Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a peaceful night in the grand Wayne Manor.

"UNHAND ME, YOU CRETINS!"

"Are you sure this is the only way we can see his number?"

"I'm gonna make you all suffer until you beg for sweat sweet death."

"Yeah, well we're not the one who's tied up to a chair right now, so who's winning here?"

Scratch that, it was relatively peaceful. The most peace one could expect, that is, from the illustrious Wayne family, who also so happen to be the number one crime-fighting family in Gotham.  Even then, no one could have stopped the absolute havoc to be wrecked on the eve of the youngest Wayne's seventeenth birthday. Every person in the universe received a number on their seventeenth birthday beneath their jawline, under the area where their pulse could be felt. The number told everyone how dangerous their soulmate was, almost like a mark of protection. It was inevitable that Damian would get his one that night, and there were lots of bets going around on how dangerous his soulmate was going to be.

"So, we all agree that whoever this person is going to be, the pair would probably destroy the world together?"

"What? No! Damian's soulmate is going to be a sweetheart."

"Nah, the hellspawn's totally gonna have another demon brat as his soulmate. I really don't envy the looks they'll be getting when they see a fucking seventy or something on their neck." Jason snickered, watching Damian struggle in his knots and ties. "Fifty's looking like a good, tough number to me."

"I'm sure Damian's going to have a nice soulmate, the number's going to be a ten, and that's already factoring the extra numbers they'll get from just being soulmates with Damian." Dick gave him an admonishing gaze. Jason shrugged at him, leaning back into his chair and using a Batarang (probably stolen from Bruce) to clean the gunk off the underside of his combat boots.

Tim glanced over to his watch, checking the time. "Considering the average number given from being soulmates with a dangerous person doesn't ever forty, I'm putting my bet on thirty-five."

Dick pouted. "They're not going to be dangerous, Damian's a good kid. They're going to be a super nice person who would help an old man cross the street."

"You would too, and I don't see Kori's number going any lower." Jason snorted. "I'm telling you, it has to be another assassin baby. Soulmates are supposed to complement each other. Absolute angels will never go a foot near the demon brat."

"But that's why they would be perfect for him! Complete opposites to balance each other out!"

"Actually, there are more instances where mildly dangerous people in the thirties range are paired with dangerous people like Damian, who is probably in the seventies range. There's generally a large gap between the two, although not astronomically." Tim piped up from his position near the computer. "We're a minute out until the results are out."

Damian growled, but he stopped struggling. He knew he wouldn't be able to make it ten steps away from his position before either of his brothers saw his mark, not even if he somehow managed to get the knots untied in a split-second. He just wanted to get it over with at that point. The seconds ticked by, a quiet hush descending the cave. His mouth was a desert, and he darted his tongue out to quench his lips. He was Damian Al-Ghul Wayne, Robin, Heir to the Demon. He did not get nervous.

Midnight struck.

A blinding light shot down from below his line of sight, causing black spots to fill his vision. His neck burned almost as badly as a laser, etching its delicate lines over his throat. Pure agony bubbled up in his lungs. He wanted to clutch the searing wound, but his hands were bound against his side, rendering him helpless to the excruciating pain.

And then, the pain was gone. A phantom, a nightmare. Thank god, it was over. His vision was still spotty at best, though.

"Dami, are you alrig– Holy cow." Trust Grayson to not express his surprise in vulgar language and instead opt for ridiculous euphemisms.

"Oh fuck–" Drake was usually the calm one when expressing surprise. The only times he exclaimed like that was when he got something wrong in a hunch, but the results of those varied from bad and good, so the current Robin took it with a grain of salt.

"What did I tell you, fuckers? Pray for mercy. It's the goddamn armageddon." And you could trust Todd to be as indelicate with his words as usual.

"What happened? What's the number?" He croaked out, his throat still dry from keeping in his screams. Blinking rapidly, his vision cleared up, and he stared at the gawking figures of his adopted brothers. Tim, Dick, and Jason were all pale-faced, the blood from their cheeks almost non-existent, eyes glued on the number on his neck — which he still couldn't see because they didn't have a goddamn mirror in the cave — like they had seen a ghost, unintelligible noises squawking and sputtering from their mouths.

Damian snapped at them before he could start squirming in his seat.

"Well?" Dick and Tim looked at each other in silence, while Jason reached over to start untying him from his binds. He gave a short nod at Jason as the last ropes fell away. "Are you going to tell me, or am I going to go back upstairs to find a mirror?"

"How the hell did you get an eighty-seven on your neck?" Drake blurted out, no filter as always.

Damian blinked. "Excuse me?"

Dick brought out his phone, turning on selfie mode and thrusting it into his hands. He angled it at the newly-branded flesh, tracing the soft etchings of scarlet burning bright against his bronze skin. Sure enough, a bold '87' was emblazed on his neck. He wracked his brain. Who in the world could he have been paired with for them to have such a high number? His father barely reached eighty himself, and Wonder Woman, who was a demigod and Princess of the Amazons, was apparently an eighty-three, from what she had mentioned before. Hell, Alfred once said his fated one all those years ago who died in the war sported a silver eighty-five in his delicate proper calligraphy. If this person was stronger than them, who were they, and how did they manage to live under the Justice League's radar for so long?

Jason barked out a laugh. "Damn, Demon Spawn is fucked. Let's hope they rip each other's throats out instead. That, or world domination."

Somewhere in Japan, a lithe, ebony-haired woman tripped over thin air and nearly face-planted onto the glass display case in the museum. A blonde male grinned at her as he held the baton to his side, ignoring her half-hearted hisses at him. She snatched the leather necklace with the jade comma-shaped pendant from its perch on the pedestal, a replica replacing it like a ripple, almost as if she had merely swiped through the jewellery in the first place. She grabbed onto the blond boy as his baton extended them through the small skylight they had come through at the beginning.

"You alright there, Bugaboo?" He smirked, a teasing edge framing the boisterous French, striking out against the calm Japanese wind.

"Oh, shut up." She snarked back in the same language. "Not as if you didn't trigger the alarm last time, Chaton."

"That was one time!"

"Still happened." The woman brushed back her growing-out bangs to slip the necklace over her neck, the moonlight catching onto the faint '68' in confident jade green, much more muted than the almost pulsing green of the pendant, yet more striking. "Come on, the sooner we get back to base, the better."

Chapter Text

The next few weeks were a blurry mess of spending all day in front of the computer in the cave, having tea with Alfred, training, incoherent screaming, having tea with Alfred, more research on the computer, patrol, turtlenecks, slight insecurity meltdown, training, reading manga, meditation, and having tea with Alfred. No matter how many hours he spent pounding away on the keyboard and glued on the blue screen, he got nothing. There was no one on any of the known planets that could have been remotely as strong as his soulmate that could have been his soulmate.

Kryptonians could technically reach that number, but they already checked with all the Supers to see if it was one of them. They even tried Jon, who had a ridiculous '42' on his neck, but no instant connection happened. No zip through his head, no pulsing auras. Just two boys awkwardly shaking hands in the middle of the room like it was a business conference. He let out a breath. There was no way he would accept being a forty-two. He was the son of the Bat, he was more than a forty-two.

Amazonians did not normally reach that range, Hippolyta and Diana Prince being some of the rare exceptions. Both of whom were definitely not his soulmate.

None of the Justice League members or affiliates was his soulmate either, as none of them reached the power range. Zatanna and Dr Fate were stumped when they saw his mark. Constantine, on the other hand, just laughed at his face.

"Oh man, the Bat must be pissed not knowing who it is."

Damian raised an eyebrow. "And you do?"

