author's note: Inspired partly by a past episode of Once Upon A Time, as well as a conversation with my Damian RP partner over Skype. Set in a future (duh) AU, where Steph is Knightwing (as seen in Batgirl #24), and Damian is still Robin to Dick's Batman. Additionally posted on tumblr, the link to which is on my profile.

in-ev-i-ta-ble
noun: a situation that is unavoidable

She's exhausted and cold and so very sore when they make it back to the cave. She doesn't say a word as they haul themselves from the vehicle, and makes a beeline for the shower, wanting to rid herself of the blood and the grime that has nearly stained her to the bone. She knows that she probably shouldn't be angry with him—he did, afterall, save her life tonight—but the fact of the matter is he was stupid and careless, and nearly got himself killed for her. And the worst part? It's over the dumbest thing.

It's because she freezes up whenever they meet him on the streets of Gotham, despite the fact that it's a different guy under the mask, that it's not the guy that lives on in her nightmares, retracing every scar he ever gave her. She can essentially laugh in the face of death itself, but when faced with him, she's a pathetic mess, and she hates it. Hates it so much that her fist connects with the tiled bathroom wall just thinking about it.

The water washes away the filth on her skin, but not in her mind. It is not the first time she has wondered what little use she is to them, or why she's stuck around this long. It's not like she meant to, the night she came knocking after her father blew himself up and took her mom with him. She meant to say her peace and be on her way—not take residence in one of their many rooms. Not join the Dynamic Duo as a permanent gig, in a new suit and a new name. And certainly not to get as comfortable as she has—with everyone.

She shakes her head and tries not to think how everything has become so routine and so normal, how they've somehow scraped together some semblance of stable, the three of them, with Alfred. It's been almost four years, and sometimes it scares her to think about it, because that's just about the biggest commitment she's ever made. The longest she's ever worn a costume without screwing it up. She shuts the water off and snatches her towel from the counter as she steps out, sighing deeply. This level of comfort is why she briefly considers deviating from the direct path to her bedroom—which would be ridiculous, as she's still in a friggen towel—and why, ultimately, once she's snug in a faded tee and cotton shorts, she wanders back down the hall.

He's sprawled across his bed in a pair of black track pants, and she's reminded by how much space he takes that he's grown quite a lot as of late. He's lying flat on his back, eyes closed and feet bare and oddly vulnerable; and she thinks that if it weren't for the cuts and scrapes still spiralling across his skin, he'd look like he didn't have a care in the world. She leans against the doorway, hip cocked, and takes him in, watching the way his chest rises and falls evenly and the way that his fingers are curled against his stomach. Dick helped him wash the worst of the blood away at least, and there's a bag of ice sitting melting on the bedside table next to him—and a bottle of bourbon next to it.

She smiles. That's more like it.

She thinks he's asleep, the way he's stretched out with his face slack. He looks so serene—sopeaceful—and she realizes she's never seen him like this. This calm and this relaxed and this…normal. As soon as she steps into the room, though, the image is ruined—his eyes open, and he blinks blearily up at her. The left one is bloodshot, puffy and sore—he'll have a hell of a shiner by tomorrow—and high up on his cheekbones there are three neatly placed, white bandages, ones that are probably hiding stitches underneath. Dick's work, of course; she knows damn well her hands wouldn't have been steady enough for it.

He frowns at her then—and she's not sure whether it's her freshly showered state or just her presence in his room, but it's gone quickly enough as the lines on his face smooth out again, leaving only a blank stare. He says nothing, maybe because he's waiting for her to speak first, as she hasn't said a word to him all night, or maybe he just doesn't know what to say. So instead, he shifts subtly on the bed to make room. She restrains herself and doesn't tilt her head, doesn't question the open invitation, and instead slinks far enough into the room to snag the empty glass next to the bottle, the bottom of which is wet. She pours herself a glass and he watches her intently as she scoops some ice cubes from the bag to drop into it. It's cold, and that's something to focus on—something other than his eyes on her.

He pulls himself carefully into a sitting position, shifting until he can prop himself against the bare headboard. She doesn't miss how long it takes him, or how the movement lacks his normal grace, but stays quiet. "How're you?" he asks gruffly, finally breaking the lingering silence.

