Chapter Text
Say It Again and I’ll Kill You
WARNINGS: funny miscommunication, Damian's pride, AGED UP! Damian
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
The air in the study crackled with a tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Outside, the Gotham drizzle mirrored the tempest brewing within its oak-paneled walls. He stood by the window, a silhouette etched against the grey sky, his posture rigid, his jaw a hard line. You leaned against the overflowing bookshelf, arms crossed, trying to project an air of calm that felt increasingly fraudulent.
We were, as was becoming tragically routine, locked in a battle of wills. The subject, as always, was your well-being, specifically your insistence on handling a particularly delicate matter involving a rather unsavory character who believed threats were a valid form of negotiation. His argument, delivered with the icy precision he often employed, was that . You were jeopardizing myself unnecessarily and that, as someone who cared (the word was always laced with a barely-concealed reluctance), he felt obliged to intervene.
Your argument, which you considered infinitely more reasonable, was that you were perfectly capable of handling myself. You weren't some simpering damsel in distress. You were a grown woman, a woman who had navigated treacherous boardrooms and outmaneuvered seasoned con artists. You were, in short, not in need of his paternalistic protection.
He simply couldn't seem to grasp it.
"It's reckless," he finally said, his voice a low rumble that barely registered above the drumming of the rain. "You're courting danger for the sake of… what? Proving a point?"
"I'm not courting danger," You retorted, your voice sharper than you intended. "I'm handling a situation. And for the last time, darling, I can take care of myself."
The words hung in the air, a grenade tossed into the already volatile atmosphere. He went utterly still. It was the kind of stillness that precedes a storm, the calm before the deluge. He didn't react, didn't twitch, didn't even seem to breathe. He simply stood there, a statue carved from granite, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the rain-streaked window.
Then, with a deliberate slowness that only amplified the tension, he turned. His eyes, usually a cool, calculating grey, were suddenly dark, almost black.
"What did you just call me?"
The question was deceptively soft, a silken thread woven with steel. He wasn't yelling, wasn't raising his voice, but the sheer intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down your spine.
A reckless impulse, a perverse desire to poke the sleeping bear, surged through me. You knew you should apologize, should backtrack, should pretend you hadn't said it. But the defiant part of me, the part that bristled under his constant, albeit well-intentioned, supervision, refused to yield.
You forced a smirk, a calculatedly provocative expression. "I said darling. What, can't take a pet name, princeling?"
The silence that followed was deafening. He stared at me, his expression unreadable, a mask of carefully controlled displeasure. You could practically see the gears turning in his brilliant, infuriating mind, calculating, analyzing, plotting his next move.
Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked out. The door closed behind him with a soft, deliberate click, leaving you alone in the echoing silence of the study.
A wave of guilt, quickly followed by a stubborn sense of defiance, washed over me. He was being ridiculous. He was being overprotective. He was being… well, Damian.
The next day passed in a state of uneasy truce. He was present at the office, but he was distant, aloof, treating you with a detached politeness that was far more unnerving than any argument. He spoke to you only when necessary, his voice devoid of any warmth or inflection. It was as if you had been demoted from a… a something to a mere colleague, a face in the crowd.
You spent the day alternately regretting your impulsive words and stubbornly refusing to apologize. He was the one being unreasonable, wasn't he? He was the one turning a simple phrase into a personal affront.
By evening, you were a mess of frayed nerves and conflicting emotions. You were halfway through a glass of wine, wrestling with a particularly thorny paragraph in a report, when a shadow fell across your desk.
You looked up to find him standing there, his expression as inscrutable as ever. In his hands, he held a small, elaborately wrapped package. It wasn't for me. You knew that instinctively.
He placed the package silently on your desk, close to the sleeping form of Mr. Fluffernutter, your perpetually grumpy Persian cat, who clearly saw Damian's presence as an unbearable intrusion.
"If you insist on calling me such things," he finally said, his voice low and clipped, "at least be consistent. I am not fragile."
Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.
You stared at the package, then at Mr. Fluffernutter, who blinked at you with an expression of profound disinterest. You carefully unwrapped the gift. It was a ridiculously extravagant cat toy, a miniature throne of intricately carved wood, complete with a tiny velvet cushion and a feather-tipped scepter.
It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was utterly, undeniably… Damian.
A grin spread across your face.
He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was, without a doubt, the most complicated, exasperating, and undeniably compelling man You had ever known.
The following day, you found him in the library, surrounded by stacks of books, his brow furrowed in concentration. You approached him cautiously, a playful glint in your eyes.
"Morning, darling," You said, your voice deliberately sweet.
He didn't look up. "Good morning."
"Enjoying your reading?"
"Yes," he replied curtly.
You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a whisper. "You know, for someone who claims to be impervious to pet names, you seem awfully preoccupied with them."
He finally looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I am merely attempting to understand the… the logic behind your… your…" he trailed off, clearly struggling with the word.
"Affection?" You supplied helpfully.
He rolled his eyes. "Let us not exaggerate."
You grinned. "No, you're just my darling pain in the ass."
He paused, considering your words, his expression softening ever so slightly. For a moment, You thought he might actually smile.
He didn’t disagree. Instead, he simply returned to his book, a faint hint of color rising in his cheeks.
The truce, it seemed, was holding. But you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this was just the beginning. The battle of wills, the playful jabs, the underlying, unspoken affection – it was all part of our dance, a complex, intricate tango that we would continue to perform, each of us determined to lead, neither of us willing to truly surrender. And perhaps, that was exactly the way it was supposed to be. After all, what was life without a little darling dilemma?