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It’s a noisy night in Gotham, as all nights here are. Cars and trucks below Damian honk at each other, disregarding societal politeness once behind a windshield. Even from above, he can hear tires tear through puddles, striking water onto the sidewalk. In a different city, it would then flow down into the drain, ready to be recycled. This is not that city, and the soiled, oily water stays stagnant in the dents and concavities of the sidewalk, dirtying any shoes that walk through it. Damian’s hearing has always been good, but the chatter below - chatter, even at this time of day - is a faint murmur playing in his ears. A little rumble, a slight thrumming, a song that screamed of desolence.
Since arriving in Gotham, the sound never left. Even in the Batcave, a place of supposed solitude, had rocks tumble down and thumps above and loud conversations. Damian was conflicted; he hated the talking of the others when he was trying to work, but then when they were absent from the cave, their silence was somehow louder than everything else. As he takes a breath, it stutters, almost sounding like shivering. Fitting, cold as it was, though Damian could not feel it. His suit regulated body heat, keeping his temperature neutral, all except his face- though that had grown numb at this point.
How long had he been here? Nights in Gotham, at certain hours, all looked the same. Damian had snuck out around one in the morning, and it was only at four did the night sky lighten. As it hadn’t yet, Damian can only assume it was some time before then; he had been here roughly one to three hours. He could simply check his phone, or turn around and look at the large clock that somehow still worked. Damian didn’t want to turn around, not yet. And his phone… Damian’s hand twitches toward it, before a quicker recoil away. If he held it, if he turned it on, Damian knew he would leave. He would see his lockscreen, a large family picture, including his pets and Alfred, and he wouldn’t be able to do it. Just thinking about them, Damian’s feet unconsciously shuffle away from the ledge.
But, Damian thinks, there’s always a but. He peers down, the hundreds of feet seeming so quaint. In a life where all he knew was combat and leaping off buildings, a four hundred and something foot drop looked almost welcoming. More welcoming than what awaited him at the manor, at least. Would Father and whoever else was there be annoyed with him for leaving without saying anything? Would they find it typical? …Would they notice his absence at all? While his ringer was off, Damian hadn’t felt any vibrations in his belt, signifying silence. All the more telling, he thinks with a tsk.
Not to say that he’s surprised. Damian knew well he was the “black sheep” of sorts in the family. His only merits, his only claim, were being talented at the job and being the blood son. But he quickly came to learn that both points were moot. Not only was every person wearing the symbol exceptionally talented in their own way, but in a family tied by experiences, not only did that make the blood in Damian’s veins irrelevant, but having only been in Gotham two years? Having not worked with Father for months when he first became Robin? Then suddenly Damian’s status as the blood son ostracized him more than anything else.
Damian supposes a large part of that was his own fault. When he arrived, the only person he cared about was his father. He knew of the other Robins, how could he not? But Damian had wrongfully assumed they were placeholders for him. While this was clearly not the case, as Damian would soon learn, there had also been a bigger problem at hand: Father was not there. In his place had been Richard, looking more like the ideal Batman in Damian’s head than Bruce would. Over time, Damian would come to realize how much the Batgirls and other Robins meant to him. Not just because they made the Bat legacy and inadvertently allowed Damian to be where he is now, but as people.
In a city that would never truly be home, Damian found solace in their smiles. The way Duke would pet Titus with a gentle touch, so different than the way he handled unjust criminals. How Jason never once forgot his birthday. Damian remembers fondly how Cassandra would win their spars, and without fail, reach her hand out to him while he was on his back. Tim had been the one to show him how to change his lockscreen, though Damian had made it one of his art pieces until Tim looked away, and since then it hasn’t changed. He recalls, in a particularly embarrassing memory, rushing home to show Father his test with a big red A, only to find Barbara, and how proud she had been of him. Stephanie never treated him like the enemy. Richard always held him like- Richard held him at all. Alfred…
…Damian’s eyes well, to his own surprise. He’d wipe the tears away, if not for his mask covering them. Despite these brief moments, despite the memories overwhelmingly flooding Damian’s mind, the truth was undeniable. With the exception of perhaps Richard, no one in the family loved him. They tolerated him, eventually, but there was no reason to suspect anything more. The Bats were kind to everyone, he was simply another person to extend that to. Damian doesn’t blame them; what reason had he given to love him? He wasn’t the best fighter, he wasn’t the smartest, he wasn’t the kindest. All he had was his status, but that didn’t mean anything, and Damian soon realized he was nothing at all.
