nica

The next morning, Damian Wayne walks into school like he's attending his own funeral. You notice it immediately; The way his shoulders are set, the way his jaw is clenched, the way he's moving through the hallway like he's hoping the floor will open up and swallow him whole. There's something different about him today, something that looks almost like embarrassment. You're leaning against your locker, watching him approach, and you let the grin spread across your face before he's even close enough to see. "Morning, jailbird."

His eyes snap to yours. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't mention the fact that you spent two hours in a holding cell? Don't bring up the way you looked in that pool, all wet and—"

"I will end you." You push off the locker, falling into step beside him as he walks. He's holding your jacket, perfectly folded, draped over his arm like it's a sacred offering. He stops. Turns to face you. "I'm returning this."

You look at the jacket. Look at him. Look at the way he's holding it, like he's not entirely sure he wants to let go. "Keep it." His brow furrows. "Keep it," you repeat, already walking again. "Looks better on you anyway." He stares at you. Actually stops walking and just stares, like you've said something in a language he doesn't speak. The hallway flows around him, students parting like water around a rock, and he doesn't seem to notice any of them.

"That's—" He pauses, jaw working. "That's not how borrowing things works."

"You came to me to learn how to be normal. Normal people borrow each other's clothes and don't give them back for weeks. Sometimes never."

"That's theft."

"It's fashion." He makes a sound that somewhat reminds you to a laugh trapped in his throat before it can fully form. You file that sound away with the others, the ones you've been collecting since he sat across from you in the cafeteria. He catches up to you, jacket still folded over his arm, and you notice he hasn't put it in his bag. Hasn't tried to shove it at you again. He's just carrying it. Like he's already decided to keep it but doesn't want to admit it.

"Then that means you have no intentions of returning my jacket." He asks as if it weren't obvious.

"Clever boy. Think of it as an exchange, I keep yours, you keep mine." He makes that sound again. You take it as an agreement.

The cafeteria is loud, same as always, but Damian doesn't slide into the seat across from you this time. He stands at the end of the table, looking at the bench like it's personally offended him, and you realize he's waiting for permission. You tilt your head. "You can sit down, you know. I don't bite."

"Debatable."

"Only if you want to, of course." His expression does something complicated: like offense and amusement are wrestling for control, before he finally sits. Not across from you this time, beside you. Close enough that his shoulder almost touches yours. You don't comment on it, but you also don't move away. "So," you say, settling into a cross-legged position. "How bad was it?"

"My father was... reasonable."

"Reasonable how?"

"I'm grounded for a week."

You blink. And then you burst out laughing with the kind of laugh that turns heads, that makes people at nearby tables glance over, that makes Damian's ears go pink because of embarrassment. "A week," you manage, gasping. "You— grounded."

"It's not funny."

"Oh, it's hilarious." You wipe your eyes, still grinning. "Oh my God. What does that even mean for you? No TV? No video games? No—" You gesture vaguely. "—whatever rich kids do in their spare time?"

"No p—... No family obligations."

You stop laughing and watch him for a moment. The way his hands have curled into loose fists on the table, the way his breathing has gone carefully controlled. You made a deal. You don't ask about that tiny slip that no one else would've catch, but you do because you're observant as hell even if you don't seem like it. And because it's rare for Damian Wayne to correct himself. But you can't ask. So you don't. "Okay," you say, letting it go. "So no family obligations for a week. What else?"

He relaxes, almost imperceptibly. "No training. No leaving the manor except for school."

"No leaving at all?"

"Not until next Wednesday."

You whistle, low and impressed. "Your dad doesn't mess around."

"He's... thorough."

You lean back, processing this. Damian Wayne, trapped in that massive manor for a week. No rooftops, no secret park spots, no abandoned pools. Just him and his family and a whole lot of expensive square footage. "That's brutal," you say. "What are you supposed to do? Just... exist?"

"That was the general instruction, yes."

You snort. "How's that going?" He doesn't answer. But the look he gives you, half-exasperated and half-bored, is enough.

The morning passes. Classes happen. You don't pay attention to most of them, because your mind keeps drifting to Damian. To the way he looked in the police station, your jacket around his shoulders. And the way he said ‘I wasn't going to let that happen.' To the almost-kiss that neither of you has mentioned and probably never will. By lunch, you've decided something. You find him outside, behind the gym, leaning against the same brick wall where this whole thing started. He's just staring at the gray sky, expression unreadable, your jacket still folded over his arm like he's been carrying it all day. "Hey," you say, walking up.

He glances at you. "You're supposed to be in class."

"So are you."

"Touché." You lean against the wall next to him, close enough that your elbows brush. The air is cold, gray, but there's something warmer in the space between you now. Something that wasn't there a few weeks ago.

"So," you say. "A week. What are you going to do?"

He shrugs. "Exist, apparently."

You laugh. "Your dad really said that?"

"He said I should learn to be a normal teenager. Normal teenagers get grounded sometimes." Damian's voice is flat, but there's something underneath it. Something that sounds almost like wonder. Like he's still processing the fact that Bruce wasn't angry.

"Your dad sounds okay," you say.

Damian is quiet for a moment. Then: "I didn't grow up with him."

You turn to look at him. His profile is sharp against the gray sky, jaw set, eyes focused on something in the distance. He's not looking at you. He's not looking at anything. "You don't have to—" you start.

"I know. I'm telling you because I want to." He cuts you off, but not harshly. "When I was ten I came to live with him. Before, I lived in another country with my mother and grandfather. And now my father..." He pauses. "He's trying."

You process this. The pieces rearrange themselves in your head; the calluses, the formal way he talks sometimes, the way he looks at the world like he's waiting for an attack. "Is that why you're so weird?" you ask.

He turns to look at you. His expression is caught somewhere between offense and something else. "Excuse me?"

"I mean it as a compliment." You bump your shoulder against his. "Weird is good. Weird is interesting. Normal is boring."

"Then why are you teaching me to be normal?"

"Because you asked." You shrug. "And because I figured out pretty quick that you don't actually want to be normal. You just want to fit in enough that people stop staring." He stares at you.

"You're very perceptive," he says.

"I'm very good at watching people who don't watch back."

Something flickers in his expression. That almost-smile, the one you've been collecting like rare coins. "Is that what you were doing? Watching me?"

"From across the cafeteria? Yeah. Everyone was." You pause. "You're kind of hard to miss, Wayne." He doesn't respond. But he doesn't look away either. And for a moment, the cold doesn't matter. The gray sky doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the space between you and the way his shoulder is still pressed against yours. "You never said anything," you say eventually, breaking the silence. "When you told me about the grounding. You never said that your father forbade you from hanging out with me."

Damian's expression goes carefully neutral. "Because he didn't. He said I could continue spending time with you."

"Is that weird? That he specified me?"

"I may have mentioned that I was with someone when we were caught."

"You told your dad about me?"

"He asked." Damian's voice is clipped now, but not cold. Guarded, like he's not sure how much to reveal. "I told him you were a friend."

"And he was okay with that? The friend who got you arrested?"

Damian's mouth twitches. "He seemed to think that getting arrested was a normal teenage rite of passage. He also mentioned that my brother's have all been detained at some point."

"Your brothers have been arrested?"

"Detained," Damian corrects. "There's a difference."

You stare at him. "Your family is insane."

"Extremely."

"And you're grounded for a week because of me."

"You jumped into a pool. I merely followed."

"You could have stayed on the side. You didn't have to get in."

He's quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you almost miss it: "Yes, I did."

Your chest does something complicated. You ignore it. "So," you say, clearing your throat. "A week. No leaving the manor. What does that mean for us?"

The word slips out before you can stop it. Us. You watch Damian process it, watch something warm flicker behind his eyes before he hides it. "It means," he says carefully, "that I can't go exploring abandoned buildings or climbing fire escapes. But my father didn't say anything about visitors."

"You want me to come to your house?"

"I want—" He stops. Starts again. "I would like it if you came to the manor. After school. To keep me company, since I'm trapped there."

"Trapped in a mansion with seventeen security cameras and probably a bowling alley."

"We don't have a bowling alley."

"You don't?" You grin. "You probably have a home theater. A library. A hedge maze."

"The hedge maze is seasonal."

You laugh, loud and bright, and Damian's expression softens in a way that makes your stomach flip. "Okay," you say. "Okay. I'll come visit you. But we won't do anything crazy. I don't want to add more days to your sentence."

"That's very considerate of you."

"Don't sound so surprised. I can be considerate. Sometimes. On special occasions."

He shakes his head, but he's smiling. That tiny, barely-there smile that you've been chasing since the sewer. "What did I get myself into.." he murmurs.

"You came to me, remember?"

"I remember."

"And?"

He looks at you. Really looks at you, green eyes warm in the gray afternoon light. "And I don't regret it." You don't have a response to that. For once, the jokes don't come. The teasing doesn't come. You just settle around this moment. Then the bell rings. Neither of you moves. "Your jacket," Damian says eventually. "You're sure?"

You glance at it, folded over his arm. He hasn't let go of it, apparently. The denim is worn, faded, full of holes and paint stains and memories you don't talk about. On him, it looks wrong and right at the same time. Like it doesn't belong to him but should. "Yeah," you say. "Looks good on you."

He doesn't argue this time. He just nods, once, and slips it into his bag with careful hands. "After school," he says. "The front gate. I'll have Alfred let you in."

"Alfred?"

"My butler." He pauses. "You'll like him. Everyone likes Alfred."

"Even you?"

"Especially me."

You push off the wall, stretching your arms above your head. The cold air bites at your skin, but you don't mind. You're still warm from standing next to him. "Okay. After school. Low profile. Calm things. No trespassing, no breaking and entering, no swimming anymore." You walk toward the school building together. Not close enough to touch, but closer than you need to be. The afternoon light is pale through the clouds, and somewhere in the distance, a train rattles along the tracks. "I'm glad your dad isn't mad. About any of it." you say as you reach the doors.

He glances at you. He considers it. Then says "I think he's just glad I have someone to get arrested with."

You laugh, pushing open the door. "That's a weird thing for a dad to be glad about."

"Welcome to my family." You hold the door for him. He walks through, close enough that his arm brushes yours, and you pretend not to notice the way your heart stumbles. And for the rest of the day, you can't stop smiling.

The week passes faster than you expect. Maybe it's because you spend most of it at the Manor. Not all of it, of course, you still have school, still have your own apartment, still have a mother who raised an eyebrow when you came home the night of the arrest and said "You smell like chlorine" and then didn't ask any follow-up questions, which is either trust or exhaustion. Probably both. But after school, you walk through gates that definitely have more than seventeen cameras (you count twenty-three on Friday, just to prove Damian wrong). And you let yourself be swallowed by a house that feels less like a home and more like a museum that someone forgot to close. The first time you walk through the front doors, you stop dead. "Rich people," you say, staring at the chandelier. "What the hell."

Damian, standing beside you with his arms crossed, looks personally offended. "It's just a chandelier."

"It's the size of my entire apartment."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic." You turn in a slow circle, taking in the marble floors, the sweeping staircase, the portraits on the walls that probably cost more than your mom's car. "Your house has a staircase that could fit my whole building. Actually, no— my building is narrower than this staircase. I could fit my building inside your staircase."

"You're exaggerating."

"I'm really not." He sighs and grabs your wrist, pulling you down the hall before you can embarrass him further. His hand is warm around your arm, and you let him drag you because it's not like you want him to let go. You meet Alfred on that first day. He appears in the doorway of the kitchen like a butler-shaped ghost, carrying a tray of something that smells incredible.

"Ah," he says, looking at you over Damian's shoulder. "You must be the young man who keeps getting my boy arrested."

You freeze. Damian freezes beside you. "Alfred." Damian starts.

Alfred just smiles. He sets the tray down on the counter. Sandwiches, you realize, perfectly cut into triangles like something from a TV show. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Damian has mentioned you."

You glance at Damian, his ears are pink. "He has?"

"Repeatedly," Alfred says. "At length. Often without being prompted."

"Alfred."

"The pool story alone was quite detailed." Alfred's expression doesn't change, but there's something dancing in his eyes. "I feel as though I was there."

Damian makes a sound like a dying animal. You, meanwhile, are trying very hard not to laugh. "It's nice to meet you, sir," you say, because your mom raised you right, even if she'd probably have opinions about you spending time in a mansion with a boy you barely even know. "Thank you for having me."

Alfred's expression softens. "No need for 'sir,' dear boy. Alfred will do." He gestures to the sandwiches. "Eat. You look like you haven't had a proper meal in days." You have. But you also weren't going to say no to free food, especially not food that looked like it belonged in a magazine. You grab a sandwich. Damian does the same, though he looks like he's bracing for more commentary. "He's not here," Alfred says quietly, and you realize he's talking to Damian. His shoulders drop. Just a fraction, just enough to notice. And you file that away, and the fact that Damian is different around Alfred, softer. You like Alfred immediately.

Hours later, you're questioning yourself on why you're here. You knew Damian had animals. He mentioned them once, casually, like it was normal for a sixteen-year-old to own multiple livestock. But knowing and seeing are two different things. "You have a cow," you say, staring at the massive creature in the stable behind the manor.

"I have a cow," Damian confirms.

"Her name is Batcow."

“The name is not up for debate." You turn to look at him. He's standing with his arms crossed, chin up, like he's daring you to make fun of him. His expression is defensive in a way you haven't seen before. Like he's waiting for you to laugh and not sure what he'll do if you do. You have mercy and you don't laugh.

"Batcow," you say again, but this time you're smiling. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I love her."

Damian's expression flickers. Relief, maybe. Or something like it. "She was rescued from a slaughterhouse," he says. "Father let me keep her."

"Your dad let you keep a cow?"

"My father is... indulgent. Sometimes."

You look at Batcow. Batcow looks at you. She's massive, gentle, has no idea how absurd her existence is, and you kind of want to steal her. "Can I pet her?" you ask.

Damian's mouth twitches. "That's usually what one does with cows." You kind of want to refute that usually, people eat cows instead of pet them. Instead, you step forward, reaching out slowly. Batcow snuffles at your hand, warm and curious, and when you scratch behind her ear, she makes a sound that's almost like the purr version of a cow. "She likes you," Damian says, and there's something in his voice that sounds almost like wonder.

"Everyone likes me. I'm very likable."

"You're tolerable at best."

"You don't get to call me 'just' tolerable." He doesn't respond. But when you glance back at him, he's watching you with that soft expression again, the one that makes your chest do something complicated. "Who's next?" you ask, stepping away from Batcow. "You said you have a dog?"

"Titus," Damian says, and his whole face lights up. Actually lights up, like someone turned on a switch behind his eyes. "He's a Great Dane. He's inside. Come on." He grabs your wrist again. You let him guide you again. Titus is enormous. He's also, apparently, convinced that he's a lap dog. The moment you walk into the sitting room, he bounds toward you with the grace of a freight train, and you barely have time to brace yourself before he's got his front paws on your shoulders and his tongue on your face. "Titus— down—" Damian's voice is exasperated, but he's smiling. Actually smiling, not just twitching. A real, full smile that makes him look younger and nothing like the boy who walked through Gotham Academy like he owned it.

You're too busy being licked to death to appreciate it properly. "He's— very— friendly—"

"He likes you."

"He's trying to eat my face!"

"That's how he shows affection."

You manage to push Titus off enough to catch your breath. He immediately flops onto his back, demanding belly rubs, and you oblige because you're not a monster. "He's ridiculous," you say, scratching behind his ears.

"He's a good boy." Damian crouches down beside you, and for a moment you're both just... there. Petting a giant dog in a ridiculously expensive room, the afternoon light filtering through windows that probably cost more than your entire education. "Alfred the cat is somewhere around here," Damian says. "He's less enthusiastic about strangers."

"You named your cat after your butler?"

"I—" Damian stops and shakes his head. "He thought it was funny."

"Is it?"

"Objectively? Yes." You laugh, and Titus wiggles with joy, and Damian's smile doesn't fade. It stays there, soft and real, and you think you could get used to this. The Manor. The animals. The way Damian looks when he's not wearing his walls up.

You meet Tim by accident. You're wandering the halls on Wednesday; Damian got called away for something he called a "family discussion" but you suspect is actually about whatever weird family obligations keep him busy at night, and you take a wrong turn. Or maybe a right turn. The Manor is a labyrinth, and you're pretty sure some of these hallways move when you're not looking. You turn a corner and almost walk directly into a boy with dark hair and tired eyes, holding a mug of something that definitely is not coffee. "Oh," he says. "You're Damian's friend."

You blink. "You're Tim."

"I'm Tim." He doesn't offer his last name. You don't ask. "You're the one who got him arrested."

"I'm the one who got him arrested," you confirm. "Nice to meet you too."

Tim's expression doesn't change. He's hard to read, you realize, in a way that's different from Damian. Damian's walls are sharp edges and cold stares. Tim's walls are just... blank. Like he's already figured you out and is waiting to see if you figure him out too. "He's happier," Tim says. "Damian. Since he met you." You don't know what to say to that. So you don't say anything. Tim nods and smiles slightly, like you've confirmed something, and walks past you down the hall. He doesn't look back. You stand there for a moment, processing, and then you retrace your steps and pretend you never got lost in the first place.

