”

You smiled. It felt unfamiliar on your face.

“Then why does everyone keep reaching for me?”

The grappling line above you jerked.

Batman descended through the fog like judgment.

You released Damian and kicked away from the wall before the Bat could reach you. Your boots hit the side of the neighbouring building; you ran three steps across the vertical surface, launched yourself upward, and landed on a fire escape.

Batman landed opposite you.

No flourish. No wasted motion.

You understood immediately why the League had spoken of him like a storm given bones.

“Enough,” he said.

You drew your second blade.

Batman’s gaze flicked to it. Then to your stance. Then to your face.

“You’re Talia’s child.”

It was not a question.

You said nothing.

His voice lowered. “Damian’s sibling.”

Still, you said nothing. Words were openings. Openings were weaknesses. Weakness got children locked in rooms beneath mountains until they learned to stop crying.

Batman stepped closer. “You killed Crane.”

“Yes.”

“On Ra’s al Ghul’s orders.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Crane stole from the League.”

“That doesn’t justify execution.”

You tilted your head.

“No,” you said. “It explains it.”

His mouth tightened beneath the cowl.

There. Anger. Controlled, but present.

He cared too much. Damian’s father cared so much it bled through armour.

How inefficient. How devastating.

“How old were you,” Batman asked, “when they started training you?”

The question was so unexpected that you almost answered.

Your silence was answer enough.

Batman’s cape shifted as the others arrived around him. Nightwing first, landing light. Red Robin next, staff in hand. Hood last, knife gone from his jacket, gun lowered but ready.

Damian climbed onto the fire escape behind them.

He did not look away from you.

“They won’t let you keep killing,” he said.

“No,” you agreed. “They will try to stop me.”

“You don’t have to make this a fight.”

You looked at the five of them.

The Bat. The golden one. The detective. The dead man. The heir who ran. A family made of broken things that had chosen, impossibly, to hold.

Then you looked at Damian. “You already have.”

The fight lasted four minutes.

Later, Tim would replay the footage seventeen times and hate every second of it.

You fought like you had been built in a room without love. Every strike had purpose. Every dodge became an attack. Every attack became a lesson in anatomy. You used their hesitation against them, their teamwork against them, their mercy against them most of all.

Dick tried to bind your wrists; you dislocated your thumb without flinching and slipped free. Jason tried brute force; you turned his strength into momentum and sent him through a rusted railing. Tim tried distance; you closed it. Bruce tried pressure points; you knew counters older than his training.

Damian tried to face you alone. That was when you made your only mistake.

You could have cut him.

You didn’t.

Batman saw.

He adjusted instantly, changing strategy mid-breath. Not aiming to beat you. Aiming to protect Damian long enough for Tim to deploy the modified restraint foam across the fire escape supports.

You noticed too late.

The foam burst upward, hardening around your boots, your knees, your left arm.

You cut through the first layer.

A taser line struck your shoulder.

Your body locked.

Not enough.

You tore free with a soundless snarl and nearly reached Damian again before Nightwing wrapped both arms around your waist from behind.

“I’m sorry,” he said in your ear.

You slammed your head back into his face.

He held on.

Jason caught your right arm. Tim caught the left. Bruce stepped in front of you, one hand raised, waiting for the instant your balance shifted.

Damian stood behind him, sword lowered.

You met his eyes.

He looked horrified.

Not by what you had done.

By what had been done to you.

That was worse.

You bared your teeth. “Do not look at me like that.”

Damian’s voice broke around the edges. “Like what?”

“Like I am a warning.”

His silence was a blade.

Batman struck.

A precise blow to the nerve cluster beneath your jaw.

The world went white.

Then black.

You woke in the Batcave. You knew this before you opened your eyes.

The air was too damp. Too metallic. Too alive with machines breathing softly in the dark. Somewhere nearby, water dripped in slow, patient intervals.

You catalogued yourself first. Wrists restrained. Ankles restrained. Shoulder bruised. Thumb reset while unconscious. Three ribs tender but not broken. No sedative fog in your mind. They had either underestimated your tolerance or chosen not to drug you further.

Interesting.

You opened your eyes.

The Bat stood across from you.

No mask this time.

Bruce Wayne looked less like a storm without the cowl. More like a man haunted by every child he had failed to save.

You disliked him immediately.

Damian stood at his side. You disliked that more.

The others lingered at the edges of the cave. Nightwing had bruising along his nose. Red Hood’s jacket was torn. Red Robin watched you with the expression of someone solving a puzzle and hating the picture it made.

“You are in no danger here,” Bruce said.

You almost laughed.

Instead, you looked at the restraints.

“Is that what you tell all prisoners?”

“You’re not a prisoner,” Dick said gently.

Your eyes moved to him.

He stopped talking.

Good.

Bruce stepped closer. “We need to know what Ra’s is planning.”

“Ask him.”

“We’re asking you.”

“I heard.”

Jason snorted. “Oh, this one’s fun.”

Damian shot him a glare.

You looked at Damian again. He had changed out of uniform. No mask. No sword. Just a boy in dark clothes trying to stand like a soldier and failing because his hands kept curling and uncurling at his sides.

You wondered if your mother knew he did that. You wondered if she missed him. You wondered when you had started allowing yourself such useless thoughts.

“You called me little brother,” Damian said.

Bruce’s face tightened.

You said nothing.

Damian took one step forward. “Did Mother tell you about me?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“That you were gifted.”

His mouth twisted. “That is all?”

“That you were arrogant. Undisciplined. Brilliant. Precious to her plans.”

Damian swallowed. “And after I left?”

You studied him carefully.

This was a trap, though perhaps not one he knew he had set.

“She said,” you answered, “that Gotham had made you weak.”

Damian’s eyes flashed.

Then dimmed.

“And what do you think?”

The cave seemed to lean closer.

Even the bats above were silent.

You looked at him.

Really looked.

At the green eyes identical to your mother's. At the posture that had once been beaten into both of you. At the boy who had escaped the mountain and found a father waiting in the dark. At the Robin who had pointed a sword at you and offered you freedom like freedom was something you could simply hand another person.

Weak, the League would have said.

You thought of him pulling his strike when Red Robin crossed too close behind you. You thought of him saying you are not a weapon. You thought of his horror when Batman knocked you unconscious.

You looked away first.

“I think,” you said slowly, “that Gotham has made you inefficient.”

Jason gave a low whistle. “Ouch.”

Damian did not react.

Because he had heard what the others had not.

Not weak. Never weak.

Bruce heard it too.

His expression shifted, subtle as moonlight through water.

“You protected him,” Bruce said.

You looked at him sharply.

“You had three chances to injure Damian badly enough to end the fight,” he continued. “You didn’t take them.”

“Sentiment is not the only explanation.”

“No,” Bruce said. “But it is one.”

You leaned back against the chair.

The restraints hummed faintly with electricity.

“You want me to be redeemable,” you said.

No one answered.

So you smiled again, colder this time.

“How very Gotham of you.”

Dick’s face softened. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is a foolish thing.”

“Usually,” Tim said quietly. “But not always.”

You looked at him. He held your gaze, brave and exhausted and breakable in ways he had somehow weaponised.

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” you said.

Bruce’s voice was steady.

“No,” he said. “But I know what was done to you.”

For the first time, you felt anger. Real anger.

Not mission heat. Not defensive calculation. Not the clean, cold violence the League preferred.

Anger.

It rose in you like a struck match.

“You know nothing.”

Bruce did not move. “I know children are not born blades.”

Your hands curled against the restraints. “They are forged.”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “And forging is violence.”

The words hit something buried so deep inside you that for one impossible second you could not breathe.

Damian took another step closer.

You could see it in him now. The awful hope. The desperate, childish thing he tried to bury under discipline and sharp words.

He wanted you to be saved because if you could not be saved, then maybe some part of him had never escaped either.

Poor little brother. Still looking for proof that cages could open.

You turned your face away from him.

“Send me back,” you said.

“No,” Damian answered before Bruce could.

Your eyes snapped to him.

His chin lifted.

“No,” he repeated. “I left. You can too.”

Your laugh came out too soft. “You think leaving is the same as being free.”

Damian flinched.

Good. Cruelty was safer than tenderness. Cruelty had handles. Tenderness was a blade with no hilt.

Bruce watched you like he knew exactly what you were doing. Annoying man.

“You are not returning to the League,” he said.

You stared at him.

The cave seemed suddenly smaller.

“You cannot keep me here forever.”

“No,” Bruce said. “But I can keep you here tonight.”

“Ra’s will come.”

“Let him.”

Jason laughed once. Sharp and delighted. “Oh, I love when he gets dramatic.”

Dick sighed. “Jay.”

“What? I do.”

Damian did not smile.

He was still looking at you.

Like a warning. Like a wound. Like family, which was worse than both.

“You should have stayed away from Gotham,” he said.

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you gave him the truth. A small piece of it. So small it should not have hurt.

“I wanted to see what stole you.”

Damian went still.

The cave fell silent again, but this silence was different.

Not tactical. Not fearful.

Grieving.

Bruce’s face changed first. Then Dick’s. Tim looked down. Jason turned his helmet away.

Damian’s eyes shone, but he did not let anything fall.

Of course not. You had both been raised better than that.

At last, Damian stepped closer until he stood directly in front of you.

“You were not stolen from,” he said, voice low. “You were abandoned with them.”

Your throat tightened. You hated him for that.

You loved him for it too, though you did not yet have the courage to know.

Above you, the bats shifted in the dark. Below them, machines hummed. Water dripped. Gotham breathed.

And for the first time in your life, you sat in a cage that someone else was trying to open from the outside.

Ra’s al Ghul came before sunrise.

Men like him did not knock. They arrived like prophecy, certain the door had always belonged to them.

The first warning was not an alarm.

It was you.

You sat restrained in the Batcave, head bowed, wrists locked in humming cuffs, and went utterly still.

Damian noticed first.

