Chapter Text
The streets of Metropolis were bustling and crowded, flourishing under a bright sun and a cloudless sky. Far above the streets, towering skyscrapers caught the light, shining and clean. The city was bright and inviting, and in the stark light of day, it was easy to see why so many people chose to call it home.
Yes, by all accounts, Metropolis was a beautiful city. Damian's lips pursed into a scowl as he blinked the bright sunlight from his eyes, spots dancing in his vision.
He was visiting Jon in Metropolis for the day, which, unfortunately, meant that he was in unfamiliar territory. He'd spent years acclimating to Gotham, which was often less of a city and more of a web of dark shadows and narrow alleyways, so the bright light and open spaces of Metropolis were borderline alien to him.
Speaking of aliens… Damian hastily followed Jon into the building's elevator, blinking the remaining spots from his vision.
"I'll bring sunglasses next time I visit," Damian muttered to himself, entirely aware that his friend would catch every word, as always.
"You said that last time," Jon pointed out, turning to press the elevator's button to the twenty-fourth floor. "Did you forget to bring them?"
"I've been busy," Damian said, a bit defensive. It wasn't a lie, of course, but it was a poor excuse. "You understand, with my extracurricular schedule."
Jon let out a quiet snort but didn't argue. They rode the elevator in silence for a short while, finally arriving on the correct floor.
Damian generally enjoyed visiting the Kents in Metropolis, though admittedly he didn't often see Lois or Clark when he visited. It wasn't for lack of trying, but the life of a journalist in Metropolis was a busy one.
So, visiting the Kents often just meant visiting Jon, which was perfect as far as Damian was concerned.
Jon unlocked the door to the apartment and Damian fell back into a familiar routine, taking his shoes off and placing them in the rack beside the door. It was in a state that Lois always called 'organized chaos,' which seemed to suit the Kent family.
"Alright, you've been acting weird since I picked you up," Jon finally said, rounding on him with a strange look on his face. It was one that Damian recognized, the line where Jon was horrendously curious about something but too polite to just ask— almost certainly a trait learned from the Midwestern side of the family. "Are you being, like, normal weird or weird weird?"
"I'm not acting weird!" Damian retorted immediately, shouldering past Jon to walk into the living room. He set his bag down beside the couch and sat, propping his legs up on the ottoman. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you very much-"
"You're making it worse," Jon groaned, flopping onto the couch ungracefully. "Is it Tim again? He and Connor have been hanging out a lot lately."
Damian snorted at the assumption, though it wasn't far off. Technically he was still fighting with Cass, at least until she accepted his apology and allowed him to explain the situation. No, his problem was a far greater adversity— social norms.
"No, it's not…" Damian trailed off, searching for an explanation. Finally, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, sensing exactly where the conversation needed to go. With a growing dread mounting in the pit of his stomach, he murmured, "I have a project."
"You always have a project," Jon said, which wasn't quite wrong. Damian was good at keeping busy, though it was usually just with detective work. "And you always drag me into it. What's happening this time? Are we stealing something?"
"Alright, for one, I'm not always dragging you into things!" Damian said, more confused than defensive. "Sometimes you're following me into things, and I can't exactly stop you, if you recall-"
"That's a lie and you know it-"
"Shut up. The point is, it's a different kind of project. Your… expertise is needed."
At that, Jon looked earnestly confused. "My expertise?"
"Your experience with 'normal' people our age," Damian clarified, and he felt just a bit annoyed when Jon immediately perked up. Jon was his best friend, there was no denying it, but asking him for help felt like a new low. "Your… people skills."
Jon's face flickered between a few emotions before finally settling on doubt. "You want my help because it involves… a normal person? Seriously?"
"They're not- normal, per se," Damian hastily corrected himself, his cheeks flushing pink. "They… were once a normal person. That foundation is still there, I just want…"
Damian hesitated. He wasn't even sure if Jon could help him, but he was out of meeting ideas and he wanted to keep things exciting for Phantom's sake. Phantom deserved some nice experiences, for all that he'd been doomed to an eternity of monotony.
"I want to make them happy," Damian said quietly, the realization sitting in his stomach like a rock. This was a good thing, obviously, so why did it feel so damning to say aloud?
He craved Phantom's approval, that much was evident, but that wasn't all. He wanted to see the glow of happiness on that pale face, those dark lips upturned in a sharp smile, those green eyes creased with joy—
He wanted.
Jon's quiet hum snapped him out of his stupor, his expression clearly deep in thought. "So, what do you need from me?"
"There's context that you'll need. When I meet with this person, I arrange different meeting locations for security purposes," Damian explained, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke. "We've met twice at a safehouse, once in a restaurant, and once in the barn."
At that, Jon's eyes widened and he sat up straight. "The barn? Like, at your house?! Wait, wait, do they know your identity?"
Damian's stomach dropped as he realized his error. He scrambled to find an excuse, but kept his face impassive.