The last day, you meet Bruce Wayne. You're nervous. You don't want to be nervous, you've never been nervous around parents before, because parents usually look at you like you're a problem they don't want to deal with. But Bruce Wayne isn't a normal parent. He's Bruce Wayne. The Bruce Wayne. And you're standing in his house, eating his food, spending time with his son. You pretend you're not nervous. You think you're doing a pretty good job. "He will know," Damian says, walking beside you toward the study. "That you're nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"You've adjusted your sleeve seventeen times in the last minute."

You stop. Look at him. "Are you counting what I do again? That's creepy. "

He gives you a side eye, you take a breath. Roll your shoulders. Try to look like someone who definitely hasn't been arrested multiple times and definitely isn't worried about what Bruce Wayne thinks of them. "Ready?" Damian asks.

"No." He opens the door anyway. The study is warm. Fire in the hearth, books on the walls, the smell of old paper and leather and something that might be expensive cologne. Bruce Wayne is sitting behind the desk, and when you walk in, he looks up. He's taller than you expected. Or maybe it's just the way he carries himself, the same way Damian does, you realize. Like he's prepared for anything. Like he's already seen everything. "Sir," you say, because your mom raised you right, even if she'd probably have opinions about you standing in Bruce Wayne's study.

"Please." He stands, walks around the desk, and offers his hand. "Bruce." You shake it. His grip is firm, warm, and he holds on for a moment longer than necessary. "I've heard a lot about you," he says.

"Hopefully not all of it from the police report."

A pause. Then Bruce's mouth twitches, the same twitch Damian does. The same almost-smile. "Damian mentioned you are honest," Bruce says.

"I'm not sure honest is the right word. I just don't know when to shut up."

"Sit down." You sit. Damian sits beside you, close enough that your knees almost touch. Bruce returns to his chair, and for a moment, no one speaks. "Thank you," Bruce says finally, "for not leaving him at the police station."

You blink. "Uh— what?"

"When the guard caught you. Damian told me what happened. You could have run, yet you didn't."

You glance at Damian. He's staring straight ahead, jaw tight, like he's not sure where this is going. "I wasn't going to leave him," you say. "He was there because of me."

"Because of both of you," Bruce corrects. "Damian makes his own choices. He always has." You don't know what to say to that, so you just shut up. Bruce leans back in his chair, studying you with those sharp eyes. "Damian has... difficulty connecting with people. His mother—" He stops. Corrects. "His upbringing was unconventional."

"I gathered."

"He's different around you. I've noticed."

Your chest does something complicated. You ignore it. "He's different around everyone. He's weird." Beside you, Damian makes an indignant sound. Bruce's mouth twitches again.

"He is," Bruce agrees. "But he's also... happier."

Tim said the same thing. You're starting to think this family talks about Damian when he's not in the room. Probably a lot. "I didn't do anything," you say. "I just— he asked me to teach him how to be a normal teenager. So I did."

"And what does being a normal teenager involve?"

You think about it. The pool. The sunrise. The sewer full of color. "Stupid stuff, mostly. Breaking rules. Making bad decisions. Getting caught."

"You got him arrested."

"I got him arrested," you confirm. "And he got himself grounded for a week. Which is—" You glance at Damian. "—honestly, kind of on him. I told him we could run."

Damian's jaw drops. "You did not tell me—"

"You're the one who surrendered."

"You were about to get hit!"

"So? I've been hit before. It's not that bad."

"You're unbelievable."

"You're grounded."

Bruce clears his throat. You both stop. Look at him. He's watching you with an expression you can't quite read. "I think," Bruce says slowly, "that you're a good influence on him."

You stare. "I got him arrested."

"You got him to act like a teenager." Bruce's voice is quiet. Certain. "Do you know how long I've been trying to do that?"

Damian makes a strangled sound. "Father—"

"I'm not finished." Bruce holds up a hand, and Damian falls silent. "You're welcome here. Whenever you want. No invitation needed."

You don't know what to say. Your throat feels tight, and your chest feels full, and you're pretty sure Bruce Wayne just gave you a key to his house without actually giving you one. "I'll try not to get him arrested again," you manage.

Bruce smiles. Actually smiles, not the media smile you've seen in photos, but something smaller and more real. "I'm not worried about that."

"You should be."

"I'm not." You sit there for a moment, the three of you, the fire crackling in the hearth. Damian's knee is pressed against yours now, and you don't move away. Later, after Bruce has excused himself to deal with something that sounded like ‘Wayne Enterprises nonsense’ and you're walking back toward the front door, Damian falls into step beside you.

"My father approved of you," he says. Like he's still processing it.

You glance at him. "Is that a good thing? I feel like I'll never be able to escape this family now."

His expression does something complicated. "Is that what you want? To escape?" You stop walking. He stops beside you. The hallway is empty, the portraits on the walls watching you both with painted eyes.

"No," you say. "That's not what I want."

Damian holds your gaze for a long moment. Then he nods, just once, and keeps walking. You follow. Because that's what you do now. Follow Damian Wayne through mansions and hallways and moments you don't have names for. "Same time tomorrow?" he asks as you reach the door.

"You're not grounded anymore."

"I know."

"So you could theoretically leave the Manor. Go places. Do things."

"I could."

You push open the door. The cold air rushes in, sharp and familiar. "Then why would I come here?"

He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Because I'd like you to."

You look at him. The afternoon light is fading, painting the sky in shades of orange and gray, and Damian Wayne is standing in the doorway of his ridiculous mansion with his hands in the pockets of your jacket (the one you gave him, the one he's been wearing all week) and he looks almost nervous. "Same time tomorrow," you agree. He nods. Doesn't smile. But his eyes are warm, and that's enough. The train ride home feels shorter than usual. You spend it thinking about cows named Batcow and cats named Alfred and brothers named Tim who talk about happiness like it's something measurable. You spend it thinking about Bruce Wayne, who looked at you like you were something other than a problem. You spend it thinking about Damian, who kept your jacket and your company and apparently, now your place in a family you never asked to join. You're smiling when you walk through your apartment door. Your mom takes one look at you and says, "You're staying at that boy's house again tomorrow, aren't you?"

"Probably," you admit. She sighs. But she's smiling too.

The thing about being a "normal teenager," you've learned, is that it's mostly about making bad decisions and pretending you meant to make them. So when you text Damian on Saturday morning 'bus station. noon. don't be late' you don't have a plan. You don't have a destination. You don't even have a return ticket. You have a backpack, a hoodie that smells like shit, and the kind of restless energy that only comes from spending five days in a mansion with millions of security cameras and a boy who keeps looking at you like you're a puzzle he's trying to solve. Or like he wants to kiss you, you're still figuring that out. Damian is already there when you arrive. He's leaning against the wall outside the station, dressed in dark jeans and a gray sweater. Your jacket (probably his, now) is zipped up to his chin, and he's holding two cups of coffee and a paper bag that smells like pastries. You stop in front of him. Stare at the bag. "You remembered."

"I said I would."

"Yeah, but people say things. They don't usually.." You gesture at the bag. "Follow through."

He shoves the coffee into your hand. "Take it before I change my mind." You take it. The warmth seeps through the cup, into your fingers, and you're smiling before you can stop yourself. "You're getting soft." He makes a sound (the one between a scoff and a laugh) and falls into step beside you as you head toward the ticket counter. "Where are we going?" he asks.

"No idea."

"You don't have a destination?"

"That's the point." You glance at him. "Normal teenagers don't plan. They just... go. See where the bus takes them."

"That's irresponsible."

"So what? It's just a normal Tuesday."

"It's Saturday."

"Even better." You stop in front the schedule board, scanning the list of destinations you've never heard of. "Pick a bus. Any bus. We'll get on it and see what happens."

"That's not how transportation works."

"That's how adventure works." You nudge him with your elbow. "Come on, Wayne. Where's your sense of spontaneity?"

"I don't have one."

"Then it's time you developed one." He stares at the board for a long moment. His jaw works, you can see him calculating, weighing options, looking for the safest choice. Then his hand lifts, and he points at a destination halfway down the list.

"Alice Springs," he says.

You blink. "That sounds fake."

"It's a real town. About three hours east."

"How do you know that?"

"I know a lot of things."

You look at the board. Look at him. Look back at the board. "Alice Springs," you repeat. "Sounds like something out of a horror movie."

"Then we should fit right in."

You laugh loudly and drag him toward the ticket counter before he can change his mind. Once you're on the bus, you realize it's crowded. Not with people, exactly. With the kind of quiet that only exists on routes no one takes by choice. The other passengers are mostly older, mostly asleep, their faces slack and unfamiliar in the gray afternoon light. You take a seat near the back, Damian beside you, your shoulders pressed together in the narrow space. "You told your dad where you're going?" you ask as the bus pulls away from the station.

Damian glances at you. "I learned from last time."

"So he knows you're on a bus to a town called Alice Springs with a person who got you arrested."

"He knows I'm with you. The destination was... secondary."

You grin. "Secondary. Sure." The bus rumbles onto the highway. The tall buildings, the crowded streets, the particular gray of Gotham that you've known your whole life falls behind you. In its place, trees. Green fields. The kind of scenery that makes you want to blast songs with a huge speaker and open your arms wide in the air like teenagers in coming-of-age movies do. "Have you ever been outside Gotham?" you ask.

"Of course."

"I know, not like that. I mean—" You gesture at the window. "Just to see what's there. Without doin’ family obligations, weird shit or boring things."

Damian is quiet for a moment. "No," he says finally. "I haven't."

You look at him. His profile is sharp against the window, the gray light catching the edges of his face. He's watching the landscape pass, and there's something in his expression that looks almost like wonder. "Well," you say. "I'm being your first time in a lot of things." He gave you a stinky side eye.

The town, when you finally reach it, is exactly what you expected. Which means: abandoned. Alice Springs is less a town and more a collection of buildings that forgot they were supposed to be alive. Main Street is three blocks long, lined with storefronts that haven't seen customers in years. A gas station at the edge of town, the pumps rusted and the windows boarded. A diner with a neon sign that flickers OPEN in uneven letters, even though you're pretty sure no one's opened that door in a decade. "It's a ghost town," Damian says, stepping off the bus.

"It's atmospheric."

"It's depressing."

"It's an adventure." You spread your arms wide, spinning in a slow circle. "Look at this place. No people. No adults. No one telling us what to do."

"There's probably a reason for that."

"Fear? Cowardice? Lack of imagination?"

"Common sense."

You drop your arms, grinning at him. "Since when do we have common sense?" He doesn't answer. But he's not walking back toward the bus either. He's standing on the cracked sidewalk, looking up at the flickering sign, and there's something in his posture that looks almost like curiosity.

"One hour" he says.

"Three."

"Two."

"Deal."

You two spent the afternoon exploring. The diner is locked, but you find a window in the back that's been broken for so long the glass is worn smooth. You climb through, Damian following after sighing in resignation and find yourselves in a room frozen in time. Booths with cracked vinyl seats. A jukebox in the corner that hasn't played music since before you were born. Counter stools that spin in slow, creaking circles when you push them. "This is unsanitary," Damian says, running his finger over a table. The dust is thick enough to write in.

"This is history."

"This is a health code violation."

You grab a napkin from the dispenser, the paper yellowed with age, and wipe a clean spot on the counter. Then you hop up, sitting cross-legged where someone probably ate breakfast fifty years ago. "Tell me something," you say.

Damian eyes you. "What kind of something?"

"I don't know. Something I don't know about you."

"That's a broad category."

"Then start small." You gesture at the room around you. "What's the first memory you have? The earliest one."

He goes still. The kind of stillness of someone who's not sure they want to answer. "I was four," he says finally. "Maybe five. There was a garden. Someone tended it. I don't remember who. But I remember the smell. Jasmine, I think. And the way the light looked through the leaves." He pauses. "I wasn't allowed to touch anything."

You watch him. His face is carefully blank, but you notice a tiny emotion in his eyes. "That's sad," you say.

"It was what it was."

"You were a kid. You should have been allowed to touch things."

He looks at you. Just looks, for a long moment, and you can see him trying to figure out what you mean. Whether there's a trap in your words, an angle, a hidden question. "It was a long time ago," he says.

"That doesn't make it less sad."

He doesn't respond. But he walks toward the counter, slides onto the stool beside you, and sits in the dusty silence like he's trying to figure out what to do with your words. "Your turn." he says.

"My first memory?" He nods. You think about it. The question should be easy, but your memory is tangled up in things you don't talk about. Things you're not sure you want to share. "My mom," you say finally. "She was singing. I don't remember the song. But I remember thinking she sounded pretty."

Damian's expression softens. Just a fraction, just enough to notice. "That's not sad."

"No," you agree. "It's not." The general store is next. It's way bigger than the diner, dustier, full of shelves that still have products on them. Canned goods with labels you don't recognize. Boxes of cereal that expired before you were born. A rack of postcards near the front, the images faded to almost nothing. You grab one. Hold it up. "We should send this to your house."

Damian stares at you. "It's addressed to no one."

"We'll address it to Alfred. He'll think it's funny."

You find a pen behind the counter. Miraculously, it still works, and then you scribble a message on the back. 'Wish you were here. The dust is lovely this time of year.' Damian reads it over your shoulder. His breath is warm against your neck, and you try very hard not to lean into it. "That's not funny," he says.

"That's hilarious."

"It's barely a joke."

"It's the best joke I've ever written." He takes the pen from your hand. His fingers brush yours, deliberate or accidental? you can't tell. He writes something below your message, folds the postcard, and pockets it. "What did you write?" you ask.

"You'll find out when it arrives."

"That's not fair."

"Life isn't usually." You glare at him. He glares back. And somewhere in the middle of the dusty general store, surrounded by expired cereal and faded postcards, you start laughing. He doesn't join you. But he doesn't make a face either. You get out of the store. The sun is setting when you realize you have nowhere to stay. "Five hours," Damian says, and his voice is pointed. "We were supposed to stay for two."

"Time got away from me."

"Time didn't get away from you. You got distracted by a taxidermied squirrel."

"That squirrel had a lot of personality!"

"The bus left an hour ago."

You look at the empty street. At the fading light. At the sky turning orange and purple in a way that never happens in Gotham, where the clouds are always too thick and the city too bright. "Okay," you say. "So we stay the night."

"Here."

"It's called 'spontaneity,' Damian."

"It's called 'poor planning.'" You shrug, smirking. He pinches the bridge of his nose. It's such an exasperated gesture, so dramatic, so entirely him, that you can't help but grin. "There's a hostel," he says finally. "At the end of Main Street. I saw it when we arrived."

The hostel is... a building. That's the nicest thing you can say about it. The windows are intact, which is more than you can say for most of the other structures. The door opens when you push it, which is a pleasant surprise. And there's a desk in the lobby with a bell and a sign that says RING FOR SERVICE in handwriting so faded it might be a century old. You ring the bell. Nothing happens. You ring it again. A door behind the desk opens, and a woman appears. She's old, seventies maybe, with gray hair pulled back in a bun and eyes that have seen too many travelers come and go. "We need a room," you say.

She looks at you, looks at Damian, then back at you. "One room," she says. "Two beds?"

You glance at Damian. His expression is carefully neutral. "One bed is fine," you say. Damian's head turns toward you so fast you almost hear his neck crack. But he doesn't argue. And when the woman hands him a key, he takes it without comment. The room is at the end of the hall. It's small, smaller than you expected. The walls are paneled in something that might be wood or might be plastic, and the window looks out onto the alley behind the building. There's a dresser with a mirror, a lamp with a frayed cord, and a bed. One bed.

"One bed," Damian says. "We can't share a bed."

"Why not?"

He stares at you, blankly. His ears are pink, you notice that, file it away with the other things you're not supposed to notice. "It's inappropriate," he says.

"We're not dating."

"It's not necess—" He stops. "That's not the point."

"Then what's the point?" He doesn't answer. He just stands there, in the middle of the tiny room, holding the key like he's not sure what to do with it. You drop your bag on the floor. Sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress sags under your weight, the springs groaning in protest. "I'll sleep on the floor," you offer.

"You're not sleeping on the floor."

"Then what's your brilliant plan?"

He looks at the bed. Looks at you. Looks back at the bed. "We'll share."

"Oh, so now it's fine?"

"Don't make this weird."

"You're the one making it weird." You kick off your shoes, swinging your legs onto the mattress. "Get over here. I don't bite. If you don't want to."

He doesn't move. You can see him arguing with himself, doing that thing he does where every decision feels like a chess move. Then he sighs, pulls off his own shoes, and sits on the opposite edge of the bed, as far from you as the narrow mattress allows. "This is a terrible idea," he says.

"Maybe."

"We're going to regret this."

"Doubt it." He lies back and stares at the ceiling, pretending to be offended and not nervous. You lie back too, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the blankets, far enough that you're not touching. The ceiling is cracked. Water damage, maybe, or just age. You watch the shadows move across it, cast by the streetlight outside, and try not to think about how close he is. "Damian," you say.

"What."

"About the pool."

The silence that follows is deafening. You can hear his breathing change; the way it hitches, just slightly, before evening out again. "What about it," he says. His voice is flat. Careful.

"You know what."