He had not left. Bruce had tried to make him. Dick had offered tea, rest, a blanket, anything that sounded soft enough to pretend this was not a hostage situation with family trauma wearing ceremonial blades. Tim had hovered near the computer. Jason had leaned against the medbay entrance like he was only there for tactical reasons, which fooled exactly no one.

But Damian stayed in front of you. Guarding you.

Or guarding everyone else from you.

You were not sure he knew the difference.

Then your breathing changed.

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

You lifted your head. “They are here.”

The cave lights shifted red a second later.

Tim spun toward the computer. “Outer perimeter just went dark.”

Jason straightened. “League?”

Bruce was already moving. “Positions.”

Dick reached for his escrima sticks. “How many?”

Tim’s fingers flew over the keys. His face went grim. “Enough.”

Damian did not move.

Neither did you. Your gaze stayed fixed on the far tunnel where the shadows deepened.

“He did not send soldiers,” you said quietly.

Bruce paused. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed once. “He came himself.”

A silence fell.

Heavy. Ancient. Green-edged.

Damian’s hand went to his sword.

You looked at him. “Do not fight him angry.”

His jaw tightened. “Do not presume to instruct me.”

“You lower your left shoulder when emotionally compromised.”

Jason barked a laugh despite himself. “Oh, they are definitely related.”

Damian glared at him, then back at you.

For half a second, something almost like a smile touched your mouth.

Then the cave exploded.

Smoke poured from the tunnel. Not Tim’s smoke. Not Batman’s. This was darker, threaded with bitter herbs and the scent of old mountain incense. League smoke. The kind you had learned to breathe through when you were seven and crying was considered a disappointing use of oxygen.

Assassins dropped from above. Green and black. Curved blades. Silent feet.

The cave became motion.

Nightwing launched himself into the first wave with a bright, furious grace. Red Hood opened fire with rubber rounds, cursing in three languages. Red Robin vanished into the smoke and turned the cave itself into a trap, lights flickering, platforms shifting, drones waking overhead.

Batman moved like a wall given vengeance.

Damian stayed between you and the tunnel.

You hated that most.

You could have helped. You could have ended half the attackers in less than a minute. You knew their forms, their blind spots, the way League assassins were taught to favour the killing strike over the disabling one. You knew because you had been the lesson they failed against.

But the restraints held.

Then the smoke split.

Ra’s al Ghul stepped into the Batcave.

He wore no armour. Only dark robes, a green cloak, and the serene expression of a man walking through a garden he intended to burn for warmth.

His eyes found Bruce first. “Detective.”

Bruce’s face became stone. “Ra’s.”

Then Ra’s looked at Damian. “Grandson.”

Damian’s sword lifted.

Finally, Ra’s looked at you.

And smiled.

Not warmly.

Proudly.

“My blade.”

Something inside you went quiet.

Not peaceful.

Dead.

Your spine straightened before you told it to. Your breathing evened. Your face emptied. The cave vanished at the edges until there was only the Demon’s Head and the command he had not yet spoken.

Damian saw it happen.

His eyes widened.

“No,” he said.

Ra’s took one step toward you. “You have performed well. Crane’s theft has been answered. The League’s honour remains intact.”

Bruce moved in front of him. “You’re not taking them.”

Ra’s almost looked amused. “You collect children now as trophies?”

Jason’s gun snapped up. “Oh, I hate this guy.”

Ra’s ignored him.

His gaze remained on you.

“Come.”

One word.

That was all it took.

A word with ten thousand days of training behind it. A word carved into your bones. A word that had opened doors, sealed graves, ended lives.

Come.

Your body moved before thought could catch it.

The restraints sparked.

Your wrists twisted.

Damian turned sharply. “Stop!”

You did not.

You dislocated your thumb again.

The pain was clean. Familiar. Almost soothing.

Bruce lunged toward you, but two assassins intercepted him. Dick shouted your name—no, not your name, because none of them knew it, not really. Tim triggered the restraint override, but you had already shifted your weight exactly enough to crack the locking hinge.

Metal snapped.

You stood.

Damian stepped in front of you.

His sword was lowered.

That was his mistake. Or his mercy.

“Don’t,” he said.

Your eyes met his.

Little brother, you thought. But you did not say it.

Ra’s voice came from behind him. “You see, Detective? You cannot rescue a weapon from its purpose.”

Bruce slammed an assassin into the cave wall hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling. “They’re not a weapon.”

Ra’s smiled. “All children are weapons. The only question is whether their parents have the discipline to sharpen them.”

Damian flinched. Just slightly.

But you saw.

The dead quiet inside you cracked.

Not much.

Enough.

Ra’s noticed too.

His gaze cooled.

“Blade,” he said.

You turned your head toward him.

“Kill Robin.”

The cave stopped.

Even the fighting seemed to falter around the edges.

Jason’s voice went flat with horror. “No.”

Dick’s face drained of colour.

Tim whispered, “Bruce—”

Bruce moved.

Too far. Too late.

Damian stood before you, sword still lowered.

His eyes did not leave yours.

You could kill him. You knew seventeen ways from this distance. A strike to the throat. A blade under the ribs. A broken neck. A nerve severed beneath the jaw. Quick. Clean. Merciful, if mercy meant efficiency.

Damian knew it too.

He did not raise his weapon.

“Do it,” Ra’s said.

Your hand moved to your blade.

Damian inhaled.

But he did not step back.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

His voice shook once, then steadied.

“You are not what he made you.”

The blade slid from its sheath.

Ra’s watched with satisfaction.

Bruce fought like the cave itself was trying to hold him back.

Damian lifted his chin.

“If you must kill me,” he said softly, “then let it be your choice. Not his.”

Choice.

The word entered you like a foreign object.

Choice was not a thing the League gave. Choice was what undisciplined people called hesitation. Choice was the space between command and obedience, and you had been trained to erase that space so completely no one could find where the child ended and the blade began.

Your hand trembled.

Ra’s saw it.

His face hardened.

“Obey.”

The command struck deeper this time.

Your knees nearly buckled.

Memories flashed, brutal and bright.

Stone floors beneath your palms. Talia’s voice telling you pain was information. Ra’s standing over you while you held a blade too large for your child’s hand.

Damian, small and furious in a courtyard, watching you win against seven assassins.

Your mother saying Gotham made him weak. Your grandfather saying weakness could be cut out. Your own voice asking, years later, what stole him.

Damian’s voice answering: You were abandoned with them.

Abandoned.

Not chosen. Not honoured.

Left.

Your grip tightened on the blade.

Damian closed his eyes.

That broke you.

Not because he was afraid.

Because he trusted you.

You turned.

The blade left your hand.

It flew across the cave and buried itself in Ra’s al Ghul’s cloak, pinning the green fabric to the stone behind him an inch from his throat.

Everyone froze.

Your voice came out raw.

“No.”

Ra’s stared at you.

For the first time since entering the cave, he looked truly displeased.

Not angry.

Worse.

Disappointed.

“My blade,” he said softly.

You lifted your chin. “Not yours.”

The cave erupted again.

Ra’s tore free of the pinned cloak and drew his sword in one fluid motion. Damian moved first, stepping beside you, blade raised now. Not in front of you.

Beside you.

A strange thing happened then.

You fought with Damian.

Not around him. Not despite him. With him.

He was smaller, quicker, all sharp angles and righteous fury. You were older, colder, built from discipline he had survived and escaped. Together, you were terrible.

You knew the League’s rhythms. Damian knew how to break them.

An assassin lunged for his left side; you intercepted. Another came for your back; Damian cut their blade away before it landed. You moved like a sentence finished in two voices.

Across the cave, Jason laughed breathlessly while punching someone into a storage cabinet.

“Okay, that’s horrifyingly cool!”

“Focus!” Bruce snapped.

“I am focused! On how horrifyingly cool that is!”

Ra’s watched you and Damian carve through his guard, and something ancient twisted across his face.

Possession. Rage. Loss.

“You shame your blood,” he said.

Damian’s blade met his with a ringing clash. “No. I am improving it.”

Dick, somewhere behind him, made a wounded little sound. “That was so good. I hate that I’m proud right now.”

Ra’s pressed Damian backwards. He was stronger. Taller. Crueller with every strike.

You came in from the side.

Ra’s caught your wrist.

For a moment, you were close enough to see your reflection in his eyes.

“You could have been perfect,” he said.

There it was.

The hook in the wound.

Perfection. The holy word. The altar you had been raised upon and sacrificed to, piece by piece, until nothing remained but the shape of what they wanted.

Your wrist strained in his grip.

He twisted.

Pain flared white.

Once, you would not have made a sound.

Now you gasped.

And Damian heard.

He slammed the hilt of his sword into Ra’s ribs with a furious snarl.

Ra’s released you.

Batman arrived like judgment.

The fight between Bruce Wayne and Ra’s al Ghul was not beautiful.

It was history with fists. Every strike carried years. Every block answered an old argument. Ra’s fought like a king. Bruce fought like a father.

And fathers, you were beginning to learn, were far more dangerous when their children were watching.

Ra’s drove Bruce back toward the Lazarus containment case. Bruce caught the blade between armoured gauntlets, twisted, and forced Ra’s to one knee. For one breath, the Demon’s Head looked almost mortal.

Then he smiled.

“Detective,” Ra’s said, “you remain sentimental.”

He pressed a hidden trigger.

The cave lights died.

Not dimmed.

Died.

Complete darkness swallowed everything. You moved by instinct, grabbing Damian and pulling him low just as a volley of darts cut through the space where his throat had been.

He stiffened at your touch.

Then, incredibly, he leaned into your grip.

Only for balance.

Probably.

Maybe.

“Tim!” Bruce shouted.

“Working on it!” Tim called back.

Emergency lights flickered on in harsh red pulses.

Ra’s was gone. So were three of his assassins.

The rest were unconscious, bound, or being sat on by Jason, who looked deeply satisfied with himself.

The cave smelled of smoke, blood, and old ghosts.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

Then Damian turned to you. “You saved me.”

You released him immediately. “You were in the way.”

