It had all been a terrific mess. He could sense her anger the moment his eyes opened. Face flushed, buried in the pillow.

She was already sitting up, skimming papers in her lap over the covers, checking emails and texts.

He'd tried to fake a smile, slowly lowering his right hand along the side of the bed, searching for the familiar lip of a brown or green bottle. Whiskey or gin.

His head was fogged and his eyelids blinked thickly. He accepted that they were bloodshot.

Good thing he wasn't currently staying at the Manor, lest he have to give some feeble, non-excuse to father over breakfast.

Last night hadn't been terrible. He'd hated those functions and she did as well. But they went. There was an open bar, but only beer or wine. Nothing he was used to anymore. Not since St. A's at Columbia.

He found the lip and lugged the bottle up from next to the night table. Fumbling slightly, he managed to catch the bottom and steady his hand before he took a sip. Quick, short and hopefully less noticeable.

She didn't pretend to ignore him or it anymore, she simply did. But he couldn't miss the way her brow was set for anything. She accepted his morning drunks as long as they remained infrequent.

Lately though...

He tried to blink again. They'd had some conversation, somewhere in the half-sleep of four a.m.

He was home more now. Father was trusting him less and less to patrol on his own.

He loathed playing second fiddle to Drake. Dick was always good company though, but that was to be expected.

He felt the cavern in his stomach where food had been ignored in exchange for the weak, watery merlot they'd served at the charity function. He waved his hand blindly and began searching for hers. Finding purchase in her palm with his fingers, he pressed and then grasped it tightly. Her response was tepid, even limp.

He finally turned over completely, "Kitrina?"

Her emerald eyes were wide but not doe-like. She always maintained a hard-line somewhere, whether it was her brow or lips. He loved kissing those frowns.

She hadn't inherited much by the way of looks from her father. Her mother had been blonde and beautiful, she remembered, and naturally, the Roman was a dark brunette, slick with pomade and an intriguing nature.

The woman had been an unsuspecting typist in his "import" office downtown.

Damian used his thumb to massage the side of her hand but she still wouldn't look at him, merely knitting her brow all the more.

He sat up on his elbows, noticing that her brow needed plucking. She had gotten one "gift" of paternity, if only as a surefire confirmation of her lineage. The unibrow. She meticulously tended the spot above the bridge of her nose obsessively. Sitting at her dressing table, a magnifying mirror before her, every morning.

"Kit."

She shrugged and sighed and he closed his eyes, "What have I done now?"

He appreciated that there was no hemming or hawing in their relationship. He knew father didn't approve but Selina seemed amused, neither approving nor disapproving. He didn't particularly care what anyone else thought, but when she was angry...he felt nearly desperate to right the cart, as it were.

"Kit?"

She took a deep breath and finally looked at him head on, "You don't even remember do you?"

"Did I misbehave last night?" He remembered running his hand up her skirt, not caring to raise the divider between her and the driver. He liked that she let him.

She wasn't cheap and she hadn't ever had another lover before him, but she let herself trust him sexually. He'd found her thighs pressed together and gently bent his hand to ease them apart.

He'd buried his face in her neck and brought her satisfaction along the route from the Mercantile Club back to the Peregenator, then later, rinsed his hands and tipped the washroom attendant with a fifty dollar bill.

He was tipsy but not drunk. Then he had a good scotch whisky…and another…and another…

She'd reminded him to at least eat something and he'd pushed breaded veal about on the plate.

He took a deep breath, "I'd rather you just say it Kitrina. I don't like mysteries."

At that she harrumphed and he understood it was a poor choice of words given his primary occupation.

She curled a brow and he couldn't help but feel a twinge in his groin, already considering the possibility of angry, or perhaps, all the better: makeup sex.

"You said you'd…" She shook her head, "You were drunk, I know that. You know that. I wasn't stone sober myself. I got up to get some water and you were mumbling. Half-asleep. I came back and you were sort of looking at me. You said..."

He felt himself tense, bit by bit, more of the night coming back in fragments, "…what did I say?"

She was silent for a few beats, "You would like to see Colly on the end of your c***.'…what the f*** Damian?"

His eyes widened involuntarily and he sank into the sheets. Colin Wilkes had grown up, quite a lot. Damian'd ignored the way his eyes seemed to linger on that lopsided smile. Still mild and gentle after all these years, and admittedly quite handsome in a way. His friend had returned from a sojourn up the western half of the country, from Coast City to Portland.

Damian'd had brief, messy, rushed encounters at boarding school as a young man, but he'd considered them mostly inconsequential. He'd been somewhat rough when he lost his virginity, a prostitute in a town near the school named Dawn. There was one odd, unspoken experience with another lad at Columbia. Drunk and sitting on the radiator cabinet in one of the upstairs bathrooms, he'd let an overeager friend of a friend attempt to fellate him.