"I have my guesses." Constantine mimicked his gesture, a devious grin settling on his lips. "Spirits tend to talk."

Like that wasn't cryptic enough.

One thing he got from the conversation, however, was this: his soulmate either had a connection with magic or spirits, or they somehow managed to send a bunch of them to Hell. He didn't know which was better between the two.

Contrary to popular belief that "The Bats hate everything to do with magic", Damian found it a necessary part of life, and he even acknowledged that a lot of things would be easier with it. He did grow up with the Lazarus Pits in his basement after all. If a person refused to accept a part of the world, they were that much weaker because of it. But if they had magic, they could shut up the Joker in a tiny pocket-dimension where he could never escape, and that would be the end of him. He wouldn't have to deal with the reporters half the time as he could just teleport from place to place, or he could vanish them to oblivion for a day or two. Alfred could snap his fingers, and Father could act like a normal father for once instead of being 'emotionally constipated' like Grayson suggested. He didn't know what that would look like, but he agreed that Father had gotten better over the years.

There was a knock on the far end of the table, bringing him out of his stupor. "Dami, it's time for patrol."

"I'll be there, Grayson. Let me just finish this up first."

"Alright, Little D."

Damian let out a huff and glared again at the empty blue screen. They were getting nowhere.

He swiped across the screen, making it turn black. Patrol would do him some good right now. Nothing like some rogue-bashing to clear his mind. He was going crazy being cooped up at the Manor with no leads.

Patrol was quiet.

While he would have appreciated that at any other time, now was not that time. He needed to vent his frustrations out at something, anything. He had already combed through the entirety of his area twice, and there was nothing. No muggers, no arsonists, no kidnappings, no rapists, no drug dealers, not even a kid smoking on the street. He never thought he would be saying that in his lifetime, it was Gotham, Crime City.

He even stopped by the alleyway behind the public library and fed some of the cats he had taken under his wing – pun unintended – and a street kid smiled. At him. Red Hood, he got. Nightwing, definitely. Batman? He was the main vigilante, there were fans of him everywhere. But for him? He was the 'angry gremlin' of the lot (Drake's words, not his).

"Check in." His communicator crackled to life with his father's gruff voice.

"All clear in my area." Dick piped up.

"Nothing except an old lady missing her cat again. It was on her fire escape." Jason sounded bored. Damian wanted to see the cat.

"My patrol has been crime-free all night. Guess today's going to be a slow one." Tim said, both confusion and relief in his words. "Lucky me, I have a board meeting tomorrow."

"None here." He grunted. No crime. What was happening?

An aggravated shriek pierced his ears, and he tensed, shooting a line over to the gargoyle around the corner of the building and swinging away. He recognised the far-off sounds of his family asking what was happening over the rush of wind. Gritting his teeth, he let the line go and rolled onto the rooftop concrete, transitioning to a sprint without fail. "There was a shout near Town Hall. En route now."

"Do you need backup?"

"No need, Father."

"Alright then. Be careful, Robin." He rolled his eyes and huffed in response. He wasn't a child anymore.

He flipped off the edge of the roof into an alleyway, and grasped onto the fire escape ladder, hanging on as the ladder lowered itself down. Once the ground was close enough, he dropped down without so much as a sound. His green eyes met a shocking shade of blonde nearly covering another pair of green eyes, not unlike his. What was weirder was the boy in the alleyway, who appeared to be around the same age he was, was dressed to the nines. A dark button-up dress shirt underneath an accented English-cut green suit that matched his emerald-green eyes, grey slacks that edged on white, and a lime green ascot popping out against the dark shirt. All of that, paired with the obviously well-cared-for face and perfectly messy hair, screamed entitled rich celebrity. What the hell was happening?

"Are you alright?" Scanning the rest of the alleyway, he couldn't see anything or anyone else out of the ordinary. Two garbage cans knocked over, a small black cat almost smirking at him, and darkness. There was no one. Maybe he got the wrong alley. He never made that mistake before though, so that would be a first.

"OH MY GOD ARE YOU ROBIN?!" Oh great, it was a fanboy. French too, by the sound of his accent. The upside was that he confirmed that the aggravated shriek came from here. Damian's body relaxed, but he was still a little tense.

"Yes. You're not in danger?"

The blonde scratched the back of his neck, a sheepish look on his face along with a hint of annoyance. "A cat moved behind a garbage can and scared the living daylights out of me. I suppose it was his idea of a good prank."

They both focused on the black cat, who had come over to the rich boy and snuggled up on his black oxfords. One was looking in annoyance, and the other was in frustration. The cat looked like it was sniggering.

He reached over to his communicator. "False alarm. Just a rich person getting spooked by an alley cat. Again."

He could hear sympathetic winces over the comms. Everyone knew that it was a pain to deal with the rich everywhere. Heck, they wanted to steer clear of 'Brucie' whenever they went to galas, and that was their father's persona.

Batman's voice carried over the condolences. "Try not to hurt them."

"Tt. I will try my best, but whatever happens after is not something I can guarantee." Damian turned off his comms before he could receive a scolding. He was only telling the truth; he could not guarantee his retaliation. Rich people were either incredibly naive and empty-headed, or they were snobby and rude.

He turned to the rich person, who was quiet for the whole conversation. That was new. Whenever he encountered rich people in situations like this, they either started complaining or making demands, or they were chatting his ear off with praises or general freaking out. This boy was silent. It was a refreshing change.

That smirk settled on his lips threw him off. "You got something to say?"

"Nothing," the boy held his hands up innocently, his smirk fading into a smile instead. Damian wondered how many times he had done that to make the transition so smooth. "I just know what that's like."

Damian tensed and glared at him. The boy was suspicious. "What do you mean?"

"Woah, I don't mean anything about that." The boy raised up his hands higher, laughing. "But, I get family. I have a sister who never stops telling me I need to eat more because 'Adrien, you're basically wasting away'. Family, am I right?" He had switched to French when he quoted his sister, affection lingering in his voice.

He narrowed his eyes but relaxed his body fully. The boy was not an apparent threat, and he didn't look like someone he couldn't overpower.

His communicator flared to life. "Shit, there's a robbery going down at the bank in Diamond District, the one in front of Harlow Park. ETA fifteen minutes."

"Understood, Nightwing. ETA seven minutes." He shot a line up onto the rooftop, rocketing up. He glanced back behind him and blinked. The boy and the cat were gone. The only sign that there was anyone even there was the knocked over garbage cans. What the hell?

He shook his head and sprinted across the roofs. He had more pressing matters right now, and rich boys and stray cats were the least of his worries.

Chapter Text

The bank was quiet for a robbery. There were no screaming gunmen, no smoke bombs, no maniacal laughter. It was like nothing was wrong. Damian frowned. The night was weird thing stacked on weird thing. He spotted the open spotlight that he knew towered over the atrium, but there were no ropes or any sort of system to down and back up from the floor of the bank. Were they dealing with some meta? Or maybe a high-tech robber with flight equipment?

Two figures shot up from the open spotlight on a... fireman pole? The blonde one held the pole, and it shrunk down to the length of his forearm. The blonde turned around and ran a hand through his hair, showing off his lifelike cat ears on the top of his forehead. The blue-haired one looked like they were chiding the cat boy, causing the said boy to laugh. His partner shook their head and faced Damian's way, making his breath hitch.

Her blue eyes glowed in the night from beneath her red-spotted black mask with black shades in front, sparkling brighter than the lights in the traffic, more vivid than a supernova. Freckles decorated her face, almost invisible against her pale skin like stars in the Milky Way. Her soft blue hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, red highlights streaking through her hair like rivers of blood in an ocean. He glanced down at her neck, which was covered by a black skin-tight suit trailing down her shoulders, up and down her curves like a glove. Crimson red spots lay across her arms and legs, climbing up her torso...

