#winged reader au

Damian hums. He uses a pair of surgical scissors to cut off the sleeve of your robe to further expose the injury in your shoulder, and you let him do it without fuss. He grabs a wet cloth to clean the blood away and see it all better.

"Why did they capture you in the first place?"

You frown. Your wings, which are currently tucked against your back, flex and flutter briefly. You resist the urge to pluck at your feathers.

"They hunted me down," you explain, "and took me from my home. Said they needed me for what I can do."

Damian picks up a needle and thread to begin sewing the cut closed. You don't object when he warns you of what he's about to do or flinch when he starts.

"And what can you do?" He asks.

You don't respond. Damian sees your jaw clench, eyes darting towards where you know one of the exits to be.

"Alright," he says, "that's fair. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

"You are not angry with me?" You ask.

"No. We're practically strangers," he says, tying off the stitchwork and snipping off the excess thread. He grabs a roll of bandages to cover it, and you hold your arm out to give him better access. "Telling me what abilities you possess might lead to exploitation on your part. The safest move is to keep sensitive information close to your chest. I don't even know your name. I'm not angry, I'm impressed."

"Impressed indeed."

Both you and Damian look in the direction of the medical bay's entrance and find Bruce at the door, geared up in his Batman suit. To his credit, he doesn't look as mad as the boy expected.

"I'll need a word with you when you're finished, Robin."

"Of course," Damian replies. He secures your bandage and pulls away. You drop your arm. "Will you be alright alone for a few minutes?"

"I will."

Damian excuses himself, closing the door to the bay and facing his father.

"You're going to tell me off for compromising the cave, and potentially our identities," he says immediately, "and that's fair. However, I informed Red Robin ahead of time so he could hide any documentation, and the Batmobile took a scrambled route here, so they have no way of being able to track the location of the cave once they leave it. They know nothing, and they've seen nothing that can implicate any of us."

"That's not what I'm concerned about," Bruce says. "I'm wondering why you've brought them to begin with. The victims we help in the field don't come back to the cave, ever. That's the part of the protocol I need to know why you broke."

"They're a metahuman, father," Damian says, "and all of Gotham knows your rule. Where else was I supposed to bring a wounded trafficking victim if a human hospital would've turned them away the second they spotted huge wings and golden blood?"

"To the metahuman outpost on the edge of the city limits—"

"— which was being scouted and surrounded by Luthor's henchmen at the time of retrieval."

Bruce purses his lips. "You could have radioed a Leaguer to take them somewhere else."

"It's three-thirty in the morning. Half of them are asleep and won't wake up for a non-emergency summons, and the rest are either off-world, can't get here for immediate extraction, or they're busy protecting their own sectors." Damian crosses his arms and scowls at his dad. "I'm not one of your brainless coworkers incapable of any critical thought. I'm your Robin, and I know what I'm doing. This was the safest and most logical action to take for now."

Bruce sighs. He rests a palm on his hip and nods begrudgingly.

"I understand your reasoning," he says. "In the future, I'm going to update our metahuman contingencies to account for lack of recovery points. For now, you're in charge of keeping an eye on them until morning. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

"Good." Bruce turns away and heads for a different section of the cave. "I'll contact Superman and try to coordinate a retrieval. If he's indisposed, someone will take your place and keep watch until we can safely get them to the outpost."

Damian doesn't reply. He watches him disappear down the corridor, then reenters the medbay to find you missing from your chair.

"...hello?" He frowns, glancing around. There's only one way in and out of there, so he's not sure how you vanished. "Are you hiding?"

"No," you say. Damian looks up to find you perched on the edge of the fluorescent lighting. He has to squint to see you properly.

Your wings are out, flexing and adjusting to help you keep your balance on the light fixture. You look down at Damian with a small smile.

"I can hear many winged creatures in the adjacent rooms. There are none in here, though. I looked."

"Bats," Damian clarifies for you. "They're not allowed in this section because it has to stay well-sanitized. Bats have a tendency to carry disease."