Suddenly anxious at the prospect of being blackmailed or even, supposedly, "outed," he'd pushed the fellow away while still half-erect...but he had finished the job himself in his room.

None of this had ever had any bearing on his attraction to women overall. His friends arranged girls and he kept them or left them at will. The only women who'd ever truly appealed to him emotionally were Cassandra—who'd been completely uninterested—and Kitrina...

He realized he was measuring his breaths, honestly afraid of what she was going to say and trying not to hyperventilate. He'd never once implied or suggested that he might be bisexual.

He honestly felt that it wasn't important: he was with, and admittedly loved, Kitrina. There hadn't been anyone else for the past year and a half that they'd been together. When he was photographed or interviewed, she was present or nearby.

He heard himself speak, knowing that if he was silent too long, he'd merely confirm her worst fears, "I…I was not myself."

"You don't say," she retorted flatly. Then she turned sharply and grasped his wrist, "Are you sleeping with him?"

He shook his head, firmly and deliberately, "Not at all. He's been back in town since yesterday morning. I introduced you, if you'll remember, and I told you everything."

"Not everything it would seem. Have you had him in the past?"

"No!" he was responding emotionally. He sat up, sitting back on his knees, ignoring the way his head swam, forgetting the hangover in that moment, but only just then, "I've never had anything more than a platonic friendship with Colin. I…I apologize. That was the whisky Kit."

"I had a cocktail or two myself. But I've never," she gasped lightly, then inhaled and exhaled, "I need you to be honest."

His shoulders fell. He was in his briefs but nothing else. She was eyeing his waist, then his torso; the scars. He rarely saw sunlight except through a window but his father's olive and mother's bronze skin saved him the trouble of tanning.

"Just…tell me what you need to know," he invited; already sure this would either be the end, or the cement that pulled their relationship together. He couldn't possibly be this honest with any other potential woman and he knew it. Either she understood and accepted it for what—arguably little—it was, or she couldn't.

He felt suddenly, in that moment, that if she wouldn't have him...couldn't stand him, then he would be alone. And that would be that.

A lifetime of casual, meaningless flings danced around his head.

He knew he didn't want that.

An affair two years' hence was never meant to be anything more. But he'd ended up with two children, twins. The mother, Elle, had relented to his pleading and didn't abort the pregnancy. But she'd made it clear that she'd never wanted motherhood and even went so far as to have herself sterilized after the cesarean.

Father had been…unbearable comes to mind. He'd not-so-subtly pressured Damian to at least consider marriage for the children's' sake. A position that had surprised him at first, but later, after seeking counsel with Selina, made more sense.

Bruce Wayne was still his father's son. He hadn't known about Damian and may have proposed himself out of a dedication to propriety if little else. While Bruce had once loved Talia, she had slowly but surely become a stranger to him, and eventually abandoned their son in his care once Bruce had painstakingly sought and won custody. Damian knew that his father would've tried diligently to avoid letting Talia devolve into the person she was now: running LexCorp in Luthor's absence.

Her position and her goals were a mystery to Damian and he'd resolved ages ago to consider her an honorable enemy and stop there.

Selina had reminded him that Bruce felt personally responsible, somehow, for letting Talia fall by the wayside and embrace—not quite abject villainy—but certainly an…unfavorable position. Abetted no doubt by her own father's stern hand.

That was putting it mildly, he supposed.

But he'd admired Selina's ability to remain objective about his predicament as well as any conversation concerning her once-rival.

When the children were born, Damian'd assumed full custody with a visitation arrangement and updated his will, along with his father. Trusts were set aside for their schooling. They resided at the Manor with a nanny, and a maid had been hired to assist Alfred who was aging considerably.

Elle had named the girl Claire and he'd added Nyssa for his aunt. The boy was originally to be called Phineas, but he'd made it Thomas Phineas Wayne to perhaps soften the blow.

Talia had expressed no interest in seeing them but Damian supposed it was only a matter of time.

He heard Kitrina finally speak, "Are you…are you closeted?"

He felt himself let go of a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, "No. Not…there's nothing here that you don't see."

"Quite clearly, we disagree."

He furrowed his brow in concentration, careful to avoid becoming defensive, "Kit. I—I…I do love you. I want you; I believe that's absolutely clear. I…you've been a refuge this past year."

"A refuge from feelings you aren't particularly keen on?"

"No. Believe me. That was an idiotic statement—"

"But is it true?" she interjected harshly. She didn't wait for him to consider her question, she barreled on and he had to appreciate her motive, "Do you want to sleep with Colin? Do you want to sleep with other men?"