She shrugs, but it's exhausted, not dismissive. It takes her quite a bit longer than he seems to want to answer the question, and it's frankly because she doesn't know how. More than half the answers would be wrong. "Still here," she says, because that's the most important thing. He looks away from her then, and wipes his hands tiredly over his face. He looks so old then, and she frowns, wondering not for the first time tonight just when the hell he grew up on her.

She closes the bag of ice, spinning it shut, and settles down in the gap he's left by his side. Her hip just barely touches his, and if it pains him, he doesn't show it—neither does he move away. Instead, he turns his head to watch her as she takes a long swig from the glass, ice cubes clinking in the amber liquid. He keeps watching her, silently, as she leans towards him; there are dark shadows beneath his eyes, and cuts where his face split under fists and feet. The cheap bourbon burns going down, settling like fire in her belly, and the bag is cold against her fingertips as she presses it gently against his cheek.

She should be angry with him, as she was when she stormed into the house after their patrol—but somehow seeing him like this; broken and injured, for her, it has begun to wash away. Instead of opening her mouth to tell him he was an idiot tonight and how dare he make her worry, she says simply: "Okay?" He graces her question with a grunt and a roll of his shoulder. She resists the urge to shake her head and hit him. "And your head?"

"Fine," he responds.

It's better than a grunt, at least.

She lifts the bag to see the skin underneath—battered and bruised, swollen and sore despite the ice she's pressing against it—and it brings her closer to him. She can feel his breath, warm and a little sweet, against her skin, so she pulls back and takes another swig from her glass. The ice rattles against her teeth, cold against her lips and stinging the small cuts left by her teeth when she was too slow to duck. The bourbon burns all the way down her throat, settling warmly in her stomach, tingling in her veins; she's not much of a drinker—at least, not this kind of alcohol—but she's not buzzed yet. High on adrenaline, maybe, but not alcohol.

She doesn't need to be, not when Damian keeps looking at her like that.

The way he has been, for a little while now. The way he was tonight. It's something she's done her best to ignore, to put off, to project upon a different meaning. But he almost died for her tonight, and that's not something she can take lightly. Not anymore. Her eyes trail briefly to the half-empty bottle, and she wonders how much of it he's had while Dick was stitching him up. She's almost afraid to ask.

The same way she's afraid to ask herself what keeps her here, in this manor. What keeps her from leaving them—from leaving him. She's so afraid that she's grown attached, of the dangerous things that could mean for him and for her and for them, that she's been pretending it's a non-issue. She takes another sip to keep her thoughts occupied and, when she swallows, Damian's eyes track the movement of her throat. His fingers twitch, like he wants to reach for her, but the movement is slow; tentative enough that she could ignore it if she wanted to, let his fingers fall against the covers as though that was always where he was aiming.

She doesn't want to, not tonight, and hasn't for the longest time.

She leans towards him, slow enough that he could say something, if he wanted to. But when he doesn't—when his eyes don't ever even leave hers—her free hand cups his face. The taste of bourbon is on her tongue when she kisses him, and she's not sure whether it comes from his mouth or hers, but it honestly doesn't matter.

His palm settles against her waist, in the gap left between her cropped top and shorts; when his fingers flex, the calluses on them scratch roughly against her skin. She leans closer, careful to brace herself against the headboard and not his wounded shoulder. When his hand drifts up her back, slipping under the fabric of her top to slide his fingertips beneath her bra strap, her lips curl up against his mouth. Then she pulls back, and his eyes are closed, but his expression is no longer blank. He still looks tired, but there is color in his cheeks and a small, pleased smile playing around the corners of his mouth that wasn't there before.

She forgets sometimes, that he's all grown up now. Eighteen and just pushing six feet, he's adopted Dick's lean and athletic build, and she finds it hard not to admit that it looks good. The same way she finds it hard not to kiss away his smile, so she settles for running her fingers through his hair in a way that's strangely comforting. Slowly, he opens his eyes, and watches her thoughtfully, his lips curving into a more familiar smirk. "Hey," he says, his voice gravelly, a little horse.