Snap out of it.

There. A bracelet he knew was being held at the bank for safekeeping for the museum. A wealthy explorer had graciously offered to lend it to the Gotham Museum for their guest charity exhibit, sponsored by Wayne Enterprise. The fabled Agapetos Lazuli of the Mediterranean lay limp in her hands, the chain dangling to the side. He couldn't help but notice how much it paled in comparison to her sapphire blue eyes.

He dropped onto the rooftop and lunged for the girl. Her eyes blew open, and she flipped out of the way, lingering in the air longer than physics should have allowed her to. The blonde cat boy followed her with ease. They both glanced at him, and he fell on the cat-eye slits that were the cat boy's pupils and the pale green sclera that surrounded his glowing lime-green eyes. A blue gaze of confusion and a green one of mischief gazed at him, before turning around and zipping through the gaps between the buildings.

He gritted his teeth, shooting his grappling hook in their direction and gave chase. For the first time that night, he was glad there wasn't anything major that happened before that because he was at full speed, tearing through the darkness like a bat out of hell.

"Robin! I'm at the bank, where the hell are you?" Nightwing's voice boomed over the comms. Laughter rang towards his left, followed by angry French, and he angled his body to follow the thieves.

"The robbers got away. I'm chasing them down now. They're heading for Old Gotham." He wracked his brain for any of the landmarks they could have been aiming for. The police station was out of the question, the clock tower was too far to the east from their direction. "I think they're heading towards Wayne Tower."

"Got it, heading over right now."

He hesitated. More laughter. "I think they're metas. One of them, some sort of Catwoman wannabe, has some sort of staff that extends to the height of the bank from the bottom-up, max length unknown, and actual cat eyes and cat ears that moved. The blue-eyed girl didn't show any weapon, but she has some sort of meta enhancements."

"Everyone, head towards the Tower." Rounds of agreement went over the comms at Batman's orders. "Robin, keep tailing them."

He grunted, doubling his speed. The pair were definitely heading over to Wayne Tower. He flew over the rooftops, his footsteps nimble and silent. As he landed on one of the higher roofs, he checked for the robbers. The noise had grown back to the regular rumble of traffic and road rage at night, no signs of the pair of thieves. They vanished. He reached over to his communicator to inform the team.

"WOOHOO!"

A hand ripped the communicator from his ear, pulling his cape over his head. He growled, ripping the cloth back from his face, and he came face to face with those dazzling blue eyes.

"So, you really are Robin." Her voice came out in a soft whisper, the Parisian accent cottoning her syllables.

"Who are you?" Damian growled, ignoring the thumping of his heart at her words. He unsheathed his sword and pointed it at her neck. "What are you doing stealing jewellery in Gotham?"

She grinned at his sword, put her hands behind her back, and ran up to the ledge where her partner in crime was. She twisted her head to glance over her shoulder and winked at him.

"I'll tell you if you can catch me."

"WAIT, STOP!" Before he could even react, she fell backwards over the ledge with her hands out, laughing. He rushed over to the ledge and peered over, praying that there wasn't a black and red splat on the ground. He knew it was irrational, the girl probably swung away again. But his heart raced a mile a minute and squeezing the breath out of his lungs.

He managed to catch the close of a baby blue portal as his heart pounded against his throat.

Nightwing landed on the roof. "Whatcha' looking at, baby bird?" He looked around the rooftop, confused. "Where are the robbers?"

"Gone." He grunted, sheathing his sword and leaping off the ledge.

"AW COME ON! THIS IS THE SECOND TIME TONIGHT!"

Chapter Text

He could not avoid the public forever. Everyone knew that he had received his soul mark recently, and the fact that he had been hiding out for the past few weeks only increased their hunger for the scoop. The press had even resorted to camping outside of Wayne Tower and the dog park he liked to frequent with Titus. As if he would be so amateur to even think of going there after he got his soul mark.

The itch to find out who the person holding his number on their neck was growing stale. Everything seemed to blur together. They were a phantom, a ghost, someone he wouldn't be able to find in a long while.

His father and the rest of the family had already given up, saying to let the person find him instead.

Somewhere in his heart, he knew they were right, that the universe will sort this out for him. He wouldn't have a soulmate and just never meet them. Somehow, he knew he would meet them. If the universe was not letting him find them, then it was probably leading them to him instead.

His head said 'fuck you' to the universe and refused to let them slip out of his mind. He couldn't just drop it. He would rather die—

Alfred threatened to bench him for a month and subject him to his father's cooking for another two months on top of that. His head conceded with a 'we will talk about this later'.

So, there he was, in the elevator of Wayne Tower, drinking black Assam tea from a to-go cup, heading up to his office in one of the higher up floors. It used to have such a calming effect on him, but then again, that was before he had gotten his damn soul mark. Now, it just contributed to the massive headache throbbing in the back of his skull.

The sleek doors slid open with a soft chime, and he stepped off, dragging his feet. The longer it took for him to reach the computer, the shorter time he had to spend reviewing reports and sending them off for budget reviews and re-submissions. Alfred had a strict rule not to bring 'night work' into the office, including his soulmate because they had labelled them as an 'unknown threat' and he did not want to tempt the odds of Alfred finding him searching up leads.

Damian opened the door to the right, stepping into the empty room that was supposed to be for a secretary. Keywords were supposed to be because there was somebody sitting at the desk that was supposed to be for a secretary. Which he didn't have.

"Who are you, and what business do you have for being in this office?" He snapped at her.

She blinked, staring at him. He fought the urge to squirm because he was seventeen for God's sake, he did not squirm! He focused his own glare at her, refusing to back down. To speak up again was to admit defeat, and he was not going to concede to an intruder.

Her eyes felt like a whirlpool, dragging him across the chasm and enticing him into its depths. Cerulean blended into cornflower, ocean blue to blueberries. Swirls of purple and neon lights glistened over them, a galaxy of forever blues, surrounding the inky darkness of the onyx centre.

Ding!

They both jumped at the printer noise. She stood up in a flurry and scrambled to get the papers that were just fed out of the printer. The small pieces of stationery shook as her foot collided with the leg of the modern glass desk, shifting across the surface. Luckily, none of them was too disturbed, and none of them found their way to the floor.

The same couldn't be said about the girl, who was sent hurtling to the floor, causing their nonverbal showdown to be ripped from the room. The walls seemed to tighten on them, vivid tones grew dull, and all sounds fell away. Everything slowed down to an almost stop.

His body reacted first, feet surging forward to meet her. Hands reached forward on their own accord. They wound themselves around her falling figure as he turned his body to lean against the desk. She was pressed up against his sturdy figure, her gloved hands the only thing separating their torsos. Time continued like he just broke out of water. Colours flashed back into sight, lines became sharper, and touch felt like a grenade. The volume turned up to twelve in his head.

His harsh breathing. Her stuttering one. Blood rushing in his ears, heart pounding in his chest. He could feel her heat through the layers of cloth, beckoning to him. The hairs at the base of his skull rose, electrified. His throat constricted. A gulp. From him or her, he did not know. His eyes traced down from her eyes to the freckles running down her nose and cheeks, to her flushed pink lips, plump and shiny. He had to force himself to look away, to keep his tongue from wetting his suddenly dry lips.

That was a bad move.

Now that his eyes weren't focused on her lips, they had begun to trail down her neck, tracing the dozens of freckles that disappeared down her jaw and into her red turtleneck. His hands itched to pull it down, cover his lips against the small of her neck, feel the soft dips and curves of her lithe figure. Run his fingers through her silken noir hair, capture her bursting heat in his embrace, delving deeper into those blue depths, seeing how far he could go before he would crumble.