"Is that why the bat-man could not speak with you in here?" You ask. Damian almost snorts.

"No, he's a human. He just dresses like...it's...it makes sense," Damian says, somehow embarrassed by your innocent curiosity. "His moniker is Batman. He's not a real bat. Just like my moniker is Robin, but I'm not a real bird."

You tip your body over until you fall from the light. Damian instinctively extends his arms to catch you, alarmed, but your wings flare out to their full length and help you coast gently to the floor again.

"May I go see them?" You ask. "The real bats?"

"If you promise not to touch them, yes."

You pout, bottom lip jutting out slightly, but don't argue. Damian automatically thinks back on how plush your lips felt against his and looks away.

"Do you have any other injuries that need treated before we leave this room?" He asks.

"I do not," you reply, reaching for the buttons on the front of your robe, popping them open one by one. "If you must examine me..."

Damian physically turns his whole body away from you, wishing his domino mask covered more than just his eyes so he could hide the redness of his cheeks. "No I don't! That's fine, you can keep your clothes on!"

You tilt your head, but don't ask about his flustered behavior. Instead, you reach past him for the door and turn the knob, stepping into the corridor.

"Don't leave the cave," Damian says, walking after you. "It's imperative that you stay here. You're not a prisoner, but this is the safest move for you right now."

"I will not leave," you promise. You look upward as you go, scanning for signs of any bats hanging out on the ceiling. When you find a cluster of them, you spread your wings again.

Hesitating, you glance at Damian over your shoulder.

"Project Angel," you tell him. "That is what they called me, in the laboratory. It's not my real name. You may use the... moniker of Angel."

Damian watches you push off of the ground, soaring into the air with a dizzying speed to admire the animals up above.

Every day there seems to be a new accident, a new life to save, a new vacation to put off until later when you’re not needed, a new ‘I’ll take it easy today’ only to get home well after the sun sets and wake before there’s a light in the sky. You understand that aerial-quirk heroes are in high demand, but the amount of work you’re expected to accomplish is downright unreasonable. Fifteen hour work days, seven days a week?

And the commission has the audacity to wonder why you’ve gotten slow.

Such circumstances are why you made the bold decision to quit your job at your current agency, pick up everything you knew, and move overseas to Japan. With other popular winged heroes established there, you might begin to feel your workload lessen and the joy in your life return. Plus, you’ve never been to Japan, and you’ve heard it’s pretty this time of year.

Which leads you to where you are currently, standing in a small ice cream shop, trying to decide what flavour to order.

You eventually pick one, opting for something sweet instead of savoury (you didn’t even know savoury ice cream existed), and, with your treat in hand, you wander outside. The little shop almost looks out of place nestled amongst the high-rises, but then, that’s probably what drew you to it.

That, and they seem to have really good ice cream.

You begin walking down the street, your original purpose for being out and about coming back to the forefront of your mind. You don’t start work at your new agency for a couple of days, but you figured it would be wise to get familiar with the area. You never knew if you had to give a lost patron some directions.

Then, just as you’re beginning to enjoy the sun on your face and the breeze in your feathers, an explosion goes off down the street. People scream and run in every direction to escape the blast, and you watch, and hope, and pray, that another pro arrives on the scene. You’re so tired.

A man cries out, drawing your attention, and you watch as his young daughter is snatched from his arms and carried off into the sky by a villain.

So, so tired.

The villain flaps his wings hard, dark flesh menacing against the bright blue of the sky.

Tired.

You wonder if the soft flesh of his wings was damaged in the explosion. He seems to be struggling, even though the little girl is already screaming and wriggling uncontrollably in his arms.

He shouts something at her, but you don’t hear what it is. Probably some kind of threat.

…

And then he drops her, from three hundred feet up.

You drop your ice cream and take off into the sky, wondering why it was so impossible for you to have just one calm day.

You catch the girl easily, though she writhes a little bit until she realizes you’re there to help, and return her to the ground. The villain is a short ways away now, and you would bet your left arm that you could catch him if you tried, but the fact is that you don’t have to.