"Hey," she echoes back, a meaningless little sound that still means everything from I'm here toyou're here and we both made it, covering everything between them. She leans in and kisses him again, pressing her lips against his cheek this time and taking care to avoid his cuts. She's sure that the puckered white skin under his left eye will scar—and be a constant reminder of tonight, of how he saved her from the man that's given her a handful of her own scars, both inside and out.

And she can tell by the look in his eyes that he wouldn't take it back, what he did. He'd likely go a few more rounds with Black Mask if it meant the man never getting his hands on her again, and there's a tightness in her chest just thinking about it—because he shouldn't feel that way about her. He can't. It's stupid and dangerous and such a bad idea.

And she's so through with thinking about it.

Her mouth moves along the hollow of his cheek, and he turns his head, moving into her touch and then touching their lips together again, soft and warm, moving slowly. He hisses a little when she presses her tongue against the cut Mask's fist left on his lip, but he doesn't pull away and so instead, she deepens the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him steady. He doesn't try to pull away—he's too smart for that. He knows that whatever has caused her to give in after months of dancing around one another is not something he should be taking for granted. So it's her choice to break the kiss as much as it is to initiate.

When she pulls away this time and he opens his eyes, the look in them has gone from warm to heated. It is her turn to smirk, not missing the way his eyebrows shoot up or the amused look that blossoms on his face' it doesn't do anything to tamp down the need in his eyes. She's still grinning as she pushes herself up to reach the bottle, and spills some over the side of the glass as she pours. As it runs down one hand, she switches the glass to her other, and raises her hand to lick away the traces of bourbon clinging to her fingers. His hand twitches and his eyes track her, and she doesn't smirk this time; instead it's more a smile.

She settles back down onto the bed, swinging her legs to sit astride his lap, one knee on either side of his hips. As she shifts to get comfortable, his hands migrate to her lower back and stay there, warm. "Brown," he all but grunts, "are you attempting to seduce me?"

She snorts, taking another swig from her glass. "Do I still need to?"

He doesn't form the words of an answer, but instead pulls her closer and presses his lips to hers. His fingers move to the nape of her neck, holding onto her as he moves his mouth over hers. The glass slips free of her fingers, tumbling down between them, and he jerks away from her with a heartfelt 'fuck' that drags a giggle out of her. It feels good to laugh as she watches him fumble with the recovery of the glass, almost as if she's forgotten how to over the last twenty-four hours.

Thankfully, the glass had been empty, and he half-tosses it onto the bedside table before returning to her. "Are you sure you want…," he trails off, unwilling to say the words, to question her intentions with him. The line they're walking is so fine and so dangerous, and they haven't crossed it before, not like this. And he's spent his whole life learning who to trust the hard way, she knows this. He's leaving it open ended, leaving her room to walk away right now if she wants. And god, she probably should.

But she's never been very good at following rules.

"I'm here, aren't I?" A question for a question, dancing around and around the things they can't—won't—talk about. His hands snake around her waist, lower and lower until they can lift her forward and fully into his lap. So she can feel him beneath her. She rocks her hips once, hears his breath hitch and feels his fingers flex against her skin. His hands move upwards, skirting underneath the fabric of her shirt for an indecisive moment. Then she raises one eyebrow, and he sets his jaw, pulling it up over her head in one swift motion. He doesn't waste any time once it's gone; her t-shirt's barely hit the floor before his fingers are easing their way underneath her sports bra.

He pulls it up over her head as well, and she leans in to kiss him as his hands settle on her bare breasts. His tongue traces along the line of her teeth before it meets hers, and she leans into his touch, her fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck. When her nails scratch lightly against his skin, he makes a sound halfway between a growl and a groan, and his fingers flex again, fingertips digging into her flesh, stopping just short of causing her pain. Her mouth breaks away from his, her lips tracing a path down over his chin to his neck where she nips at his throat, trailing kisses to his collarbone. As her teeth press more forcefully, he lets out a curse and she pulls away, grinning at him.

"My, my, Damian, the mouth on you…," she muses, eyes dancing.