Her breath hitched as his arms tightened instinctively, and he pushed her away as fast as he could. She was sent flying onto one of the soft sofas they had lying in his room for waiting visitors. But he didn't notice it. He couldn't. All of his thoughts had vanished to the wind, alarm bells ringing red in his head, ringing of danger, of the unknown.

He couldn't stay there, he needed to leave. He had to distance himself as far away as possible from this girl, whoever she was, lest he lose any sense of control over his own actions.

Screams blared in his mind. Retreat for backup. Recollect himself. Map the battlefield. Find out what the hell was happening to him.

Then, he ran from the room, everything growing duller and duller yet again.

Chapter Text

A day had passed since he had met his — the — girl, and he had spent it cooped up in his room. He didn't go out for patrol. Or training. Or even when Dick challenged him to the all-time high score of Cheese Viking on the computer in the cave. One thought rang through his mind and one only. His thirst to find his soulmate was replaced by another.

The girl who tripped in his office.

He kept to himself and threw out anything that he could use to try and research her. He did not want Alfred to find him obsessing over another person like a madman and benching him. But his body screamed that he needed to do something, anything. It pleaded for him to tear down his walls, crush bones, rip worlds to shreds. To completely annihilate.

His hands twitched for the katana he had locked up in the cave after the first urge to run through his brothers with the blade for the sake of watching their blood drain on the floor, for their breath to cease, for their heart to stop breathing. It had ended up with him making gashes along the wall facing his canopy bed with the wallpaper peeling from where his sword had made its mark. Framed photos found their way smashed on the ground. Even then, the ache to raze the very city to the ground could not be quelled. He had not been in a more similar state than when he lived as the heir to the Demon's head, and even then, it could not even hold a candle to the absolute destruction running in his very veins. It made him anxious, scared, terrified.

So, he did the opposite. He created.

Watercolour sketches, oil paintings, charcoal etchings, graphite drawings. Sketchbook upon sketchbook, canvas after canvas, leaving a trail of empty paint tubes and lead stubs in his wake. The wall he had torn the wallpaper from was fully stripped of objects and coverings, and spray paint had become his new medium. When the spray paint ran out, he got out the acrylics and oil paint. When even that ran out, he took out the chalk and charcoal, breathing life into the piece.

He assumed it would tide over as he exhausted himself, both in his imagination and physical body. But his body never grew tired, even after a million sketched lines or sweeping fans of his brush. He never ran out of inspiration, and that was the problem.

Every brushstroke was centred around swirling blue depths he never thought existed. Every line formed into a button nose, every circle became round eyes that pierced his soul, every dot a freckle across the pale papers and canvases. Every face on his sketchbook bled into her face, her shocked expression, her body flush against his. Her arched neck was drawn both with the carnation red turtleneck she wore with the apple blossoms snaking down her bodice and without it, vague etches of curves that he burned to explore.

He imagined her with different numbers. Would her soulmate be as dangerous as she felt like to him? Or would they be someone who would need protection? Twenty? Seventy? Someone like her deserved a strong soulmate. Those innocent eyes would lure anyone into her fragile web, so easy to break and crush.

None of his creations could compare to what he had created on his wall. A never-ending swirl of blue shades that went beyond what could possibly be created, but it was also purple and yellow and bold blacks. The gashes on the walls curved dips and nicks into the ocean of colour, making it come alive. Nothing was permanent, changing by the second. Each time he stood back to look at it, it held something from him, right by his nose. It was missing something.

His hand grabbed the paintbrush, looking for another spot to fill, another blue to discover. Nothing. Nothing that felt right.

Maybe...it wasn't blue that was missing.

He grabbed the red tub of paint he had flung to the side in search of more blues, or maybe it was the purples he was looking for? It screamed against the colour theory ingrained in his artist mind, went against the scientific facts that red would do nothing but ruin the work—

He threw the paint at the wall.

The red riveted down the streaks of dried paint, rivers of crimson down a sea of blue. Navy blues freckles turned black, red seeped into the gashes, marring the artwork like an irreversible stain. The destruction in his veins hummed, pleased.

It hit him like a truck. What had he done?

He grabbed the white shirt that he had ripped off in his frustration and furiously scrubbed at the paint, but it was too late. Some of the paint had found its way into the crevices that the cloth he couldn't reach. The freckles had dried in a split second. Trickles of blood ran through the artwork, cracks of chaos and imperfection covering the mural. It was ruined.

He gripped what once was a white shirt, now torn rags muddied in scarlet, and flung it across the room. Screams of agony and frustration rang throughout the room. He wouldn't even be surprised if the rest of the family could hear him from his room. He didn't care. Everything he touched crumbled to the ground. Everything that didn't crumble didn't want him, pushed him away, discarded him. He couldn't do anything right.

He glared at the mural, then paused. The cracks weren't random. The lines of red and spots of black formed shapes, circles, a pattern.

He stepped back from the wall, backing up until his knees hit the bed, and he fell back first on the mattress. It didn't matter to him because he found the symbol on the wall, running as red as the veins throbbing under his skin. And it didn't bring him closer to clarity. In fact, it added to the chaos.

'6887'. The second half was the number pulsing on his neck. His soul mark. So, what the hell does '6887' mean?

Something was missing here. He was missing something. It was right on the tip of his tongue. A tickle in his throat. A drum in his head. The alarm bells were ringing again. And somehow, she was the key.

Damian needed to find out everything about the girl from the day before.

He wrenched the door open and headed to the cave. Alfred's punishment be damned.

Chapter Text

He didn't make it to the computer. He didn't even make it to the entrance of the cave before he was knocked unconscious by a prick in his neck. Pitiful, really. If he was in his best form, he could have knocked the assailant out with their own weapon before they could even aim for him.

When he woke up, he realised that he was in the same binds he had found himself a few weeks ago, when this whole nightmare first started. His brothers were standing in front of him again, but this time they were joined by the rest of the family. Bruce and Alfred were lurking in the back, surrounded by the shadows. while Stephanie, Duke, and Cass standing in front of them. Unlike last time, however, they were all stone-faced and silent.

"What do you want?" Damian snapped at them, who stood there without a sound. "And are the ropes really necessary?"

Dick was the first to break the silence, ignoring his statement. "Little D, we're worried about you."

"And that makes it okay to tie me up like an animal?" Dick had the decency to look sheepish, while the rest of the family held no such remorse. They were all dead to him.

"Incorrect," Jason interjected. "Batcow obviously deserves better treatment than you. We tied you up because you're a feral gremlin that would bite our toes off."

He would be the first one to die then. A whisper in his heart purred at the suggestion.

"I'm seventeen, not eight for God's sake!"

"You still didn't deny it though." Tim piped up, sipping away at his monstrosity of a coffee mug. Damian would deprive him of his vice, then he would be the second one to die.

Before he could say anything, his father stepped into the light, a frown etched on his face.

"Your brothers are right." He let out an indignant sputter, the urge to rip at them growing even larger, and the little whisper of destruction in his chest hummed. "You've been obsessing over your soulmate too much."

"They are a potential threat, Father."

"And so is everyone else in this building, and most of the people that are part of our lives." Damian couldn't refute that statement. "Your soulmate is your soulmate for a reason. Our attempts to seek them out actively did not work, so all we can do is to prepare for them."

Dick frowned, twisting around his torso to face their father. "Isn't that a little harsh, B?"

"We do not know them. For all we know, they could be a criminal."