With the excuse of keeping the little girl safe, you let the bastard get away, secretly hoping karma catches up to him and he runs into a building.

At the very least, the child’s father seems grateful, taking her into his arms and holding her close. He doesn’t say much to you beyond some blubbered thank yous, but you don’t mind. You’re long desensitized to the traumas of hero work, but the average citizen isn’t. You know he’s relieved, and that’s all you need.

You walk away from the scene then, now that other pros have arrived to help with the damage, pausing for a moment to stare at your ice cream that’s melting on the sidewalk.

So. Fucking. Tired.

----

You decide to spend the rest of the day in your shitty apartment, where the space was barely wide enough to stretch your wings out but the need for a hero was slim. The place had been a bit of an impulse ‘buy’ (you rented the space, in actuality), much like your entire move to Japan had been. A desperate attempt at change, for the sake of your own wellbeing.

But if you were a magnet, disaster would be a sheet of steel.

Your phone rings on the table beside you, cheery tune mocking your sour mood. You briefly entertain the idea of letting it go to voicemail, not having the wherewithal to deal with anything social at the moment, but the call display dissuades you.

“Hello, Y/N speaking,” you answer, putting on a light tone for your new agency. You don’t want to give them any kind of reason to regret hiring you, even if it meant putting on a farce for a few minutes.

“Good evening, Miss Y/N,” the person on the other end says, “I’m calling to inform you that your contract with us has been terminated-”

Fuck.

“-at the request of the Heroes’ Commission.”

Seriously. Fuck.

“Earlier this afternoon, we received a call regarding a transfer to the agency run by Hawks, and the request of the man himself. Seeing your history, we decided it would be best if we didn’t hinder you in achieving your full potential.”

Right, and the sum of money they probably received had nothing to do with it. You knew how these things worked.

You bite your tongue.

“We appreciate you considering us when you applied for jobs in Japan, and we wish you the best of luck in your new position.”

You hang up.

Of course the damn Commission would still have a say in what you do with your life. They’d work you to death if you ever gave them the chance, but it seemed trying to take that chance from them was near impossible.

“Why did I decide on this career,” you ask, of no one in particular, letting your misery seep back into every crevice of your mind.

You’re so irritated that you nearly throw your phone across the room when it lights up with a text.

‘I look forward to meeting you. Gonna be cool to work with another bird.

-Hawks’

"Red Robin," Damian mutters into his comm, "there's been no activity for three hours. I'm about to declare this endeavor a wasted one and return to base."

"Copy," Tim says in his ear. "There's no spooky stuff happening on the computer, either. Give it ten more minutes and then come back."

"Understood." Damian shifts on his perch — an unsurveilled roof of a tailoring shop — and casts his gaze along the area for the thousandth time that night.

Cold, choppy waters, devoid of any suspicious activity. Dock workers walking around and doing their jobs as they chatter and whistle amongst each other, devoid of any suspicious activity. The cargo ship that docked an hour ago, devoid of any suspicious —

Well. It wasn't suspicious until he realized that the distant ringing he's heard all night wasn't interference from the dinky, little radio one of the workers has been using to blast old, jazzy tunes, but a shrill crying noise coming from the ship. A normal person wouldn't even be able to detect it, but years of training with the League taught Damian to filter and identify any and all noises he picks up automatically.

"Red Robin. I've identified a potential trafficking situation. Stand by."

"Copy. Standing by," Tim says. "Ready to dispatch EMTs on your word and receive that fifty bucks when you get back."

"Yeah, yeah," he grunts, grappling down the building and taking cover in the shadows, maneuvering his way around the harbor men and onto the ship without a sound.

The closer he gets, the louder the crying becomes. He can tell it's just one person making the sound, and that they seem to be locked in one of the titanium crates on the back of the ship. It's child's play to locate the right one and pop the lock open with the small hand laser from his tool bag.

The second it's gone the lid flies open, and Damian gets knocked down by someone he can only describe as ethereal.