His feet move the edge, accidently kicking a tiny pebble off the building. Father didn’t need another Robin, he never did. The only reason Damian became Robin at all was because Richard pitied him. Damian looks down, breath labored, his cape the last whisper of an embrace he’d ever feel. Gotham didn’t need him, despite that being his purpose since conception. Legs shaking, Damian wonders if he’d fall before he jumped. No one needs him. No one wants him. Most of all, no one would miss him.
Damian quickly turns around, cape flowing, and bleary eyes briefly catch the time. At 2:43 am, Damian al-Ghul Wayne commits his final killing, plummeting to his death. The sounds of Gotham are replaced with wind whipping past his ears at high speeds. Though it may be from practice, Damian is surprised to find himself completely calm. Part of him expected some sort of epiphany, some sort of fear, but neither come. Instead, his mind goes blank, the weightless feeling overtaking it all.
Right when Damian thinks he’s closing in the bottom, a new, sturdier embrace develops him. He soon recognizes the arch of a swing, him and his savior flying upwards. From the fall of the building, it’s a long way up, and Damian has time to look at whatever grabbed him. The sight is hard to make out; tears filtered his vision and his head was spinning. But even still, through the moonlight, Damian could make out a bright yellow, his favorite color. It shone in a blur and Damian likens it to a halo. It likely isn’t actually - he had never even believed in angels and the like - but after falling roughly four hundred feet, anything that brings him toward the sky seems angelic.
Before he knows it, Damian is being set down, evidently not taken somewhere above the sky, if the cold concrete below him was anything to go by. He wants to take his mask off now. He had left it on as some sort of protection from his actions, but as they had been foiled, Damian just wanted to see properly what was happening. But he had an identity to maintain, so it stays on, and Damian tries to ask his savior their identity. His mouth opens, and nothing comes out.
“Damian!” He hears a feminine voice say his name, and it’s one he’d recognize in an instant. If that weren’t enough, Stephanie’s warm and gentle touch on his cheeks would do it. Damian can hear her labored breaths, as if she’s the one who jumped, as if she cared.
…Did she?
“Oh my God, oh my God-” Now that he knows he is in safe company, Damian pulls off his mask and blinks away tears. Stephanie does the same, tearing her mask and hood off. Her gloved hands shake as they go card through his hair, caress his cheeks, and finally land on his shoulders. “Thank goodness. I was so scared, Damian, oh my God…” From the vantage point she has on his shoulders, Stephanie pulls him into a tight hug.
When they had hugged on occasion previously, it wasn’t like this. Stephanie usually hugged like she was grateful. This time, she hugged like she was scared. Did Damian cause that? He hugs her back, hands wrapping around her torso, and he wonders if he deserves this. He rests his head against her shoulder regardless.
All too soon, she pulls away, though it feels hesitant. Stephanie’s hands are still on his shoulders and her eyes never leave him.
“I’ll be right back Damian, I’ll get whoever pushed you. I saw where you fell, I know where they are, and I will kill them,” Stephanie says, putting her mask back on. Damian’s throat dries with the realization that there’s been a horrible misunderstanding. After seeing her, he had hoped it’d be a wordless affair. That she would catch him and she’d scold him and things would be normal. He doesn’t want to say it out loud. Stephanie pulls a gadget out of her utility belt, which Damian immediately recognizes as a distress signal. “Take this, contact everyone and gather whoever is available. Once they’re here, keep some Bats with you and send some in my direction. If the bad guy got you, I don’t stand a chance.”
Stephanie grabs Damian’s hand to drop the signal into it and turns around, cape flowing with her. All of his earlier concerns vanish with a new, more frightening thought: Stephanie was leaving, and Damian would once more be alone on a Gotham rooftop. Panic of… everything, finally kicking in, Damian reaches a hand out and grabs Stephanie’s purple cape. He holds tightly, pulls slightly, and Stephanie turns around.