Jason groaned. “Oh my God, it’s like listening to Damian argue with a mirror that has more knives.”

Dick wiped blood from his nose. “A scary mirror.”

Tim, bruised and breathless at the computer, looked between you and Damian. “A mirror that can dislocate its thumb on command, apparently.”

You flexed your injured hand.

Bruce approached slowly.

You tensed.

He noticed and stopped two steps away.

Ra’s had come to collect you. You had refused. Which meant you were no longer a blade of the League.

You were something worse.

A loose end. A traitor. A child who had stayed too long and finally stepped out of line.

You looked toward the tunnel Ra’s had vanished through. “He will not stop.”

Bruce’s voice was quiet. “No.”

“He will send others.”

“Yes.”

“You cannot protect me forever.”

“No,” Bruce said.

Something cold settled in your chest.

Then Bruce continued.

“But we can teach you how to protect yourself without belonging to him.”

You stared.

That was not how protection worked. Protection was ownership. Investment. Utility. No one guarded a blade unless they intended to use it.

Dick stepped closer, gentle but steady. “You could stay.”

Jason crossed his arms. “Or don’t. But maybe don’t go back to Murder Mountain with Grandpa Cult-Vibes.”

Tim blinked. “That might be your worst name for Ra’s yet.”

“I’m workshopping.”

Damian did not laugh.

He looked at you like the answer mattered more than he wanted to admit.

You wanted to say no. No was clean. No was safe. No meant no debt, no hope, no soft-eyed vigilantes trying to pry open the armour welded to your skin.

But your body remembered the command.

Kill Robin.

Your hand remembered trembling. Your blade remembered turning.

Not his.

The words lived in your mouth like the first breath after drowning.

Not yours.

Not yours.

Not yours.

“I do not know how,” you said.

It was not an answer. It was worse.

It was the truth.

Damian’s expression changed.

Small. Careful. Almost young.

“Neither did I.”

You looked at him.

He shifted, uncomfortable beneath your attention.

“Tt. I am still learning.”

Jason muttered, “Understatement of the century.”

Damian ignored him with royal intensity.

“You will be irritating,” he said.

Your brows lifted.

“You will be arrogant,” he continued. “Violent. Condescending. Emotionally stunted.”

Dick coughed. “Damian.”

“You will attempt to escape at least twice.”

Tim raised a finger. “Statistically, probably more.”

“You will insult Father.”

Jason perked up. “That part’s encouraged.”

“You will find our methods inefficient,” Damian said, voice quieter now. “You will think mercy is weakness. You will hate it here.”

You studied him. “And yet?”

Damian swallowed.

“And yet,” he said, “you should stay anyway.”

The cave softened around the edges.

Not physically. The stone remained stone. The machines kept humming. The bats above kept shifting in the dark like scraps of living night.

But something changed. 

A door did not open. Not yet. But maybe, somewhere deep beneath the mountain inside your chest, a lock turned once.

Bruce held out his hand.

Not to grab. Not to command.

Just offered.

You looked at it for a long time.

Then you looked at Damian.

He gave a single stiff nod, as if granting permission to survive was something he could do without falling apart.

Your injured hand twitched.

You did not take Bruce’s hand.

Not yet.

But you did not step away.

For tonight, that was enough.

The first week was war.

Not open war. Not blades in the hallways or poison in the tea, though Alfred did catch you studying the spice cabinet with “strategic suspicion,” as he called it, and banned you from unsupervised kitchen access with the politest death glare you had ever witnessed.

It was quieter than that.

You slept facing the door. You stole three knives from the Cave and hid them around the manor. You mapped every exit. You refused to eat anything you had not watched someone else consume first.

You nearly broke Tim’s wrist when he woke you from a nightmare. You did break Jason’s nose when he startled you during training.

Jason, to his credit, only held a towel to his face and said, “Okay, fair, but next time aim for literally anyone else.”

Damian watched you with the grim satisfaction of someone seeing his worst qualities reflected back at him in 4K.

“You are impossible,” he told you on the fifth morning.

You looked at the breakfast plate Alfred had placed in front of you. “What is this?”

“Pancakes,” Damian said.

“Why are they shaped like animals?”

Across the table, Dick’s face lit up. “Oh, Alfred does that when he’s emotionally adopting you.”

Alfred, from the kitchen doorway, said mildly, “Master Richard.”

You stared at the pancake. It was shaped like a bat.

Poorly. Lovingly.

An inefficient food.

You ate it anyway.

Damian pretended not to notice.

He noticed everything.

The first time you laughed, it was Jason’s fault.

This surprised no one more than Jason.

He had dragged you into the Cave’s training area after you informed Bruce that firearms were “cowardly tools for those with poor wrist discipline.” Jason took this personally, spiritually, and with great volume.

He spent twenty minutes explaining why guns were not inherently cowardly, actually, and then tried to demonstrate.

You disarmed him in four seconds.

He stared at the empty space where his gun had been.

You held it by the barrel.

“Poor wrist discipline,” you said.

Tim made a strangled sound from the computer.

Dick turned away.

Damian looked like he was trying not to ascend to a higher plane through sheer smugness.

Jason pointed at you. “You know what? I liked you better when you were unconscious.”

And you laughed.

It was small. Barely a breath.

But it was there.

Everyone froze so abruptly that you stopped too.

“What?” you demanded.

“Nothing,” Dick said too quickly.

Tim looked intensely at his screen. “Nope. Nothing. Normal cave sounds.”

Jason grinned.

Damian’s expression softened by one treacherous inch.

You scowled at all of them.

It only made Jason grin wider.

“Oh, you’re stuck with us now,” he said.

You threw the gun at him.

Safety on.

Mostly.

Ra’s sent assassins on the twelfth night.

You knew before the alarms.

This time, when you woke, you did not run.

You went to Damian’s room first.

He was already awake, sword in hand.

For a moment, you stood in the doorway looking at each other.

No words. No old commands. No mountain between you.

Then Damian nodded. You nodded back.

Together, you went to wake the others.

Later, after the attack failed spectacularly and Jason declared the manor’s security “a group project from hell,” Bruce found you on the balcony overlooking the grounds.

Dawn bruised the horizon purple and gold.

You stood with your arms folded, watching the trees.

Bruce joined you but did not stand too close.

He was learning. Annoying man.

“They will come again,” you said.

“Yes.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep being right.”

You glanced at him.

His mouth almost curved.

Almost.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then Bruce said, “You need a name.”

Your body went very still. “I have a title.”

“You deserve a name.”

You looked away.

The League had given you many names.

Blade. Heir. Asset. Shadow. Failure, once, when you were nine and your hands had shaken too hard to hold the knife steady.

Your mother had called you child only when no one else could hear.

Ra’s had called you perfect only when you bled.

“What did Talia call you?” Bruce asked quietly.

Your throat tightened.

You almost did not answer.

Then you said it.

Not loudly.

The name felt strange in the air. Too soft for the life you had lived. Too human for the thing you had been made into.

Bruce repeated it once.

Carefully. Correctly. Like it mattered.

You hated him a little less.

Maybe.

A month later, Damian found you in the library.

You were sitting on the floor with three open books, a mug of untouched tea, and a knife hidden beneath your thigh.

Damian noticed the knife.

You noticed him noticing.

Neither of you mentioned it.

He stepped closer. “What are you reading?”

“History.”

“Which era?”

You looked down at the book. “All of it.”

Damian huffed.

He sat beside you.

Not close.

Closer than before.

For several minutes, you read in silence.

Then he said, “I used to wonder about you.”

Your eyes stayed on the page. “No, you did not.”

“Yes,” Damian snapped. “I did.”

You looked at him.

He scowled at the carpet.

“I saw you once. In the courtyard. You defeated seven assassins.”

“You said this already.”

“I thought you were extraordinary.”

Something in your chest shifted.

Damian’s voice became quieter. “I also thought if I became like you, Mother would be proud.”

You closed the book.

Damian’s hands were clasped too tightly in his lap.

“I am glad,” he said, each word dragged out like it cost him blood, “that I did not become like you.”

The old you would have taken offence.

The new you—still raw, still half-formed, still sleeping with a blade under the pillow—heard the grief beneath it.

“So am I,” you said.

Damian looked at you sharply. You looked back.

The silence held.

Then he leaned sideways, just enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

It was not an embrace. It was barely contact.

But Damian Wayne did not offer comfort casually.

You sat very still.

After a while, you allowed your shoulder to press back.

From the doorway, Dick made a muffled sound suspiciously like crying.

Damian threw a book at him without looking.

Ra’s came one final time in winter.

Snow fell over Gotham in thin, silver sheets, softening the city’s ugliness into something almost gentle.

He did not bring an army. Only himself.

He stood in the manor gardens beneath a dead tree, robes dark against the white ground. Bruce went out first. Damian followed. Then you.

The others watched from the shadows.

Ra’s looked older in the snow.

Not weaker. Never that.

But older.

“My blade,” he said.

You did not flinch this time. “That is not my name.”

His eyes narrowed.

Then he said your name.

It sounded wrong in his mouth.

You hated that it had ever lived there.

“You have been corrupted,” Ra’s said.

Damian stepped forward. “They have been freed.”

Ra’s glanced at him. “Freedom is a story weak men tell their children so they do not have to teach discipline.”

Bruce’s voice was cold. “You don’t get to speak about children.”

Ra’s smiled faintly. “And yet, Detective, here we stand among yours.”

His gaze returned to you.

“I offer you one chance. Come with me, and your betrayal will be corrected. Refuse, and the League will consider you an enemy until your final breath.”

Snow gathered on your shoulders.

Once, the threat would have hollowed you out.

Now, you only felt tired.

All that power. All that immortality. All those centuries. And still, Ra’s al Ghul could not imagine love except as possession. Could not imagine loyalty except as obedience. Could not imagine family except as inheritance sharpened into a knife.

You stepped forward.

Damian tensed. Bruce did too.

But neither stopped you.

You walked until you stood close enough for Ra’s to see your eyes clearly.