"Precautions were taken," he said shortly, keeping his breathing steady. Jon's superhuman senses were no match against his lifetime of deception. "They have seen the inside of the barn, but nothing more. My identity hasn't been compromised, because I'm careful… Unlike some people."
Jon didn't look any less disturbed, nor did he acknowledge the pointed barb. "You risked your identity to meet with… What, some random person? That's not like you."
"They're hardly some random person-" Damian said, cutting himself off as he became slightly too heated. A flush settled over his cheeks as he took in a deep breath, steadying himself. "Back to the topic. I have been meeting them in various places, but I need something… Better."
He couldn't just continue summoning Phantom in convenient locations, that was… Well, it didn't feel like enough.
His explanation clearly wasn't satisfying, if Jon's expression was any indication. He looked confused, his brow knitted together in a strange sort of scrutiny.
"Why is this so important?" Jon asked, and Damian abruptly realized that his subterfuge had failed. Jon wasn't one to press on issues like this, wasn't one to ask questions— at some point, he had grown suspicious, and this conversation had become a potential minefield.
"It's…" Damian searched for the right words, but they failed him. Finally, his stomach twisting with uncertainty, he made a decision. "They are important to me, beyond just being an ally. I don't want to treat them like…"
He didn't know how to articulate it. He didn't value Phantom for his utility, his strength, but rather his personality. He was kind and patient, funny and needlessly caring, even when Damian did little to earn that kind of regard. It was still a strange idea, to care for a person beyond their usefulness…
It was one of the few common links between being an assassin and being a vigilante; people were either civilians, allies, or enemies, and there was little room for blurred lines. Allies were useful, civilians were not.
Damian Wayne was not an assassin anymore. He did not view people as tools, that wasn't who he was—
But Robin did.
Robin was the light of Gotham, a shining beacon for the helpless and a fierce defender of the weak. Robin wasn't a person, he was a symbol. He wasn't human, he was more. He was clever, cunning, and efficient— he was kind, yes, but at his core, he was a weapon to be wielded against Gotham's enemies.
Damian Wayne was not a weapon anymore. He was dangerous, yes, and he wasn't ever going to stop being dangerous— but he was more than that. He was a person.
He was human.
Just like Phantom. Phantom, who balked at the formalities of ruling an entire plane of reality, who sat with him on the couch and played Minecraft for hours, who laughed easily and laid his head down in Damian's lap without hesitation. Phantom, who always smiled at the sight of him, who always listened to him with rapt attention, who always forgave him his flaws.
He didn't want to treat Phantom like a weapon for justice, nor a tool to be utilized whenever he felt it necessary. Phantom was a person, a good person, and he deserved the very best that the mortal world had to offer. It was just that simple.
"They're important to me," Damian said, and it was the truth. It settled over him like gospel, unwavering and solid as the ground beneath his feet.
Lost in thought, he almost missed the look of dawning realization on Jon's face. He was shocked for a second, before he was suddenly disgustingly smug, grinning like a madman.
"You have a crush," Jon said suddenly, sitting up in his chair and leaning forward. "You have a crush! Oh my god, that's the best thing I've ever heard-”
"I do not have a crush!" Damian snapped, though as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized that it would only add fuel to the fire. "I'm not interested in him, he's just… a friend."
Was he? Damian considered Phantom to be one of his closest allies outside of his family, but that was all they were. He wasn't even sure that Phantom was comfortable around him, based on his inconsistent body language.
He still remembered holding Phantom's hand, tracing a fingertip along shaking, pale skin. He remembered looking back up into wide, frightened eyes, knowing that he was responsible for causing that distress.
But… then again, he recalled Phantom's fondness. He could see a sharp smile on frostbitten lips, surely soft and cold. He could feel the weight of Phantom's head in his lap, trusting and relaxed, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but lovely as ever.
Perhaps they were friends.
"It's a guy?" Jon asked, visibly confused, but it vanished almost immediately. He always was an adaptable sort, his worldview malleable as clay. "Huh, cool."
"Ignore that," Damian told him, inwardly cursing at his slip. He'd been distracted, too distracted. Some vigilante he was. "You understand the situation well enough. Provide your input."
"Tell me more about him!" Jon argued, but before Damian could protest, he shot him a serious look. "If we want to do this right, we need to tailor it to his interests. One size doesn't fit everyone!"
"Of course it doesn't, it's an advertising strategy," Damian said, uncaring as Jon rolled his eyes. "One size fits most, and I've already told you too much about him."
"I won't tell anyone! I promise!" Jon begged him, his eyes wide. "Come on, I'm your best friend- I've earned this! Please?"
Damian scowled, but in truth, Jon was harmless enough. He kept secrets closely guarded and he was unlikely to face heavy scrutiny from his family, unlike Damian himself. Besides, his feedback was invaluable.
"…He likes animals," Damian admitted after a beat, avoiding Jon's eyes. "He enjoyed our meeting at the restaurant. He likes hearing about the other Gotham vigilantes, as well, if you believe that it is relevant."