"I don't."

"You almost kissed me."

He doesn't respond, so you turn your head to look at him. His profile is sharp against the pillow, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it holds the answers to every question he doesn't dare to ask. "You almost kissed me too," he says quietly. You can't deny it. You don't want to.

"So," you say. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

"It has to mean something."

"Does it?" He turns his head then, meets your eyes. The distance between you is small. Inches, maybe less. You can see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. "Can't it just... be?"

"That's not how things work."

"That's how I want them to work."

You stare at each other. The room is dark, the only light from the window, and it casts strange shapes across his face. Makes him look softer. You could get used to seeing him like this. "Okay," you say. "We don't have to figure it out tonight. But don't thank me yet. I'm still going to make fun of you for almost kissing me."

He groans, turning back to the ceiling. "I will strangulate you."

"Ohh, kinky." His head snaps toward you. His eyes are wide, his mouth open, and for a moment he looks genuinely shocked. Then his expression hardens, and you can see him fighting a smile. He doesn't respond. But when you close your eyes, you feel him shift on the mattress. Closer, this time. Not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him through the thin blankets. You fall asleep like that. Side by side, centimetres apart, the weight of everything unsaid settling around you.

Old habits die hard. That's what they say, anyway. You're not sure who "they" are though, probably the same people who say "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" and other lies people tell themselves to feel better about bad decisions.

The truth is simpler: you used to smoke. Not much. Not the kind of habit that had you sneaking out at midnight to buy packs from the corner store. Just occasionally, when things got loud in your head. When the walls of your apartment felt too close and your thoughts overwhelmed you and you needed something to do with your hands. You quit when you met Damian. Not because he asked, he didn't even knew. You just stopped. Because you didn't needed it anymore. Suddenly, the loud things were quieter. Because the walls didn't feel as close when you were with him. Because you had something better to do with your hands, like spray-painting on sewer walls and holding coffee cups on cold mornings and cupping his cheek. Well, that hasn't happened. Yet. The thing is, you didn't even miss smoking. Until today. The box is at the bottom of your closet, buried under old notebooks and a sweater you haven't worn since middle school. You're cleaning, because your mom made that face last week, the one that says "I love you but your room is a biohazard" and your hand closes around the familiar cardboard. You pull it out. Three packs. One of them open, two of them still sealed. You'd forgotten you had them. Forgotten the way the packaging looks, the way it feels in your hands, the way your fingers know exactly what to do. You should throw them away. You know you should throw them away. But you put them on your desk instead.

The first one is an accident. That's what you tell yourself. You're tidying, your hands are restless, and the pack is right there. Just one. Just to see if it still feels the same. If you still know how to do it. You crack the window, lie down on your bed. Light it. Inhale. It tastes like before. Like the person you used to be before Damian Wayne sat across from you in the cafeteria and asked for help being normal. You smoke it down to the filter, stub it out and stare at the ceiling. Then you light another one.

Damian notices the next day. You think you're being careful; you showered, you brushed your teeth, you wore a hoodie that hasn't been anywhere near your room since you found the packs. But Damian Wayne notices everything, and apparently he also has the nose of a bloodhound. You're sitting on the bench behind the gym, waiting for him to finish whatever he was doing inside, when he walks up and stops. Stops, he literally freezes. You look up. His expression is unreadable, but his nostrils flare slightly (just a twitch, just enough to notice) and his eyes narrow. "You smoked," he says.

You blink. "What?"

"You smoked. Yesterday. Or this morning." He steps closer, and you watch him observe your clothes, your hair, the way you're suddenly very interested in the ground. "The smell is faint. But it's there."

"I don't—"

"Don't lie to me." His voice is quiet. Not angry, but almost disappointed, and somehow that's worse. You've never seen him angry, but it's probably better than how he's looking at you.

You exhale. Run a hand through your hair. "It was just one cigarette. Yesterday. While I was cleaning."

"Don't lie. How many?"

You hesitate. His eyes don't leave your face. "...Two," you admit. He narrows his eyes. "Two and a half. The third one was mostly ash, I don't think it counts."

He stares at you. You stare back. The afternoon light is pale through the clouds, casting shadows across his face, and you can see him doing that thing: the calculation, the assessment, the quiet figuring-out of whatever problem you've just presented him with. "Give me one," he says.

Your brain short-circuits. "What?"

"Give me a cigarette."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because—" You stop. Start again. "Because they're bad for you. Because you're not— Damian, no."

He crosses his arms. Your jacket pulls across his shoulders, he's still wearing it, you notice, even though you told him to keep it weeks ago. "You have them. You're smoking them. Give me one."

"That's not how this works."

"How does it work, then?"

You stand up. Face him. You're close enough to see the slight tension in his jaw, the way his breathing has gone carefully controlled. "I was the reason you got arrested," you say. "I won't be the reason you get lung cancer."

His expression flickers. Something softens, just for a moment, before the mask slides back into place. "One cigarette won't give me lung cancer."

"One cigarette leads to two. Two leads to a pack. A pack leads to—"

"To what?"

"To me," you say. "To the person I used to be. And I don't want that for you." The words hang in the air between you. Heavy. Honest. More honest than you meant to be. Damian doesn't speak for a long moment. He just looks at you like he's trying to read something written in a language he's still learning.

"You quit," he asked. "When?”

"When I met you."

His eyes widen. Just a fraction, just enough to notice. "That was months ago."

"I know."

"You haven't smoked since then?"

"Not until yesterday."

"Why yesterday?"

You think about the question. About the loud things in your head, the walls of your apartment, the restless hands that didn't know what to do with themselves. About the box at the bottom of your closet and the person you used to be and the strange, uncomfortable feeling of being happy and not knowing what to do with it. "I don't know," you lie. He knows you're lying. You can see it in his eyes. But he doesn't call you out.

"You should throw them away," he says finally.

"I know."

"You won't."

"I know that too." You almost smile. But there's something in his voice that makes the joke feel wrong. Something that deserves better than deflection. "Damian," you say. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For being like this. For having stupid habits."

He's quiet for a moment. Then: "You're not the only person with habits they're not proud of." You look at him. His expression is guarded again, but almost understanding. "Give me the pack," he says.

You stare at him. "You're going to smoke them?"

"I'm going to dispose of them."

"I can throw them away."

"You won't. You'll put them back in your closet and find them again in three months and smoke another half a pack and feel guilty and the cycle will repeat." He holds out his hand. "Give them to me."

"You're very bossy."

"You're very stubborn."

"You—"

"Give. Me. The. Pack." You look at his outstretched hand. At his face. At the way your jacket fits him, the way he's wearing something of yours like it belongs to him now.

"I don't have it with me," you admit.

"Then bring it tomorrow." His voice is firm. Final. "You'll bring the pack. You'll give it to me. And you won't buy another one."

"You can't control what I do."

"I'm not trying to control you" His eyes soften. "I'm trying to keep you alive."

The words hit you somewhere soft. Somewhere you didn't know you had. "I'm not going to die from a few cigarettes," you say.

"No. But you might die from a few hundred. And I'd rather not find out." You just stand there, in the cold afternoon light, and let him look at you like you're something worth keeping alive. You bring the pack the next day. All three of them, the open one and the two sealed ones. You put them in a paper bag and hand them to him in the cafeteria, sliding across the table like you're making a drug deal. He takes the bag. Looks inside. His expression doesn't change. He sets the bag beside him on the bench, close to his body, like he's protecting it. Like he's afraid you might try to take it back. You won't. You already decided that last night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way he said 'I'm trying to keep you alive' because apparently for him, you're worth the inconvenience. "Promise me," he says. "That you won't smoke again."

You look at him. His green eyes are steady, serious, no trace of the almost-smile you've been collecting. "And if I can't?" you ask.

"Then I'll make you."

"How?" He doesn't answer. But his expression shifts and you realize he's not bluffing. He would find a way. He would follow you around, confiscate every pack you bought, sit on your fire escape at five in the morning and lecture you about lung capacity until you gave up. "Okay," you say. "I promise. No more."

He studies you for a long moment. Looking for the lie, probably. The evasion, the thing you're not saying. You're not lying. That's the strange part. You mean it. It's not like you even like smoking anyway. "Good," he says. Then he picks up the bag, walks to the nearest trash can, and drops the whole thing inside. You watch him do it. Watch the bag disappear into the bin, the cigarettes gone, the habit probably not, but the person you used to be is slipping further and further into the past.

"That was dramatic," you say when he comes back. "You're threw away perfectly good cigarettes."

"They weren't perfectly good. They were old. And stale. And bad for you."

"You're very responsible all of a sudden."

"I've always been responsible. You just haven't been paying attention."

You lean back in your seat, grinning at him. "I do pay attention."

"To what?"

"To you." His ears go pink. He looks away, but not before you catch the flicker of softness in his eyes. He doesn't respond. But when you look at him, you see the corner of his mouth twitch. That almost-smile. You're collecting them, you realize. Keeping them somewhere safe in your mind, somewhere the old you couldn't reach. "Thank you," you say quietly. "For caring. Even when I'm stupid."

His expression softens. Just a fraction. Just enough. "Someone has to," he says. And that's that.

"You want to go to a party," Damian says. His voice is flat, unimpressed, like you've just suggested something so offensive, like jumping off a cliff.

"Normal teenagers go to parties," you say, for the third time. You're leaning against his locker, watching him pack his bag. "It's Saturday. There's a party. Marcus invited me."

"Marcus."

"Guy I used to know."

Damian closes his locker and turns to face you. His expression is the one he wears when he's already decided something and is waiting for you to catch up. "I'm not going."

"Did I ask you to go?"

"You're about to."

"I'm not," you lie. "I'm just telling you about my plans. Informing you. Keeping you updated on my social calendar."

"You want me to come."

"I want you to do whatever you want."

"That's not true."

"Fine." You throw your hands up. "I want you to come. But I'm not going to beg."

"Good. Because I wouldn't say yes."

You stare at him. He stares back. His arms are crossed, his whole body radiating the particular stubbornness that you've come to recognize as his default state. "Fine," you say. "I'll go alone."

"Fine."

"Fine." You turn and walk away. You can feel his eyes on your back the whole time.

The party is exactly what you expected. Loud music, dim lights. Too many people in too small a space, all of them holding red cups and pretending they're having fun. You don't know why you came. You don't know why you thought this would be a good idea. Marcus is nowhere to be found, and the few people you recognize are too drunk to hold a conversation, and everywhere you look, you see couples pressed against walls, making out and grinding against each other. Or doing something else that you really don't want to see in a supposedly public space. You grab a drink. Something cheap, something that burns your throat on the way down, yet it doesn't help to not think about him. About Damian. About thinking that maybe if he was here, you'd be one of those couples. 'That'd gross him out, though' you think, because now apparently you know what he likes and what he doesn't.

An hour passes. Maybe two. You're standing in a corner, watching the chaos, when someone bumps hard into you and doesn't apologize. "Watch it," you mutter.

The guy turns. Tall, broad. The kind of build that comes from too much time in a gym and not enough time learning manners. His eyes are unfocused, and he's smiling in a way that makes your skin crawl. "What the hell did you say to me?"

"Nothin’. Forget it."

"No, no." He steps closer. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, cheap and sour. "I want to know what you said."

You should walk away. You know you should walk away. But Damian's not here. No one's here. And you're tired of being pushed around by people who think they're tougher than you. "I said fucking watch it," you repeat. This time slower, clearer. "You bumped into me. You didn't apologize."

His smile twists into something uglier. "You want an apology?"

"I want you to back up."

He doesn't back up. He steps closer, chest bumping yours, and his hand comes up to shove your shoulder. "Wait." He stops, looking at your eyes intensely. "Oh, I know you. You're Marcus's friend, right? The one that got his little friend k—"

After he mentioned your past, you don't think anymore. You just drop your empty cup and swing. Your fist connects with his jaw. It's a good hit, satisfying, but it doesn't do much except make him angry. He recovers fast, faster than you expected, and then his fist is connecting with your cheek, and the world goes white. You stumble. Catch yourself and punch again. He blocks it, hits you again. Your lip splits, you can feel your nose already bleeding. He's talking, but you're not hearing anything, except that he mentions the name of somebody you'd rather forget, something that just causes you to go even more feral. You can taste blood, copper and salt, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you're counting the hits. One. Two. Five. Eight. You get a few in yourself. His nose, his stomach, his ribs, you see his face bleeding, and your knuckles are now covered in blood. There are people watching, laughing, cheering, and no one is stepping in to help. You're on the ground before you realize you've fallen. His boot connects with your ribs, and you curl up, hands over your head, trying to protect the important parts. The kicking stops and you hear glass breaking. Shit. Shit, shit shit. You open your eyes, and now that guy has a broken beer bottle on his hand. You move on the floor.

"Hey—" A new voice. Sharp. Cold. The kicking stops. You look up and see Damian standing in the doorway of the living room. His eyes sweep the scene; the guy standing over you, the crowd watching, the blood on the floor and something in his expression shifts. It goes dark. "Get away from him," Damian says.

The guy laughs. "Or what?" Damian doesn't answer. He just moves.

You've never seen him fight before. Now, you can only see flashes. The way Damian flows around the guy's punches like water. The way his fists find soft spots: throat, solar plexus, kidneys. The way the guy goes down, hard, and doesn't get up. The room is silent, the people cheering shut. Damian turns to you, he's not even faced, his breath is even, his chest is not heaving. His knuckles are bloody. His eyes are wild, searching your face, cataloging the damage. "Can you stand?" he asks. You do, your ribs scream. Your knee buckles. Damian catches you before you fall, his arm around your waist, pulling you against him. "We're leaving," he says. You don't argue.

The run back to your apartment is a blur. You don't remember the streets, the alleys, the fire escape. You don't remember climbing the stairs and opening your window. You just remember Damian's hand on your back, steady and warm, and the way he kept saying your name like he was afraid you'd stop answering. Your apartment is empty. Your mom is working a late shift, she mentioned it this morning, something about overtime and bills and the particular exhaustion of being a single parent in Gotham. You're grateful. You don't want her to see you like this.

"Sit," Damian says.

"I'm fine." But you sit. On the edge of your bed, because the couch is buried under laundry and the kitchen chairs are wobbly and Damian is already opening your bathroom cabinet like he owns the place. "You don't know where anything is," you call.

"I know where you keep the first aid kit." You don't remember telling him. Before Damian can come out of the bathroom, you speak.

"How did you find me? I never told you where the party was." There's a moment of silence when he's finally returning with the kit, a small white box your mother brought years ago and never restocked. "You—" You stare at him. "You stalked me?"

"I protected you."

"Did you put a tracker on my phone without telling me?"

"Yes."

"You—" You stop. Process. "Okay, honestly? That's kind of hot."

His ears go pink. "We're not talking about that." You laugh. It comes out wrong, too loud, edged with something that isn't humor. The sound echoes off your room and disappears into the night. Damian watches you. His eyes are sharp despite the exhaustion. "We need to talk," he says.

"Do we?"

"You just fought a man twice your size." His voice is steady, but there's something underneath it. Something that sounds like barely contained fury. "Yes. We need to talk."

You look away, at your window. You can see the street lights flickering, a million stories unfolding in the dark. You tense your jaw. "There's nothing to talk about," you say, your tone is colder than anything Damian has heard of you.

"Bullshit." You blink. You've never heard him swear before, at least not like that, sharp and immediate and completely without filter.

"I'm sorry," you say. "Did Damian Wayne just say bullshit?"

"Don't change the subject." He takes a step toward you. Then another. "You could have died tonight," he says.

"I've almost died before."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"I didn't say it was okay. It just isn't new."

"Stop." His voice cracks on the word. Just slightly. Just enough for you to notice. He sits beside you on the bed, close enough that your knees touch, and pulls out antiseptic wipes and gauze and medical tape. You watch him as he works. His hands are steady cleaning the blood from your lip. His face is close to yours, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the furrow of concentration between his brows.

"It's not your fault," you say.

"It is. I let you go alone."

"I'm not a child, Damian. I can make my own decisions."

"Your decisions are terrible. You're doing what's easy. What's familiar. What you've always done."

"And you know me so well?"

"I know you better than you think."

"You don't know shit about me, Damian." Your voice rises, and you get up your bed. You can't help it. The alcohol, the fear, the fight, it's all spilling out, and you can't stop it. "You don't know where I came from. You don't know what I've done. You don't know the kind of person I was before—"

"I don't care."

"You should."

"I don't." He's in your space now, chest almost touching yours, chin tilted up to meet your eyes. "I don't care who you were. I don't care what you did. I care about who you are now. And who you are now is someone who deserves better than this."

"I'm dangerous, Damian. You don't understand—"

"I understand more than you think." He leans closer. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, wiping away a streak of blood. "I'm not a saint either. I'm probably worse than you."

You laugh. It comes out broken, not quite a laugh at all. "Pff. You? I doubt it."

"You don't know me. You know what I let you see." His voice is quiet now. Intimate. Like he's telling you a secret. "You don't know what I've done. The people I've hurt. The things I'm capable of." You open your mouth to speak, but he's quicker. "I'm telling you this so you understand." He's closer now. Close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, warm and steady. "You're not the only one with darkness. You're not the only one who's made mistakes. And you're not going to scare me away by pretending you're something you're not."