You are a collection of stand-out features. Glowing, bright eyes. A wild mane of hair. Well-tailored, form fitting robes. And a huge, breathtaking pair of white wings, that unfurl from your back and shake out into their full width with barely a whisper of sound.

You're bleeding, Damian realizes belatedly. You're bleeding gold. It drips from a wound in your shoulder, running down the sleeve of your robe and soaking the fabric. Small beads trail down your fingertips and stain his chest where you're using your weight to pin him to the ground.

"Whoa," he mutters, because that's the only thing in his mind. Just. Whoa.

You furrow your brow and glare at him, muttering something in a dialect he doesn't understand. The confusion on his face must be evident, because you quickly become frustrated.

"Ira neshmi le-hyr!" You demand, waving the wrist of your other hand in his face, which has a LexCorp-branded tracking bracelet on it. There are faint scratch marks around the skin where you obviously tried to pry the device off.

"Robin? What's the situation? Am I dispatching EMT?" Tim's voice sounds in his ear, startling Damian into taking full stock of the situation again. He blinks a few times, picking up on bootsteps approaching his location, your increasing franticness from where you're knelt above him, and the riskiness of what he's about to do.

"No EMTs," Damian says, reaching for the handheld laser again. He holds it up for you to see, then gestures to your wrist.

You hesitate for only a moment, then offer him your arm and watch him slice the bracelet off and pocket it. With a quick sleight of band, he presses a tracker of his own into the sleeve of your robes, then urges you to get off him.

"Bad people are coming," he says, gesturing to the shadows of figures he can see getting closer. "You should come with me. I can get you somewhere safe."

You stare at him like you don't understand what he's saying. He lets out a frustrated sigh. There's no time for this.

"Me. You. Come with me. That way." He gestures to you, then himself, then points in the direction of the Bat Cave with urgency.

Your eyes dart to where he points, then you nod. He's about to try to figure out how to pantomime you tucking your wings in so you can sneak around better, but you stride forward, wrap your arms around his waist, and use them to take off into the air. Damian clings to you and yelps, drawing the attention of the men on the ship. There's a cacophony of shouting down below that quickly grows faint the farther away you fly.

"The package is escaping!! Someone call the boss!"

"Do we shoot it down?"

"No, you idiot! We need it alive! We'll track it down —"

The rest of their words are lost to the wind. Damian holds onto you with white knuckles and refuses to look down. It's too dark and too smoggy in Gotham to look up at the stars, so the only other thing to observe is you.

If he thought you were stunning on the ground, you're something else in the air. The wind pushes your hair around and out of your face, revealing small markings around your cheeks and eyes. The light your wings catch makes them almost glitter with every beat as you propel the two of you onward. Briefly, you travel over a more illuminated section of the city, which make your eyes look like little constellations.

He's utterly captivated.

"Nirr'm? Luola stesh?" You try to ask him, directing your gaze to him. Damian has no idea how to answer a question he can't understand, so he just points to the ground.

You scan around for a secluded spot to land and gently coast to the ground, setting him down. Damian locks his knees to keep them from buckling and takes several slow, deep breaths.

"I can't understand you," he says after a moment. You furrow your brows again. "And based on your expression, it's vice-versa."

"Robin, come in!" Tim says in his ear, and, oh, he'd forgotten that he stopped responding for ten minutes. "I'm tracking your location and it says you're four miles away from the harbor? What's your status? Do I need to send Batman in for backup?"

"Negative, do not send backup. Don't send EMTs, either."

"You said there was a trafficking situation?"

"Yeah," Damian says, "metahuman trafficking. Don't send anyone until I can figure out how to communicate that they wouldn't be a threat."

"Communicate? What, they don't speak any of the thousand languages you know?"

Damian doesn't respond.

"Oh, shit. Okay. Standing by."

While he'd been talking to Tim, you had inched your way closer and closer to Damian. When he focuses on you again, he almost flinches back after finding you less than a foot away. You perk up when you notice him give you attention and lift your hands up, curling them around his shoulders.