“I was your blade,” you said.

His expression remained unreadable.

“You honed me. Used me. Named my wounds discipline and called my silence devotion.”

The snow fell harder.

Your voice did not shake.

“You taught me perfection meant having no self left to save.”

Ra’s said nothing.

You drew a blade.

Behind you, Damian inhaled sharply.

But you did not raise it.

You turned it in your hand and offered it hilt-first.

Ra’s stared.

“This is yours,” you said. “The weapon. The title. The obedience.”

The blade dropped into the snow between you.

You stepped back.

“I am keeping the life.”

For a moment, Ra’s looked at you with something almost human in his eyes.

Then it was gone.

“Sentiment has ruined you.”

You looked past him, toward the manor.

Dick in the window, pretending not to hover. Tim on comms, pretending not to worry. Jason in the shadows with a rifle he absolutely claimed was “just decorative.” Alfred waiting inside with tea.

Bruce beside you, steady as stone. Damian at your shoulder.

Your brother.

Not little, not weak, not stolen.

Alive.

You looked back at Ra’s.

“No,” you said. “It found me late.”

Ra’s’s mouth hardened. “This is not over.”

Bruce stepped forward. “For tonight, it is.”

Ra’s looked at all three of you.

Then he vanished into the snow like a ghost too proud to admit it had been exorcised.

No one moved until the garden was empty.

Then Damian exhaled.

“You were dramatic,” he said.

You looked at him. “You carry a sword and wear a cape.”

“Tt. That is tactical.”

Jason’s voice crackled over comms. “For the record, that was dramatic as hell, and I support it.”

Dick added, “Ten out of ten emotional symbolism.”

Tim said, “The blade in the snow was a little much.”

You frowned. “Should I retrieve it?”

Everyone shouted, “No.”

You blinked.

Damian sighed. Then, after a long moment, he reached for your hand.

He did not hold it properly. Just hooked two fingers around yours like you were both still too proud to need anyone.

You looked down at the contact. Then at him.

He stared straight ahead, ears faintly pink from the cold.

“You are still irritating,” he said.

“You are still inefficient.”

“I am improving.”

“So am I.”

His fingers tightened around yours.

Behind you, Bruce said nothing.

But when you turned toward the manor, he walked beside you, not ahead.

Not leading. Not commanding.

Beside.

Snow covered the garden behind you, hiding the blade beneath white.

For the first time in your life, you left a weapon where it fell.

You were transferred in a box.

Not literally, of course—but it felt that way. Blacked-out convoy. Shackled wrists. A one-way ride from the remnants of the Red Room to a Hydra-controlled facility somewhere in the Balkans. No name. No destination. Just cold metal under your thighs and a silence that felt worse than any scream.

You’d heard whispers of this place. Of him.

They called him the Winter Soldier.

Hydra didn’t send many female agents here. They kept you in Moscow, mostly—tight, quiet, obedient. But after your last handler died during a failed seduction op, you were labeled unstable. Too volatile. Too effective. Hydra saw potential where the Red Room saw disobedience. So they made a deal.

You became someone else’s problem.

The Hydra base was underground, cold as a morgue, walls humming with electricity and cruelty.

They didn’t assign you a name. They gave you a number: Agent 47.

Your first few weeks passed in silence. You trained alone. Slept under surveillance. But being from the Red Room you hacked the camera. Ate without speaking. No one told you why you were there. Not until you saw him.

They wheeled him out of cryo like a weapon being unsheathed.

You were at the edge of the training floor, bandaging your knuckles from solo drills when he appeared—broad, silent, wrapped in shadow and control. Long hair. Muzzle mask. That metal arm. He didn’t look at you. Not at first.

But you looked at him. And you knew.

He was just like you. A ghost in someone else’s skin.

You were paired together two missions later. No warning. No introduction.

They handed you a brief, said “You’ll go with him,” and shoved you toward the drop point.

You didn't ask his name. He didn’t offer it.

The first op was simple. A kill mission in Istanbul. You were bait, dressed like a party favor, coaxing the target toward a hotel balcony. Bucky waited in the hallway like a shadow. The kill was clean. Fast. He didn’t say a word the entire flight home.

You were used to silence. But his silence felt different. It was less about obedience, more about weight. As if words were too dangerous to carry.

You watched him when he wasn’t looking. The way his hand sometimes tremble after a kill. The way he stared at the wall like it was going to scream.

You recognized it. The fracture. The absence of self.

It took three more missions before he looked you in the eye.

Just a glance. After a messy clean-up in Kraków, blood is still damp on your collar. You were wiping a cut on your lip, sitting on the tailgate of the evac van. He stood across from you, face unreadable. Then his gaze flicked to yours.

Not curious. Not judgmental.

Just... knowing.

As if he saw you. Not the mask. Not the makeup. You.

Your fingers twitched.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But something shifted.

Mission Location: Bucharest, Romania Objective: Eliminate asset defecting to S.H.I.E.L.D. Cover Story: Tourist couple at Hotel Beron

You hate hotels.

Not because of the sheets—they’re always clean, bleached, starched into fake softness. Not because of the lighting, though that’s usually cheap and flickering. You hate them because of what they mean: appearances. Playing and acting. Your body as a bargaining chip. Your face as a lie.

Tonight is no different.

You slip the gold earring into your ear with steady fingers, check your reflection one last time. The Red Room taught you to dress fast and fight faster. Hydra doesn't care what you wear, only that the target dies before he talks. Still, the dress they chose for you is low-cut and wine-red, tailored like a weapon.

Across the room, he doesn’t look at you. He’s adjusting the sight on a sniper rifle, calm as the grave.

The Winter Soldier wears a suit like a soldier wears a uniform—wrong, like it's just a disguise for the kill underneath.

You don’t speak. He doesn’t either.

That’s how it works between you.

The hotel bar is warm, glowing with amber light and careless laughter. You step into it like a ghost wrapped in silk.

Your heels click softly against the marble floor, your smile painted on with surgical precision. You're here to lure the target—a Hydra informant who decided to jump ship to S.H.I.E.L.D. You only have to keep him busy long enough for your partner to get in position.

You spot him at the bar. Older. Nervous. Talking too fast to a bartender who couldn’t care less.

You slide into the seat next to him like gravity pulled you there. A warm laugh. A brush of your shoulder. The same tired seduction dance the Red Room taught you at fifteen.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

He looks at you like every man does. Wants you like every man does. You feed it to him like honey over poison.

But as he starts to relax—fingers inching toward yours on the bar—you feel it: a prickle on your spine. The shift in air. The knowledge that he’s watching.

You don't need to turn. You know where he is.

Across the bar, tucked in the shadows near the back service door, sits the Winter Soldier. No mask. No rifle. Just a man in a suit too nice for the way his eyes scan the room—lethal and unblinking.

No one notices him. But you do.

He’s waiting.

The target gets comfortable fast. Too fast. He leans closer, asks if you want to go upstairs. You smile and say yes.

Your earpiece crackles with static, then his voice—cold, barely there.

“Level 5. West hallway. Blind spot in 40 seconds.”

You don't reply. You don’t have to.

The elevator ride up is silent, except for the elevator music and your heartbeat.

The hallway is dim. Carpet muffles your steps. When the door to 509 clicks shut behind you, you let the man touch your arm. You don’t flinch. You’ve played this role before. You already know how it ends.

You count down in your head.

Three... two...

The window explodes inward.

A blur of motion. Shattered glass. You duck before you even register the gunshot. The target stumbles back, screaming—blood blooming from his throat like a second collar.

You look up through your own hair, breathing hard.

He’s standing in the broken window frame.

Wind whips through the curtains. Gun still raised. Eyes locked on yours.

The Winter Soldier.

Back in the extraction van, it’s silent as always.

Your dress is ripped at the hem. There’s a scratch on your collarbone that stings. You can smell the powder burn still clinging to his jacket beside you.

You glance at him. His gaze is forward, unreadable.

But something about the way he watches the road—jaw clenched, fingers twitching—tells you he didn’t like what he saw in that room.

Not the blood. Not the kill.

You.

You wonder if he saw through the act.

You wonder if he saw how your hand shook when the man touched you.

Give me a reason to be a woman, not just a weapon.

He doesn’t speak. But just before the van turns, you feel it—his hand, brief and accidental, brushing yours where it rests on the bench.

He doesn’t pull away fast enough.

The building smells like antiseptic and cement. Cold, old-world concrete, retrofitted with modern surveillance tech and the stench of fear.

You haven’t been back in months. Not since the transfer.

The Red Room occupies the eastern wing; Hydra’s Moscow cell lives in the west. Where steel doors outnumber smiles and most conversations happen under cameras.

You walk the hallway beside him in silence.

The echo of your boots and his heavier tread match in rhythm—military, precise. You glance at his shoulder once, just once. The black tactical coat fits over the metal arm too cleanly, like it was sewn around the violence.

Neither of you speak until you’re summoned.

Inside the glass-walled debriefing chamber, the temperature drops by several degrees.

Your superior sits across from you—Director Volkov, thick-fingered, well-fed, and always two steps away from cruelty. Behind him, an aide prepares the recorder.

“Садитесь,” Volkov says without looking up. Sit.

You and the Winter Soldier obey in unison. Side by side. Chairs too straight to relax in.

Volkov doesn’t waste time.

“Доклад,” he says, motioning lazily with one hand. Report.

You glance once at Bucky. He stays still, metal fingers twitching once before stilling.

You begin.

“Цель устранена. Враг не передал информацию Щ.И.Т.,” you say clearly. Target eliminated. Enemy did not pass information to S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Свидетели?” Witnesses?

“Нет. Один охранник — был устранён.” No. One guard—eliminated.

Volkov raises an eyebrow. Then turns his attention to Bucky.

“And you?” he says in Russian, but slower. As if testing him.

Bucky’s voice is low, sharp like ice cracking.

“Всё прошло по плану.” Everything went according to plan.