"I'm not pretending."

"Then stop pushing." His hand pushes you lightly, pressing against your chest. "Stop trying to protect me from yourself. I don't need protection. I need you."

The words hang in the air between you. Heavy. Fragile. Real. "I need you too," you whisper. The admission costs you something, some wall you've been building for years, some armor you've been wearing since before you can remember. "That's the problem."

"It's not a problem."

"It is when I'm going to ruin you."

"You won't."

"You don't know that, Damian." There's a moment of silence. "We shouldn't see each other anymore," you say.

His whole body goes still. "What?"

"You heard me." You look away. The wall is easier to look at than his face. "I'm not good for you. I've got you arrested, I’ve made you to vandalize, I almost made you smoke, and now you're hurt because of me after fighting with an idiot. You wanted to be normal, not a fucking criminal, and this will only continue to escalate. You don't know the things I've done. The people I've been involved with. The—"

"I don't care."

"You should care."

"I don't." He raises his voice, looking at you like something you're worth keeping. "You don't understand? I don't care who you were. I don't care what you did. I care about who you are now. And who you are now is someone I'm not going to let push me away." His words hit like punches. Each one landing, each one bruising, each one finding a target you didn't even know you had.

"You don't understand," you whisper.

"Then make me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

You run a hand through your hair, making it even messier, because you need to do something with your hands and because you don't know how to control your desperation. "Because—" Your voice breaks, you hate that it breaks. You hate that he's seeing you like this, raw, broken and nothing like the person you pretend to be. "Because if I tell you, you'll look at me differently. You'll realize what I really am. And you'll leave."

Damian goes very still. "Is that what you think?" he asks. "That I'll leave?"

"I know you will. Everyone does, in some way."

He stares at you. His expression is unreadable, closed off, guarded, the mask he wears when he's trying not to feel something. "You're an idiot," he says finally. His voice rises a little, but there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just something that sounds almost like defeat. "You're an idiot if you think I'm going anywhere." He comes closer, lifting his hand and cupping your cheek. You flinch, almost unnoticeable even for you, but not for Damian. His expression bitters.

"How? How can you possibly know that?"

"I know because I'm in love with you."

The world stops. Not metaphorically. Actually stops. The city, the apartment, the blood on your shirt, all of it fades to white noise, and there's only Damian. Damian with his bruised knuckles and his hand on your face like you're something precious. "Uh?" you breathe.

"I'm in love with you." He says it like it's simple. Like it's obvious. Like he hasn't just detonated a bomb in the middle of your chest. "I've been in love with you for weeks. Maybe longer. I don't know. I've never—" He stops. Swallows. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. And I'm terrified. Because you keep doing things like this. You keep putting yourself in danger. You keep acting like nothing matters, like you don't matter, and I can't— I can't—" He sighs, deeply, like he's trying to control something that's urging to flourish from his insides. "I can't lose you." His voice breaks, his eyes lower. For real this time, no hiding it. "I just found you. I can't lose you."

You stare at him. The boy who walked through the world like it personally offended him. The boy who climbed your fire escape at five in the morning to show you a sunrise. The boy who let himself get arrested so you wouldn't get hurt. He's in love with you. He is in love with you. He's in love with you. Oh holy shit he is in love with you. "Why?" The word comes out raw, cracked, nothing like you intended. "Why do you care so much? I'm nobody. I'm nothing. I'm a kid from the wrong part of town with a criminal record that makes stupid decisions and—"

"You're not nothing." His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away tears you didn't know you were crying. "You're the most everything person I've ever met. You're reckless, infuriating and you never take anything seriously and you make me want to be better than I am. You make me want to be normal. You make me want—" He stops. Swallows. His eyes are bright, wet, green as spring. "You make me want." he finishes.

The silence stretches. The city holds its breath. And you realize, somewhere in the chaos of your chest, that you've been in love with him too. You don't know when, or an exact moment. Your feelings are more like a virus that keeps growing and growing until you're completely sick and die. You'd die for this emotion. For him, for Damian. "Damian," you murmur. "You owe me a kiss," you say. "Since the pool." It's a joke. A stupid joke, the kind you always make when things get too real, the kind that fills the silence with something lighter. You're grinning when you say it, expecting him to roll his eyes, to scoff, to call you impossible. He does roll his eyes. Then he leans in and presses his lips to yours. It's soft, gentle. Nothing like the way he behaved in the party. His mouth is warm, lips slightly chapped, and the kiss tastes like the cheap alcohol you were drinking. He pulls back. You stare at his lips. Your brain has stopped working. Your lips are tingling. Your cheek doesn't hurt anymore, or maybe it does and you just can't feel it because every nerve in your body is focused on the space where his mouth just was. "I didn't think you..." you manage.

He raises an eyebrow. "You never think."

"That's—" You swallow, still staring at his lips. "Okay, I'll let you have that one. For now." You kiss him. This time it's not gentle, nor careful. It's the kind of kiss that happens when two people have been circling each other for weeks, months or forever, when the tension has built so high that the only release is collision. His lips are warm against yours, split lip be damned, and he makes a sound, a small, surprised sound that you swallow like oxygen. His hands slide from your face to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling you closer. You grab his shirt, the front of it, fisting the fabric like he might disappear if you let go. He kisses you back like he's been waiting his whole life for this. Like every moment before this was just practice. Like the world could end and he wouldn't notice as long as your mouth was on his. You break apart, gasping. "Again," you say. He doesn't argue, he kisses you again, even harder this time, deeper, his tongue sliding against your lower lip, and you moan. Actually moan, like a guy in a bad porn movie, and you'd be embarrassed if you could think about anything other than the way he tastes. Copper from your split lip. Something else underneath. Something that's just him. "Dami," you breathe against his mouth.

"Don't talk."

"Rude." He kisses you again to shut you up. It works. You let it work. He walks you to your bed, still kissing you. Your back hits the mattress, you don't remember lying down, don't remember pulling him with you, but now he's pressed against you, warm, solid and real. His hands are everywhere. Your face, your shoulders, your waist. Touching you like he's memorizing you, like he's afraid you'll disappear.

You gasp for air, and you slide your hands to his hips, and without asking, he kisses you again. And again. And again. Each kiss is different. Some are soft, almost tentative, like he's still not sure this is real. Some are fierce, demanding, his teeth catching your lower lip and damaging it even more in a way that makes your head spin. Some are somewhere in between, lingering, like he's trying to tell you something he doesn't have words for. You lose track of time. The city could burn down around you and you wouldn't notice. There's only Damian; his hands, his mouth, the way he says your name like it's the only word that matters. Finally (hours later, minutes later, you have no idea), you pull back just enough to look at him. His face is flushed. His lips are swollen. His eyes are bright and soft and nothing like the cold, calculating gaze he wears like armor. "Hi" you say.

"Hi."

"You're a really good kisser."

His ears go pink. "You're concussed."

"I'm a little concussed. I was also a little concussed thirty minutes ago when we started kissing, and I stand by everything I said."

He rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. That tiny, barely-there smile that you've been collecting like treasure. It's different now, though. Brighter. Freer. Like something's been unlocked. "We should probably talk about this," he says.

"Later." You kiss him again. Softer this time. Slow. A promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His breath is warm on your lips. His hand is still on your face, thumb tracing the edge of the bandage he put there. You smile. And in the dark of your room, with the city sleeping outside and the bandage on your cheek and Damian's weight warm against you, you close your eyes and let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserve this. "I'm glad you came to the party."

He snorts. "I didn't come to the party. I came to rescue you from your own stupid decisions."

"Same thing." You kiss him again, just because you can. Just because his lips are there and his hand is in your hair and the world feels smaller and larger and more bearable than it has in years. "Stay," you say.

"I was planning to."

"All night?"

"If you'll have me." You pull him closer, ignoring the protest of your ribs, and tuck his head under your chin. His breathing slows. His body relaxes against yours, tangling your legs with his.

The first thing you need to understand about Damian Wayne is that he walks through the world like it personally offended him. The second thing? He is incredibly soft when he cuddles.

Dick kills the engine. "You broke into an abandoned building, got caught by a security guard, and spent two hours in a holding cell. What did you expect?"

"Not this."

"This," Dick says, and there's something in his voice that's almost gentle, "is exactly what you should have expected. You're part of a family, Damian. Families notice when you get arrested."

"I wasn't arrested. I was detained."

"Semantics." Damian's jaw tightens. His clothes are still damp in places, his hair dried into something that probably looks ridiculous, and somewhere in the back of his mind he's still thinking about the pool. About the way you looked in the water and how you looked at his lips. About the moment before the guard's footsteps shattered everything. "You're thinking about him," Richard says.

"I'm thinking about how to survive the next hour."

"You're thinking about your friend." Dick's voice is careful. Neutral. "The one whose jacket you're still wearing."

Damian looks down. Your jacket (the one you left on the bench when you took his) is still draped over his shoulders. He'd grabbed it without thinking, some instinct driving him to hold onto something that smelled like you. Damp denim and spray paint. He pulls it off, folds it with precise, controlled movements. "I'll return it tomorrow."

Richard doesn't say anything. But he's smiling. Damian can hear it in his silence. "Don't," Damian says.

"I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking it."

"I'm thinking," Dick says, opening his door, "that you've never borrowed anyone's jacket before."

Damian gets out of the car. Slams the door. Walks toward the house with your jacket folded over his arm and his spine straight and his face set in the expression that usually makes people stop asking questions. It doesn't work on Dick.

It never works on him.

The sitting room is warm. The comfortable chaos of his family arranged across the couches like they've been waiting for this moment all night. Alfred is there too, standing by the door with a tray of tea that he sets down with the kind of deliberate calm that means he's been worried. Even Jason, who kind of hates staying in the Manor after patrol, is there. Damian stops in the doorway. The room goes quiet while everyone looks at him. Then Jason throws his head back and laughs. The kind of laugh that comes from somewhere deep, that echoes off the walls, that makes Tim wince and Cassandra's lips twitch and Dick press a hand over his mouth to hide his own smile.

"You're getting grounded," Jason sing-songs, gasping. "You're getting grounded for trespassing in a condemned building."

"It wasn't condemned," Damian says through his teeth.

"It was scheduled for demolition."

"The permits are still being disputed."

"Oh my God." Jason is crying now, actually crying, tears streaming down his face as he doubles over. Tim is trying very hard to look composed. He's failing. His shoulders are shaking, and he's hiding his face behind a book that is upside down. Cassandra has no such compunctions. She's watching him with bright, knowing eyes, and her smile is small but genuine. She doesn't say anything, she rarely does, but Damian thinks it's better this way. When she speaks, she usually says things Damian would rather not hear. He doesn't want to know what Cass thinks about this situation.

"It's not funny," Damian says.

"It's hilarious," Jason corrects. "You, of all people, got caught by a rent-a-cop in an empty building because you were— what, exactly? What were you even doing there?" Damian's mouth opens. Closes. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, and he hates it, hates the way his siblings are looking at him, hates that he can't explain. That he can't say ‘He was showing me the pool or he dared me to jump in or for one moment, I forgot to be careful’. "Oh shit," Jason says again, sitting up straight. His laughter cuts off abruptly. His eyes narrow. "Who were you with?"

"No one."

"You were with someone." Jason's grin is back, sharper now, predatory. "You got caught trespassing because you were with someone. And you're blushing."

"I am not blushing."

"You're the color of a tomato."

"I am not—"

"That's not your jacket. And it's a boy's." Tim's voice is not innocent. He's lowered the upside-down book, and his expression is the one he uses when he's solved a case and is waiting for everyone else to catch up.

Damian's grip tightens on the denim folded over his arm. "It's cold outside."

"It's February. Everything's cold outside."

"Then why are you asking questions you already know the answer to?"

Tim's smile is infuriating. "Because watching you squirm is entertaining."

Damian turns to Dick, who is supposed to be the reasonable one, who is supposed to have some sense of loyalty after driving them home without asking too many questions. Richard holds up his hands. "Don't look at me. I'm just the chauffeur."

"You're the one who told Father."

"I didn't tell Bruce anything. Alfred heard our call, he told Bruce. And Bruce told—" Dick gestures vaguely at the assembled siblings, "—everyone, apparently."

Damian closes his eyes. Takes a breath. Opens them. "Where is Father?"

"In his study," Alfred says quietly. "He asked to see you when you arrived." Damian does not want do hear whatever lecture his father prepared. Still, he squares his shoulders, turns, and walks toward the hall.

Behind him, Jason's voice follows: "Tell Bruce I want to hear about the boyfriend later!"

"He's not—" Damian stops. Spins. Jason is grinning, Tim is smirking and he can swear he heard Cass murmuring something like "cute". Dick has given up all pretense and is laughing openly.

"He's not what?" Jason asks. Damian turns on his heel and walks away before he says something he'll regret.

The study door is closed.

Damian stands outside it for exactly thirty seconds, a delay he will later justify as gathering his thoughts and not, under any circumstances, procrastinating. Then he knocks.

"Come in." Bruce's voice is calm. The voice he uses for board meetings and charity galas and every other situation where he needs to project control. Damian knows that voice. He's heard it a thousand times. He opens the door. Bruce is sitting behind his desk, reading something that he sets aside when Damian enters. The fire in the study is smaller than the one in the sitting room, the light lower, and for a moment Damian is reminded of being ten years old and standing in this same room, newly arrived, newly angry, waiting to be judged.

It's different now. He's different. But the weight in his chest is the same.

Bruce doesn't speak immediately. He looks at Damian and he forces himself not to fidget under the assessment. His clothes are still slightly damp. His hair is still a mess. He's holding a jacket that doesn't belong to him, and he knows Bruce has already noticed.

"Sit down," Bruce says. Damian sits. The chair across from the desk is leather, cold, familiar. "You were in a police station tonight."

"Yes."

"You were trespassing in a building that's private property. The security guard considered pressing charges."

"He decided not to."

"Because Richard convinced him otherwise." Bruce's voice is still calm, but there's an edge to it now. "And because the company that owns the building has better things to do than prosecute two teenagers for breaking into an empty pool."

Damian's jaw tightens. "It was my fault. I made the decision to go. I made the decision to stay when the guard caught me. If there's blame to assign, it belongs to me."

Bruce leans back in his chair. The firelight catches his face, shadows pooling under his eyes, and Damian is suddenly aware of how tired his father looks. How tired he always looks these days. "I'm not assigning blame," Bruce says. "I'm trying to understand."

"Understand what?"

"Why my son, who has been trained in infiltration and evasion since he could walk, got caught by a security guard in a condemned building."

Damian's hands curl into fists on his knees. "I was distracted."

"By what?" He can't say it. Can't say by you or by the way you laughed when you jumped into the water or by the moment he almost— Bruce watches him. The silence stretches. Damian has faced down assassins, terrorists, demons. He has stood in rooms where one wrong word meant death. But sitting in his father's study, with your jacket folded over the arm of his chair, he feels like a child.

"Your siblings seem to think you were with someone," Bruce says. "A friend."

"They're wrong."

"Are they?"

Damian looks at the fire. The flames are low, mostly embers now, glowing orange and red against the dark. He thinks about the pool. About the way the city lights reflected off the water. About the sound of your laugh when you surfaced, gasping and cold and so alive it made his chest ache. "They're not wrong," he admits.

Bruce's expression softens, the lines around his eyes easing, his shoulders dropping just slightly. "A friend from school?"

"I don't want to talk about him."

"You don't have to." Bruce pauses. "But you should know that Richard told me what happened. The security guard was going to hit him. You stepped in."

Damian's eyes snap to his father's face. "I didn't step in. I simply—"

"You surrendered." Bruce's voice is quiet. "You let yourself be caught so the guard wouldn't hurt him."

Damian's fists tighten. Bruce leans forward, elbows on his desk. "Damian. I'm not angry that you were caught. I'm not angry that you broke into a building, or that you went swimming in February, or that you spent two hours in a holding cell."

Damian stares at him. "Then what are you angry about?"

"I'm not angry at all."

"You—" Damian stops. Blinks. "You're not?"

Bruce's expression does something complicated. He looks at Damian for a long moment, and then he smiles. It's small, barely there, a quirk at the corner of his mouth that's gone almost as soon as it appears. "I asked you," Bruce says, "to be a normal teenager."

Damian's stomach drops. "Father—"

"I asked. And you said yes." Bruce sits back, and the smile is gone, but something warmer has taken its place. "I know that normalcy in Gotham means being charged with trespassing at least once. It's practically a rite of passage. Jason did it. Tim did it. Even Dick did it, back when he first came to live with us."

Damian's mouth opens. Closes. "Richard was arrested?"

"He was trying to stop a mugging in the Bowery and ended up on the wrong apartment. The police were not impressed with his explanation." Bruce's eyes are distant, remembering. "He was grounded for some days."

"I'm being grounded?"

"You're being grounded." Bruce says it like it's obvious. Like it's not the most humiliating thing that's happened to Damian since he arrived in Gotham. "A week. No patrol and no training. No leaving the manor except for school."

"A week."

"Seven days."