"Um," he mutters, "what are you doing?"

"De-ad'nin," you say, leaning closer. Your eyes don't leave his. "Hmnik?"

"I don't...I can't understand you," he says again. You're waiting for him to do something, he can tell that much. He just doesn't know what you want.

You lean in even more, practically sharing breath. Damian can feel his cheeks warming, but curiosity overwhelms the impropriety, so he doesn't move away. You seem to take this as some sort of permission.

Closing the gap, you press your mouth to his, and Damian freezes.

Soft, he thinks. Your lips are soft. His hands twitch at his sides as he fights the urge to grab your waist, but you have no such reservations as you press yourself practically flush against him and prod at the seam of his mouth with your tongue. A frankly embarrassing whine leaves him, but Damian relents and starts kissing you back with the same level of enthusiasm you show him. Even though his gloves, he can tell that your hair is ridiculously soft as he runs his fingers through it. He's briefly lost in a flurry of sensations, overwhelmed by you, and just when blood starts redirecting itself to other places, you pull away again and clear your throat.

"You helped me," you murmur, slowly and steadily, like you're testing out the words as you say them. "You set me free. Thank you."

"...you're...welcome?" Damian pants, his mind still a little gooey. "Wait, that's English. You're — did you kiss me to learn English?"

"I did," you smile. "I needed to convey my gratitude in your common tongue. I hope I didn't offend you."

Offend was definitely not the word to use. He gently pulls his hands from your hair, but you make no move to separate, so he settles them on your waist instead.

"You're wounded," he says, tipping his head in the direction of your shoulder. The bleeding has slowed, but not stopped. "Let me take you somewhere to get that wrapped."

"Take me where?" You ask. "Not back to the laboratory?"

"No." He doesn't know what lab you're talking about, but he knows he would never willingly put you back in Luthor's hands. "A cave. It has a medical ward where you can have that cut stitched closed."

You seem to give it some thought, idly playing with the hair at the nape of Damian's neck. It takes so much more effort than he anticipates not to melt into it. Your bare skin against his almost burns. You're exceptionally warm, near-feverish.

"Yes," you eventually agree. "You are..." You tilt your head as you search for the right words to use. "Trustworthy. I will go with you there."

Damian relaxes. He presses a finger to his comm.

Bleeds gold

Physiologically a teen/young adult

Wingspan approx. 2x their height

White wings, full range of motion

Capable of long-distance flight

Limited world knowledge (didn't know the word for bat)

Learns languages via salivic exchange

Kidnapped from home (unknown location)

Real name unknown

Date of birth unknown

Species - winged metahuman

Dubbed "Project Angel" by Le—

Damian is about to finish writing, but the notepad gets snatched out of his hand by his older brother Jason.

"Whuh'ssits?" He mumbles around a mouthful of burrito, holding his snack in one hand and the pad in the other, high above Damian's head.

"Red Hood!" The boy snaps, irritated and embarrassed. He jumps for the pad but it's too far, and elects to start climbing his brother like a jungle gym. "Give me that! I'm making important observations about my ward!"

"Ward?" He smirks, after swallowing. "What ward? Looks like you're cooking up another OC to draw."

Damian's cheeks flush a brilliant red. The domino mask barely conceals his embarrassed, wide gaze. Even if he was doing that, which he wasn't, it never hurts to plan out his concepts before following through!!

"Look up, genius! And go put on something to cover your stupid face!"

"Am I a genius or stupid?" Jason asks, shaking him off. "Are you gettin' shy on me? You love showin' off your art when it's done, what's the problem —"

The pad gets ripped from his hands and Jason goes flying when a powerful gust of wind knocks him backwards. You land protectively in front of Damian, with your wings fully extended to make yourself look bigger, and bare your teeth. Distantly, he notes that you have pointed canines.

"Are you injured?" You ask Damian.