His accent is almost native. Almost. But there's something strange in the way he says it—mechanical, hollow. Like he’s repeating words pulled from an old program.

Volkov watches him for a beat too long.

Then: “Хорошо.” Good.

But his gaze slides to you.

“Ты выглядишь усталой, девочка.” You look tired, girl.

Your jaw flexes.

“Я выполняю свою работу.” I do my job.

He leans back, smirking. “Иногда ты больше, чем просто работа.” Sometimes, you're more than just a job.

The edge behind his words makes your stomach tighten. A test. A threat. You don’t blink.

But you feel it.

A shift beside you. The faintest sound—leather glove tightening around a fist.

You don’t look at him. But you feel the Winter Soldier bristle, just for a second.

He heard it. He understood.

Volkov notes the silence like a man lighting a match near gasoline. He lets it burn a moment. Then shrugs.

“Свободны,” he says. You’re dismissed.

You both stand without hesitation.

But as you turn to leave, he speaks again.

“Солдат.” Soldier.

Bucky stops.

Volkov doesn’t look up as he says it.

“Девушка — хрупкая. Не дай ей сломаться.” The girl is fragile. Don’t let her break.

You look over your shoulder.

Bucky doesn’t respond. Doesn’t twitch. Just walks out, silent as death.

You follow.

In the elevator, no one speaks.

Not until the doors close and the security light turns green.

Then, in Russian—so quiet it almost doesn’t reach you—he says:

“Ты не хрупкая.” You are not fragile.

You stare straight ahead. Your heart stutters once behind your ribs.

After a long pause, you whisper back:

“И ты не только оружие.” And you are not only a weapon.

Location: Hydra Training Compound, Belarus Objective: Infiltrate and surveil ex-Hydra weapons broker operating under a NATO-aligned cover Alias Names: Alina & Ivan Morozov Cover Story: Married couple visiting from Kaliningrad for black-market tech negotiation

The base is colder than Moscow.

Not in temperature—though it’s frigid at dawn—but in design. Gray walls. Glass panels. Doors with no handles unless they want to be opened. The kind of place where every hallway feels like a test, and every reflection in the steel has eyes.

You stand in the armory, adjusting your tactical vest, eyes on the mission file. The photos are grainy, black-and-white. Surveillance stills of a man named Konstantin Mirov, former Hydra quartermaster turned freelance weapons broker.

Your job? Get into his meeting. See who he’s selling to. Get out without making noise.

No seduction this time. No backless gowns or hotel bar whispers.

This one’s quiet. Careful. Married couple traveling for business, Hydra’s handler had said.

You’d snorted. The Winter Soldier hadn’t reacted at all.

Now he enters the room, dressed not in his usual black ops gear—but something more civilian. Dark gray slacks. Black sweater. No gloves.

You glance at the arm.

He doesn’t bother to hide it.

Bold.

Or suicidal.

You zip your coat, grab your compact pistol, and glance at him. He’s adjusting his earpiece, expression unreadable.

Your handler enters with a clipboard and two forged passports.

“Your aliases are Alina and Ivan Morozov,” she says, Russian clipped and cold. “You’ve been married for five years. No children. No friends. You’re a quiet couple from Kaliningrad who want to buy access to Mirov’s smart-tech vault.”

She hands Bucky the ring box like it’s a threat.

He opens it.

Two simple wedding bands inside.

You stiffen. “Is this necessary?”

The handler smiles, teeth like knives. “You’ll be staying in a private villa. Shared bed. If Mirov suspects you’re spies, he’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll sell your location to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

You take the ring.

Bucky slides his on with mechanical ease.

You follow.

Infiltration Point: Moldova border, safehouse en route to Mirov’s estate

The drive is quiet. Trees blur past the windows, and you feel the weight of the silence settle between you like fog. The radio crackles occasionally—local news, rain reports, nothing useful.

He’s driving with one hand, the metal one. The flesh one rests on his thigh, fingers tapping once, twice, in thought.

You speak without looking at him.

“Are you comfortable with close contact?”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then: “I don’t need comfort. I need control.”

You glance at him. “That wasn’t the question.”

He doesn’t answer.

The Estate — Mirov’s Private Villa

By the time you arrive, the act has begun.

You’re greeted by a security detail with mirrored sunglasses and thick accents. They scan your car. Search your bags. But they don’t find the tracker tucked beneath the spare tire, or the bone mic embedded behind your left ear.

Inside, the villa is all excess. Marble floors. Velvet drapes. Surveillance in every corner. You walk in like you belong.

Your room is on the top floor. One bed. No cameras inside, but you know better. Hidden mics, pressure sensors under the floorboards.

You wait until the guards leave before speaking.

“You take the side near the door.”

He nods once. No questions.

You unpack. Slowly. Deliberately. The room is small. Every time you turn, he’s close. Too close.

You kneel to unzip your weapons case and find yourself eye-level with the holster strapped to his thigh.

He doesn’t move.

Your fingers brush the hem of his coat as you reach for your knife.

He still doesn’t move.

Your heartbeat spikes—briefly.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

Now I just want to be human.

But I don’t know how to be near him without wanting something I shouldn’t.

Later That Night

The mission recon begins at the gala in Mirov’s garden.

You’re dressed in black. Minimal makeup. Armed with a compact camera hidden in your pendant. Bucky wears a suit again—same fit as Bucharest—but this time, you’re on his arm.

For show.

You link arms. Skin to skin.

He is warm.

You keep your smile fixed and your eyes on the crowd. Inside, you whisper:

“Three o’clock. Red dress. That’s the American buyer.”

He leans in slightly—lips brushing your temple in a way that makes your stomach knot.

“She’s carrying,” he mutters. “Ankle holster. SIG P365.”

You smile and laugh, loud enough for Mirov’s man to hear. Just two lovers sharing a joke.

But when you turn away, his hand on your back doesn’t drop right away.

You feel the heat of it through your dress.

You don’t speak on the walk back to the villa.

The guards let you through without questions. One of them gives you a knowing smirk, like he expects you to fuck as loudly as you kill. You offer him the barest smile in return—just enough to keep him stupid.

Inside, the bedroom light is low. Amber and shadow and the faint buzz of some generator humming through the floor.

You unclip your earrings and place them on the nightstand.

Bucky’s already unbuttoning his cuffs. No words. No wasted movement. Just a slow, methodical undoing of the man he pretended to be tonight.

You glance over.

He hasn’t looked at you once.

But his jaw is tight.

You strip off your dress with your back to him. No flourish, no invitation. Just routine. Your spine is bare and littered with scars in the mirror. You catch his reflection when he finally turns.

His eyes flick to yours, just once, before dropping.

He looks away like it hurts.

You slide on the black sleep shirt. One of the few things in your duffel that’s actually yours. Cotton. Worn thin at the collar.

Bucky changes into a pair of Hydra-issued sweats and a black t-shirt. The metal arm gleams under the soft light, all tension and symmetry and weaponized restraint.

He takes the side nearest the door, just like you asked.

You slide under the covers beside him.

The silence is too loud.

The bed dips beneath his weight but doesn't move again. He’s still. A wall of heat and control.

You close your eyes.

And then—after several long breaths—you whisper, in Russian:

“Ты не расслаблялся ни на секунду.” You haven’t relaxed once.

He exhales through his nose.

Then:

“Слишком опасно.” Too dangerous.

You open your eyes. The ceiling is textured with shadow.

“Мне казалось, ты был другим, когда мы танцевали.” You seemed different when we danced.

He doesn’t answer.

But he’s listening. You can feel it. His focus, always so sharp in combat, is now centered entirely on you.

You turn on your side, facing him in the dark. His profile is a study in contrast—scar and softness, human and not. The kind of face built for silence.

“I forgot who I was for a minute,” you murmur. “On the balcony. When you touched my back.”

His jaw tenses.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says.

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t want you to stop.”

The air between you thickens. Warmer now. And dangerous in a different way.

This isn’t flirtation. It's a confession. Two ghosts pressing against the skin of the living.

You feel his fingers move—just barely.

Then:

“Why are you telling me this?”

You don’t know.

Maybe because it’s dark. Maybe because he saw you undressed without leering. Maybe because when you kissed him in Bucharest, he didn’t pull away—he just stood there, stunned, as if you’d woken something up.

“I want to know if you felt it too,” you whisper.

His voice is a thread of breath:

“I don’t let myself feel things.”

You reach for his hand under the sheet. Not the metal one. The other.

Your fingers find his fingers.

And he lets them.

He doesn’t pull away.

You fall asleep like that. Not tangled. Not pressed together. Just a point of contact—skin to skin.

A line crossed.

And neither of you can go back.

Location: Hydra Training Compound Day Three Post-Mission

They call it “recalibration,” but it feels like punishment.

Mission successful. Mirov neutralized. Intel secure. And still, they’re back on the mat like it means nothing. Hydra doesn’t reward precision. It doesn’t reward loyalty.

It rewards silence.

You’re already in the training gear—black compression top, reinforced leggings, bare feet on the polished floor. Your knife is strapped to your thigh even though it won’t be used today. Just a habit.

Across from you, Bucky stands shirtless, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair damp from the shower.

His metal arm catches the light like a warning.

You circle each other in silence. There’s no music, no overseer today. Just the distant hum of the base and the scuff of movement on the mat.

Then, in Russian:

“Готова?” Ready?

You nod.

He lunges first—fast, controlled, mechanical. You drop low, sweep a leg, and he pivots instead of falling. His movements are brutal but beautiful, like clockwork designed to hurt.

You block a palm strike, twist under his arm, shove your elbow toward his ribs.

He lets you connect.

Not full force. Not enough to bruise.

Just enough.

You both freeze.

Your breath hitches.

He stepped into it—on purpose.

Why would he let me land a hit like that?Why does it matter that he did?

You disengage fast, roll back onto your feet. He stays still, watching.

Eyes unreadable.

Then, quieter:

“Ты теряешь фокус.” You're losing focus.

You sneer. “Ты проиграл.” You lost.