Damian stares at his father. The fire crackles. Somewhere in the house, he can hear Jason's laugh echoing through the halls, and he knows that his siblings are going to make this the longest week of his life."That's unreasonable," Damian says.

"It's parenting."

"I've faced global threats. I've fought alongside the Justice League. I've—"

"You've been learning how to be your age," Bruce's voice is firm, but there's something underneath it that sounds almost like amusement, "and part of being a normal teenager is getting grounded sometimes." Damian opens his mouth to argue, he has so many arguments, so many perfectly logical reasons why this is unnecessary, why his time is too valuable, why he should be exempt from this particular humiliation; but Bruce isn't finished. "You can still hang out with that boyfriend of yours, though."

The words hit Damian like a physical blow. His face goes hot. His hands go cold. And for one terrible, wonderful moment, he forgets how to speak. "He's not—" Damian's voice cracks. He clears his throat, glares at the fire, and tries again. "He's not my boyfriend."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Your siblings seem to think otherwise."

"My siblings are imbeciles."

"They seem to think you borrowed his jacket."

"I—" Damian looks at the denim folded on the arm of his chair. He'd forgotten it was there, for a moment. Forgotten how it smelled, how it felt when you draped it over his shoulders in the police station. "I was cold."

"Of course." Bruce's voice is perfectly neutral. "And the fact that you haven't let go of it since you walked in has nothing to do with anything." Damian looks down. His hand is resting on the jacket, fingers curled into the worn denim like it's something precious. He pulls his hand away, forces it to his side, and does not look at his father. "You're fortunate," Bruce says quietly, "that he wasn't here to hear your siblings."

Damian's head snaps up. "What?"

"Your siblings. The teasing." Bruce's expression is unreadable again, but there's something in his eyes that looks almost like sympathy. "They would have been relentless. And from what Richard tells me, your friend already had a long night."

Damian thinks about you in the police station. Your damp hair, your ruined jacket, the way you leaned against the wall and laughed like getting caught was the best thing that had happened to you all week. He thinks about the way you looked at him before you left, the way you said next time like it was a promise. He's glad you weren't here. Glad you didn't have to hear Jason's jokes, Tim's insinuations, the way Cassandra looks at him like she knows something he hasn't admitted yet.

"I will return the jacket," Damian says.

Bruce nods. "That would be appropriate."

There's a silence. Damian doesn't move. He should leave. He's been dismissed, effectively, and there's nothing left to say. But his father's words are still echoing in his head, and there's something he needs to know. "Father," Damian says slowly. "When you said I could still see them. Did you mean—"

"Yes." Bruce's voice is quiet. Certain. "Whoever he is, whatever he is to you, you don't have to hide it. Not from me."

Damian stares at him. For a moment, he's not sure what to say. Not sure how to process the weight of those words, the permission they contain, the trust he's being offered. He stands. Picks up your jacket. Holds it close to his chest without meaning to. "Thank you," he says. The words feel strange in his mouth. He doesn't say them often. Not to Bruce.

Bruce nods. There's something in his expression now that Damian has only seen a few times; pride, maybe, or something close to it. "Get some sleep. You have school tomorrow."

"And a week of grounding."

"And a week of grounding," Bruce confirms, and this time he doesn't hide the smile. It's small, barely there, but it's real. "Welcome to normalcy, Damian."

Damian turns toward the door. His hand is on the handle when Bruce speaks again.

"Damian." He stops. Doesn't turn. "He seems like a good friend. I'm glad you have that." Damian's grip tightens on the door handle. His chest is tight and warm and entirely unfamiliar. He thinks about your laugh, your recklessness, the way you looked at him in the pool like he was something worth seeing.

"He's insufferable," Damian says. "Reckless. Impulsive. He has no sense of self-preservation and a complete disregard for authority."

"That sounds difficult."

"It is." Damian pulls the door open. The hallway is dark, quiet, the sounds of his siblings muffled by the walls. "He's also the best person I've ever met." He doesn't wait for a response. He walks down the hall, your jacket pressed against his chest, and he doesn't look back.

The hallway outside his room is occupied. Jason is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, grin firmly in place. Tim is beside him, pretending to check his phone but clearly listening. Cassandra is sitting on the floor, back against the wall, her eyes bright and knowing. Richard is at the end of the hall, trying very hard to look like he wasn't waiting.

Damian stops. Regards them. "Don't you all have somewhere to be?"

"Nowhere nearly as interesting as here," Jason says. "How'd it go? Did Bruce give you the 'I'm not angry, I'm disappointed' speech? Did he mention the boyfriend? He mentioned the boyfriend, didn't he. I bet he mentioned the boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Sure he isn't." Jason pushes off the wall, circling Damian like a shark. "That's why you let yourself get caught."

"I didn't let myself get caught."

"You absolutely let yourself get caught." Jason's grin is sharp. "You could have taken that guard in two seconds. Instead, you stood there and let him grab you. Because your boyfriend was there. Because you didn't want him to get hurt."

Damian's jaw tightens. He can feel the truth of it settling in his chest, heavy and undeniable.

"So what if I did?" he says, and his voice is quieter than he intended. The hallway goes still. Tim looks up from his phone. Damian doesn't explain. He doesn't defend. He just stands there, holding your jacket, and lets them see what he's been hiding for weeks. Cassandra is the first to move. She rises from the floor, crosses the space between them, and looks at him with those eyes that see everything.

"Good." She says. "You deserve good."

Damian's throat tightens. He nods, once, and she steps back.

Jason clears his throat. "Okay," he says, and his voice is different now. Less sharp. "Okay. So. Not your boyfriend. Yet. But he could be. And when he is—" He points at Damian, "—I get to say I told you so."

"You can't tell me "I told you so" if you haven't said anything to begin with."

"I'm telling you now. You're going to date him. It's inevitable. I've seen the way you look at that jacket."

Damian groans and takes a breath. "I'm going to my room."

He pushes past them, down the hall, toward the door at the end. Behind him, he hears Tim's voice: "He didn't deny it."

"He can't," Dick says, "You should have seen the way they looked at each other in the police station.”

Damian closes his door. Leans against it. He looks at the jacket in his hands and then hangs it on the back of his desk chair. Sits on the edge of his bed. The house settles around him; his father in the study, his siblings in the hallway, Alfred somewhere in the kitchen preparing for tomorrow. And somewhere across the city, you're probably in your apartment, your own room, your own bed, wearing his jacket because he left it with you.

He should text you. Make sure you got home okay. Make sure your mother wasn't too upset. His phone is in his hand before he can think about it. The screen glows in the dark. Your name is at the top of his messages, the last text from hours ago: Don't worry about it. I'll see you tomorrow.

He types: I have your jacket. He stares at it for a moment. Deletes it. Types again: I'm grounded for a week. That's not right either. He deletes it, pockets the phone, and lies back on his bed.

The ceiling is dark. The house is quiet. And somewhere in his chest, something warm is spreading, something he doesn't have a name for but recognizes anyway. He's grounded. He's in trouble. His siblings will never let him live this down, and his father is probably still smiling in his study, and tomorrow he has to go to school and see you and pretend that nothing happened in that pool.

He smiles. He can't help it. It's small, barely there, the same smile his father wears when he thinks no one is looking.

He falls asleep with your jacket hanging on his chair and your name on his lips, and tonight is one of those rare nights where Damian Wayne dreams instead of having nightmares.

You’ve noticed it before, in the narrow halls of Gotham Academy, in the way he holds his shoulders, too straight, too rigid— like a soldier expecting an ambush. He doesn’t slouch. He doesn’t laugh at the wrong times. He doesn’t lean against lockers with that particular brand of careless ease that everyone else seems to have been born with. He’s been here for a few months now, and the rumors have already spread: weird, they whisper. Stuck-up. Freak. Probably got kicked out of some fancy European school for choking a kid. You’ve heard them all. You’ve contributed to exactly none of them, but you’ve also done nothing to stop them, because frankly, you’ve been busy being your own brand of problem.

So when he slides into the seat across from you in the cafeteria on Tuesday, you’re more amused than surprised. He doesn’t have a tray. He doesn’t even pretend to be here for the slop the principal calls food. He just sits straight-backed, green eyes fixed on you with an intensity that would make a lesser person squirm. You lean back in your chair, feet up on the table, and let a grin spread across your face. “The Wayne Heir. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His jaw tightens. You can practically see him counting to ten in his head. “I have a proposition.”

“Proposition,” you repeat, drawing the word out. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

“Neither.” He pauses. “I merely need... assistance.”

You let your feet drop from the table. Not because you’re taking him seriously, well, maybe a little— but because this is already more interesting than anything that’s happened to you in the last two months of school. “Assistance,” you echo. “From me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” You prop your chin on your hand, studying him with a huge smirk on your face. Up close, you can see the sharp lines of his face, the way his hands are perfectly still on the table, the faint calluses on his knuckles that don’t quite match a rich boy’s lifestyle. “What kind of assistance, exactly?”

He exhales through his nose. “My father has expressed… concern. Regarding my ability to integrate with my peers.”

You blink. Then you laugh. A short, sharp bark of sound that earns you a few glances from nearby tables. “Your daddy thinks you don’t have any friends?”

“That is not—” He stops, visibly restraining himself. “He believes I should behave more like a normal teenager.”

The way he says it, like the words are foreign, like they taste bad in his mouth just makes your grin widen. “And you came to me.”

“You are,” he says, and now his jaw moves like he’s chewing glass, “widely considered to be a normal teenager.”

You actually snort at that. “Me?”

“By certain metrics.”

“What metrics?”

“The metrics my father uses.”

You stare at him for a long moment. The cafeteria noise hums around you; the clatter of trays, the distant sound of someone’s laugh, the thrum of two hundred teenagers pretending they’re not all looking at the Wayne heir sitting with the known delinquent. “So,” you say slowly. “Let me get this straight. Bruce Wayne told his son to act like a normal teenager. And his son, Damian Wayne, came to me, the guy with the reputation for getting expelled, arrested, and cycling through girls like they’re library books, to teach him how to be normal.”

He doesn’t flinch. “That is an accurate summary.”

You lean forward, suddenly very, very interested. “You know what I think?”

“I imagine you’re going to tell me regardless.”

“I think,” you say, dropping your voice to something just above a whisper, “that you picked the right person. But probably not for the reasons you think.”

His eyes narrow. “Explain.”

You stand up, grabbing your tray. He doesn’t move, just watches you with that hawk-like focus, and you wonder if he realizes how funny this is. The great Damian Wayne, heir to a fortune, son of the most powerful man in Gotham, asking you for lessons in normalcy. “Meet me after school,” you say, already turning away. “Behind the gym.”

“I don’t follow orders.”

You look back over your shoulder, letting your grin sharpen into something a little dangerous. “Then consider it a suggestion. From your new normal-teacher.” You don’t wait for his answer. You just walk, dumping your tray with the rest of the trash, feeling his eyes on your back the whole way out of the cafeteria.

Behind you, you hear the faint screech of a chair being pushed back. He’s going to show up. You’d bet your entire questionable reputation on it.

He’s already there when you arrive.

Leaning against the brick wall behind the gym, arms crossed, looking like he’s doing you a favor by breathing the same air. The afternoon light catches the green in his eyes, turns them sharp and unreadable. You stroll up with your hands in your pockets, taking your sweet time. “You came.”

“I’m here,” he says flatly. “What’s your plan?”

“Plan?” You lean against the wall next to him, close enough to be annoying, far enough to dodge if he swings. He’s got the look of someone who might. “There’s no plan. That’s the first lesson.”

His eyebrow twitches. “That’s not a lesson. That’s an absence of one.”

“Exactly.” You turn to face him fully, spreading your hands. “You want to be normal? You gotta stop planning everything. Stop calculating. Stop looking at people like they’re targets and start treating them like… I don’t know, like they’re mildly interesting and you’ve got nothing better to do.”

“That’s not how I do things.”

“It’s normal.” He stares at you. You stare back. The silence stretches, and you can see him turning the words over in his head, dissecting them, looking for the trap. “You think I’m lying,” you say.

“I think you’re presenting a simplified version of a complex social dynamic.”

“I think,” you say, and you push off the wall, stepping into his space just to see if he’ll move. He doesn’t, of course, he just holds his ground like a goddamn statue, “that you’re overthinking it. Normal teenagers don’t think about social dynamics. They show up late to class. They skip lunch to vape in the parking lot. They do stupid shit because it’s funny, not because it’s strategic.”

“And you believe this constitutes a worthwhile existence?”

“I believe,” you say, and now you’re close enough to see his pupils contract “that it beats whatever you’ve been doing.”

Something flickers in his expression. Not anger, exactly. Something closer to… confusion. Like you’ve said something that doesn’t compute. You step back, giving him room to breathe. “Lesson one: we’re ditching first period on Friday.”

His eyes narrow. “Absolutely not.”

“Your dad said act like me. Problematic kids ditch class.”

“My father did not— we’re not ditching class.”

You shrug, already walking backward toward the parking lot. “Suit yourself. But if you want to learn how to be a normal teenager, you’re gonna have to do some abnormal things. That’s the secret.”

“That’s a contradiction.”

“That’s life, Wayne.” You turn, waving a hand over your shoulder. “Friday. Parking lot. Don’t be late.” You don’t hear him follow. But you also don’t hear him say no. And in your experience, silence is just a yes that hasn’t admitted itself yet.

Friday morning, you’re leaning against a car in the senior parking lot, tossing a lighter between your fingers and pretending you don’t see the sleek black sedan that pulls in three spaces down. The door opens. Damian Wayne gets out, looking like he would rather be dead. He spots you immediately, and you watch him visibly brace himself before walking over.

“You’re early,” you say.

“You’re earlier.”

“I’m always early. Keeps people guessing.” You pocket the lighter, pushing off the car. “Ready to become a menace?”

His expression goes flat. “I agreed to ditch class. Not to become a… what did you call it?”

“A menace. A scourge. A public nuisance.” You spread your arms wide. “All the best things a teenager can be.”

“I don’t want to be a public nuisance.”

“Sure you don’t.” You’re already walking toward the street, not bothering to check if he’s following. He is. “But here’s the thing, Wayne. You came to me. And my brand of normal isn’t studying for SATs and joining the debate team. My brand of normal is doing exactly what everyone’s too scared to do and making it look easy.”

“Your brand of normal,” he says, catching up to you, “appears to consist primarily of violating school policy.”

“See? You’re learning already.” You lead him off campus, down the block, past the coffee shop where the art kids hang out, past the comic store where the nerds spend their lunch money, past the crumbling apartment buildings that bleed into the nicer part of town. He follows silently, and you can feel his eyes cataloging everything; every street sign, every person, every possible threat.

It’s a little weird. But then again, everything about Damian Wayne is a little weird. You stop at the edge of Robinson Park, where the old maintenance shed sits boarded up and forgotten. There’s a gap in the fence you discovered last year, just big enough to slip through, and you gesture for him to follow. He doesn’t move. “You brought me to a park.”

“I brought you to the good part of the park. The part where the groundskeeper gave up five years ago and now it’s just… ours.”

“Ours?”

“Mine,” you amend. “But you’re welcome to it. For today.” You slip through the gap, and after a beat of hesitation, he follows. The shed is half-collapsed, covered in graffiti, surrounded by overgrown grass and the remains of what might have once been a vegetable garden. There’s a beat-up bench you dragged out here months ago, and you drop onto it like you own the place. Damian stands in the middle of the clearing, looking around like he’s not sure whether to be disgusted or impressed.

“This is where you go,” he says slowly, “when you skip class.”

“This is where I go when I need to think.” You pull a pack of gum from your jacket, offer him a piece. He stares at it like it might explode. “Relax. It’s just gum.”

He takes it. Doesn’t unwrap it, just holds it between his fingers like a foreign object. “You don’t actually do anything.”

“I’m doing something right now.”

“You’re sitting.”

“I’m existing. That’s the second lesson.” You pop a piece of gum in your mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness. “Teenagers don’t need a reason to exist. They just do. They hang out. They waste time. They do nothing, and they’re fine with it.”

Damian’s jaw tightens. “I am fine.”

“You’re standing in the middle of an abandoned park like you’re waiting for a sniper to take a shot.”

He looks down at his feet, and for a moment you see something crack in that perfect facade. “I don’t know how to do nothing,” he says quietly. That's probably the most honest thing he has ever said.

You pat the bench next to you. “Then learn.”

He stares at the space beside you like it’s a trap. Maybe it is. But after a long, tense moment, he walks over and sits. His posture is still too straight. His hands are still folded in his lap like he’s at a formal dinner. But he’s here. At least he’s trying. You lean back, looking up at the sky through the gaps in the shed roof, and let the silence stretch. “You know,” you say eventually, “when you came to me, I thought you’d want the full experience. Keying cars. Spray-painting the gym. Maybe a little light arson.”

“Arson?”

“Kidding. Mostly.” You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “But you really just want to be... normal?”

He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is different. “My father wants me to be normal. He thinks… he thinks if I can just act like everyone else, then maybe—” He cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut like he’s said too much.

“Maybe what?”

“Nothing.”

You don’t push. That’s another lesson, one you learned the hard way: people tell you what they want you to know, and trying to force the rest just makes them clam up. Instead, you stretch out your legs, let your head fall back, and say, “Okay. Here’s the deal. I’ll teach you how to be a normal teenager. But we do it my way.”