He felt the timbre in her voice radiate downward and cursed inwardly. His libido had never slackened once he'd become sexually active and he hated now that a certain part of him was excited, upset, but anxious for this argument. To finish it and then, to settle it.

He knew he wanted to sleep with her, then and there, but he also knew she'd take that—and not without reason—as an attempt to deflect and reassure her of his perceived orientation. He sat up and repositioned himself Indian-style, resting his folded hands over his ankles, deciding to be blunt, "I haven't and do not plan to sleep with other men. And, while I have and will continue to consider Colin my best friend, that would also behoove me to avoid any…entanglements, no pun intended—"

"None taken," she confirmed flatly but with anticipation.

"I cannot have an affair with Colin. Therefore, I will not have an affair with Colin."

"He is gay," she remarked plainly, dropping his arm.

"I know."

"And you? You won't just say it."

"Because I don't believe I should have to," he answered quickly, honestly, "I'm not gay. Not…not…I don't want what I have with you with anyone else. Not Colin, not another woman. And quite certainly, not another man."

She stared at him for a long time and he waited. Then she curled her eyebrow again and turned her head. He couldn't tell whether or not it was scornful, having never been able to quite figure her body language.

She'd been to a Swiss finishing school and traveled throughout Europe with what could be considered a governess after both his father and Dick suggested she get away from Gotham and the unpleasantness of her early years. Selina had reluctantly and angrily cut ties with their only living brother, Mario Falcone, and sent her on her way. Years later, she'd returned to Gotham and Damian's interest in the now grown-woman had been piqued almost immediately.

He sensed the similarities between her and Colin immediately, but they were superficial. Childhood friends or acquaintances, separated by miles, schools and years. Both were redheads. But where Colin was calm, sweet and thanks to therapy, as well as a somewhat brief stint on anti-anxiety medication, almost completely stable; Kitrina understandably retained trust issues.

Where Mario had founded and nurtured a tentative friendship with Selina, he'd rejected Kitrina as an illegitimate outsider. Someone he needed to control rather than protect.

He'd abused her emotionally and mentally, locking her up for days at a time. Selina's own troubles following some messy business with the Black Mask, another sister, Maggie, and later on, Hush, was information Damian was not privy to; but his father's sometimes-mistress couldn't stomach letting her younger sister be harmed under her watch and so, agreed to the plan.

The only person who hadn't been consulted was Kitrina. The resentment was palpable.

Colin had eventually been adopted by Selina's friends; a lesbian couple Damian had only met occasionally, Holly and Karon.

His face became shadowed and he felt shame wash over him, completely horrified once that detail reoccurred to him.

Colin had been allowed to stay in the periphery of Selina's life while Kitrina had been forced to leave.

While Selina had barely said more than three or four sentences to the boy over the course of many years, it still must've looked and felt as though Colin was somehow being chosen over her. He could stay, she had to go.

"Kit," he spoke up quietly, "I…I'm so very…sorry. I…"

She was breathing steadily, "Dami—Damian, perhaps we made a mistake."

His face tightened and he reached for her hand, "No."

She shook her head, eyes wet but not outright crying, "We rushed into this. You know we did. Things fell apart with Elle and there I was, waiting in the wings or something. This is bulls*** and you know it."

"No," he insisted, crawling in front of her and placing his hands on her shoulders.

"Did she leave you because of this? Were you getting h***j*** from male escorts or something? Am I just someone you need to play the clueless decoy?! If so, you can f*** yourself!"

There was fire in her eyes and for perhaps the first time, he was truly, truly afraid he'd lose her. Father had had to let Selina go when he couldn't carry the load. They were somewhat attached and remained as such, but they were in no way official anymore and hadn't been for almost two decades.

His father was aging, facing a potential knee replacement and the prospect of retirement. He'd discussed handing down the mantle but Damian knew he wouldn't be chosen. He could barely stay completely sober anymore. A predilection for alcohol that too afflicted ancestors and a still-living cousin once-removed in Chicago.

That fellow, Kirk Wayne, had been embroiled in a scandal around the same time the twins were born. Something involving a domestic incident at his hunting cabin.

Damian didn't want to end up in the same place—alone—not if he could help it, "Kitten..."

He rarely, but rarely, used that nickname. Only Selina really called her that, and occasionally just the same.

She was sniffling but her countenance remained steeled.

He tried again, thinking very carefully, "You're first and foremost in my life along with my children. I am not what I ought to be. I've burnt bridges everywhere and have never cared because I haven't needed anyone. I had to accept that what I expected from my father wasn't going to happen. But I do…" his nose wrinkled, horrified at the prospect of declaring himself but he didn't see where he had a choice, "I do need you.