“You won’t be alone long, Dami, but whoever did this to you and cannot walk free.” And when she looks ready to go off again, Damian latches onto her back, and lets out a tearless sob. It’s not a noise he’s made often, and every rare occasion he hates the sound more and more. It’s an ugly, desperate thing, it’s the sound of every insecurity he’s tried to keep under wraps. His arms hold steady around her shoulders, his chest pressed against her back. He feels it tense, and in a typical selfish response of his, Damian ignores it and puts his head in the crook of Stephanie’s neck.
He swallows. He realizes he doesn’t know the time anymore, and the thought frightens him. Damian can’t let her leave; can’t let her chase ghosts like Father had done for her. He wants her here. He always has, even if he hadn’t realized sooner, Damian always craved that warmth that he’s incapable of. Stephanie’s frazzled hair tickles Damian’s nose. For whatever reason, it reminds him of being young. When had he last been young?
“No one pushed me,” Damian speaks, the rasp in his voice the only hint of emotion. Talking as though he was giving a mission report made it easier. That is all, he almost tacks on, but his mouth beats his brain to the punch. “…I’m sorry.”
Whether it was due to his whispering on her neck, or the cold air, or simply his statement, goosebumps creep onto Stephanie’s scarred skin. She doesn’t turn around, likely too ashamed to look at him, but she holds onto the arms that are holding her. Grasp them in a grip that is first painfully tight, then barely there. Damian prefers the first one. He hears a sniffle- was she crying? Was he? Stephanie’s body racks, but Damian feels warmth on his cheeks.
Without warning, Stephanie turns around and envelops Damian. That’s the only word he can think of; her cape drapes around Damian, her arms surround him. They sit like that for a while; the city doesn’t get brighter, so Damian is unsure how long they sat on a concrete building that has moss practically as a second layer. But soon enough, Stephanie calms down enough to pull away. Damian isn’t quite ready for that, but he feels calm, so he lets her.
“We were worried, when you snuck out without a word, you hadn’t done that in months, and I never thought-” Despite Stephanie’s penchant for talking too much, Damian thinks fondly, she stops abruptly. Maybe saying it out loud would be too much, maybe she thought him fragile. The thought irritates Damian, but then, he rationalizes, he did just jump off a roof. Maybe he was fragile, the one thing he wasn’t supposed to be.
“You’re going to tell them.” It’s not a question, Damian knows the answer, but his raw voice cracks at tell and he can’t quite make eye contact with her. For someone so good at lying, Damian was not being terribly convincing.
“I’m going to tell them you’re safe,” Stephanie assures. “But… but the rest is up to you.”
That wasn’t fair, thinks Damian. Since he had arrived in Gotham, he had been told what to do and what not to do. He had been told time and time again that everything he was taught was wrong. Don’t be like your mother, be like your father. Don’t talk about your mother, they’ll either pity you or scold you. Simple things he had learned. Damian thought those were unspoken rules; he didn’t always follow them, but he tried to. He tried to be good.
So why now, hair a mess and cape twisted up and cheeks swollen, was he told to make a decision? There were no rules for this, not ones he followed or ones he did not, there was nothing. What was Damian supposed to say, think, do? He had been trained to be a soldier. He was not trained for this.
“I don’t know.” Damian answers honestly. He hates it, hates the taste of uncertainty on his tongue, hates the way his mouth forms the words. But he was tired.
He was so damn tired.
“Okay,” Stephanie responds with an exhale. She’s visibly thinking, uncertain. Damian realizes she was as lost as he was. For how well Stephanie understands people, she doesn’t seem to entirely understand him. But, Damian thinks, giving her the benefit of the doubt- someone who is a person, wouldn’t go over rules in their head after jumping off a building. So maybe she’s right. “Okay. How about… How about we go to my place, eat food that’s really bad for us, and we think about it together?” She suggests.
It’s a solid proposal. Made less solid, maybe, by the shake of her hands and doubt in her voice. She’s trying to be strong for him, Damian thinks. Stephanie is trying to let him be weak, as he so clearly was. She agrees, then. That he’s weak. It’s the same conclusion he had come to himself, but hearing it from Stephanie makes it so much more painful.
Damian goes with Stephanie anyway. He thinks that maybe it would’ve been better to go back to the mansion, call off this sort of manhunt for him, and apologize to everyone for worrying them. He could follow the rules. But… he’s tired. He doesn’t want to think of the words, he doesn’t want to think of the proper way to say sorry, Damian wants to eat mediocre take out on Stephanie’s couch. And it seems that what she wants him to want.