He steps forward again—slow this time. Less like a soldier, more… man. His chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.

“I let you win,” he says.

There’s no arrogance in it. No mocking.

Just a fact.

You bristle. “Why?”

His eyes flick to yours—then lower. Just briefly. Enough to notice the slight swelling on your lip from the earlier blow he did land.

“Because you’re tired.”

You swallow, throat tight.

He noticed. And he cared. Not because Hydra told him to. Not because it helped the mission.Because it’s me.And that scares me more than it should.

You don’t reply.

You rush him again, but this time it’s sloppier. Emotion leaking in through the cracks. He catches your wrist mid-strike, and for one heartbeat, you’re just… there. Trapped in his grip.

His fingers tighten—then loosen.

He releases you.

Your skin burns where he touched it.

You step back.

“Again,” you say.

He hesitates. Just a flicker.

Then nods.

You spar for thirty minutes. No talking. Just the sound of bodies hitting mats, of breath caught and released, of two people pretending not to feel what they feel.

And after the last round—when you’re both on the floor, sweating, chests heaving, his arm braced beside your shoulder—

You ask, quiet:

“Why are you different with me?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“Because you don’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”

You look at me like I’m still human.You look at me like I deserve to be one.

You could kiss him right now.

You don’t.

You just stay there, breathing next to him.

Neither of you moves.

The sparring is over, but it’s still clinging to you—under your skin, in the beat of your pulse, in the shallow ache of your left wrist.

You sit on the bench in the armory locker room. Shirt discarded. Wrist tender. It throbs in waves now that the adrenaline’s worn off.

Hydra’s med supplies are cold and clinical: gauze, antiseptic, wraps. No painkillers. No comfort.

You’re wrapping the bandage sloppily, one-handed.

“Дай мне.” Let me.

His voice is low. Behind you.

You flinch, but you don’t stop him when he kneels in front of you.

You offer your wrist.

The metal hand holds it steady. Too gentle. The human one does the wrapping.

He’s meticulous. One layer. Then another. His breath fans across your forearm.

Your voice is soft:

“Ты заботишься.” You care.

He pauses.

Then—barely above a whisper:

“Ты не должна была заметить.” You weren’t supposed to notice.

You study him as he works. Down here, kneeling, close like this—he doesn’t look like a ghost. Or a soldier. He just looks... tired.

And young. Younger than you imagined, when he’s not under command.But you’ve seen his file. You know that doesn’t make sense. Unless something’s been taken from him.Time. Memory. Self.

“What do they call you?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t look up.

“They don’t.”

Not a name. Just a directive. A ghost.Winter Soldier. Asset. 

You nod once. You won’t ask again. You’ve done worse to people with names.

When he finishes the wrap, he doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushes the edge of the gauze. Not by accident.

Your breath stutters.

He touches like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Like no one taught him how to be soft, but he’s trying anyway.And you… you need it.God, you need it.

“You stay too long after the others leave,” you whisper.

He looks up at you. Those eyes—gray and still and far away.

“So do you.”

You pull your wrist back, slowly. His hand follows for a second longer than it should.

You rise.

He doesn’t stop you.

But before you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder.

“What's on your mind,” you say in Russian. “Just one thing.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Like he’s trying to remember what counts as real.

Then, finally:

“Я боюсь забыть, каково это — не быть один.” I’m afraid of forgetting what it feels like to not be alone.

You don’t speak.

But something inside you breaks.

And you don’t fix it.

There are nights when the base goes too quiet.

Not silent—because no Hydra base is ever truly silent. There’s always the dull hum of the server banks, the pressurized hiss of sealed doors, the echo of boots in the corridor above.

But this? This is quieter. Hollow. Heavy.

You can’t sleep.

Your bed is too narrow, your bones too wired. There’s a tremor in your hands you can’t shake. Not fear, exactly. Just… residue. From training. From life.

From him.

You slip from your quarters, barefoot. In a tank top and soft black shorts. You don’t bother to put boots on.

The halls feel colder at night. You glide through them like smoke.

Down one floor. Then two.

You know where he’ll be.

There’s a small chamber near the weapons lab—an auxiliary control room that no one uses after hours. No windows. Just a slatted steel vent near the ceiling where moonlight slices in, pale and ghostlike.

He sits there in the corner, on the floor.

Back against the wall.

Awake.

He’s always awake.

You don’t speak when you step into the doorway.

He lifts his eyes. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise.

Just looks at you like he knew you’d come.

You sit across from him, knees pulled up. The cold seeps through the floor into your skin.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

But that’s never mattered. Not with him.

The quiet between you has its own language.

He finally says, “Ты тоже не можешь спать?”

You can’t sleep either?

You shake your head. “Слишком много шума.”

Too much noise.

He nods.

You don’t mean the base.

You mean the static in your blood. The ghost-thoughts. The bruises that don’t bloom until morning.

You watch him. The way he sits so still. But you’ve seen him move—he’s lethal in motion, but now, in this shadowed room, he’s just… there.

Like a monument to some war no one ever won.

You speak again.

“Do you remember who you were… before?”

His jaw flexes. Not anger—hesitation.

Then he says, “No.”

Just that. One syllable that splinters something in you.

“I think I was someone else, too,” you whisper. “Before the Red Room.”

And maybe neither of you can get back to that person.

Maybe that’s what this is. Two weapons sitting in the dark, trying to remember how to feel like people.

You shift a little closer. Not touching. Just near.

“I think about it sometimes,” you say. “What it might feel like. To live outside these walls. Outside orders.”

He doesn’t respond. But his eyes are on you like he’s trying to see that world through yours.

You whisper, “Give me a reason.”

His brow furrows.

You search his face in the low light.

“Give me a reason to feel like a woman again. Not a tool. Not a weapon.”

A pause.

Then he leans forward—barely, barely—and says, so low you almost don’t hear it:

“Because when I look at you, I forget I’m a weapon.”

The air between you crackles.

But neither of you reaches across the space.

You just sit there, two shadows in the dark, a heartbeat apart from ruin.

But after a while sitting on the hard floor gets uncomfortable so you rise up slowly.

You guide him by the wrist—his flesh one, calloused and warm—and not his metal one. That’s on purpose.

He follows you without a word, boots silent on concrete. You don’t need to look back to know he’s watching you. You always know when he’s watching.

Your room’s a concrete box. No windows, no comforts. Just a cot, a gray blanket, a single lamp. But it’s private. It’s yours. And he’s never been here before.

You close the door behind you, fingers slipping the lock into place.

“C’mere,” you whisper, and he does.

He’s quiet, always quiet. That’s how they trained him. But he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole damned place. Like your hands are the only ones he trusts not to hurt him. You pull him close, let your forehead rest against his chest. The cool metal of his arm touches your back as he hesitates—then wraps it around you.

He doesn’t know how to ask. But he wants this.

So you climb onto the cot, pull him down with you. No words, just breathing. The way his nose presses into your neck. The way his body curls toward yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You pet his hair. His breathing slows. You feel the tension drain from his body, even if only a little. You fall asleep like that—his arms around your waist, your hand over his heart.

But sometime in the dark, you feel it.

A slow press of his hips against your ass. The warm breath hitching against your neck. His hand twitching on your belly, the tremble of restraint in his thighs.

You shift, just slightly. You feel the outline of him—hard. Needy.

You whisper into the dark quiet of the room: “Soldat.”

He flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong. But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t deny it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbles, voice rough and ruined with shame. “I— I didn’t mean—”

“Hey,” you say softly, reaching back to touch his thigh, grounding him. “It’s okay.”

He goes still. Like he’s waiting to be punished.

You turn over in the narrow bed, face to face now. You tuck his hair behind his ear. “You want help, soldier?”

His eyes widened—blue and glassy and desperate.

“You sure?” you ask, your fingers brushing down his bare torso, over the soft ridges of his abs. “We don’t have to if—”

“Yes,” he breathes out, like it’s been torn from him. “Please. I don’t… I’ve never…”

That makes your heart ache. But it also makes heat twist low in your belly.

“Let me take care of you, then.”

You kiss him first. He doesn’t expect it, but melts into it like he’s starved for it. Like he doesn’t even know how to kiss back but he’s trying so hard it hurts. His metal hand grips the edge of the bed; his flesh one grabs your hip like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

You straddle him slowly. He’s shirtless, boxers straining against his hard length. His breath shudders when you grind down, rubbing against him through the fabric.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut. “It feels… s’good. Don’t stop.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, dragging your lips down his jaw. “Just let me.”

He nods, breathing hard. He’s so worked up already, hips twitching under you.

You take your time. Slide your fingers beneath his waistband, and he gasps when you wrap your hand around him. He’s hot, flushed, leaking already. You stroke him slowly, watching him fall apart.

His head tips back against the pillow. His thighs tremble. He whimpers when you twist your wrist just right.

“You like that?” you ask, voice dark and honey-sweet.

“Y-yeah. Shit. Don’t stop—please.”

You press kisses to his chest, his neck, then whisper against his ear, “You wanna come like this? Or inside me?”

He chokes on air, like his brain short-circuits.

“I—inside,” he groans, eyes pleading. “Please.”

You slip your shorts off. Tug his boxers down. You don’t tease. You just line yourself up, wet and ready, and sink onto him slow. He shudders beneath you, fingers digging into your hips.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, brow furrowed, chest heaving. “You feel—god, you feel so warm, so tight—I can’t—”

“Shhh,” you murmur, rocking gently. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He whines at the praise. Whines.

You ride him slow, deep, keeping your forehead pressed to his, your hands in his hair. Every thrust makes him gasp. Every grind makes him moan, softer than you thought a killer like him could.

You rub your clit, and he watches, eyes glassy and wide like it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever seen.

When you tighten around him, he loses it.

His whole body locks up, and he spills into you with a broken cry, hips bucking helplessly. You don’t stop. You work yourself over him until you come too, clenching tight around him, panting into his mouth.