His head turns, eyes sharp again. “What’s your way?”

“You don’t ask questions. You don’t plan. You will just follow my lead.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You want to learn or not?”

The silence that follows is thick enough to cut. You can practically hear him arguing with himself, weighing options, calculating risks. The way his brain works is almost funny, like every decision is a chess move. Finally, he says, “I reserve the right to object if your methods are excessively dangerous.”

“Deal.” You hold out your hand. He looks at it like you’ve offered him a dead fish. Then, slowly, he takes it. His grip is firm. You notice the calluses again, rough against your palm, and you wonder for the hundredth time what Damian Wayne does in his spare time that leaves his hands like that.

You don’t ask. That’s not part of the deal.

“One condition,” you say, letting go.

“I thought I was the one reserving rights.”

“This is a small condition. Very small. Tiny, even.” You grin, and you know it’s the grin that makes teachers nervous, the one that says I’m about to do something stupid and you’re not going to stop me. “You have to call me by my first name.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You heard me. You keep looking at me like I’m a suspect in an interrogation. If we’re gonna do this, we’re doing it as peers. Equals. People who ditch class together and don’t call each other by their last names like they’re in a period drama.”

His expression flickers between offense and something that might, possibly, be amusement. It’s hard to tell with him. “That’s your condition?”

“That’s my condition.”

He stares at you for a long, considering moment. The afternoon light filters through the gaps in the roof, catching in his eyes, turning them a shade of green that’s almost unfair. “Fine,” he says, and your name sounds strange in his mouth, like he’s tasting it, testing it, deciding whether it fits. “Then you call me Damian.”

“Damian,” you repeat, drawing it out. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He makes a sound that might be a scoff, might be something else. “Don’t push your luck.”

You lean back on the bench, arms behind your head, and let yourself grin at the ruined roof of the maintenance shed. “Oh, Damian,” you say, and you watch him tense at the casual use of his name, like he’s not sure how to feel about it. “Pushing my luck is the whole point.”

The thing about Damian Wayne is that he’s too observant for his own good. You notice it on the walk to the train station, the way his eyes track every shadow, every corner, every person who glances at you a little too long. He walks like he owns the street, shoulders back, chin up, like the crumbling buildings and flickering streetlights are beneath his notice. But you see the way his fingers curl at his sides. The way his breathing stays measured, controlled. He’s not scared. You’re pretty sure Damian Wayne doesn’t get scared. But he’s alert. And alert in this part of Gotham is smart.

“Where are you taking me?” he asks for the third time since you got off the train.

“Told you. A place.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.” He makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh. You’re starting to recognize that sound. It’s the one he makes when he’s deciding whether to argue or endure. Today, apparently, he’s choosing endurance. Smart boy. You lead him through streets that don’t have names anymore, past boarded-up storefronts and buildings that should have been condemned a decade ago. The graffiti here is thicker, angrier; territory markers and memorials and messages you’ve learned to read but never repeat. Damian notices them too. You catch him watching the tags, the symbols, the ones that look fresh.

“You come here often,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Often enough.”

“To do what?”

You stop in front of a storm drain set into the sidewalk, half-hidden by a broken shopping cart someone dragged over. The grate is rusted, the lock on it newer; a padlock you know the combination to, because you’re the one who put it there. “To do this,” you say, crouching down and spinning the dial.

Damian stares at the grate. Then at you. Then back at the grate. “You’re taking me into the sewers.”

“The tunnels,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“One smells worse.” You pop the lock, lift the grate, and drop down without waiting for his response. The ladder is cold and damp under your hands, the darkness below swallowing you up to your knees before your feet find the first rung.

Above you, Damian hesitates. You can’t see his face from here, but you can imagine it; the war between his need for control and whatever strange curiosity has kept him following you for the past hour. “Coming?” you call up. A beat of silence. Then the scuff of shoes on concrete, and he’s climbing down after you.

The tunnel at the bottom is wide enough to walk side by side, curved ceiling dripping condensation, the air thick with the smell of damp and rust and something older. Your flashlight cuts a narrow path through the dark, illuminating walls covered in decades of graffiti. Layers upon layers of paint and memory, some of it beautiful, some of it raw but all of it yours. Well. Not yours, exactly. But you know this place. You’ve walked these tunnels enough times to map them in your sleep. “This way,” you say, and you start walking. Damian follows. His footsteps are nearly silent. You notice that, file it away with the calluses and the too-straight posture and the way he looked at the fresh gang tags like he was reading a language he shouldn’t know.

“How did you find this place?” he asks after a few minutes of walking.

“Explored.”

“You explored the Gotham sewer system.”

“I get bored.” You glance back at him, flashlight beam catching the sharp lines of his face. “What, you’ve never gone somewhere you weren’t supposed to?”

His expression does something complicated. “Not for recreational purposes.”

“What purposes, then?” He doesn’t answer. You let it drop. The tunnel opens up after another hundred feet, widening into a space that shouldn’t exist; an old maintenance hub, maybe, or a forgotten piece of the city’s bones. The ceiling is high enough to echo, the walls stretching up into darkness, and everywhere you look there’s color.

You stop at the entrance, letting Damian take it in. The walls are covered. Every inch, from floor to where the light stops reaching, is layered in paint. There’s a massive piece on the far wall; a woman’s face, half in shadow, one eye spilling paint down the concrete like tears. Beside it, a bird made of fire, wings spread across two panels. Above, constellations you made up on a night when you couldn’t sleep, stars connected by lines that don’t follow any real pattern. And everywhere, in between, smaller things. Hands reaching. A city skyline melting into water. Words in languages you don’t even speak.

Damian has gone very still beside you. You don’t look at him. You don’t want to see whatever expression he’s wearing right now, the judgment, the curiosity or the pity. You brought him here because it was the next lesson. That’s what you tell yourself. “You made this,” he says.

“Some of it.” You walk forward, letting your fingers brush against a dragon you painted last winter, its scales still holding their shine. “Other people added. It’s… a shared space. Sort of.”

“Sort of.”

“You don’t get to keep secrets in a place like this.” You turn to face him, flashlight beam at your feet now, casting strange shadows across your face. “People find it. People add to it. And eventually, people move on, and someone else finds it, and the cycle starts over.”

Damian’s eyes are moving across the walls, cataloging. You watch him take in the bird made of fire, the constellations, the hands reaching from the dark. His expression is unreadable, but his hands have uncurled from their usual fists. They hang loose at his sides now, fingers slightly spread, like he’s resisting the urge to reach out and touch. “Why did you bring me here?” he asks.

“Next lesson.” You pull two cans of spray paint that were previously hidden in a crate behind a support beam and toss one to him. He catches it one-handed, reflexes sharp. “Normal teenagers do graffiti.”

He winces, looks at the can in his hand. “Graffiti is vandalism.”

“Graffiti is art.”

“It’s illegal.”

“So is ditching class. So is trespassing. So is—” you gesture vaguely at the tunnels around you, “—probably half the things you’ve done to get those calluses on your hands.”

His head snaps up. For a moment, something sharp flashes in his eyes, gone before you can name it. You hold up your hands, palms out. “Not asking. Deal’s a deal.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he looks down at the spray can again, turning it over in his hands, reading the label. “You just carry these around.”

“In my jacket. Yeah.”

“In case you spontaneously decide to vandalize property.”

“In case inspiration strikes.” You shake your own can, the rattle of the mixing ball loud in the enclosed space. “Come on. There’s a blank wall in the back. I’ve been saving it.”

You lead him deeper into the space, past the woman with the tear-stained eye, past the burning bird, past a piece you recognize as someone else’s: a skeleton wearing a crown with its jaw open in a silent scream. The blank wall is at the far end, a rough rectangle of gray concrete surrounded by color, waiting. You gesture at it. “Go on.”

Damian doesn’t move. “I don’t know how.”

“Nobody knows how the first time. That’s the point.”

“You expect me to just... paint.”

“I expect you to try.” You lean against the wall beside the blank space, arms crossed. “No one’s watching. No one’s judging. Whatever you make, it stays here. Or someone paints over it next week. Either way, it doesn’t matter.”

“If it doesn’t matter, why do it?” You look at him for a long moment. The flashlight between you casts his face in half-light, shadows pooling under his cheekbones, his jaw, the sharp line of his brow. He looks young, suddenly.

“If we're going to die,” you say. “why do we live?” Something shifts in his expression. You watch him look at the blank wall, then at the can in his hand, then at the walls around him. He steps forward. You don’t watch him at first. You turn away, busying yourself with your own can, picking a spot on the opposite wall that’s been bothering you for months. You shake the can, pop the cap, and start painting.

The hiss of spray paint fills the space. It’s a familiar sound, comfortable in the way that only secret things can be. You lose yourself in it for a while, adding depth to shadows, sharpening edges, fixing the curve of a line that’s been wrong since winter. You’re so focused that you almost don’t notice when the sound behind you changes. Almost. You turn slowly, not wanting to spook him, and— Damian Wayne is painting. And he’s good as fuck. The blank wall is no longer blank. A shape is taking form under his hands. Something organic, fluid, lines curving and twisting in ways that shouldn’t work but do. He’s working fast, confident, his movements precise in a way that has nothing to do with spray paint and everything to do with years of practice. You watch him add a line of white, then step back, assessing. His head tilts, the same way it does when he’s solving a problem in class, but softer somehow. Less like he’s preparing for battle.

“You’ve done this before,” you say.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away from the wall. “I’ve taken art classes.”

“Art classes don’t teach you to paint with spray cans.”

A pause. His hand lowers slightly. “My family believes in a well-rounded education.” You want to ask. God, you want to ask. What kind of family teaches the youngest member to paint graffiti? What kind of life leaves a sixteen-year-old with calluses like his and eyes like his and hands that move like they’ve held more than a spray can a hundred times before? But you made a deal. You don’t ask. So instead, you walk up beside him and look at what he’s making.

It’s a bird. It’s wings spread wide, feathers layered in shades of blue and black and deep, deep green, edges sharpening into points that seem to cut through the concrete. The head is turned to the side, one eye fixed on something outside the frame, and there’s something in that eye, something fierce, something defiant, something that looks like it’s daring the world to look away. It’s beautiful. It’s also, you realize, the same bird you painted on the far wall. The one made of fire. “It’s not finished,” he says, and there’s something almost defensive in his voice.

“It’s incredible,” you say. He looks at you then, and for a moment you see something behind those green eyes that you’ve never seen before. Not arrogance. Not calculation. Something that looks almost like hope. Then it’s gone, and he’s Damian Wayne again, shoulders back, chin up, the mask sliding back into place.

“It’s adequate,” he says.

You laugh, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. “Adequate. Right.”

He frowns at you. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.” You shake your head, still grinning. “Just— you. You’re something else, Damian.”

His frown deepens, but there’s something in his eyes now that wasn’t there before. Something lighter. Something almost like warmth. “You’re one to talk,” he says. “You brought me to the Gotham sewers to teach me how to vandalize.”

“Normal teenagers do graffiti.”

“Normal teenagers don’t have secret underground art galleries.”

You glance around at the painted walls, the stacked crates, the hidden space you’ve been building for longer than you care to admit. “It’s not a gallery.”

“What is it, then?”

You think about it. About the nights you’ve spent here, alone with your thoughts and your paint. About the people who’ve come and gone, leaving pieces of themselves on the walls. About the way it feels to create something that doesn’t have to be good or bad or anything at all, just yours. “A place.” you say finally. Damian looks at you for a long moment. Then he turns back to his bird, picks up the can again, and starts adding detail to the feathers. You watch him for a few seconds more, then go back to your own wall.

You paint for hours, or maybe minutes. It's hard to tell down here, where time moves differently. The only sounds are the hiss of paint and the distant drip of water somewhere in the dark. It’s comfortable in a way you didn’t expect. When you finally step back to look at your work, you’ve added something new to the unfinished shape: a small bird, dark against the light, wings folded, watching. Behind you, Damian sets down his can with a soft clink. You turn to look. His bird is finished. And it’s stunning. Wings spread wide, feathers sharp, that fierce eye fixed on the horizon. It’s the kind of piece that makes you want to look away and stare forever, all at once.

“Well?” he says, and there’s something almost nervous in his voice. Almost.

“You’re good,” you say. “Really good.”

He doesn’t preen. Doesn’t boast. Just looks at the wall with an expression you can’t quite read.

His head turns toward you. In the low light, his eyes are almost luminous, green and sharp and something else underneath. “You think so?”

“I know so.” You walk up beside him, close enough to see the individual layers of paint, the way he’s built the feathers from dark to light, the tiny flecks of silver he’s added to the edges. “This is passion. Type of thing you do because you can not.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he looks at you again, this time the mask doesn’t come back. You see him for the first time. The boy who walks through school like he’s waiting for an attack. The boy who asked you, of all people, to teach him how to be normal. “Why are you helping me?” he asks. “You don’t know me. You have no reason to trust me.”

You think about the question. About all the reasons you shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have brought him here, shouldn’t be standing in a sewer tunnel looking at a piece of art that makes your chest ache. “Because you asked,” you say. “And because nobody ever asks me for help with anything.”

He blinks. Something in his expression shifts, softens, becomes something you don’t have a name for. “Thank you,” he says. It’s quiet. Earnest. Nothing like the sharp-edged boy who sat across from you in the cafeteria.

You shrug, looking away. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m supposed to be teaching you how to be a menace, remember? Painting in sewers is step one. Step two is actual vandalism.”

“I’m not committing vandalism.”

“You literally just did.”

He looks at the bird on the wall. Then back at you. And for the first time since you met him, Damian Wayne smiles. It’s small. Barely there. A twitch at the corner of his mouth that’s gone almost as soon as it appears. But you see it.“One piece of graffiti,” he says, “does not make me a criminal.”

“Give it time.” You pick up your paint cans, start gathering your things. “We’ve got all semester.”

He doesn’t argue. He just picks up his own can, checks the cap, and looks at the wall again. “Next time,” he says, “I want to paint something bigger.”

You stop what you’re doing. Look at him. He’s still looking at the wall, but his profile is sharp in the low light, jaw set, eyes bright. He looks like he’s planning something. Like he’s already thinking about the next piece, the next wall, the next thing he can make.

You grin. “Bigger,” you repeat. “Now we're talking.”

He glances at you, and there’s that almost-smile again, hiding in the corner of his mouth. “Don’t look so pleased. I’m still not committing actual vandalism.”

“Sure you’re not.”

“I’m not.”

“Whatever you say, Dames.”

You lead him back through the tunnels, retracing your steps through the dark. The flashlight beam bounces off walls covered in color, and you find yourself looking at them differently tonight. Like they’re not just paint on concrete. Like they’re something alive.

Behind you, Damian walks a little closer than he did on the way in. At the ladder, he stops. You’re already halfway up when he says your name, quiet in the dark. You look down. He’s standing at the bottom, face tilted up, the flashlight from above catching his features in strange ways. “This place,” he says. “You shouldn’t show it to anyone else.”

It’s not a threat, nor a warning. It’s something else. Something that sounds almost like concern.

“Why not?”

He holds your gaze for a moment. Then he looks away, climbing the ladder past you, and you have to press yourself against the rungs to let him through. “Because it’s yours,” he says as he passes, voice close to your ear. “And some things should stay that way.” He’s up and out before you can respond. You stand on the ladder for a moment, flashlight dangling from your wrist, the dark of the tunnel pressing in around you.

Then you climb out, close the grate, and follow him back into the light.

The first time Damian Wayne knocks on your window, you genuinely consider throwing a shoe at his head. It’s five in the morning. Five. In the morning. The sun hasn’t even started thinking about rising, the city is still doing its best impression of a corpse, and you’re pretty sure you’ve been asleep for approximately forty-five minutes after spending the night finishing a guitar piece that’s been living in your head for weeks.

The knock comes again. Three sharp raps against the glass. You groan into your pillow, face-down, hoping that if you ignore it hard enough, it’ll go away. It doesn’t. Another knock, more insistent this time, and you finally roll over with the kind of sound that should legally qualify as a threat. Your window opens onto the fire escape, you definitely did not give anyone permission to use but that now as a silhouette blocking out the faint glow of the city beyond. A familiar silhouette. Too straight and controlled. Even at five in the morning. You stumble out of bed, blanket tangling around your ankles, and yank the window open with more force than necessary. Cold air rushes in, sharp and wet with the particular dampness of Gotham at night, and there he is.

Damian Wayne. On your fire escape. At five in the fucking morning. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black hoodie, hood down, hair sticking up slightly like he ran his hands through it and didn’t bother to fix it. His eyes are bright in the low light, alert, like he hasn’t slept at all or maybe like he’s running on something else entirely. Probably drugs, you think.

You stare at him. He stares at you. “What,” you say, your voice still half-gravel from sleep, “is this? A rom-com from the 2000s? Who the heck climbs someone’s fire escape?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t apologize. Just looks at you with that steady, unreadable expression and says, “Put your shoes on.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Shoes. Now.”