"Is that all you can think of?" Jon asked with a frown, crossing his arms. "Come on, there's gotta be more. We can't base a whole date around that-"
"Not a date," Damian said, but there was little heat behind his words. He wasn't trying to date Phantom, he was just… trying to get to know him. "He places great value on independence. He is adverse to physical touch unless he is the one to initiate it. He worries about my safety, and often enjoys my presence outside of vigilante-related activities."
Jon's curious frown morphed into something unreadable, hesitant and careful. After a beat of silence, he said slowly, "What kind of physical touch are you talking about?"
Damian's face felt warm. "Nothing like that, it's- normal levels of physical touch, I would assume. He seemed upset when I grabbed his hand without asking-"
"Need more context there- were you trying to hold his hand??" Jon asked, looking confused. It was gratifying to see him taking the situation so seriously, examining details meticulously in a manner befitting of a detective. Damian privately thought that he had chosen the correct person to confide in.
"His hands have some scarring, I was examining them closer to see if he maintained full range of motion," Damian explained, skipping the finer details. "He didn't say that he was upset by it, but he clearly was, so I have not done it again."
"Okay, he didn't like you grabbing his hand- but you said it's fine if he initiates it," Jon said.
"Yes, that seems to be the case," Damian agreed, quite pleased that his friend was following along so closely. "During our most recent meeting, he laid his head in my lap and allowed me to touch his hair. There was no verbal communication, but… He seemed to enjoy it."
He could still clearly envision Phantom's peaceful face, pale and relaxed as Damian combed fingers through his hair. They'd remained that way for a long while after their conversation ended, only eventually disturbed when Damian offered Phantom refreshments.
It had been a rather successful evening, by his standards.
"…Dude," Jon said, his brows furrowed in something close to disbelief. When Damian didn't say anything, he groaned, leaning back on the couch and burying his face in his hands. "You're- oh my god, are you serious?!"
Damian recoiled, taken aback by the strong reaction. Jon didn't seem surprised, just exasperated. But about what? He paused, considering past instances of Jon's outbursts, and came to a quick conclusion.
"Why would I lie about that?" Damian asked slowly, evaluating Jon's body language closely. "I am consulting your expertise, this isn't the time to lie about vital information."
"You can't be serious, though!" Jon whined, pulling his hands away from his face. He looked almost distressed. "You're a detective, this is literally your job!"
"My job-" Damian spluttered, shifting from confused to downright offended. "I'm excellent at my job, thank you very much!"
"He likes you!" Jon said sharply, his tone bordering on hysteria. "He likes you, and you haven't even noticed!"
…What?
Damian blinked incredulously, pausing to consider whether he'd heard that correctly. When he determined that he had, of course, been correct, he scoffed.
"Impossible," he said, shaking his head. The idea was preposterous, someone liking him— people tolerated him, at best. "He's just nice, he doesn't have feelings for me."
Jon stared at him like he was an idiot, which was a very strange reversal of their typical roles. Damian wasn't fond of it.
"You're a detective," Jon repeated slowly, as if he were trying to make sense of it. "You're messing with me, right? Crap, I can never tell when you're being serious."
"I'm being serious," Damian said dryly, thoroughly unamused.
The idea of Phantom liking him was absurd. No, it was beyond absurd— it was unthinkable. Phantom was… Well, he was Phantom. Where Damian was cold and unwelcoming, Phantom was warm and inviting. He was an ethereal being, he was wasting his time in even talking to Damian, let alone tolerating his frequent summoning.
Damian had enough humility to know where he stood in life. He wasn't Phantom's equal, not in any meaningful way. Even Robin, the light of Gotham, couldn't measure up. He was a bit offended on Phantom's behalf, frankly.
Phantom was all-encompassing. If Robin was the light of Gotham, a flickering candle in a dark room, Phantom was a supernova. His warmth was a thing that enveloped the universe around him, radiating heat into the cold. God, he practically had his own orbit, that smile, those hands, those lips—
Damian was a planet in the orbit of that supernova, helpless against the force of gravity. He was so warm, so horribly comfortable.
He wanted to explain himself, to somehow articulate the depth of his fascination with this incredible creature, but he couldn't do it. How was he supposed to find the words for it? What dictionary contained enough words to capture this creature, this singularity?
It was a ridiculous notion, the idea that Phantom could have feelings for Damian. Unthinkable, absurd. Of course, Jon didn't have the full context of the situation, so he could hardly be blamed for such a profound error in judgment.
After a long silence, Damian had enough. He leveled a somber look at Jon and quietly asked, "Do you have any suggestions on our next meeting location?"
Jon gave him a look, but when he didn't budge, he just sighed. Finally, at long last, he nodded. "I think I have an idea, yeah."
Damian smirked. He loved it when a plan came together.
He breathed in a lungful of smoggy Gotham air, the cold settling deep into his chest. Far below him, the roads were quiet, illuminated by the occasional streetlight. It was a quiet night, typical in every way.
Damian absentmindedly flipped up a panel on the left forearm of his armor, revealing a small screen. He tracked the locations of the other vigilantes on patrol, immediately locking onto the usual suspects— Batman, Red Robin, Batgirl, and Black Bat.