So they’re on a cramped fire escape, Stephanie breaking into her own apartment, crawling through a window. On a different day, Damian would snark about why she’s doing this, and how ridiculous she looks wiggling through an open window. The words die on his tongue.
“Welcome in, make yourself at home,” Stephanie begins after making it inside. She extends a hand to him to help him get through, one Damian very much doesn’t need, but he finds himself taking it anyway. “It’s no Wayne Manor, but I think it has its charm.”
Damian takes his first step onto stiff carpet, and tries to take it all in. The hum of appliances, the stale smell in the air that a candle nearly out of wax on the counter is desperately trying to fight. The walls are an old off white, but the living room alone exudes Stephanie. The mess of garbled things on the kitchen counters, a mix of keys and whatever knicknacks Stephanie concerns herself with. The dying succulents on unpainted wooden shelves, the coffee stains on the counters.
“Charm...” Damian whispers, though not in response. It’s more of genuine awe and shock. Stephanie ignores, or maybe does not hear, and instead takes off her gloves, hood and mask.
“I’m going to go change, and I’ll find stuff you can wear, too. Something comfy, I promise.” She states in a way almost too casual, but at the turn of the hallway, she hesitates. Stephanie looks back at Damian, for just a moment, too quick for him to even try to smile reassuringly. And then she’s gone.
Damian can understand what she’s trying to do. Stephanie is trying to keep the atmosphere neutral and letting him set the pace and tone. It’s so considerate it makes Damian a little sick, but he swallows that down and tries to be grateful. If Stephanie wants him to decide what to do next that badly, then so be it. For her, he will try.
Soon enough, perhaps only a couple of minutes, she returns holding tacky purple plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt. He takes it from her hands, and lets it spread down. It’s some kind of band merchandise, but surprisingly, it looks to be about his size.
“I am unfamiliar with this band.” Damian says, mostly to fill the silence.
“I think Barbara picked it up for Cass who left it here. I don’t know them either, is what I’m saying,” Stephanie replies, once more letting her nervousness slip out. Silence consumes the room again, so Stephanie pulls her phone out of the oversized pajama pants pocket. “Do you want your usual from the burger place nearby?” She says, boldly assuming Damian knows the place nearby.
He does, and Stephanie apparently knows his usual order.
“That’d be satisfactory,” Damian answers, turning the corner to the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower as well.” I feel dirty.
“Oh! Okay! Let me just get in there real quick, then.” It could simply be a need for the bathroom, but Damian senses deeper motivation.
“I’m not going to cut myself with razors, if that’s what you’re so worked about.” He says as if the very idea is preposterous. It isn't really, but Stephanie doesn’t need to know that. She startles slightly.
“I know,” Though her face said she doesn’t really know. “I just… never mind. I trust you.” And just to be spiteful Damian wants to break that trust. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t have a good reason. He just wants to be destructive.
Though he doesn’t. He takes his shower, more rinsing off than getting clean. He gets into too big pajamas, and awkwardly shuffles back into the living room. Gingerly, Damian sits on the sofa, looking anywhere but at Stephanie, though he glances at what she’s doing. Looking through options on a streaming service. Despite the relaxed activity, he could cut the tension in the air with a sword.
“Cat documentary?” Stephanie asks, forcing casual words into the room. It was actually something they had already started. On a particularly boring stakeout, Stephanie had taken her phone out and put on a documentary about cats. Despite his verbal protest at watching TV on a stakeout, Damian may have gotten slightly invested. They had made it halfway through before their crook very rudely made his move and interrupted their peaceful time.
Damian honestly can’t believe he had nearly forgotten.
He nods, to which Stephanie clicks a button and the documentary starts where they left off. He doesn’t retain anything he watches or hears from the program; but the noise is pleasant, and Stephanie seems content, so he elects to take advantage and move a little closer to her. Stephanie fills the gap, putting an arm over his shoulder and pulling him closer. Damian allows it, despite how easy it would be to resist.
His eyes grow heavy, or at least, heavier than they had been. Damian feels safe, though there’s a nagging at the back of his head. Maybe he had sunk further into Stephanie’s embrace, because she seems to notice his drowsiness.
“Go to sleep, Damian. We’ll talk in the morning.”