His fingers sink into her hair and tug her face to his until their lips are only inches apart, ignoring the gasp she lets out. "If you'd prefer to see what my mouth can really do…," he growls, low and hot, and her heart rate spikes uncomfortably. Her fingers trail down his chest as he kisses her, being careful of his injuries as they find and settle on the strings of his pants. He fidgets slightly, and she opens her mouth, one smart quip or another at the ready, but he shakes his head and says simply; "Be quiet, woman," kissing her for good measure.

He gives her a searching look when she steps back, but says nothing as she rises to her feet, hands moving briskly to the elastic of her shorts. He settles down and watches her, not being subtle at all, and she has half a mind to send him a glare, but there's a light blush creeping onto his cheeks, and she finds herself smiling wistfully instead. In one fluid motion her shorts are off, and she's moving back towards the bed, listening to his breathing shallow out and hang in his throat. She's reaching for the string of his pants again when he catches hold of her face with both hands, his eyes meeting and holding hers seriously for a moment before he kisses her.

It's slow and sweet, and it catches her off balance, because she's so used to him being brash and aggressive in everything else he does. His fingers linger on her skin for a moment, and he gives her one final look—one final option to walk the hell away—but she ignores it. She wants this, wants him, and after a deep breath, she's undoing his pants. He lifts his hips off the bed to help her pull them down, and she takes his shorts with them.

Despite his injuries and his aches, he reaches towards her and wraps his arms around her, lifting her back onto the bed in one fell swoop. When he kisses her, it isn't soft and gentle, but demanding and wanting. As his hands roam over her body, she leans away from him and towards the nightstand, popping open the top drawer and finding just what she hoped might be there. She pulls one foil wrapper free and when her eyes settle on his again, his pupils are wide and black against his blue eyes. She tears it open with her teeth and offers it to him with one raised eyebrow.

He grunts, but takes it from her anyway, making quick work of putting it on. When he's done, she pushes herself up, steading one hand on his good shoulder and lowering herself back down again, guiding him in with her other hand. She plans on doing this hard and fast, to work off the adrenaline and the alcohol still coursing through her system, but he clearly has other ideas, grabbing hold of her hips and slowing her pace. His lips find her throat, brushing gently over her skin, and his hands slide slowly along her waist, up her back, leaving her shivering and aching for something she doesn't want to put into words. Not out loud.

She closes her eyes and goes with it, listening to the words he breathes against her skin—catching the ones in English, letting go the ones that aren't. Despite how gentle and soft his touch and tone are, there are curses hidden amongst his words that are still distinctly him, grumpy and abrasive and Damian. She comes before he does; it creeps up on her slowly, slow rolling pleasure that sweeps her away before she's even aware it's there. He holds her through it, pressing kisses along her hairline while she clings to him, panting and shivering as the aftershocks rumble through her with each move of his hips.

Carefully, and slowly, he twists them until he's on top of her, and with her mounting exhaustion, she hasn't the mind to worry about his injuries. It doesn't take much longer until he's shuddering and clutching at her as he comes, letting his head drop down onto her shoulder. She holds him close, her hand sweeping a path up the nape of his neck and into his hair as he breathes against her skin. His grip loosens then and he slips free and settles onto the bed next to her.

They aren't touching, not quite. All either of them would have to do is shift ever so slightly and they'd press together again—she can tell by the heat radiating off him. She thinks of leaving, thinks of slinking back to her room and shutting herself in and wondering what in the hell's transpired tonight. But she feels the light touch of his fingers upon her hip, and his breath in her hair as he whispers: "Stay with me…" She relaxes, a smile ghosting over her lips, because that sounds just like him—giving her not a request but a demand. She slides backwards into his grasp, and he drops one arm very lightly over her, touching, but not possessive, not imprisoning.

She almost thinks that this will be okay until he speaks again. "Stephanie?"

She freezes. Not a demand, afterall. Merely a hesitation, a pause as he decided which name to use. And she'd have been fine with Brown or Fatwing or woman or harlot or anything other than her name because that—that means far more than his tone or his words can ever tell her. Yet still, she slides back into his arms, careful of his injuries, closes her eyes, and listens to his breathing until it evens out. Until she can know that he's asleep, and that he won't wake.

Because when he does—she's gone.