He was in the quadrant closest to Black Bat— a key factor in his plan. He smirked and closed the panel, immediately jogging southbound across the rooftop.
He leapt from the rooftop and tucked into a neat roll, landing smoothly atop the next roof and springing back up. He kept his steps light and quiet, though he was sure that it was audible for the building's top floor residents. He absentmindedly wondered if vigilante activity negatively impacted property value.
Damian discarded the thought promptly, firing his grappling hook to the next rooftop. He threw himself off of the roof, launching into a smooth circular arc and building momentum sharply. Wind whistled in his ears, forcing itself through the sparse gaps in his body armor, cold air licking against his bodysuit.
He landed on the next rooftop smoothly, tucking into a roll to preserve the movement. He jumped up and continued running, moving faster as he heard short beep over his earpiece. It was the sound of someone switching to his comms channel.
It had scarcely been a minute since he'd left his quadrant, and it seemed like Oracle had already noticed. She hadn't said anything, though. She was just there, present, observing him.
He huffed out a scoff, panting as he slowed to a brisk walk across the rooftop. He hesitated, catching his breath, and heard a soft hum from the other end.
"You're in a hurry," Oracle said, sounding disinterested. He chose not to take it personally.
"Do you need something?" Damian asked, pointedly not addressing her comment. He didn't really care enough to start a fight about it, but he was tempted, as usual. Maybe that made him a bad hero.
"Nothing in particular," Oracle responded slowly, as if she was trying to gauge his mood. He didn't deign that worthy of a response, so he just fired his grappling hook again and launched himself into a clean arc.
He landed on the next rooftop, growing ever closer to his target, and heard Oracle typing in his earpiece.
"Stay there," she instructed him suddenly, and he froze. He heard a short beep as she left the channel and relaxed, knowing fully well that she wouldn't leave him in genuine danger.
He stayed stock-still, idly looking down at the streets as he waited for her return. The streets were quiet, the shadows empty of lingering criminals, especially this late in the night. With the sun threatening to rise in the east, perhaps ten minutes from sending the first beams of light streaking across the night sky, there was little activity.
Gotham was a lurking danger by night, all writhing shadows and cruel sneers, but daytime was a different story altogether. Daytime was manageable, to an extent. Not safe, never truly safe, but the world was kinder in the daylight.
The light never really chased away Gotham's shadows, but it forced them to hide. They sought refuge in other places, in other forms— money laundering instead of mugging, wire fraud instead of carjacking.
Those crimes, perpetrated by the white-collar thieves and fraudsters of the world, weren't really problems that could be fixed by a vigilante. That work was left in the hands of the police, though their work was often mediocre at best and actively harmful at worst.
Admittedly, it was good insight into Grayson's decision to become a police officer. He wouldn't ever say as much to him, of course.
Finally, he was pulled from his thoughts by a sound over his comms. Beep. Ah, she was back.
"She'll meet you there in a couple of minutes, just stay put," Oracle said quietly, her tone indiscernible. Damian's stomach twisted uncomfortably, his pulse picking up.
This was it. Either Cass would accept his apology, or she wouldn't. Either way, this was going to be awful.
It was going to be awful, but it was the right thing to do. He sighed through his nose, schooling his expression as if anyone could see him.
"Thank you," he murmured gratefully, bowing his head. He absentmindedly fidgeted with his grappling gun, his gloved thumb sliding along the trigger.
"Don't mention it, kid," Oracle said, and her voice was warmer than he'd heard in weeks. That was probably a good sign.
Then, he heard a quiet beep. Then, another— beep.
Maybe Barbara had accidentally switched between channels? That had happened before, often enough that it wasn't exactly remarkable. He suspected that her setup was rigged intentionally, in that regard— being able to switch quickly between channels during emergencies was a tremendous advantage, after all.
He wisely chose not to say anything, lest he risk embarrassing her.
The channel was quiet for a long moment, Damian too busy absorbing his situation. The lights of Gotham filtered up into a smoggy sky, not bright enough to matter, but certainly enough to hide the stars. Finally, he let out a sigh through his nose. "I'm not good at this," he admitted.
She didn't say a word, but he could hear that she was still there. There was a soft rustling, the shifting of fabric, perhaps. He was grateful that she was still there, still listening, even if she didn't have to.
He didn't dare to think about it, to consider why he was spilling his guts to a teammate— it was stupid, and there would surely be consequences, but… He needed to do it.
He couldn't keep it all to himself, not anymore. It would surely kill him.
"I'm not good at being a person," he said quietly, a dawning sense of shame coiling in the pit of his stomach. "Being a person, it's harder than being an assassin. It doesn't… It doesn't come naturally for me, and it probably never will."
He could hear a quiet shuffling on the other end of the line, multiple sounds layered over one another, but he ignored it. He needed to get this out, to articulate the many ways in which he was a failure.