"No," he says, lifting a hand as if to place it on your back. He hesitates, unwilling to hurt or disturb your wings, and drops it again. "Stand down. That man is my brother, not a threat."

"Brother..." you mutter, frowning.

"Kin," Damian tries, which you seem to understand. "Hood, are you injured?"

"Am I in— I just got blown across the fucking room!" Jason snaps. When he sits up, he's got the red, half-mask on that covers him from nose to jaw, and he's aiming a gun at you. The severity of his appearance is significantly dulled by the burrito innards splattered all over the front of his hoodie.

"Who are you."

"This is your kin?" You ask, dubious. "He is aiming a weapon at us, from which you could be harmed. That's normal?"

Damian's mouth forms a thin line. There isn't time to cover the family's overcomplicated dynamics right this second, so he just kind of shrugs and nods.

"Mostly, yes," he admits. "Let me by."

You fold one of your wings against your back so Damian can step past you, then re-extend it and continue glaring at Jason. Jason glares right back, finger hovering over the trigger.

"Put the gun down. I rescued them on my patrol tonight." Damian steps right in front of the pistol. Jason eases his finger off immediately, but doesn't lower it. "Batman has tasked me with keeping them safe until they can be relocated in the morning. They're not a threat."

"Tell that to my busted back," Jason grunts, but he does eventually concede to putting his weapon down, and climbs to his feet. "Jesus, my favorite fucking hoodie is wrecked. If I can't get these stains out, you owe me a new one, Winx Club!"

"That's not my name," you scowl, feathers ruffling. The rippling effect it has is mesmerizing.

"Do I look like I give a shit? I'm heading upstairs, this blows." Jason stuffs the gun in the pocket of his hoodie lackadaisically, then points a finger at Damian as he takes his leave. "It's bad enough you've got a whole petting zoo of animals. Don't start collecting humanoid strays, too."

"Go to bed, Red Hood," Damian grumbles, turning to you. Your eyes trail after Jason, maintaining your threatening stance until he's completely out of sight. You straighten up and relax your wings, slowly folding them up again.

"I dislike him," you say, crossing your arms.

"He's a... difficult personality," Damian says, fully aware of the hypocrisy of that statement. He barrels forward, curious. "You stood up for me, even when he was seconds from shooting you. Why?"

You tilt your head like he's asked a particularly stupid question.

"You saved me," you state simply. "I am indebted to you."

"It's my job to save others. I protect this city with my family."

"I am not from your city, and you helped me all the same."

"You're in it, however temporarily, which makes your well-being my priority."

You hum, head gently tilting one direction in contemplation. Damian absently compares it to a bunny, or a curious puppy dog.

"Even so," you conclude, "I will repay your kindness. If it's in my power to do it, you will have it, Robin."

"I don't need anything from you," Damian says, not unkindly. "There's no debt I'm owed. I wanted you safe, and that's the long and short of it."

You don't argue it further, but there's still a small frown on your face. Again, Damian's eyes are drawn to your lips. He feels his heart rate get a little faster.

"Would it sate you if I asked for knowledge in return?" He offered. "You can still say no; I'm not going to make you tell me anything you don't want."

You perk up a bit, nodding. You both snap your heads when Jason shows back up, shouting.

"HEY, DID YOUR NOTEPAD SAY "LEARNS LANGUAGES VIA SALIVIC EXCHANGE" BY THE WAY? HOW DID YOU FIND THAT OUT?"

He's been up for almost twenty-four hours, now, and called most flight-capable contacts at his and his father's disposal to no avail. Nobody is available for your extraction, and Damian can't let you, an undocumented and uncategorized meta, go off by yourself lest you either get recaptured or end up committing a villainous act without supervision.

So you're stuck in the cave for a full day, until everyone comes together for patrol in the evening to clear the rogues out the metahuman outpost and get you safely moved out of Gotham.

Damian spins in the seat and looks at where you're balled up on the floor. Or, rather, he's looking at your wings, fully extended and wrapped around you like a cocoon. He watches the puddle of feathers gently and silently rising and falling with your dozing breaths after you refused a bed and curled up like this three hours ago.