"Hate to say it, but B is right." Jason piped up, moving towards an empty chair at the debriefing table and propping his feet up on the smooth surface. "Can't say I won't be happy not being the only person here who does what's necessary, but if they're some assassin baby, then maybe we should be prepared."

"They're not going to be an assassin baby, Little Wing! We already went over this!"

"Correction, you went over this. I sat there and replayed the image of you faceplanting onto a rooftop after you got drunk."

Dick turned away from all of them and stomped off to the computer where the screen was displaying all his attempts to find Damian's soulmate, muttering something about people never forgetting something or another. The rest of them turned back to glare at him, trying to get him to talk. It was laughable that they thought they could intimidate him into talking.

There was dead silence. Echoing screeches of the small population of bats living in the cave were blocked out in favour of the silent interrogation. There was no sense of time, they were all rather focused on trying to make the other admit defeat.

Tim broke the tension by speaking first.

"Alright, at this point, I could care less about your soulmate and your crazy obsession with them being a 'so-called threat'." He stepped up to him, causing him to focus on the sleep-deprived CEO, who was holding up a sleek silver tablet to his face. "But what the heck was all this about?"

Damian's eyes darted to the screen, and he blanched. It was a video of his office and typing away at the desk was the mysterious girl that was stuck in his mind for the past day and a half. He watched as he entered the room, and from where the camera was placed, he saw himself stiffen at the sight of her, and he winced at his harsh questioning tone.

Looking back at it now, time was fickle. What had felt like hours of staring into blue depths that he did not even know existed in a person were mere minutes of staring in reality. How long did he watch those eyes flick from all the different shades of blue, and then some?

The printer went off, and he flinched as the girl broke eye contact with him and tripped, causing him to catch and protect the girl on instinct in the video. He forced his breath to steady as he watched the pair collide into each other, torso to torso. Even when looking through a screen, he felt the blistering warmth of her body against his own, the feel of her gloved hands pressed up onto his turtleneck-covered chest, the way she fit right into his arms. His fingers twitched, wanting to pull down her own turtleneck and bite the number off of her supple skin.

He was so engrossed in watching the video that he did not realise that his family was judging his reactions. They had seen it beforehand, but they were more focused on Damian's obsession with his powerful soulmate, who they had dubbed 'Eighty-Seven'.

Tim snapped the tablet shut, forcing Damian out of his preoccupied state. "So, let me ask you again. What was that about?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't know that girl." He muttered, then winced at how weak it sounded, even to him.

"Uh-huh." Dick nodded, then leaned forward, excited. "Who's the girl?"

Damian furrowed his eyebrows, glancing at everyone else in the cave. Every one of them had a blank look except for his eldest brother who had an exuberant look on his face.

"Like I've told you, I've never met that girl before." He hesitated and made eye contact with Dick, whose expression turned to concern in a split-second. "That was the first time we met."

"Wait," Jason leaned forward, taking his feet off the table. "So, you don't know this chica?"

He nodded his head, frustration growing in him. "That's what I've been saying for the past five minutes."

"So," Tim said and swiped up on his tablet. The paused screen of the video appeared on the large computer monitor, focused on the composed face of the ebony-haired woman getting up from the couch. "Who is she, and why was she in your office?"

Chapter Text

None of them went to work that day except for Bruce and Tim to keep up pretenses that nothing in Wayne Enterprises was wrong. They weren't sure if the raven-haired girl would be back, and they needed to make sure she didn't think they had caught on to whatever scheme she was playing.

Damian thought it was ridiculous since he had reacted so violently when they first met. He still felt that she was somehow connected to his soulmate, who lingered in his mind, a haunting memory tantalizing and familiar, but wholly out of reach.

He tried at the start to convince his family that there was a connection, but when they had checked over it twice with a fine-tooth comb, they had to drop the idea that mystery girl number two was related to mystery person number one. They tried convincing him too, that Eighty-Seven couldn't be related to the intruder, no matter how pretty she was.

That didn't stop him.

Storming out of the cave, already free from his restraints, he headed up to his half-destroyed room. Did they have to tie him up so tight though? He could still feel the sting of the rope against his bare chest.

The chaos hit him in the face, and he pushed down the rumbling in his chest at the sight. Scraps of cloth and paper were strewn across the floor, over the dresser, and draped over chairs. Pungent wafts of paint thinner and varnish leaked through the door despite the open window. Stubs of lead, broken bits of compressed and willow charcoal, and stumps of pastels were burrowed in the carpet, staining the expensive dyes.

He winced. Sorry, Alfred.

The bed was clear in comparison with the rest of the room, the duvet and pillows ripped off and an open sketchbook at the corner, wide doe eyes staring up at him through the pages. He thumbed the tip of an eyelash, smudging the hurried stroke that attempted to capture the absolute mystery that was her eyes.

Every time he brought her to mind, the more her eyes were obscured. Nothing seemed right anymore. Were they as wide as saucers, or were they slanted like a delicate brushstroke? What shade of blue came first? Did her eyes close like gentle pats, or did they flutter close?

Nothing was right, everything was wrong. Or was everything right, and nothing was wrong?

You know how to fix this, his mind whispered, you know the path.

Destroy, his heart hummed, annihilate, make way for creation.

He should know this. The League of Assassins taught him to commit everything to memory, never forget a target's face. Every piece of information was crucial, and to forget even a single detail like a mole behind an ear or a crooked finger could mean life or death on a mission. He never lost the skill, improved it over the years as Robin, and was proud to say that it was almost as good as his father's. But her image kept slipping through his fingers, her eyes becoming a mirage of muddled blues until they faded beyond the warm inky black depths, leaving a blank sense of cold inexistence.

Meditation would help collect his thoughts. Or at least, that's how his grandfather would deal with the side effects of the Pits. He gathered himself up on the bed, closed his eyes, and centered himself. Deep breath in. Out. In. Out.

Think rationally. Clear unwanted thoughts out. What is the goal, what is the desired end result, and how do I get there?

There was enough of their resources spread across the board to even attempt to connect the elusive power that was at the end of his red string. It would have nagged him even more if he wasn't preoccupied with the girl from his office. But that wasn't what he was supposed to be focusing on. He was supposed to be collecting his thoughts—

The French thief. Flash. The girl in red. Flash. His soulmate. Creation. Soft blue. Inky black depths. Bold crimsons. Red spots, black spots. Neon blues, specks of indigo. Apple blossoms. Black cats. Ladybugs. Swords. Cravats. Printers. Glass. Blood. Oceans. Obsidian. Scarlet. Lapis lazuli. Pain. Destruction. Bluebell. Midnight. Scarlet. Acid green.

Acid green?

His mind was pulled away in a blur, hurtling him into an old temple room. This wasn't anything from his own memories. It didn't feel like a memory, everything was too clear to be just a mere recollection.

A figure cloaked in black stood over a green glowing chasm, daring to touch the crumbling rock lining the glowing pool of destructive resurrection. Their black hair grazed the water, never touching it. Power leaked from them in waves, overpowering the suffocating aura of the room. He couldn't see their face for they were turned away from him, focused on the green waters.

A thought passed through his head. This was in the present.

But why would he be seeing this now? How was it happening?

Mellifluous syllables tumbled out of their mouth, a warm soprano voice ringing out across the walls. It wasn't in any language he knew, nor any he had heard in his lifetime. It was an older version of Sino-Tibetan, Proto-Dravidian, and something archaic all combined. Despite not knowing it, he found his feet moving on their own, over the word moss-covered mud bricks, inching forward to the hunched-over figure.

She was a siren, luring everything that breathed towards her, altering reality with every syllable. Magic thrummed from each word, almost like it was rewriting the metaphysical state of the room. The glow dimmed and burst all at once. Rocks crumbled, and the walls were caving in, but the figure lay kneeled down beside the pit, undisturbed.