"And it always seems like I'm making the wrong choices," he continued, thinking of cold, frostbitten hands and a candlelit dinner. "Even now, even after I've been here for years, it's like…"
He didn't have a good analogy for it. He'd never really needed one— well, before now, he'd never cared to try to explain himself.
Damian had the incredible ability to make the people around him angry, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd really tried to make amends with anyone. Sure, he'd begrudgingly apologize for the sake of the mission, always the mission, but this was different.
Now, instead of apologizing for the sake of the team, he was apologizing because he felt bad— because it was the right thing to do. It was a novel feeling.
"I don't know," he said softly, and it was true. "I should be better, after all this time. I should know better… But I don't. It doesn't matter if I'm an assassin or a person, because clearly I'm not cut out for either."
Before Damian could respond, there was a flicker of movement on the opposite end of the roof. He jolted, turning around, and was greeted by the blank, hollow face of the Black Bat mask. He internally winced, preparing himself as Cass started walking closer.
"She's here," he informed Oracle, glancing down to avoid Cass's eyes, and he heard a quiet sigh on her end. He frowned. "Oracle?"
"Not Oracle," the voice on the other end responded, and Damian froze. He knew exactly who that was, their voice raspy and hoarse.
Cassandra.
He turned fully to face Cass, mortified. He couldn't see her face beneath the mask, and he didn't care to imagine the expression she probably wore. He found himself taking a step back, his breath caught somewhere between his sinking stomach and ribs.
"I…" Damian started, but he lost his nerve. He took another step back, but Cass just kept walking towards him, her steps unfaltering.
Stupid, utterly moronic. Why hadn't he checked the comms? Why couldn't he use his brain for once, instead of relying on faulty, useless instinct? What was wrong with him?
Cass came to a stop in front of him, staring intensely at him even through the mask. She was close to his height, maybe even a bit shorter, but that didn't stop her from being the most frightening person he'd ever met. After a beat of hesitation, she suddenly lunged forward— fast, too fast for him to counter, and he was being yanked into—
Cass hugged him tightly, leaving no room for argument.
He gasped, rigid in her grasp, but he couldn't struggle. He didn't even breathe, his lungs simply freezing along with the rest of him. Oh….
"You're not a bad person," she murmured, squeezing him tightly. "You're my brother. I'm sorry that I made you doubt that."
Oh. He went still, absorbing her words as the weight of reality hit him.
Without another word, he raised his arms up to settle against her back, tucking his head into her shoulder. He shuddered and hugged back tightly, almost desperate despite himself.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, and he wasn't even sure if she could hear him, with his face pressed against her so tightly. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."
"I shouldn't have pushed it, either," Cass admitted, and it was strangely liberating to hear that. To share fault was a wonderful thing, indeed. "I'm sorry about that."
She pulled away from the hug, holding Damian's shoulders out at arm's length— he tried to pretend that it didn't sting, just a little. He failed, of course, but he was doing a lot of that lately.
He couldn't see her face under the mask, but her shoulders were tight, tense, as if she was searching for the right words but couldn't quite find them. At long last, she said slowly, "I get it. I really, really do. So, if you ever want to talk about it, about finding that balance between weapon and person… I'm right here."
"You don't have to offer that," Damian said weakly, but he didn't really have the heart to argue about it. Honestly, he didn't want to argue about it.
She was probably the one person in the world who could really, truly, relate to his struggles. Admittedly, he didn't want to talk about it— uncomfortable, messy conversations weren't exactly fun— but he knew that it would probably be healthy.
"I know," she said shortly, and that was it. "But I think it'll help, and I want to. Talking this stuff through was important for me, and I don't think that anybody's really done that for you."
"Father tries," Damian admitted softly. "He doesn't understand. Not really. He knows about my training, about the world I lived in, but it's not… gone. It never will be."
She didn't say a word, but she almost certainly knew what he was talking about. His identity was so deeply entrenched in dichotomies, and the messy gray area of human imperfection didn't exactly fit in there.
At long last, Cass's arms fell away from his shoulders and she reached into one of her many utility pouches. She retrieved a small piece of paper, folded and crumpled, but very clearly an invitation of some sort.
She held it out for him, and he accepted it. The design was cheesy, embellished with pink hearts and cartoon clouds. The top of the invitation read, 'Congratulations! You are cordially invited to attend the nth biweekly meeting of the-’
"Gotham Vigilante… Girl's Night?" Damian read aloud, raising a brow. He looked back up to meet her eyes, and was met with the blank, staring mask of the Black Bat. Right, he couldn't see her face, so he couldn't gauge her reaction.
"Girl's Night," she confirmed, nodding her head sharply. "You are invited. Cordially."
Damian blinked, glancing down at the invitation again before looking at her. He wasn't sure if there was a tactful way to inform her that he was, in fact, not a girl. Finally, he asked, "Who will be in attendance?"
"You'll have to come see," Cass said, and there was no mistaking the smile in her voice. He dared to smile back, tucking the invitation into a pocket on his own utility belt.