Cute, he thinks, standing up and stepping quietly around your figure. He slips his fingers underneath the domino mask to rub the grit from his eyes, then messages Alfred requesting two breakfast trays be brought to the cave whenever he has the time. They're delivered half an hour later, the quiet rattling of the butler's cart rousing you again.

"Sorry to disturb you, dear," Alfred says, watching your head poke out and you blink groggily at the food. Damian takes the trays from him with a nod of thanks. "Might either of you require anything else whilst I'm here? I'm happy to check on your stitches."

You shake your wings out as you stand and then carefully tuck them against your back, glancing at your shoulder. The bandages are slightly stained gold, the wound disturbed from how hard you'd shoved Jason back earlier.

You look to Robin for guidance. He gives the bandage a similar once-over, then clicks his tongue.

"That might be wise. Agent A won't hurt you," he promises. "You can trust him."

Alfred bows and offers his hand for you to shake. You grasp it a touch too firmly and just hold it in place for a few seconds, but he just smiles and excuses himself to fetch some supplies from the med bay. While he's gone, Damian carries both trays to the table near the center of the room, placing them down and taking a seat.

"You can come eat," he says. You sit and look at your offerings — buttered wheat toast, two poached eggs, a couple strips of turkey bacon, and a glass of orange juice — with no change of expression. "Something wrong?"

"No," you say, "I just... can't eat this."

"If it's a matter of diet, we can find you something else —"

"I apologize," you gently interrupt, "I mean to say, I don't eat. I don't need to."

Damian pulls the notepad, crinkled from the earlier confrontation with Jason, out of his pocket and jots that down.

"How do you get energy, then?" He asks. You shrug.

"I rest. Other than that, I need nothing."

"That is a shame," Alfred says, returning with some fresh bandages and a small bottle of saline to keep the wound clean. You don't protest when he asks to remove the old gauze. "Should you find yourself curious to try a nibble, I hope it might please you. I am also available for anything else you might require — new clothes, perhaps."

You perk up at that. You dislike the gaping tear in your sleeve, so a replacement robe would be nice.

"Yes," you reply. "Please. What do you require in exchange?"

"Nothing but your measurements, so I can make sure it fits correctly."

You nod, acquiescing to whatever is needed. Alfred pulls out a tape measure and, with your consent, notes your size and approximately how much fabric space you'll need on your back to accommodate your wings. Damian finishes eating by then, so he retrieves the trays and leaves with another bow and a promise to be back in a couple of hours with new clothes.

"Robin," you say, when Damian gets up to go back to the computer. He looks at you intently. "I know I cannot leave this place, but is there somewhere...bigger that I can fly?"

He frowns, shaking his head. "The cave system is mostly long, not wide. It doesn't get much bigger than the part we're standing in."

Damian turns and points to his left, to a dark corridor just beyond the Batcomputer.

"If you don't break anything and keep away from the bats, you can fly around as long as you want. The pathways split off in different sections and levels, but they all lead back here to the center of the cave."

He looks at you again, hand on his hip.

"Does that suffice?"

Well. It's not open air where the breeze can rush through your wings and you can admire the sky overhead, but it's something and you are restless. It'll have to do.

Wordlessly you extend your wings, feathers shaking themselves out as you stretch the limbs, and you take off.

Damian sinks into the chair in front of the computer again, pressing a couple buttons to reawaken the screens. He glances at the roster of available allies and feels his headache intensify when there's no change. Still no help for now. Still stuck in the cave, watching over you and not getting any sleep.

He leans back and rubs his eyes under the mask again, lids drooping. Damian can't hear any wing flapping, which indicates you're likely long gone in the elaborate cave system. He can switch the cameras on the computer from key observation points around the city to the different levels of the cave itself, but the idea of subjecting his corneas to the harsh screens again is nearly unbearable.

You're likely going to be occupied for a while, and you already know not to leave the cave.

Damian could just...can just...