They needed to get out of there, now. Lunging forward, he grabbed at the back of the figure's cloak, only for his hand to dissipate through her. An illusion. He wasn't there in physical form. He couldn’t do anything. Did that mean that he was safe from the destruction?

His arms came up on instinct as the ceiling started to rain down debris on them with a shuddering groan. Damian saw the last of the water's glow fade from the walls of the room and the water's edge, all the magical properties gone. It was now an average pond. The figure was gone from her perch by the water, out of sight. Then, his shoulder was yanked backward and all that was left were blue oceans with a burning crimson fire in the middle.

He bolted upright from his meditation pose. Nothing before was green. And now, everything was trimmed in a sickly green. A green he'd only seen before once.

The Lazarus Pits.

Everything was connected. It had to be. None of this was a coincidence. She was the thief from the first night. She was the office girl. She was the one with the loopy handwriting in red that appeared on his neck, and he was willing to bet his life that his own unwavering handwriting was emblazed on her neck.

His heart dropped as he connected the final piece of information.

She was the person who destroyed a Lazarus Pit without breaking a sweat. And it didn't look like this was her first time doing it either.

His heart thumped at fifty million beats a minute. Was she a threat, or was she an ally?

Damian hated how his heart flickered towards her being someone he could trust, betraying all the trained fibers in his body.

Chapter Text

"Hey, Bug."

A hum. "Yes, Kitty?"

"Do you think I'll ever meet my soulmate?" Wonder, hope, longing. Youthful love burst in abundance through his words, his voice.

Pieces of glass were crushed under them as they sat down. Paris laid beneath their feet, separated from their tiny bubble filled with sentiment and comfort. The night was dark, clouds cast overhead, covering the stars. Where they sat was an abandoned rooftop amongst many houses left for the night, so isolated from the city, but to the two people sitting on the roof, it was the closest they felt to it. In the dark, their looming shadows cast tall behind them, lit up by the billboards and building lights that reached their level.

"Of course." She smiled, running their hand across the gravel. "You of all people will surely meet them."

A wistful sigh. "Have you ever thought about your soulmate?"

A pause, punctured by the blue-haired girl's breath, sharp and frigid. "The Celestial Guardian should not have any attachments outside of the Miraculous."

"You didn't answer my question." Soft echoes of the night rang around them.

"Before everything," she whispered, tear-filled eyes glinting back over a dark canvas of smog. "I used to dream of him every night."

Stop, a little voice in her mind screamed, that is private. You don't have cracks, you shouldn't expose yourself.

But the dam broke, and all that was left to do was ride the wave.

"It was always an earth-shattering meeting. An instant moment of love, just knowing that the person in front of you was your fated one, the one who would protect you in your weakest, give you strength at your strongest, and be there for you in everything. I wanted all those things. I begged for those dreams. Sometimes I'd go to bed whispering it to myself so that I could dream of it. I was convinced that it was a romantic bond. Nothing could change my mind. My Maman and Papa would always tell me not to jump to conclusions, but I think my heart just knew."

She couldn't stop herself now. It was too late. She was rambling out loud, ideas and futures that kept her up at night flashing through her mind, wishes she didn't know existed until she allowed herself to say it out loud to someone tumbled out.

"Three kids. They were gonna be a boy, a girl, and a surprise. I wanted to name one of them after my maman or papa. We'd get a hamster, I've always wanted one. A successful business, no doubt it would be mine, and my soulmate would be at home. I don't know if they'd work but they'd cook me dinners and breakfasts in bed and hug me during my nightmares. I wanted — I wanted the happiness in the simple things. Normal things."

The blonde's green eyes widened, glowing lime green in the pitch-black night. Silence fell between them, her breath heavier than earlier from the sudden outburst. She broke it first.

"What, are you really surprised about that?" She asked, looking at him.

"No, I­— it's just that you're—"

"—always saying that they're unnecessary? Not something we should focus on?" The blue-haired girl's voice cut over his. "Because that is the truth. Silly fantasies weren't going to solve anything. A dream is just a dream. That's all it ever was, and that is all it ever will be."

Her words turned bitter as she looked over the Parisian skyline, the sun still hours away from peeking over the buildings. "My one priority is the Kwami and the Miraculous, that's all it has ever been since I took upon the mantle of Celestial Guardian. Everything else comes second to it."

"Mar—"

"Save it, Kitty."

Anything he could have said in response died off into the wind, muffled by the distant bark of a dog and the honking of cars. Haunting visions of green heavens and chaotic order pulsed through her mind. They never disappeared, lurking in the back of his mind. To his credit, Adrien stayed silent as they watched the brooding city.

The Miraculous had to come first. No matter what happened. Marinette only amounted to a queen in the game of life. Powerful, yes, but a hopeless instrument to the whims of Balance, the ultimate player in the chess of existence.

Sometimes — she only allowed herself the luxury of sometimes and passing controlled wishes, never accidents — sometimes, she wished that she wasn't. But no one else could have done it but her. No, she wouldn't allow this damning fate on anyone else, she would never wish it upon her worst enemies.

A chill ran down her spine, but she ignored it. What was a little cold to the eternal winter that was a life without a soulmate?

"Are you ready to meet her, Dami?"

Damian glared at Dick. "We can't assume we'll meet her right away. This is a lead, but it doesn't mean that it's the final destination."

"Come on, Little D, have a little faith. We'll find Eighty-Seven in no time. You'll see" Dick ruffled his head, and Damian fought the urge to slap his hand away. He knew that Dick meant well, but Damian still believed he was right. There was no guarantee they would meet the blue-haired girl on their trip. They didn't even know if the lead they were chasing was connected to her in any way.

He glanced out the window of the plane as they rose into the air and sighed, his chest tightening at the thought of not meeting her. Maybe — maybe he could allow himself a little bit of hope.

Paris. The City of Love. And was the place where Adrien Agreste lived. They had traced the most persistent inquisitor for the Agapitos Lazuli on the computer. The jewel was fabled to grant powers to those who were worthy of it, and many wealthy people vied for the artifact, but the explorer who had found it wanted to share its beauty with the world, having no need for money himself.

Out of all of them, Adrien Agreste stood out. It wasn't the first time he was involved in these types of acquisitions, and it was enough to call it a hobby, but what made him stand out the most was the sheer amount of anomalies with his case. First, all the jewels he acquired after all went dark — which was almost impossible for some of the jewels — and any of the rest that he couldn't get vanished into thin air, never to be seen again. Then his relation to France. Seeing as Damian was sure of Eighty-Seven being Parisian, the former model seemed like the best bet. Lastly, he shouldn't have had enough money to fund all of that, even as an ex-model of a former leading fashion brand, not to mention being the sole inheritor of the funds after his father retired and shut the company down. He must have a benefactor of some sort, leading them to believe he wasn't working alone. If they were right, that same benefactor was the person who ordered the heist of the jewels. With any luck, Eighty-Seven would be connected to them as well.

Now they were waiting in the reception office of Collège Françoise Dupont. Tim couldn't stop fidgeting with his tie while Damian sat upright. They had been waiting for the nineteen-year-old assistant teacher for the better part of the hour. It was getting tedious, and Damian resisted the urge to grip Tim's hand in his to stop his incessant fidgeting.

The door opened, and a slim blonde male came through. "Sorry, I heard you were looking for me?"

Damian schooled his face, but he couldn't stop the slight twitch of his eye. Tim noticed but didn't say anything in front of the newcomer, stretching out a hand with an amicable smile. "It's alright, we weren't waiting that long—"

It was forty-three minutes. Damian counted.