By now, the sun was beginning to rise over the city, streaks of reds and oranges dancing across the thick smog. The daylight was no place for a vigilante, he knew that, but he hated to leave this moment. This clarity, this peace, it was a rare thing.
Cass's shoulders lost some of their tension and she leaned closer, stealing his attention once again. Very quietly, she said, "I get it, you know. It's like everyone else is speaking a language that you never learned, and you can't ask, or it's weird. I know."
And that was it, really. Damian couldn't suppress the soft, pained huff of laughter that escaped from his chest. "That's a good way to say it. I hadn't realized that you…"
Struggled, he wanted to say, but that wasn't quite right. He'd known, intellectually, that Cass struggled with her upbringing, that it affected her every day— especially on those days when she did not speak, where her shaking hands did the speaking, instead. He'd known, yes, but he'd never truly seen. Her struggle had been invisible, after a point.
He wondered if she hated him for that, once upon a time. He'd seen her pain, acknowledged it, but hadn't ever bothered to try to connect. Honestly, he hated himself for it, just a bit.
But now, the past was behind them, fading into the shadows as the sun began to rise. He breathed in, breathed out, and found that the world hadn't ended.
He was okay, he'd done something right, and his sister wasn't mad at him anymore. They were okay, standing beneath a vast sky of gentle, blooming color.
"Let's go home," she said quietly, nodding over to the closest fire escape. "I'll put out a signal for the Batmobile."
His chest felt warm. He nodded, unable to help but smile, ever so slightly.
"Let's go."
Two days later, Damian found himself standing in front of Barbara's apartment door, clutching a grocery bag in one hand and the strap of his backpack in the other.
He breathed slowly, keenly aware of his pulse thundering through his body. It was often difficult to tell the difference between physical danger and social danger, which made situations like this… Well.
His research had been thorough. He'd spent the better part of the last two days researching the concept of 'Girl's Night,' and his efforts had been fruitful. He gripped the handles of the grocery bag tighter.
He'd gathered a variety of supplies for this particular mission. For the sake of group cohesion, he needed to be successful tonight.
Damian steeled himself with a deep breath. He was ready.
He raised a hand and knocked three times.
There was a faint sound on the other side of the door, the rumbling of rolling wheels and a distinct lull in the conversation. He stiffened, his back straightening as he tilted his head back proudly.
The door swung open, revealing Babs, who immediately smiled at the sight of him. "Hey, Damian! Glad you could make it."
Damian tactfully refrained from mentioning that he obviously wouldn't have other plans. Well, no, that wasn't quite true— sometimes he was hanging out with Phantom.
"Thank you for inviting me," he said stiffly, inclining his head in thanks. The formality felt appropriate, though the look on Barbara's face seemed to suggest that it was weird. Okay, maybe he needed to switch tactics. "I… I brought- here."
He handed her the bag hastily, which she accepted. She set it down in her lap and peered inside.
"Oh! Okay, this is… Yeah, come on in," Barbara said quickly, rolling her chair back. He stepped inside and closed the door, immediately removing his shoes and placing them onto the neatly organized rack.
He recognized a few of the various pairs of shoes, though one pair was a surprise— two yellow and black Nikes, almost certainly the same shoes that Bruce had given to Duke on Christmas. He blinked, absorbing the information before immediately understanding. He shouldn't have been surprised, Duke was friends with everyone.
Barbara led him into the living room, where he was greeted with bright smiles and familiar faces.
"Damian," Cass greeted him with a smile, which seemed genuine. He'd half suspected that this meeting could be an opportunity to publicly shame him, but that theory was looking less likely with every passing second.
"Cass, it's good to see you. Stephanie, Duke, it is good to see you both, as well," Damian greeted politely, and Steph sent him a smile. Duke seemed to be falling asleep on the couch, sprawled out and visibly bedraggled.
"Don't mind him, he had patrol today and I don't think he had a nap afterwards," Steph said, waving in Duke's general direction. She was laying on the couch, occupying the area closest to the wall, while Cass lounged on the floor near her and fiddled with her phone.
Damian nodded solemnly at that news. As the Signal, Duke spent many of his days patrolling Gotham for crime— and it certainly took a toll on him. In all honesty, Damian admired him for it. Patrol was difficult enough at night, and that was when he had an entire team backing him up. Duke didn't have any such luxury, and if he needed backup, it could easily take an hour to arrive.
"Damian, you brought some supplies for Girl's Night," Barbara said, drawing the room's attention back to the plastic bag on her lap. "Is it alright if we look through them together?"
Her tone wasn't casual, it was more like an announcement— as if she was creating an invitation, subtly trying to open the room to a new activity, and in turn, integrate him among their ranks. It wasn't the first time that he found himself impressed by Barbara's emotional intelligence, and he suspected that it would not be the last.
"Of course," Damian said quickly, straightening up. "I am, admittedly, not an expert in… girl items. I did some research."
"You did research?" Steph asked, frowning thoughtfully. "On what? Like, activities?"