You collapse on top of him. He wraps both arms around you—flesh and metal—and for the first time, he doesn’t look like the Winter Soldier.

He just looks like a man who’s finally been given something he didn’t have to earn.

The room is quiet again.

You’re both breathing hard, chests pressed together. His skin is slick with sweat, still flushed from the high. But his hands haven’t moved—still holding you like he’s afraid to let go, like the second he does you’ll be taken from him.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice hoarse against your neck.

You shake your head slowly, nuzzling into him. “No.You were perfect.”

He lets out a breath, shaky and full of disbelief. You reach up and brush his hair back, gentle fingers gliding over his cheek. You don’t need to say anything else. You don’t need to tell him how good he was, or how beautiful he looked begging under you. He’s still figuring out how to believe those things. But you’ll show him. Again and again, if that’s what it takes.

You shift off of him gently, and he lets you go, reluctantly. You feel him twitch at the loss of contact.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over both your bodies. “I’m not going far.”

He blinks up at you, eyes glassy in the dim light. “Can I… hold you?”

“Of course you can.” You curl into him, tangle your legs with his, tuck your head beneath his chin. His arms tighten around you immediately—strong and possessive and scared.

You kiss his collarbone. His breath hitches again.

Neither of you says anything for a while. You just lay there, wrapped around each other. Listening to the hum of the base outside the door, far away from this little world you’ve built.

Eventually, his voice breaks the silence, soft and so vulnerable you almost don’t recognize it.

“I didn’t think it could be like that,” he murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Like it meant something. Like I got to feel good. Like… you wanted me.”

You tilt your head up and meet his eyes. “I do want you. Not just this.” You brush your fingers over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm. “All of you. Even the parts they tried to erase.”

He closes his eyes. A tear escapes down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it away. You do it for him.

“I don’t want this to be the last time,” he says.

You rest your forehead to his. “It won’t be.”

“You’ll stay?”

You nod. “As long as you’ll have me.”

That does something to him. His jaw trembles. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs you tighter into his chest and buries his face in your hair.

Eventually, his breathing slows again. You feel his body finally begin to relax beneath you. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he trusts you won’t leave.

You fall asleep like that, curled around each other in a narrow cot in a concrete room under Hydra’s nose. But none of that matters. Not now. Not here.

For once, he isn’t a weapon.

And for once, you both believe—just a little—that maybe this, whatever this is between you, could be real. That maybe you’ll find freedom not just from Hydra, but from the cold, lonely lives they built for you.

Together.

You spotted the scuffle down in the alley, five or six of the trained assassin’s sent by Ra’s were failing. Blood spurting under blades and soft groans of pain filling the silent night. You sighed, “So much for experienced assassins.”

As the last black-clad fighter fell to his knees you jumped. Landing on silent feet behind the caped crusader you brought out your sword. A beautiful thing, really. Layers upon layers of hand-forged steel weaving into a fine Damascus, the silk Ito dressed the sword creating diamonds along the handle. Your katana. A gift from him. Not that he’d recognise it now.

No one else would’ve heard you land. Your feet soft as snow when it falls to the ground, particle by particle…except to him. Your teacher, your peer…your best friend. Ex-best friend.

Enemy.

He bristled, muscles tightening but he didn’t turn toward you. Right…he doesn’t know who you are. Good, it’s been too long anyways. He wouldn’t remember.

Silently, you stalked him as a leopard stalks her prey, sword glinting in the moonlight.

You moved swiftly, blade coming down in a cascade. Blocked by his. Steel against steel. Sparks flying from each hit. Just as before…only a few differences.

Then a mistake. A kick, taught by him. It was unique, and he knew it. He stopped, chest heaving and sword held up, on guard. “Who are you?” You didn’t reply, instead striking harder, aiming for more vulnerable places on his body. “You…how did you know…where did you learn that kick?”

Damnit. At least he doesn’t know who I am yet.

“I know you” He threatened, voice hot and hissing. You stilled, glaring at him through the slits in your mask.

Two statues on a rooftop, warrior’s statues with blades raised as taught. He blinked, eyes glowing in recognition.

“(Y/n)” he breathed finally, shoulders relaxing a tad. “Prince.” you spoke. A whisper so harsh it could’ve shattered his sword.

“What are you doing here? Why are you fighting me?” He demanded, fury on his tongue yet his eyes were gentle and soft. “Orders” Your sharp response was rewarded with a “tt” from him.

Sword forgotten in his hilt, he approached carefully. A shepherd approaching a lamb so as not to scare it. You faltered as his blade vanished, confused. “What are you doing?” You hissed. “Face me with your blade or I’ll kill you where you stand”

His hands outstretched, palms to the sky. “I won’t fight you (Y/n). I know who you are. Come back to me.”

“Funny. You never came back to me.” You spat, the words poison on your tongue. He froze, eyes closing with guilt. “I know.”

“You forgot me. Forgot what they put us through. Everyday the same: wake, eat, train, sleep. And then I had to do it all alone. Without you.” You hissed the last two words, they hurt the most.

“I didn’t. I thought of you everyday.”

“Well you didn’t think hard enough to come back did you? Enough chatter. Fight me Damian.”

“No. Come with me now. I’m sorry I left you there… Father wouldn’t have allowed me back. But you can come now… please.”

“Your Father won’t be very impressed.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll make him see.”

Your heart stuttered… was he offering what you thought he was? A life… away from the shadows and guilt, from blood stained hands and echoing screams. Too good to be true. But it was him. Damian Al Ghul never lies…

“Come with me. I can give you what you’ve wanted since we were young. Freedom, choice. Home and not just a house.”

Your forced loyalty to the Demon Head bristled. Seems like he still knew you.

A small nod made its way through your body, blade slowly moving back to its hilt. Damian moved closer, a breath of relief left his lips. “Come. Follow.”

He jumped from rooftop to rooftop, cape fluttering behind him and a few seconds later so did you.

The cave was cold, condensation causing droplets to fall from the stalactites. His gaze wasn’t cold per se…no Bruce looked at you like an object. Eyes scrutinised how useful you’d be, how reckless, how dangerous.

“Fine. But she’s to stay in the manor at all times until further notice.” “Fine father” Damian muttered back, sensing you were about to fight against Bruce’s conditions.

“So much for freedom and choice.” “It’s only temporary. You can leave with an escort…” “That wasn’t mentioned” He didn’t answer, only dragged you to the kitchen where Alfred had set up Damian’s usual snack after patrol.

“Eat.” You stood in the doorframe. Food had never been comfort. Never been given freely. It was a necessity, a reward. And yet, a simple command, eat.

So you sat, back stiff as a board and watched as Damian ate. He was obviously hungry, obviously used to this treatment. You didn’t eat until he slid a plate of food in front of you seeing as you wouldn’t grab any yourself. Slowly, as if scared someone would snatch it away as soon as you touched the food, you ate. Alfred watched from the sidelines, a small smile appearing discretely at Damian’s unusual kindness.

The next few days, you’d met Tim. He was absent most of the time. In his room, in his mind. You didn’t mind. Jason was louder… crude, called you Damian’s girlfriend and stopped only once you’d taken out your katana. Dick was interesting. He’d hugged Damian as he saw him though the latter boy stayed stiff other than a hand patting Dick’s back. He’d attempted to hug you too but backed away once you’d kicked his knee. Bruce let you be mostly, calling you down to the cave every once in a while to see you fight against his training bots. You always won.

Things were becoming normal. Except Damian was becoming stranger.

His hand lingering in yours once you’d pulled him off the training mat after defeating him. You ignored his brother’s gaping at that feat. His eyes found yours everyday after school. It was treacherous, you knew everything they attempted to teach. His body leaned closer when you spoke and he always seemed to move closer and closer with each passing day.

It was quite simple to Dick, Jason and Tim. Damian Wayne had a crush. On an assassin he rescued, no less. And the Damian Wayne was too shy to do anything about it.

***

"Enough with the Thomas the train shit," Tangerine groans to Lemon as the bullet train finally leaves the station. "I don't give a flying fuck if you think I'm a Thomas or Diesel or whatever."

"Well, first of all," Lemon interjects, lifting a finger, "it's Thomas the Tank Engine. And second of all, I never said you were a Diesel. I made that very cle-"

Tangerine stops listening when he notices your figure pass them down the aisle, your gait tantalizingly familiar. 

What the fuck are you doing here? he thinks before standing up abruptly.

"Lemon, hold that thought."

Tangerine grabs the briefcase and slowly follows you down the aisle, making sure to keep a safe distance so as not to alert you of his presence. He's skirting around the other passengers trying to put their luggage away, and he's about to catch up with you when a person in a large Momomon costume steps in front of him.

"Get the fuck out of my way," he grunts irritatedly, shoving the figure into one of the seats, before noticing all the children around him. "Apologies for my language."

He leaves them with a small wave, but it's only then that he notices you are missing.

"Fuck!" Tangerine exclaims again, kicking the seat next to him. He doesn't waste any more time and rushes down the aisle, waiting as the sliding doors take their time to open in front of him.

When the door finally slides open, he steps into the corridor, only to feel a lithe hand grab the back of his neck and push him forward. He spins around, but is pushed to the floor before he can register what is happening.

The next thing he knows, he is kneeling on the ground, looking up at you, as you press a small gun to his temple.

When did you start using guns?

Tangerine immediately puts his hands up, knowing the only way to diffuse this is to play to your soft side (okay, softer side).

"Hey, hey," he urges you in a charming tone, "I just wanted to talk, sweetheart."

"Yeah?" you challenge, pressing the cold metal harder against his head. "Let's hear it then."

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the soft curls back from his face. "It's been too long, doll. I wanted to catch up, see how you've been."

He can't imagine that any of this is working on you, but he has to try if he's going to finish this mission in one piece.

You smirk, finally taking in Tangerine's kneeling form before you. If your employer had told you that this mission would involve beautiful men on their knees, you would have signed up ages ago.