"—it's nice to meet you. I'm Tim Drake, and this is my brother, Damian."

Adrien extended his hand towards Damian. "It's nice to meet you both. I'd introduce myself, but seeing as you were looking for me, I'm guessing you already know who I am."

"Yes, and we'd like to ask you some questions." Tim smiled, awkward charm warming his words. "If that's alright with you, of course."

Adrien laughed. "Depends on the question, but I'd be more than willing to offer what I can. It's not every day you get to meet the Waynes."

They exchanged subtle looks. Typical PR answer. Calm, collected, friendly, but not giving away any of the power in the conversation. No doubt from all his years as the face of Gabriel.

"That's all we ask for." Damian interjected, hurrying his words before the French young man could catch onto their little interaction. "We were hoping to talk to you about the jewels you buy. Specifically, your latest attempt of buying one."

"Ah, the lazuli bracelet." Adrien's eyes shaded over, and his shoulders shifted, smile more pointed. A clear defensive position. Tim winced, and Damian wanted to smack himself. That was the worst possible way he could have opened that topic. But his reaction confirmed one thing; Adrien Agreste was somehow involved in this grand scheme. They were one step closer.

"What would you like to know?"

If they could get any information out of the man in front of them, that is.

Chapter Text

"What would you like to know?"

The blonde man planted his feet on the ground and stared them down. He looked younger than Tim, maybe even younger than Damian, but the nineteen-year-old carried the maturity of someone who had faced the end of the world. It hung on the shoulders of war survivors, people who came out of the most horrific events in history, on countless of the heroes of the Justice League.

When he met Damian's eyes, forest green clashing against emerald green, a shiver ran down Damian's spine. Not fear, no, it was more than that. Irrational power bled from his eyes. Terror edged his pupils, pain drowned in his irises, chaos glossing over it. Destruction. Decimation. Annihilation. There was no reason for this man to have this much power. He felt weak looking at the blonde man. All his instincts screamed at him, run away, and his hackles rose, shoulders tightening on themselves.

Damian averted his eyes as much as he could afford to, trying to communicate with Drake about the assistant teacher in front of them, but he met confused cornflower blue eyes. Did Tim not sense the power coming off this man? The devastation in his eyes?

Tim's stare remained blank. Damian shot him another look, more obvious this time, but Tim flicked his eyes back at Agreste, signalling him to turn back as well. He was right. Tim didn't know.

And, judging from the way Agreste's eyes narrowed at Damian, he hadn't expected Damian to pick up on his change either.

He somehow got the feeling that the man standing in front of him faced not only that, but he also carried the power to cause Armageddon. It made him tense, and he didn't trust himself to speak up.

Tim smiled disarmingly at the Parisian. "We just wanted to understand more about the jewel. Its monetary and aesthetic value aside, not much else was published on its significance. Since you were one of its inquirers, we were hoping that you'd be able to enlighten us on a few oddities surrounding the case. I'm a bit of a Buzzfeed unsolved kind of guy, and my brother here is a history buff."

Tim nudged him, and he scowled at his brother. This was why they should have discussed it before they came to Paris. If they did, they wouldn't have such a subpar excuse.

"Yes, I like cultural history best, if we're being specific." Damian smiled, but it felt closer to baring his teeth. He would play along with it since that's what Tim mentioned. There was no room for personal feelings when they were on a mission.

He decided to ignore the subtle throbbing of his neck.

"Ah, yes, it is an important piece of cultural significance." Adrien's stance softened. His feet shifted into a more open and inviting manner rather than the rooted yet fluid position. The edges of his eyes didn't soften, betraying his intention of portraying belief in their words. "My father was a collector of jewels, so I knew that it was quite valuable."

Tim picked up on his change and pushed forward. "Is there anything you can tell us about it?"

"I'm afraid not." He shook his head, his blonde hair falling in front of his eyes. "I'm not much of a history buff, as you kindly put it."

"Is there really nothing you could tell us about it?" Tim's words edged on pleading, a manipulation on his part. Adrien raised his hand to his neck, giving them an apologetic grin.

"There's a reason why I'm an assistant teacher in physics rather than history. You can't really force these things."

Damian resisted the urge to groan at the pun. He thought he escaped the puns when he left Gotham. Tim had the politeness to mirror the grin on the Parisian's face.

"Well, thanks for speaking to us anyways." Tim extended his hand, and Adrien shook it.

"It's my pleasure," Adrien replied, "I'm just sorry I couldn't do anything more for you both."

He nodded at Damian, who gave a terse dip of his head in response. Adrien's eyes widened at the action, and both Tim and Damian noticed.

Damian raised an eyebrow. "Is there something wrong?"

"Nothing," His reply was too quick to be nothing, and his stance shifted, closing off. "I just didn't expect you to have such a high soulmate mark."

Tim and Damian exchanged glances, but they didn't push it further. Eighty-seven was a large number, and it was a normal reaction from anyone, even within the Justice League. It was the reason Damian wanted to find his soulmate as soon as possible.

He decided to ignore the throbbing on his neck for the second time that day.

"Yes, well, all I can do is to wait for them to show up." He said, playing off the slight pain where his soul mark was. "If you will excuse us."

He turned around, and he could hear Tim apologising on his behalf, laughter ringing in response. Stopping in the shadow of a pillar holding up the roof, he surveyed the empty corridor. Muffled murmurs and teachers explaining whatever the lesson of the day was perforated the otherwise silent environment. The sun cast high overhead, allowing the ceiling to cast a cool shade across the open hall, and he sighed, absentmindedly rubbing the pads of his fingertips against the burning soulmate mark.

He didn't know why it was burning. It felt like a ghost of the first time it burned; the night he got the damn thing. The itch crawled in and on his throat, the ache pulsed against his neck, his jaw clicked and clenched, the chain and ball weighing down on his chest.

How long would this hell last? Every day he was away from her, he wanted to tear the world apart. He wanted to pull down every stone from the building they stood in and scream on top of the rubble, calling out for her. He wanted to burn the city to the ground, with nothing left but ashes and emptiness.

The whisper in his heart stirred again, rejoicing and exalting the thoughts in his head. Louder than the ones in his head, echoing the heralds for chaos and bloodshed. The headache — or was it a heartache? — plaguing him since the crimson red numbers etched themselves into his skin.

"—mian—"

Was there a way to remove it? His grandfather always talked about it, but he never found out if there were truly ways to get rid of the mark.

"—in, you th—"

Maybe Constantine had a way to do it. He could try and convince the man to give up the information about his soulmate while he was at it.

"Damian." Damian blinked at his brother.

"You're late."

"And you're zoning out." Tim frowned and put a hand on his shoulder. "You never do that. Is something up?"

He shook off Tim's hand, turning towards the exit. "Nothing. I'm fine. This was a waste of time."

"Maybe so, but we needed to be sure." Tim jogged up to him, not even breaking a sweat. "And I wouldn't say it was a complete waste of time."

"Really? Then what did you get from the conversation?"

Tim raised one finger. "One, Agreste obviously knows something."

"Obviously" He rolled his eyes. Drake infuriated him sometimes.

"Second, I found out the name of the best patisserie in all of Paris."

"And why is that important?"

Tim sputtered at him. "Because this is Paris! Enjoy yourself a little bit, meet someone out there Who knows? You might meet your soulmate."

"Again, what does this have to do with this patisserie you mention?" He raised an eyebrow at his brother, but he didn't say anything. Needless antagonization of his brother only led to more pain for him on this trip.

Tim grinned at him. "How would you like to have lunch at Tom & Sabine's Boulangerie Patisserie?"

