Chapter Text
Rain streaks down the reinforced windows of Titans Tower, thin rivulets blurring the neon lights of Jump City into smears of gold and red. The city hums below, but up here, all you hear is the low hiss of the storm and the rhythmic sound of your breath as you concentrate. A shimmering sphere of pink energy hovers between your palms—unstable, flickering, humming like a half-remembered tune.
“Focus,” Damian’s voice cuts through the quiet.
You inhale slowly, grounding yourself. “I am focusing,” you murmur, eyes narrowing at the way the construct shudders. You can feel the atomic structure bending under your will—so fragile, so easily undone by a single flicker of doubt.
Damian crosses his arms, the shadow of his cape pooling at his feet. “You’re thinking about failing before you’ve even tried.”
You shoot him a look. “You ever consider being encouraging instead of vaguely judgmental?”
He smirks faintly, though his gaze softens. “Encouragement doesn’t sharpen the mind. Precision does.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. He moves closer, steps silent even on the metal floor. His gloved hand covers yours—firm, steady. “You’re trying to control the construct. But energy isn’t a soldier. It’s a wild thing. You guide it. You don’t command it.”
“I thought you liked commanding things,” you say quietly.
That earns you a small exhale—something that isn’t quite laughter. “Only the things that listen.”
The construct stabilizes, its edges smoothing out like glass. For a moment, you both just watch it pulse, alive with light. You can see your reflection in it—and his, beside yours. Two figures illuminated in a fragile sphere of your own making.
And then, with a faint pop, it dissolves into mist.
Damian’s expression doesn’t shift. “Better.”
“Better?” you groan. “That lasted six seconds!”
“Six seconds longer than last time,” he says, and you can’t tell if that’s praise or mockery. Probably both.
You drop your hands, sighing. “One day you’re going to realize not everyone was raised in a league of assassins.”
He hums, not looking up from his gauntlet as he scrolls through data. “If they were, my life would be considerably easier.”
You step closer, bumping his shoulder lightly. “You love it.”
“I love efficiency.”
“You love me,” you correct softly.
His head tilts toward you. His green eyes—sharp and calculating in battle—are different now, gentler. “That too.”
He leans in, brushing his lips over yours, careful and measured, like he’s memorizing every motion. For all his discipline, he’s still learning what softness means. You’ve become his teacher in that way.
You smile against his mouth. “Better.”
He pulls back, brow arching. “Better?”
You nod. “Six seconds longer than last time.”
This time, he actually laughs.
It’s later, when the Tower is quiet and the others have retired, that you find Damian in the training room again. He’s alone, practicing with a blade—its movement a blur of calculated grace. His expression is unreadable, but there’s tension in his shoulders you recognize instantly. You lean against the doorway, watching him move.
“Don’t you ever take a break?” you ask.
“I do. This is my break.”
You cross your arms. “Normal people take naps. Watch movies. Eat snacks.”
“I’m not normal,” he says, spinning the sword in a precise arc before sheathing it. “You knew that.”
You step closer, the hum of the room fading as you look up at him. “Yeah. I did.”
He watches you for a moment, then lets the mask of composure slip just slightly. “There’s something I didn’t tell you,” he admits.
The words hit you with quiet weight. Damian rarely says things like that. “What is it?”
“Father intercepted a transmission earlier today,” he says. “From a faction we thought dissolved after the last Ra’s coup attempt. They’ve been experimenting with cloning tech. Talia warned me once—there were files from my early genetic templates that were… unaccounted for.”
You blink. “You’re saying—”
“I’m saying there’s a chance someone created… another me.”
You stare at him. “Another you,” you echo faintly. “Like—literally?”
He nods, jaw tightening. “A clone.”
Your heart stutters. “And he’s… what? Evil?”
Damian’s expression darkens. “Manipulated. Misled. I don’t know. But he’s been sighted near the outskirts of Gotham.”
You step closer, hands brushing his arm. “Then we’ll find him. Together.”
He looks down at your hand, then back at you. “No. This isn’t your fight.”
“It is if someone’s using your face to hurt people.”
His eyes harden, but there’s a flicker of something else—fear. Not for himself. For you. “Promise me you’ll stay close to the Tower. If this clone has my memories, he might—”
“—know about me,” you finish softly.
He nods.
You smile sadly. “Then he already knows I won’t listen.”
Damian exhales, shaking his head, but his thumb brushes over your knuckles—an unspoken admission of defeat. “You’re insufferable.”
“You love me anyway.”
“Yes,” he says, voice quiet. “And that terrifies me.”