"When I was still a boy, I told my father that we didn't like one another. He said we didn't understand one another. That there was a difference. But I know he and I will never see eye to eye. I haven't always…taken it well. But you and I…"

She looked at him expectantly but didn't interrupt, her cheeks reddened and brow still furrowed.

"I don't want to lose Colin as a friend, but we've grown apart. I know that it will never be the same. I will get…some control over myself. Over everything. I just want you to stay."

He knew his father would never beg Selina to do anything. Each time she'd left him, he'd buried it, accepting it as the price to be paid for freedom. Later, she was a partner in his mission, but she'd seemingly had to accept too that she would never take precedence.

Damian had been embittered when he realized he'd have very little chance of succeeding his father as Batman. Either Dick or Tim would be considered and he'd become Nightwing or Red Robin in their stead. He'd joined and left teams such as the Teen Titans, possessing neither the leadership skills nor ability to cooperate with others outside of their immediate circle that his brothers had had. He chafed a bit at the thought. He had a very hard time considering Drake anything short of an interloper.

And Drake was an oddball if there ever was one in his opinion. A seemingly asexual workaholic; as far as anyone knew, Tim hadn't bedded man, woman or beast in his now thirty-some years on earth.

Where Dick had now been married to Barbara for some five years, prior to working out their dysfunction, he'd had affairs with the likes of Starfire and Helena Bertinelli, the Huntress.

One of Damian's own more surprising conquests was Stephanie Brown, or Batgirl. An unexpected tryst after he'd returned from college that had nearly gotten him put out of the Manor once his father had discovered the affair and promptly ordered, nay, demanded he end it.

He obeyed. But with Kitrina, he couldn't be swayed. So he'd been sleeping at her place in Bryantown for the past few months.

Now, through his own carelessness, he was about to destroy yet another relationship. An extremely important one at that.

She still hadn't responded to his entreaty, "Kitrina. I-I don't want you to go," he swallowed hard, "Will you stay?"

She was crying now, despite herself and he found himself holding her, "I've played the fool. I have, I have, I know."

Her response was unintelligible and he took the opportunity to kiss her.

Face wet and shivering in her anger he lay her down and unfastened her robe. She had a dressing gown as well but it was cold in the apartment, even with the steam heat on high. Practically no insulation on very old windows but she loved the place.

She laid her hand over her eyes and began to sob. He was shaken, having never seen her cry before. She was always so hard and sure, even cocky. But that vulnerability had never truly left.

He kissed her over and again, repeatedly assuring her that he loved her. Removing her robe and the nightgown underneath, he was grateful that she'd taken off her undergarments the previous night and more so, that she didn't fight him.

She let him enter her and he relished the feeling. He'd grown accustomed to pleasing her at least once before he could climax himself. And she did respond but she didn't seem pleased. He fulfilled her and finished himself. Breathing heavily, saliva was cold where his mouth met her neckline. He pulled out and massaged her breast with his free hand, the other tucked at the small of her back.

They remained in bed and he fell asleep.

His eyes bolted open and he sat up sharply, sucking in a breath before wiping his face. Then the headache that announced itself was horrendous. He gave a stifled moan and looked for her.

The bed was empty.

He felt his heart sink and head be damned, jumped up from the bed. Righting his briefs, he grabbed a pair of pajama bottoms from the armchair by the windows, "Kit?" he called out.

He half-charged down the hallway. Not sure if he'd find her or a Dear John letter. Cursing himself he searched the living room, the training room and finally the kitchen.

Relief poured over him, she was back in her robe, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded, watching the evening news. He noticed that Summer Gleeson had aged considerably since he'd last bothered to watch, "My God," was all he could muster.

She nodded, her face never turning to meet his, "Damian, I think you ought to go back home."

He blinked and his eyes narrowed before he responded, quietly, "This is my home Kitrina."

She shook her head, "No darling. This is my home. I think we need to take a step back."

He raised a shoulder, fighting annoyance. He tried to remind himself that she hadn't outright ended it, "I don't agree. We can get past this."

She screwed her face in thought, "I don't doubt it. But I'm not entirely sure that's what I want."

He raised his chin defiantly, "There's no one else. I've had and will have no one else."

She shook her head again, harder this time, "That's not…that's not my concern. You've had everyone else, you always have. I barely have you it would seem."

He balled his fists, frustrated, "That's not true. I've been faithful to you, you know that."

"Me and the bottle and pissing off your father…the list goes on."

He tried again "Kit—"

She raised her hand, "I'll call a car for you. I assume you'll want to stay in the city and explain to your father tomorrow once you've recovered. Call Dick or…just…please, just go."

She left the room and he stood there, the patterned tiles burning into his mind. When he closed his eyes, the negative imprint glowed against black. His eyes were burning too but he wouldn't cry. Feebly, he whispered, "F*** me."