Chapter Text

The patisserie was... not bad. It wasn't as bad as he thought it would look like, but they were standing outside the building. It didn't say anything about the food, which was the most important aspect of the establishment. People came and went from the glass doors, always leaving with a smile on their faces. The smell of butter and sugar wafted down the streets, the sunshine lighting up the roads. The total opposite of Gotham's gloom and doom.

The pain in his neck had simmered away the moment they stepped onto the street, but Damian's hand went up on instinct. Something about the cheerful patisserie made his muscles tense and his head pound. He was growing used to the dull pain.

Tim pushed the glass doors open, and a small chime rang across the store. Contrary to what Damian thought, it was quite silent, save for the soft muzak playing in the background and the faint clanging of baking sheets in the kitchen. An elderly couple stood by the shelves of loaves, clasping each other with fondness. A man who looked the same age as Tim surveyed the rows of confectionaries. Judging by the way he kept going back and forth, he couldn't decide which sugary delight he should pick. Other than the girl at the counter, the bakery was empty.

She caught his eye. The girl behind the counter stood with her back facing them, but it was obvious that her hair shone blue and black under the light, her black t-shirt showing off a slim pale figure. She was even around the same height. It had to be her.

Damian lunged forward and grabbed her wrist, determined not to let go. If this was her, he needed answers. There was no way it wasn't her. Why would Agreste recommend this little shop int he first place? Why would he balk at the sight of his soulmate number? The universe was a bitch, especially to him, but after weeks of searching and so much missed moments, the universe had to throw him a bone. Damian demanded his deserved balance.

"Ouch!" She said, and his heart dropped as she turned around. Brown eyes, and she didn't have bangs. No freckles either. The number thirty-eight shimmered in an elegant silver on her neck, but it wasn't his handwriting.

Damian released his grip on her. It wasn't her.

He could feel Tim pull him away from the girl, who looked close to crying. He heard Tim's apologies, but they were distorted. It was like Damian was plunged headfirst into an ice bath. Muddled sounds echoed, the light grew dim, and his body felt stiff and numb.

"What's gotten into you?" Tim hissed into his ear. "You've been acting weird since you've gotten that soulmate mark."

Damian turned his head to the side, focusing on a picture hung on the wall, and his blood stopped. The picture had three people in it posing in front of the patisserie. One of them was a tall hulking figure that could rival Bane's imposing one. Unlike Bane, he had a gentle smile reaching his green eyes and his hands were dusted with flour. The second one was a petite woman who was half his size wearing a modern white cheongsam, also smiling.

The girl in the middle seemed to be their daughter. Black hair, freckles, a petite figure. She had the same smile as her father, and the same look in her eyes as her mother. But what made him freeze was how blue her eyes looked. Deeper than blue, but lighter than the sky. Sinking, floating, soaring, falling. That was her. But the girl in front of him right now wasn't him. Was he imagining things?

Damian turned towards the girl, prepared to ask her a million questions about the girl in the picture, when the kitchen doors burst open, and Damian found himself staring down the end of a bread paddle.

"Who are you, and what did you do to my niece?" The woman holding the paddle, the same woman who was in the picture, glared up at him. "Choose your next words carefully."

The hulking figure of the man behind her didn't add to the tension. No, it was all coming from the Asian woman who didn't even stand tall enough to reach his chin. He didn't react. It wouldn't do for him to back off in the face of adversary. He fought the urge to swat the wooden tool away, keeping his voice even.

"I'm sorry, I made a mistake. I thought I recognised her from somewhere. But she has brown eyes. I'm sorry." He spoke softly in French, holding his hands open in surrender.

What? His mother's voice screamed at him in his mind to not back down so easily, to grab the insolent woman and snap her neck for daring to point such a pathetic weapon at his neck. The purring in his chest grew as the situation played in his mind, discord and malice running wild. He shook it off, ignoring the displeased thrum in his chest at the lack of chaos.

The Asian woman and the French man froze at his words. He frowned. Did he say something wrong?

Before he could say another word, she threw the paddle on the ground, grabbing Damian by the collar of his jacket. Desperation rang in her grey eyes as they met his own green ones.

"What do you mean," she whispered. "What do you mean when you say 'But she has brown eyes'?"

He couldn't say anything. No, he didn't know what to say. There were no clues what this woman wanted from him.

Her grey, almost bluebell eyes grew cold again, and he felt her grip tighten on his collar. "I will not ask you again. What. Did. You. Mean."

Tim entered the conversation after all of this. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Can you please let go of my brother? I promise we'll answer all of your questions, but I'm afraid we can't if you don't let my brother go."

The woman side-eyed Tim, but never turned her attention away from Damian. "Why should I? This man has just walked into my shop and assaulted my niece without any prompting." Her voice grew thick, but cold nonetheless, and tears started to form in the corners of her eyes. "Now, he mentions that he thought she was someone else, but she had brown eyes. The only girl that could pass as my niece with different eyes is dead. I need to know what he means by that. Now."

It clicked in his mind. He didn't know what it was about it, but his brain moved slower than a snail ever since he met the thief on the roof. The picture of the girl with this woman and the man behind her. The oh-so-familiar face. The same smiles. The relation between the bakery and Agreste. Was this why he mentioned it to Tim? Was this why he was so shocked?

Damian pulled down the collar of his turtleneck, and the woman gasped, hands over her mouth. His mouth was set in a firm line, and he dreaded the conversation about to take place. But, he needed to know. And by the looks on their face, they needed to know too.

"I'm looking for your daughter, who I presume is my soulmate."

Chapter Text

Hi, everyone.

For those of you who don't know me, I'm Nelly. I'm the author of this fic (surprise surprise), and I wanted to start off this message with a warm welcome to all of you, and a massive bow of gratitude to you all for reading my fics. I don't know what started all of this, and I don't know how I got this far into my writing career, but you guys are totally awesome and I love you all. You guys make me smile every day when I see your comments on my fics, and when I get that little email saying that you've dropped a kudos on my fic, I honestly cry. I don't understand how you guys enjoy my fics, but I am happy all the same.

Which brings me to now. I don't know how to explain this, or even if I can explain it. In short, though, I'm burning myself out. I've recently gotten a part-time job at a sushi place about 45 minutes from my house via public transportation. I'm technically working a second (unpaid) job at my school as a barista once a week, but I feel like I'm a manager there because I'm helping a lot with running the place. I've just started an AP course this year, and my finals for those are coming up in three weeks or so. I'm in the choir, particularly in the chamber choir, so we're doing extra on top of those. I take piano lessons on Saturdays and my exam is next year, but I've barely done any practice. I'm in this mandatory science competition that I couldn't elect out of because of "reasons" and since I'm in the top-ranked class of my year, it is mandatory. I'm in the top-ranked math class and all I want to do is cry because I'm always behind in class so I have to do it after school. On top of that, I've got fifty different worksheets I need to complete every single day. I go to school at 7:15 three times a week when everyone gets to go at 8:30 because of my AP class, choir, and barista shift.

Everything is falling to pieces. I'm not feeling like myself. My head hurts practically every day. I don't have the motivation to do anything anymore. Everything seems like a chore.

So, as of right now, I'm going to tuck this side of me, the one obsessed over fandoms and who writes every once in a blue moon, into a little box and push it into the back of my closet. Not because I'm afraid, ashamed, or anything like that. I'm doing it because I can't sustain this lifestyle with everything in it right now. So that means all works as of right now, are on indefinite hiatus. Again, I'm sorry for those who were waiting, or who were currently reading my works. Thank you again so much for being here with me through this all.

Maybe someday I might come back. When would that be? I don't know. All I know is that I'll miss you all.

Bye for now. Live long and prosper.

Nelly