Before Damian could answer, Barbara cut in, "Oh, I think we'll find out. Let's start with…"
She pulled out a pink box, holding it out for everyone to see. Damian's face felt warm as the room's attention turned to his meager offerings— even Duke was blearily opening his eyes and craning his neck up.
"Face masks!" Damian suddenly blurted out, suddenly self-conscious about his choice. "For… moisturizing purposes? There should be enough for everyone."
Barbara snorted, a playful grin tugging at the side of her mouth. "Moisturizing purposes? Oh, that's precious."
"Don't worry," Cass suddenly cut in, looking serious. "You're already doing better than Tim did. He arrived late and he didn't bring anything."
"Not true," Duke said, scooting up into a sitting position. He propped an arm up on the side of the couch and leaned his head against it, still clearly tired but tuned into the conversation. "He brought his laptop. Said he had too much work to 'just take the night off.'"
Damian frowned. Was Tim not aware that this was a sacred event? It was a night for girls, clearly it was a privilege to receive an invitation as a boy.
"Alright, our next offering…" Barbara pushed aside a few smaller items to retrieve it. "A box of grocery store cookies!"
Damian nodded sharply, confident in this one. "Most social gatherings are improved by the presence of food."
"You nailed this one!" Steph said with a bright grin, sitting up properly and reaching out. "Babs, gimme!"
"Leave some for the rest of us, please," Barbara reminded her, rolling closer and handing the box over. As she moved, the remaining items in the bag made soft clink noises as they collided with one another, reminding Damian of his final offerings.
"What else is there?" Duke asked, eyeing the bag. Clearly, he'd heard the noise as well, and his curiosity had gotten the better of him.
"Was that glass?" Cass asked curiously, moving up onto the couch to peer closer at the bag.
"Our final offering is…" Barbara reached into the bag with both hands and gathered the small bottles up into her grasp. Without further ado, she held them out, colorful and bright. "Nail polish!"
"Oooh!" Cass and Steph chorused, and even Duke was grinning tiredly.
"Not bad, little man," Duke said with a smile, giving Damian a nod. It felt like high praise, especially coming from someone who had clearly been accepted by the small, exclusive group. If Duke was one of the 'girls,' surely he would serve as the perfect role model for Damian's integration into the group. "Not bad at all."
"Usually we don't have specific activities in mind," Cass informed Damian, but she didn't seem upset about his offerings. Quite the contrary, she seemed pleased. "These are really good, though. Nice work."
Damian preened at the praise, unable to help but smirk. Of course he'd done better than Drake, he wasn't surprised in the slightest. If the rest of the evening went well, perhaps he would even be invited back to their next meeting… It was a noble aspiration.
"Hey, dibs on the purple!" Steph said suddenly, her eyes brightening at the sight of the nail polish. She held her hands out to grab it, but Barbara didn't move to give it to her.
"I think our guest of honor should get to choose, actually," Barbara informed her, a smirk pulling at her lips. She gestured to Damian, and he immediately tensed. "Which one do you want?"
"Oh, no, they're for you all," Damian informed her, and her smirk only grew wider. He hesitated, her expression throwing him off, and glanced around the room for assistance.
Sure enough, everyone else just looked amused. Had he missed something? Damian looked back at Barbara, earnest and confused.
"It's very nice that you brought nail polish," Barbara explained, her tone laced with amusement. It didn't seem mocking, though— it was as if she was expecting him to catch on quickly, some inside joke that they shared. "And it's only fair that you get first pick. Go on."
He blinked, processing the hidden implication for a moment before it finally clicked. He glanced down at his fingernails, taken aback despite himself, before meeting her eyes again.
"You're saying that I should paint my nails, as well," he said, aiming for direct confirmation. She nodded.
Of course, he should have realized that they would want him to participate in the group activity. In any other circumstance, Damian would have cursed his lack of foresight, but this seemed pretty harmless. Still frivolous, obviously… So it made no sense to agree. Why participate in an activity that served no function for him?
"Only if you want to," Duke said, and he held up a hand with visibly chipped nail polish on his own nails. It was a dark, pleasant green. lighter in the areas where the polish had chipped away slightly. "I don't think I agreed until, like, the third time they offered."
"It… doesn't serve a practical purpose," Damian said, eyeing Duke's nails curiously. "Does it?"
"I've noticed that it makes my nails sturdier," Cass offered, her eyes softening as he looked at her. Perhaps she knew how badly he needed input from someone who understood his hesitation, his reluctance towards anything purely aesthetic.
He considered it seriously. Finally, his eyes caught on the bottle of blue nail polish in Barbara's grasp, and he thought back to the safehouse.
Two beds in a virtual world, one right next to the other. A flowerpot on the floor, holding a single, blue cornflower.
Phantom's head resting in his lap. Damian's fingers carding through soft, white hair.
Utter foolishness. Sentimental idiocy.
"The blue," he said without any further thought. He couldn't bring himself to regret it.
"Good choice," Barbara said. He didn't bother to fight the pleased smirk that tugged at his lips.