You open your mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove his shoes, what you think of people who show up at your window before the sun, and what specific circle of hell is reserved for rich boys with no concept of appropriate hours. He puts a finger to his lips. It’s such a simple gesture. Such a quiet one. But there’s something in his eyes that makes the words die in your throat. Something that looks almost like please. You look at him for a long moment. The city hums below, distant sirens, the rumble of an early truck. The wind shifts his hair, and he doesn’t move to fix it.

“You’re insane,” you say. But you’re already reaching for your shoes. He doesn’t smile. But something in his posture eases, just slightly, and you pretend not to notice.

The streets are empty. That’s the first thing you register as you follow him down the fire escape, feet quiet on the metal stairs, your jacket pulled tight against the cold. The second thing is that Damian moves like he’s done this a thousand times; silent, sure, his footsteps barely registering on the rusted steps. You, by contrast, make enough noise to wake the dead. You’re not trying to be quiet. You’re not trying to do anything except figure out what the hell is going on.

“Where are we going?” you hiss when you hit the alley. He doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking, hands in his pockets, shoulders cutting through the pre-dawn dark like he owns it.

You follow. Because apparently that’s what you do now. Follow Damian Wayne through empty streets at five in the morning like some kind of bad decision you keep making on purpose. He leads you through streets you know, then streets you don’t, then streets that feel like they belong to a different city entirely. The buildings here are older, taller, their facades all gargoyles and ornamentation that Gotham stopped building fifty years ago. The streetlights are fewer, the shadows deeper, and you realize you’ve never been this far north before, not at this hour, not with anyone.

“Damian,” you say, and your voice comes out louder than you meant it, echoing off the empty storefronts. “Seriously. Where are we—”

He stops. Turns. And for a moment, he seems... nervous. “Trust me,” he says. You should say no. You should turn around, go back to your apartment, crawl into your bed, and pretend this never happened. That’s what a reasonable person would do. That’s what a person with any sense of self-preservation would do. But you’ve never been reasonable. And you’ve never had much sense. You gesture for him to lead on. He turns, and you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch before he starts walking again.

Your first thought while climbing the fire escape is that it's old as hell. The second is that it’s high, higher than you expected, the rungs cold and slick with condensation under your fingers. Damian climbs ahead of you, movements efficient, not once looking back to check if you’re following.

He doesn’t need to. You’re following. Of course you’re following. Apparently that's what you do now, follow Damian Wayne like a lost puppy.

The building is one of the old ones, the kind that predates the skyline, all brick and iron and the kind of architecture that makes you think of a time when Gotham believed it could be beautiful and safe. Finally Damian reaches the top and pulls himself onto the roof. He turns back, offering a hand. You look at it. Look at him. His palm is up, waiting patiently. You take his hand. His grip is firm, warm against the cold metal, and he pulls you up with an ease that speaks to more strength than he lets on. For a moment you’re closer than you expected, close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his breathing is barely elevated despite the climb. Then he lets go, and you step back, and the roof opens up around you.

It’s flat, mostly, with the kind of gravel surface that crunches under your shoes. There’s an old water tower at one end, dark against the sky, and a few vents and pipes that look like they haven’t been maintained in decades. You walk toward the edge without meaning to, drawn by the way the city spreads out below you, all those streets and buildings and lights fading into the dark of the harbor beyond.

“Careful,” Damian says, and you realize he’s right beside you, closer than you thought. “The railing isn’t stable.”

You look at the railing. It’s rusted, half-attached, the kind of thing that would absolutely not pass any kind of inspection. You take a step back, and Damian moves with you, like he’s done this before, like he knows exactly how far is safe and exactly where you should stand to see what he wants you to see.

“What are we doing here?” you ask, and this time your voice is quieter. The city feels closer here, somehow. More present.

Damian doesn’t answer immediately. He just stands beside you, looking out at the horizon, and for a moment you let yourself look at him instead. The pre-dawn light is starting to do something to the sky; a pale gray at the edges, bleeding into the deep blue of night. It catches on his face, softens the sharp lines, makes him look... Something you don't want to think.

“I used to come here,” he says finally. “When I first moved to Gotham.”

You glance at him. His eyes are fixed on the horizon “To this roof?”

“To roofs. Any roof.” He shrugs, a small movement, almost self-conscious. “It was… easier. Being above everything. Watching from a distance.”

You think about that. About Damian Wayne, fresh from somewhere you don’t ask about, standing on rooftops alone because it was easier than standing anywhere else.

“And now?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer. But he shifts, just slightly, and his arm brushes yours. Whether it’s on purpose or not, you can’t tell. You don’t move away. The sky is changing now. The gray is giving way to something softer, pink at the edges, pale gold bleeding into the clouds. You watch it happen, the slow dissolve of night into morning, and you understand why he brought you here. It’s not just the view. It’s the moment. The way the city holds its breath between dark and light. The way everything feels possible for exactly one second before the day begins.

Damian’s voice, when it comes, is quiet. “I wanted you to see this.”

You look at him. His profile is sharp against the growing light, but there’s something soft in the way he’s standing now, shoulders less rigid, hands relaxed at his sides. He looks like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s not sure what you’ll say.

“Damn,” you say, and you can’t help the grin that’s spreading across your face. “You really do believe that this is a rom-com, huh?”

His head turns toward you so fast you almost miss the flicker of embarrassment in his eyes before it’s replaced by something harder.

“I don’t— that’s not—”

“Climbing my fire escape at five in the morning,” you count off on your fingers. “Taking me to a secret rooftop. Making me watch the sunrise.” You raise an eyebrow. “Next you’re gonna tell me you’ve got a boombox waiting somewhere.”

“I don’t even know what a boombox is.”

“Oh my God.” You put a hand over your heart. “You’re worse than I thought.”

He glares at you, but there’s no heat in it. If anything, he looks almost relieved. Like your teasing is permission to breathe.

“I was trying to—” He stops, jaw working. “I thought you would appreciate it. The sunrise. From here. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” you repeat.

“Yes.”

“You climbed my fire escape. At five in the morning. To show me a sunrise. Because you thought I’d appreciate it.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, very quietly: “You showed me your place. I wanted to show you mine.”

Your grin fades. Not because you’re not amused (you are, more than you should be, probably) but because there’s something in his voice that makes the joke feel wrong. Something that deserves better than a punchline. You look back at the sky. The pink is deepening now, orange bleeding in, the clouds catching fire at the edges. It’s beautiful. More beautiful than you expected from Gotham, which has never been known for its sunrises.

“It’s a good roof,” you say.

He makes a sound that might be a laugh. Might be. “It’s a mediocre roof.”

“It’s your mediocre roof.” You bump your shoulder against his, just enough to feel him shift. “That makes it the best.”

He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t move away either. And when you glance at him from the corner of your eye, you see that his shoulders have dropped another inch, his hands tucked into his pockets now, his face turned toward the sky.

The sun crests the horizon. It happens slowly, then all at once. A line of gold that spreads across the city, touching buildings and streets and the distant bridge with the same careless grace. The clouds turn coral, then copper, then bright. The shadows that have been clinging to the rooftops retreat, pulling back into the alleys and corners where they live during the day. And Damian Wayne, standing beside you on a roof you never knew existed, watches it like he’s seeing it for the first time. You watch him instead. The light catches his face, turns his skin gold, makes his eyes look almost amber. He’s not wearing his usual expression, he’s just looking. Just watching. Just letting the sun rise without planning for what comes after.

“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it.

He glances at you, and for a moment his composure slips. But then it’s gone, and he’s Damian again, chin up, expression cool. “Don’t get used to it,” he says. “I’m not climbing your fire escape every morning.”

“Good. Because I was about to say, if this becomes a regular thing, you’re bringing coffee.”

“Coffee.”

“And pastries. I’m not watching sunrises on an empty stomach.”

He scoffs, but there’s no bite to it. “You’re crazy.”

“You climbed my fire escape at five in the morning. You don’t get to call me crazy.”

The sun is fully up now, the city waking below us in fits and starts. A car horn somewhere in the distance. The rumble of the first train. The sounds of a city that doesn’t care about sunrises or rooftops or the strange boy who stands at the edge of it all like he’s still not sure if he belongs.

“We should go,” Damian says, but he doesn’t move. Neither do you.

“Probably,” you agree. You stand there for another minute. Maybe two, or five. The morning light warms your face, and the city stretches out below, and Damian Wayne stands close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your jacket.

“Hey,” you say, not looking at him. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you showed me.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, so soft you almost miss it: “I’m glad you came.” You don’t say anything to that. You don’t tease him, don’t make another joke about rom-coms, don’t do any of the things you usually do when things get too real.

The climb down is easier. You know what to expect now, and Damian moves slower, matching your pace, one hand occasionally reaching back to steady you on the rusted stairs. You don’t comment on it. He doesn’t comment on you letting him.

The streets are waking up when you hit the sidewalk. A hot-dog cart on the corner. An old woman walking her dog. The first few cars, headlights still on, cutting through the morning haze. Damian stops at the corner. You stop with him. “I can walk you back,” he says. It’s not quite an offer. It’s something else. Something that sounds almost like he’s not ready for this to be over.

You shake your head. “I know the way.” He nods. His hands are in his pockets again, shoulders back, mask firmly in place. But you’ve seen him without it now. You’ve seen him at sunrise.

“Next time,” you say, and his eyes flick to yours, “you bring coffee.”

“Next time,” he repeats.

You’re already walking backward, hands in your own pockets now, grinning at him across the empty street. “And pastries. I’m serious about the pastries.”

He watches you for a moment. Then, slowly, that almost-smile appears at the corner of his mouth. The one you’ve only seen twice before. “Fine,” he says. “Pastries.”

“Good.” You turn, finally, heading toward your street, toward your apartment, toward the bed you should have never left. “See you at school, Wayne.”

You don’t look back. But you hear him; a soft scoff, carried away by the morning wind. And you’re still smiling when you climb back through your window, kick off your shoes, and collapse into bed with the sunrise still burning behind your eyes.

It was afternoon, and sunset was beginning to set in. You wait outside the manor gates for exactly twelve minutes before you start to regret every life choice that led you here. It’s not that the manor is intimidating. Okay, it is extremely intimidating; the gates alone are taller than your entire building, and the cameras perched on either side swivel with a smoothness that suggests someone is very, very interested in who’s standing outside. You’ve been leaning against the wall for long enough that the cold has started seeping through your jacket when a figure finally appears on the driveway. Damian walks like he’s not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. His hands are shoved in the pockets of a dark jacket, his scarf wrapped high enough to hide half his face, and there’s something about the way he’s moving that suggests he had to argue with someone to get out the door.

You push off the wall, spreading your arms wide. “Well? I’m here. I braved the dragon’s den. You owe me.”

He stops on the other side of the gate, eyes narrowing. “It’s a gate. Not a dragon’s den.”

“There are cameras everywhere. I counted six.”

“There are seventeen.”

You stare at him. He stares back, serious. “Seventeen,” you repeat slowly. “Your house has seventeen cameras pointed at the front gate.”

“The manor has extensive security.”

“I can’t climb your window, Damian. Your house has more security than Alcatraz.”

Something flickers in his expression, not quite a smile, but close. “Alcatraz hasn’t been operational for decades.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The point,” you say, gesturing at the gate, the cameras, the sprawling estate behind him, “is that you got to show up at my window like some kind of gothic romance protagonist, and I have to stand out here like a peasant begging for an audience.”

He considers this for a moment. Then he pulls a key card from his pocket, swipes it against a panel you hadn’t even noticed, and the gates swing open with a soft mechanical hum. Swipes it again, and the gates close automatically. “You’re not a peasant,” he says as he walks through. “You’re just inconvenient.”

“Wow. Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’m choosing to take it as one.”

He falls into step beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush. Up close, you notice the faint shadows under his eyes again, the same ones you saw on the rooftop, the ones that suggest he’s not sleeping as much as he should. You don’t mention it. You’ve learned that Damian Wayne doesn’t like being observed too closely.

“Where are we going?” he asks as you lead him away from the manor, down the long drive, toward the street where your car is parked.

“You’ll see.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“You climbed my fire escape at five in the morning to show me a sunrise. You don’t get to complain about surprises.”

“You are never letting that go, are you?”

“Never, ever. Maybe next time it'll be my turn to act like we're in a rom-com. Maybe I'll confess my inexistent feelings while it's raining or I will read a poem about 10 things I hate about you.”

“That's a terrible reference.” he whispered, almost against his will.

“Oh, so you do know what happens in rom-coms, huh?” He makes a sound that might be agreement or might be a threat. You choose to interpret it as agreement.

The building is a ghost. A skeleton of something that was supposed to be, abandoned halfway between demolition and resurrection. It rises up from the block like a monument to Gotham’s particular brand of failure, with empty windows and blank concrete, surrounded by a chain-link fence that’s been cut open so many times the city stopped fixing it. Damian looks at it. Looks at you. Looks back at the building. “This is your place,” he says.

“It’s not my place. It’s just... a place.”

“A condemned building.”

“It’s not condemned. It’s—” You wave a hand vaguely. “—in limbo. The company that owned it went under, someone bought the debt, someone else is arguing about zoning permits. It’s been like this for three years.”

“And you found it.”

“I find a lot of things.”

He doesn’t respond to that. He’s looking at the building with an expression you can’t quite read. “There’s a security guard,” he says, and you’re not surprised he spotted the car in the lot, the light in the ground-floor window. “How do you usually get in?”

“There’s a blind spot in the east stairwell. He does rounds every forty-five minutes. We have about twenty until he circles back.”

Damian’s eyebrow rises. “You’ve done this before.”

“Some, yeah.”

“How many times are actually 'some’?”

You ignore that question, you’re already moving toward the fence, toward the familiar gap in the chain-link.

The east stairwell is dark, the kind of dark that presses against your eyes and makes every sound too loud. Your flashlight cuts a narrow path through it, illuminating dust and old newspapers on the ground and the kind of graffiti that’s more territorial than artistic. You move quickly, counting steps, counting time, your body remembering the rhythm of this place even when your mind is focused on the boy behind you. Damian moves like he belongs in the dark. You notice the way his footsteps barely register, the way his breathing stays even, the way he doesn’t seem bothered by the cold or the damp or the particular weight of an empty building at night. You file it away with everything else you don’t ask about. The stairwell door on the top floor is unlocked. You made sure of it last time, wedged a piece of cardboard in the latch just enough to keep it from sealing. You push it open, and the space beyond opens up like a held breath. The top floor used to be something special. You can tell from the way it’s laid out; wide open, almost no walls, just columns and windows. The indoor pool takes up most of the space, a massive rectangle of pale blue tile that catches the city light filtering through the glass. The water is dark now, still, reflecting the sky that can be see through the glass ceiling.

It’s beautiful. Damian steps past you into the space, and for once he doesn’t look like he’s calculating the nearest exit. His head tilts back, taking in the glass ceiling, the way the clouds move across it, the faint glow of the city beyond. “It was supposed to be a penthouse,” you say, walking toward the pool’s edge. “Luxury condos. The top floor was going to have a pool that looked out over the skyline.”

“What happened?”

“Same thing that always happens. Money ran out. Someone got greedy. Someone else got sued.” You crouch at the edge of the pool, trailing your fingers through the water. It’s cold, but not much— the building’s maintenance includes the pool, apparently, because someone in some office somewhere hasn’t gotten around to shutting it down yet.

Damian comes to stand beside you. His reflection is distorted in the dark water, fragmented, almost unrecognizable. “How did you find this place?” he asks.

“Followed a guy I knew. He was tagging the stairwell. I came back later.”

“Alone?”

“Usually.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. But something in his expression shifts, a tightening around his jaw, a flicker in his eyes that you can’t quite name. You stand up, brushing off your jeans. The cold is starting to seep through your shoes, and you’re suddenly very aware of how still the water is, how dark, how it would feel to break that surface. Damian is watching you. He’s always watching you, you’ve noticed. But there’s something different about the way he’s looking at you now— like he knows what you’re thinking before you do.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re about to do.”

You look at the pool. Look at him. Look back at the pool. “I didn’t plan it,” you say, and you’re already unzipping your jacket. “But now that you mention it…”

“No.”

“Dami.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s a pool. We’re here. The water’s not even that cold.”

“It’s February.”

“It’s almost March.”

“That’s not— you’re not— don’t you even dare—”

You drop your jacket. Your shoes are next, kicked off with more enthusiasm than coordination. Damian is staring at you like you’ve lost your mind, which, fair. You probably have. But there’s something about this place, about the dark water and the empty building and the way Damian is looking at you like you’re the most reckless person he’s ever met— It makes you want to prove him right.

“You’re insane,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that might be admiration or might be horror. Possibly both.

“You keep saying that like it’s an insult.” You toe off your socks, then your shirt. Your jeans are next, and you’re aware, distantly, that you’re standing in an abandoned building in your underwear while Damian Wayne watches with an expression that’s become very, very still.

“If you get hypothermia,” he says, “I’m not carrying you out.”

“Liar.” And before you can talk yourself out of it, you jump.

The water is fucking freezing. The kind of cold that steals your breath, that wraps around your chest and squeezes, that makes your muscles seize up for a split second before you remember how to move. You surface gasping, hair plastered to your face, and the sound you make is somewhere between a laugh and a yell.