You met Tangerine six years ago at a job that ended up going completely awry...for him at least. The White Death had sent you to Japan to kidnap the son of one of the remaining Japanese crime families, and when you arrived, Tangerine and Lemon had already been walking him out the front door. They were nothing if not punctual, but back then, that was about the only thing they were good for.

Your weapon of choice had always been tranquilizer darts -- but you never said no to good ol' hand-to-hand combat -- and your lack of real weaponry eventually become a calling card of sorts. Especially because you always made it out alive, and with the job completed to perfection.

That day, Tangerine and Lemon clearly hadn't been expecting anyone, because upon spotting you, they didn't even bother to blink. You had played into their naive mindset and when you got close enough to grab the kid, they were each left with a tranq dart to the neck and a nice, long nap to recover from the shame of losing their asset.

Since then, you have been on opposite sides of many more missions, but the retrieval of this briefcase is the closest encounter you two have had in years.

In your reverie, your gun loosens in your hand and Tangerine must have noticed, because he shoots up, pushing your hand to the side and yanking his gun from his waistband. You aim your weapon at him again, and you are both left pointing your guns at each other, your grip tightening as your heart rate quickens slightly.

"Alright, darling, give me one good reason not to kill you right now?" he threatens, his jaw tightening by a fraction. "You fucked up our entire operation in Bolivia when you knocked out Lemon and got the White Death's men out before we could kill them all."

"Oh, honey, I've done much more than that," you smile, cocking your head to the side. If this was the game he wanted to play, then you would play along, but only as long as he kept it interesting.

"And as for why you shouldn't kill me," you continue, your eyes glinting with amusement. "It's because you need me."

Then, before he can react, you whack the side of his head with your gun and grab the briefcase from his hands. He grunts, clutching his temple, and you use the moment of distraction to dart out of the corridor and down the train cars, sprinting past the passengers and the angry ticket collector.

When you reach the bar compartment, you pull open a random cabinet and stuff the briefcase in a garbage can. It's not a moment too soon, because a second later, Tangerine bursts through the doors, his chest heaving and expression getting more agitated by the minute.

Reaching down, you grab a cocktail shaker and pour in the ingredients laid out on the counter, preparing a drink for yourselves. 

"Where the hell is it?" he demands, stalking towards you.

You shrug, fighting the curve of your lips. "You'll get it when I've gotten what I need from you."

Your gun is sitting idly on the counter, so he tucks his own into his waistband and shrugs off his suit jacket, tossing it to the side. He starts to roll back his sleeves and you lick your lips as you shake the cocktail.

If nothing else went right on this mission, at least you'd be getting some eye candy for the evening.

Along with all of the times you've screwed up his missions, there have also been a multitude of other close encounters. Whether it was his hand around your throat as you stole his asset right from under him, or his breath against your neck as he snuck up behind you during a stake-out, his presence always entranced you.

Tangerine's seemingly magnetic hold on you has never escaped your notice, but it has also never gotten in the way of you finishing your jobs. 

He sees the glint in your eyes, but doesn't say anything, deciding to use it to his advantage.

"Come on, sweetheart," he smiles sweetly, placing his rough hands on the counter in front of you. "Where is the briefcase?"

"Why do you need the case anyway?" you ask him, your eyes imploring his with something akin to genuine curiosity.

"It's the ransom money for the Son of the White Death," he responds honestly, watching your movements carefully as you grab glasses from below the counter.

You seem to ponder this. "Intriguing. On a separate note, how is Lemon these days? I heard they're calling you two the fruit twins now."

Tangerine rolls his eyes, his hands slamming down on the counter as he loses his patience. "He's fucking fantastic. Now where is the case, y/n?"

You don't respond, and instead pour out two drinks before sliding one towards him.

He doesn't bring his lips to the glass until you gulp down your whole drink and even then, he only takes a few sips.

He sees you watch his throat bob and he feels an unfamiliar pleasure at the thought of you finding him attractive.

"Look, Tangerine," you say with a resigned sigh, "I'm not working for the White Death anymore, but I still would like that briefcase. You know, for leverage."

He's not sure how to respond but then you start unbuttoning your blouse and, even after that drink, he feels his mouth go dry. His mind goes blank and he can't formulate any thoughts as your long, smooth neck becomes visible. Only when the first few buttons pop open does he realize that you're showing him your bullet proof vest.

Running a hand down your padded chest, you shoot him an amused look. "In case you try anything stupid." You pause, your hand sliding down your thigh. "Besides, if I remember correctly, you never liked these anyway, did you?"

This time, he anticipates your movements, and when a knife goes flying out of your hand, straight towards his chest, he manages to dodge at the last second, watching as it sinks into the hard back wall of the compartment.

When he turns back around, you're gone.

***

That was a lot closer than you would have liked, and you slink down the train cars, gripping the handle of the briefcase between your fingers. 

It feels like everyone's eyes are on you as you walk down the aisle, slipping past the economy cars. When you reach the first class car, you stash the briefcase in the luggage compartment and are about to wait for the next stop to arrive when a man in a white suit takes a seat across from you.

"Can I help yo-" you begin before he cuts you off.

"You will pay for what you did to my family."

"Listen man, I don't know who you are," you try to tell him, but he pulls a massive knife from his belt and you know you can't just sit here any longer.

Swinging your legs out of the seat, you shove him away and grab the laptop of a sleeping woman a few seats over. Using it as a shield, you block a few of his jabs and slices before his knife finally starts to pierce through the metal and glass. 

Chucking the laptop at him, you run in the opposite direction, back towards the briefcase, but he's right on your tail.

You push your way into the corridor, but the man grabs you from behind, shoving you forward and slicing down with his knife. The edge grazes your bicep and you wince, but right before you can brace yourself for the next swing, a gunshot rings out from behind you and the man falls to the floor, a shocked look plastered on his face as the life leaves his eyes. 

You immediately jerk your head back to see who your savior is, and you admit that you're surprised to see Tangerine lowering his gun. 

"Thanks," you gasp out, not wanting to waste another moment. He's tucking his pistol away when you reach towards the luggage to grab the case, but he sees your intentions and acts quickly.

His corded bicep locks around your neck from behind, pulling you back with an extraordinary strength that has you flying off the ground.

You gasp, struggling to breathe, but then you manage to lift your legs and kick out at the wall, pushing the both of you back. His grip loosens slightly, but it's just enough for you to spin around, sending him a kick to the shin that makes him grunt.

Tangerine strikes out at you, his fist narrowly missing your jaw, and you knee him in the groan, making him double over in pain for a few moments.

 "That was low," he groans, his face turning red, "even for you, doll."

You chuckle, backing up. "It's a man's world, Tan."

Nevertheless, he's stronger than you remember and he recovers quickly, locking his forearm against your neck and pushing you back into the bathroom. You press up against the wall, facing him, and you can't help the smirk that reappears on your lips.

Well, this is certainly interesting.

"You're better," you huff, your voice straining from the weight of his arm, "than Bolivia, I mean."

You dig your fingers into his hard muscles, trying to pry him off. "You two were absolutely miserable back then, but you've got some chops now."

Tangerine smirks, leaning forward so his breath tickles your nose. "You haven't seen the half of it, darling."

Your eyes dart down to his mouth for a split second, but he's just as fast and he notices your hitched breath. His eyes darken immediately, and before you can utter a word, his mouth is on yours.

His arm lets you go and his large hands grasp at your waist as you press into him, clinging to his body for support in the small bathroom.

His calloused fingers on your skin send a shot of heat down to your core and you bite his lip harshly. He pulls back for a moment, his eyes wide with surprise and lust, and you notice the drop of blood a second before he wipes it away.

Your lips crash together again and he doesn't take his time while grabbing your loosely hanging hair and tugging back, exposing your neck to him. Tangerine licks a line up the column of your throat and your fingers split open his vest and button-down in one go, sending the buttons flying to the floor.

You gasp when he tears off the velcro of your bullet proof best, chucking it to the floor, before kicking the bathroom door closed with a loud click.

Thankfully, your skirt provides him easy access, and he doesn't hesitate before yanking your panties to the side and sticking a thick finger into your pussy. You cry out, your head falling back against the small mirror as he hoists you up onto the sink.

He doesn't warn you before adding another finger, his quick pumps hitting the walls of your cunt with a harsh precision that has you getting close embarrassingly fast.

"Look at you," he smirks, watching your eyes roll back, "whimpering like a school girl from just my fingers."

You are about to finish, and he must feel the tightening of your core, because he pulls away, leaving you impatient and unsatisfied.

"Bastard," you groan as he chuckles, bringing his fingers up to your lips.

You suck them into your mouth, and he almost moans at the feeling of your hot tongue around him. When they're clean, he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a pop and reaches down to undo his buckle. 

Tangerine pushes his trousers down to his knees and angles you back before sheathing himself fully inside of you in one movement. 

He groans from the wet heat of your cunt and the tightness of you squeezing around him has him gripping the counter for support. He doesn't wait before thrusting up into you at the pace of a bullet train, his rhythm never faltering even as your head falls back in pleasure.

Tangerine leans down and sucks a bruise into your neck, enjoying the way the purple and red blossom against your skin in a delicious mark. 

You start to tighten around him and he knows his release is imminent, so he lifts you up off his cock and turns you around so your elbows are on the counter. He starts to fuck you from behind, one hand on your waist while the other grips the back of your neck, holding you to him.

You arch your back, changing the angle in a way that has both of you moaning with pleasure. You come apart a moment later, and he follows close behind, relishing the sound of your whimpering as his body slowly relaxes.

He pulls away from you, grabbing a paper towel to clean you both up, when he hears a light hiss from the ceiling.

He looks up to see a thin green snake slithering down from the vent, its teeth bared and ready. Both of you shriek as the snake shoots down toward Tangerine. He smacks it away and into the toilet, but not before it takes a sharp bite out of his shoulder.

His vision starts to blur and you grab his arms, leaning him back against the counter before you move to open the door.

"Please tell me you spiked those drinks from earlier with the antidote," he groans, his face growing hotter as the venom spreads through his system.