The nail polish was cold, he noted. He kept his hands carefully still, casting a sideways glance to Cass. She was carefully painting the polish onto Steph's nails, meticulously dragging the brush along the cuticle.
Barbara had maneuvered from her chair onto the couch, her legs spread out over the ottoman as she painted Damian's nails. His hands were positioned carefully on a laptop tray, kept flat while she worked.
He was just glad that he didn't have to do it by himself. He'd received some instruction from Cass and he'd given it his best shot, but he'd only succeeded in making a mess, hence Barbara taking over. Honestly, he was grateful for her interference.
He glanced down at the bottle of nail polish remover before looking down at his nails again. She was almost done with his left hand, and he found that he liked them, so far.
He hoped that Phantom would like them, too.
"So, Damian," Cass said suddenly, her eyes still locked onto Steph's nails. Damian looked up at her, curious. "You said that you had a project."
Damian considered her phrasing— 'had,' indicating the past. It wasn't an accusation of current wrongdoing, but a gentle prod about the past. An offer to talk, but merely an offer.
He had every opportunity to tell her that it wasn't important anymore, that he'd finished it and moved on. Cass had given him a precious gift with just her words, alone. It was an olive branch, held out in a display of kindness.
He didn't take it.
Instead, Damian inclined his head and offered, "I'm still working on it. When I started, I had a goal in mind, but now…"
Gaining Phantom's allegiance for the Justice League had, ultimately, been his primary target. Now, after getting to know Phantom, becoming acquainted with him— perhaps even friends…
Using Phantom's kindness for his own gain felt cruel, plain and simple.
"Come on, tell us more about it," Steph prodded, either oblivious to the context or uncaring. He appreciated her for both. "You can't just tease us!"
Damian hesitated for just a second. "I… met someone who could be very useful. He's strong, and he'd be an incredible contact for…"
He trailed off, wary to even say anything about it. After a long moment, he looked up and realized that everyone was paying close attention to him. He swallowed his nerves, ducking his head to avoid their gazes.
Before he could say another word, Barbara quietly said, "So, you made a friend, but you think that he could be good for hero work. Is that right?"
Damian nodded, still staring stubbornly down at his nails. He didn't want to see their faces, for fear that they would see the weakness in his own.
"You know, you can just be friends with someone," Duke said slowly, his tone growing more assertive as he spoke. "Like, your whole life doesn't have to revolve around the vigilante stuff. Seriously."
"I know that," Damian said quickly, meeting his eyes. His stomach twisted uncomfortably. "It's just that… I think I'm being selfish. If I were really dedicated to the mission, I would just tell Father about him, I'd find some way to make use of our friendship. Instead, I'm…"
Instead, he was constantly badgering Phantom to hang out with him. He was monopolizing the time of an eldritch entity to play Minecraft and eat junk food. What kind of hero was he?
"Oh, fuck that!" Steph said hotly, turning to look fully at Damian. Her face was scrunched up in anger, but not directed towards him. "The mission can't be your whole life! You're allowed to have friends, dude."
"Allowed and encouraged," Duke agreed, nodding sagely. "Civilian stuff is separate, but it's still important."
Damian knew that. He totally knew that, and it was important, but this was clearly an exception. He couldn't properly convey why it was an exception, he just knew that it was one.
"He doesn't know me as a civilian," Damian admitted, and he caught a flash of surprise on Duke's face. He watched the older boy share a look with Steph and Cass, who seemed equally surprised.
"So, then, how did you two meet?" Cass asked, putting the nail polish brush down. She fanned her hands over Steph's nails, which were coated nicely in the purple polish. She was clearly well-practiced in this craft, an admirable trait.
At the question, Damian winced. "It's a long story. Not relevant."
A long story that involved intense stalking, breaking into John Constantine's house, and taking pictures of one of his ritual books. He'd been tempted to steal it, but his common sense had won out. He wasn't exactly proud of any of it, but he didn't regret a thing.
"Okay... What do you want from him now?" Barbara asked, calmly reorienting the conversation. He glanced between her and Cass, whose expression was curious but thoughtful.
Damian winced. He looked down at his nails, his stomach swooping strangely at the sight of that familiar blue.
He was already so lucky to even know Phantom. How could he ask for more? How could he possibly…
Well.
"…I think that I want to hold his hand again," he finally admitted, thinking back to their meeting in the restaurant. "And… I'd like to touch his hair again, too."
His chest almost hurt with the force of a sudden, desperate need. He wanted this so badly, perhaps more than he'd ever wanted anything.
For the first time in his life, there was something that he wanted for himself. There wasn't some secret plan, no overarching goal, no disapproving authority figure telling him what to do— finally, it was Damian's life, for better or for worse. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.
"Do you want... advice about it?" Cass finally asked, her words slow. One look at her face and Damian could see his own hesitation reflected back at him.
"...I would like that, actually," Damian's face felt warm, and he frantically looked down at his nails to avoid eye contact. "I don't know how people do this. I never learned, but… I'd like to try."
There was a beat of silence.
"Oh, Damian."