Chapter Text
─⋅⋆⁺𖤐
Damian's eyes are open before the second rap on the doors to his balcony.
The katana he keeps under his bed is in his hand by the third. He stalks closer on quiet feet like the assassin he's trained to be.
Who could've possibly evaded the manor's security systems, scaled the wall to his bedroom, and all without alerting any of the vigilantes living inside?
No matter. He's Damian Wayne, he can handle anything this world can throw at him. His hand stalls on the balcony's door handle before violently throwing it open...
And there you are, slumped on the stone railing, covered in blood, clutching your torso where the white dress shirt is dripping red.
You give him a tired grin, shooting a finger gun at him with the hand not clutching your bloody wound.
“What's cooking, good looking?”
Damian lowers his katana and clicks his tongue,
“Constantine.”
His eyes never leave your wound, assessing just how bad the damage is. He can smell the iron from where he stands. Of course the first time you visit him in months would be when you look half way through death's door.
“Are we just gonna stare longingly at each other or are you gonna let me in, Love?”
His only reply is a "tt", before he steps aside so you can gracefully stumble into his room.
“I will get Pennyworth, he-”
You swiftly interrupt him, falling onto his bed with a wince,
“What, you can't do it yourself? I heard you wanted to be a doctor or something?”
He skips asking how exactly you knew that, neither of you really make an effort to catch up.
“That doesn't mean I'll just- ”
You interrupt him again, waving your hand dismissively while rubbing your tired eyes,
“I can't heal it myself right now, Damian, I spent all my energy just getting here so you could heal it. Letting a patient bleed out isn't a very good way to start your whole doctor thing.”
Damian walks off to his bathroom, muttering curses in a language you understand better than he knows.
─⋅⋆⁺.
The wound looks much worse in the harsh light of the desk lamp Damian’s forcing you to hold up. You lie at the foot of his bed, brown coat discarded, buttons of your dress shirt unbuttoned up your torso, just enough for him to do his work.
He kneels at the end of the bed, emergency Med Kit next to him. He's still grumbling as he preps the needle while you help sanitize the bloody area.
“So the doctor thing... it's true then? I thought you liked being Robin.”
Your voice is soft, almost unsure, neither of you acknowledge it. You shiver when he smears cold topical anaesthetic around the wound.
“I need to know who I am when I'm not trying to be him…or trying to be less like her.”
You both let that sit heavy in the air. Direct and blunt, as he always is.
He glares at your wound while piercing the needle in and out of numb flesh. You stare distractedly at the expensive looking ceiling.
“You could try it too... I know you feel the same way about him.”
His words startle you out of your trance. You look down at him with furrowed brows, his green eyes never stray from his work. You scoff,
“Oh yeah? And do what? Be a circus magician like Zatanna? Not all of us were getting medical degrees by the age of 10, Wayne.”
Did you admire Zatanna’s talents? Of course, but you're no show-woman. You're a demonologist, an exorcist, an occult specialist. Someone who does the dirty work that no one else can or wants to do. It's unforgiving and often feels futile, but someone has to do it.
Damian gently tugs the last of the thread coming out of your flesh before cutting it.
“Zatanna does plenty good, and we both know you could do any number of things with your life that isn't this."
He gestures to your freshly stitched waist.
"You don't have to do this just because it's what you've always done, or because it's expected. You can do whatever want.”
He doesn't say this in an encouraging, inspiring way. He says it like it's obvious, like he's frustrated that you haven't figured this out yet or maybe that it took him so long to figure out himself.
The air feels thick, Damian is used to the smell of blood, but the sight and feel of yours on his fingertips isn’t a feeling he'd like to get used to.
“…You just wanna see me in fishnets.”
Damian's head shoots up from where he was applying the gauze over your stitches. He scoffs scornfully when he sees your satisfied grin and presses harder than necessary on the gauze which he immediately regrets when you groan a bit too loudly.
A single solitary moment later you hear three polite knocks on Damian's ridiculously big bedroom door.
“Master Damian, are you alright?”
Alfred. How did neither of you hear him walking up to the door? Both you and Damian stare at each other, completely lost for what to do. Though he's trained for countless situations, you doubt he's ever thought of what to do if he got caught with a girl in his room, on his bed, with her shirt halfway up her torso.
“I'm fine, Alfred.”
You pause a little at him calling Alfred by his first name, but he just stares at the door like he can will the man away with his mind. You try to lift yourself up, so you can maybe hide in the closet or something but Damian pushes you down gently by your shoulders, giving you a stern look. Right, he's not about to let all his stitch work get undone.
“Lovely, and is Miss Constantine alright?”
You both freeze. Damian's hands still on your shoulders, you look at each other with shock, fear, embarrassment and a shared understanding that you didn't hear him walk up to the door because the old butler had been there the whole time.
The minute-long silence is broken when you burst out laughing, before clutching your wound and groaning. Damian watches you with a scowl on his face, which is tinted a deep reddish colour, like he'd been trying to hold his breath too long.
“I'll be fine, Alfred. Thanks for asking.”
Damian clicks his tongue once more as he packs up his Med Kit.
“Oh good, I will set up another chair for you at breakfast, Miss Constantine. It's been awhile since you've visited the manor, much has changed since your last visit.”
You raise an eyebrow at Damian, grin apparent, to which he rolls his eyes, packing away his supplies to avoid your gaze.
“I bet.”
─⋅⋆⁺𖤐