“Oh my God,” you say, treading water. “Oh my God, it’s cold as hell.”

“I told you.” Damian is standing at the edge, arms crossed, looking down at you with an expression that’s trying very hard to be disapproving and failing entirely. “You’re an idiot.”

“Get in.”

“No.”

“Dames.”

“No.”

“The water’s fine.”

“You just said it was freezing.”

“I was being dramatic.” You splash water in his general direction. Most of it misses, but a few drops catch his jacket, and the look he gives you could curdle milk.

“You’re going to pay for that.”

“Get in and make me.” There’s a long, charged moment where neither of you moves. The water laps against the edges, against your skin, against the silence between you. Damian’s jaw is set, his arms still crossed.

He pulls off his jacket. You watch, treading water, as he folds it with deliberate precision and sets it on the nearest lounge chair. His shoes go next, lined up beside your scattered pile. His shirt follows, and you try very hard not to stare at the way the low light catches on his shoulders, his arms, his abs, the lean muscle that you’ve always suspected was hiding under those expensive sweaters.

You fail. You stare. He catches you. “Enjoying the view?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice that’s almost teasing, almost smug.

“Get in the water, Wayne.” He does. His entry is nothing like yours. No running start, no reckless abandon. He simply steps off the edge, clean and controlled, and slices into the water like he’s done this a thousand times. When he surfaces, his hair is dark against his forehead, water streaming down his face, and his eyes are bright with something that looks almost like joy.

“Happy?” he asks.

“Ecstatic.” He splashes you. Full force, a wave of cold water that hits you square in the face and has you sputtering. “You—” You wipe water from your eyes. “Oh, you’re dead.”

You lunge for him, and for a moment the pool is chaos, splashing and laughing and the kind of wild, reckless play that you haven’t engaged in since you were a kid. Damian is fast, faster than you expected, twisting away from your grabs with a grace that should be illegal. But you’re not trying to win. You’re just trying to get close. Eventually, you do. Your hand closes around his wrist, and he goes still. The water settles around you, the ripples fading, the giggling ceasing and suddenly you’re very aware of how close you are. His face is inches from yours, water droplets clinging to his lashes, his lips slightly parted, his chest rising and falling with the effort of the chase.

“You caught me,” he says, and his voice is low. Different. Your fingers are still wrapped around his wrist. You can feel his pulse there, faster than you expected, matching the rhythm of your own heart.

“I always catch you,” you say, and you’re not sure what you mean. Neither is he, apparently, because his eyes search your face for a long moment, looking for something you’re not sure you know how to give.

The water is cold. You should move. You should let go. You should do any number of things that don’t involve standing in an abandoned pool at midnight with Damian Wayne’s pulse under your fingers and his breath warm against your cheek. You don’t move. Neither does he. “You’re shivering,” he says.

“So are you.” He looks down at where your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. When he looks back up, something has shifted in his expression. It's softer, almost wondering.

“This is—” he starts, and then stops. You wait. The water laps against the edges, against your skin, against the silence that stretches between you. “This is insane,” he finishes, but he doesn’t pull away.

“The best things usually are.”

He laughs. It's low and somehow warm even in the cold water, it's the first time you've heard it and is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. A thought crosses your mind. Something stupid, reckless, that borders on insane. But his lips look so soft, and suddenly you wonder what it would be like to kiss him. You probably stared at Damian's lips for longer than you'd like to admit, because when you look up and meet his eyes, he's already looking at you with a glint of something in his eyes.

You catch him as he slowly lowers his gaze to your mouth, and you suddenly feel an urge to grab the back of his neck and bring your lips together, but you shut down those intrusive thoughts. The water around him ripples gently as he slowly moves to you, and you hesitantly caress his wrist with your thumb. You let out a trembling sigh, still staring at his lips. Damian has come so close that now your chest is touching his, you feel his hot breath mingling with yours and for a moment, you really think he's going to kiss you. Your gaze drifts to his eyes, those deep green eyes are now half-lidded, staring at your lips, as if he were calculating something. You tilt your head slowly and subtly, beginning to close your eyes, already feeling how his lips brush against yours almost imperceptibly, almost feeling like the inevitable is going to happen—

The moment shatters like glass.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, echoing up the stairwell with the particular rhythm of a security guard making rounds. The beam of a flashlight sweeps across the stairwell door, and you both freeze. Damian's wrist still in your hand, your faces still millimetres apart, the cold water suddenly feeling like ice against your skin.

"Someone's here," Damian breathes, and he's already moving, pulling you toward the edge of the pool. "The guard's early."

"His rounds are forty-five—"

"He's early. Move."

You don't argue. You're out of the pool in seconds, water streaming down your legs, your fingers numb as you scramble for your clothes. Damian is faster, he's already yanking his shirt over his head, his hair dripping dark trails down his neck. You put on your jeans, your jacket, your socks slipping through wet fingers as the footsteps grow louder.

"Stairs," you hiss. "We can take the west—"

"No time." Damian's hand closes around your arm, pulling you toward the far end of the pool, toward the emergency exit you forgot existed until this very moment. "There's a service elevator. Maintenance access."

"How do you—" He doesn't answer. He just pulls, and you follow, because that's what you do now. Follow Damian Wayne through abandoned buildings and dark stairwells and moments that almost became something else. The service elevator is a metal box that smells like rust and cigarettes. Damian slams the button, the doors slide shut with a groan, and for one terrible moment you think you're safe.

Then the flashlight beam hits the glass doors of the pool room. A voice, gruff and surprised: "Hey—!"

The elevator lurches downward. You stumble into Damian, your wet clothes cold against his, and for a second you're pressed together in the dark, both of you breathing too hard, both of you trying not to laugh, adrenaline running through your veins. Then the elevator stops. The doors open onto the ground floor lobby. Empty, dark, the reception desk covered in dust. The front doors are fifty feet away. The security guard is six floors up and coming down fast.

"Run," Damian says. You run. The front doors are right there, glass and metal, the parking lot beyond, freedom just a few feet away. Damian is running alongside you, probably holding back from running faster so he doesn't leave you behind. Your hand is on the bar, you're pushing, you're already grinning because you're going to make it, you're actually going to—

A hand closes around the back of your jacket. A voice, sharp and angry: "Got you." You're yanked backward so hard your feet leave the ground. Damian spins, something flashing in his eyes that looks almost dangerous, and for a moment you think he's going to do something stupid. Something that will get both of you in real trouble. But he stops. You see him stop, see the way his hands curl into fists at his sides and then force themselves open. The security guard is older than you expected. Fifties, maybe, with a face that's seen too many nights in empty buildings. He's got you by the jacket and his eyes are on Damian, narrow and suspicious. "Two kids," he says, radio crackling on his free hand. "In the pool. Yeah, I got 'em."

Damian's jaw is tight. His hair is still wet, curling at the temples, and there's a flush high on his cheekbones that could be from the cold or something else entirely. "You're trespassing," the guard says, looking between you. "Breaking and entering. Destruction of property—"

"We didn't destroy anything," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

"Doesn't matter. You were in there. That's enough."

Damian takes a step forward, and you see the guard's hand twitch toward something on his belt. A baton. Maybe worse. "Call the police," Damian says, and his voice is calm. Too calm. The voice of someone who's been in worse situations with worse people. "We'll wait."

The guard blinks. He was probably expecting tears, begging, maybe an attempt to run. Not this. Not Damian Wayne standing in a puddle of pool water with his chin up and his eyes cold, waiting for the law like it's a minor inconvenience.

"You're not gonna run?"

"We were leaving," Damian says. "You caught us. The police will handle it." You look at him. He doesn't look back, but when the guard let go of your jacket, his hand finds yours in the dark of the lobby. Just for a second, just a brush of cold fingers against cold fingers. That's when you understand. This is him choosing the least bad option. This is him protecting you from something worse.

The guard radios it in. The sirens come minutes later.

The police station smells like coffee and despair. You've been in one before. Once, when you were younger, for something you don't talk about. The fluorescent lights are the same, the gray floors, the way the officers look at you like you're a problem they don't have time for. Your clothes are still damp, your hair plastered to your head, and you're pretty sure you look exactly like what you are: a kid who got caught doing something stupid. Damian, somehow, looks like he's waiting for a business meeting. His posture is perfect, his expression composed, his wet hair the only sign that something unusual has happened. The officer who processed you kept glancing at him like he couldn't quite figure him out. Now you're in a holding cell. Just the two of you and a bench that's seen better times. The door is locked, the desk sergeant is on the phone, and somewhere in the building, someone is yelling about their rights and you swear you heard a gunshot but in Gotham, you always need to pretend you do not hear gunshots.

You sink onto the bench, water still dripping from your sleeves and let out a breath that's half-exhaustion, half-laughter. "Well," you say, looking around at the gray walls, the scratched floor, the camera in the corner. "What a nice change of scenery."

Damian is standing by the door, arms crossed, watching the desk sergeant through the glass. He doesn't turn. "It's a prison cell."

"I was being sarcastic."

"Tt."

You lean back against the wall, letting the cold concrete seep through your damp jacket. "Could be worse."

"How?"

"We could still be in the pool." You grin, even though he's not looking. "At least here we're not freezing to death." He turns at that, just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His expression is unreadable. As if he wanted to say something, about what almost happened, as if he wanted to find out if you regretted it.

"You're taking this remarkably well."

"Been here before." You shrug. "Not this station. But the vibe is the same."

"What for?"

"Deal's a deal, Wayne. I don't ask, you don't ask." He looks at you for a long moment. Then he turns back to the front, and you let the silence settle between you. It's not uncomfortable. That's the strange thing. Even here, in a police station holding cell with your clothes still damp and your hair a disaster, being with Damian doesn't feel wrong. You almost enjoy it.

"You need to call someone," you say eventually. "They're gonna want an adult." His shoulders tense. You see it happen, the way the muscles in his back go rigid, the way his hands tighten where they're folded across his chest.

"I know."

"Your dad?"

"Absolutely not." The answer comes so fast, so sharp, that you blink. There's something in his voice now that sounds almost like fear, and that doesn't make sense. Bruce Wayne is one of the most powerful men in Gotham. A trespassing charge is nothing to him. A phone call, a check written, and it's over. But Damian is looking like he'd rather be dead than making that call.

"Your brother, then," you say. "The oldest one. Grayson, right? He seems... chill."

Damian's jaw works. "Richard."

"Yeah. Call Ricky."

He doesn't move. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and somewhere down the hall someone is crying. "I don't want them to know," he says, and his voice is quiet. Private. Like he's not sure he should be saying it at all. You get it more than you want to admit. The weight of expectations, the fear of being seen as something less than what you're supposed to be. The particular shame of getting caught when you were supposed to be better.

"Hey." You stand up, cross the small space, and stop beside him. "They're gonna find out either way. Better it comes from you than from a police phone call at three in the morning."

"You're not scared," he says.

"Scared of what? A trespassing charge? My record's already a mess." You nudge his shoulder with yours. "Besides, you're the one who has to face your family. I just have to call my mom and listen to her tell me she's not mad, she's just disappointed."

His mouth twitches. "That's worse."

"So much worse."

The desk sergeant looks up from his phone, gesturing toward the cell. "You two want to make your calls or what? I got paperwork to file." Damian exhales slowly. You watch him make a decision, watch the mask slip back into place, but not all the way. There's something softer underneath it now. Something that's been there since the pool. Or before that, you're not sure.

He walks to the cell door, and the sergeant lets him use the phone on the desk. You can't hear the whole conversation from inside the cell, but you catch fragments: "Yes, I'm fine. No, father doesn't need to know. Grayson, please. Just come get us." He hangs up. Comes back. Slides onto the bench beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

"He is coming," he says.

"How mad is he?"

Damian considers the question. "He's not my father. He'll pretend to be angry, but he's not."

"You sound sure."

"I know my brother." A pause. "He's the reason I'm not... worse."

You want to ask. God, you want to ask. What does that mean? Worse how? Worse than what? But the deal is the deal, and Damian has already given you more tonight than he's given anyone. Instead, you lean your head back against the wall and let the cold seep into your bones. "Your brother sounds okay."

"He's insufferable. Cheerful. Optimistic." Damian says the words like they're insults, but there's something fond underneath.

"Sounds terrible."

"You have no idea."

The silence that follows is easier. You're both still damp, still cold, still sitting in a police station holding cell at what must be two in the morning. But Damian's shoulder is pressed against yours now, solid and warm through your jacket, and you're not sure when that happened. "You didn't have to turn yourself in to the guard," you say quietly. "When he caught us. You didn't have to make it easy."

"I could have fought him."

"I know." He turns his head, just enough to look at you. In the bad light of the holding cell, his eyes are dark, almost black, but you remember what they looked like in the pool. Bright. Close.

"He would have hurt you," Damian says. "I wasn't going to let that happen." Something twists in your chest. Something warm and sharp and entirely unwelcome. You look away, focusing on the scratched floor, the graffiti on the walls, anything but the boy beside you.

"You're supposed to be learning how to be a normal teenager," you say. "Normal teenagers don't worry about getting hurt in abandoned buildings."

"Normal teenagers," Damian says slowly, "don't have friends who take them to indoor pools in the middle of the night."

"Friends?" You didn't mean to say it like that, like the word is strange, new, something you're tasting for the first time. But it comes out that way anyway, and Damian goes very still beside you.

"Is that not what we are?" His voice is careful. Measured. Like he's not sure of the answer.

You think about it. About fire escapes and rooftops and sunrises. About sewers full of color and the almost kiss and the way Damian's hand felt in yours when you were running from the guard. About all the things you don't ask and all the things he doesn't say. "I don't know," you admit. "I've never had one before."

He's quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you almost miss it: "Neither have I." You sit with that for a while. The station hums around you; phones ringing, keys jangling, the low murmur of voices from the front desk. "You're shivering," Damian says.

"So are you."

He shifts, and for a moment you think he's going to move away. Instead, he shrugs off his jacket, still damp, but warmer than nothing, and drapes it over your shoulders. His hands linger for a second longer than necessary, and when he pulls back, his fingers brush against your neck. "You're freezing," he says, and there's something in his voice that sounds almost like concern.

"I told you the water was cold."

"We jumped in anyway."

"Worth it." He stares at you. You stare back. And for a moment, you're back in the pool, close enough to count his lashes, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. The moment stretches, taut and fragile, and you're not sure who moves first or if either of you moves at all. Then the front door of the station opens, and a voice cuts through the fluorescent hum like a blade:

"Damian?" Richard Grayson is taller than you expected. Or maybe it's just the way he carries himself. His hair is dark, his jacket is expensive, and his eyes sweep the station with a speed that misses nothing. They land on Damian, then on you. Then on Damian's jacket draped over your shoulders. Damian stands. His posture is perfect again, his face composed, but you see the way his hands still at his sides.

"Grayson," he says.

Dick crosses the station in five long strides. He just looks at Damian for a long moment, and then he sighs, a sound that seems to come from somewhere very deep. "You're lucky it was me," he says. "If Bruce finds out—"

"He won't."

"I'm not covering for you."

"You don't have to. I'll handle it."

Richard's eyebrow rises. He looks at you, then back at Damian, and something passes between them.

"And your friend?" Richard asks.

"He's with me."

It's such a simple statement. Three words. But the way he says them makes something catch in your chest. Richard studies him for a moment. Then his expression softens, just slightly, and you realize he's not angry. He's something else. Something that looks almost like relief.

"Let's get you both out of here," he says.

The paperwork takes twenty minutes. Richard handles it: his signature, his ID, his calm voice explaining that it was a misunderstanding, that the kids were just exploring, that no charges will be pressed. The security guard looks like he wants to argue, but everyone knows who Dick Grayson Wayne is. And everyone knows is not good to contradict a Wayne. You stand by the door, Damian's jacket still around your shoulders, watching the whole thing unfold. Damian is beside you, arms crossed, his shirt still damp in places, his hair starting to curl as it dries.

"You didn't have to say that," you say quietly. "That I'm with you."

He doesn't look at you. "I wasn't going to let them call your mother at two in the morning."

"She'd want to know."

"She'd worry."

"That's what mothers do."

He turns then, and there's something in his expression that you can't quite name. "Grayson will drive you home," he says. "I'll make sure he doesn't ask questions."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You'll be okay?"

He blinks. "I'll be okay," he says, and for once you believe him.

Richard finishes at the desk and walks toward you, keys already in hand. "Ready?" You nod. Damian's jacket is warm on your shoulders, and you're not sure when you started thinking of it as warm, but you don't want to give it back, at least not yet. At the door, you turn. Damian is standing in the middle of the station, his silhouette sharp against the fluorescent light, and for a moment he looks like he belongs there; in the in-between, in the spaces that don't quite fit, in the limbo between who he is and who he's trying to be.

"Hey," you say. He looks up. "Next time, I'll let you pick the place."

Something crosses his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something like it. Then the corner of his mouth lifts, that almost-smile, the one you've only seen a handful of times. "You think there's going to be a next time?"

"I know there is." You push open the door, the cold night air rushing in to meet you and sunk beneath your bones. "You still owe me pastries, remember?"

You only hear his characteristic "Tt" before going out into the darkness of the night