Night 14

I tried to resist, or I thought I did. In the end, I couldn't stop myself from taking what was left of your innocence. I couldn't stop myself from smashing your trust on the ground like an unwanted toy. I know you don't feel that way, but it's the truth. I know you don't feel like you've been wronged-that's what makes this so much worse for me.

I love you.

I'm so sorry.

Night 1

"Give me the butter."

"Or else . . . ?"

Eleven-year-old Damian cocked his eyebrow at me, challenging. He was leaning on one elbow on the counter, watching me prepare a pot of macaroni and cheese. For his lunch, I might add.

I sighed. "Just do it because you're a nice-scratch that, because I'm a nice person who agreed to babysit you while both Bruce and Alfred had to be away from the Manor, so that you would get to stay in your comfy little palace, waking up whenever you darn well please and getting lunch cooked for you at the snap of your fingers. And don't you think, in light of all of that, with me going out of my way to work my busy schedule around your whims, handing me a stick of butter is paltry recompense?"

Damian tilted his head at me, one eyebrow raised as he smirked and pointed to the pot of pasta, which had miraculously turned into macaroni-and-cheese while I gave my lecture. "Not only did I just do your job for you," he said, in that drawling way he had that was calculated specifically to mock me, "but your argument made little if any sense-do you even know what 'paltry' or 'recompense' means? Not to mention your convoluted grammatical structures-"

I shoved the pot into his hands and stalked out of the kitchen, furious. Damian barely even yelped as the burning metal came into contact with his skin. He set the pot carefully back on the stovetop and slid off the counter to follow me, slipping in front of me as I walked. He held up his hands. "Some babysitter you are." he mocked. "I don't think you should be bragging about how you went out of your way for me, Brown, because this," he waved his red palms for emphasis, "could actually be used to build a case against you in court. In fact, I think I'm going to go and call Child Protection Services-"

"Oh, shut up!" I grabbed his wrist and yanked him down the hall to the bathroom. "I doubt you count as a child. I am so sick of you, Damian Wayne, you would not even believe-"

Damian smiled, his teeth white against his bronzed skin. He looked like a very short devil. "And it's only been an hour." he cooed in mock sympathy, and I started to really, truly regret what I'd gotten myself into.

It wasn't that I disliked Damian; he was a good kid, even if he had his moments of pure, unadulterated brat every now and then. It was just that I was coming down from an extremely long, excruciatingly awful week, full of running around like Chicken Little and having not only my hands, but my feet, arms, and head full to the point of spilling over.

I was not in the mood to deal with an eleven-year-old on his period.

"Look," I said, as patiently as I could manage while applying salve on Damian's hands, "I'm not really thrilled about being here, and I know you want to make my life miserable because . . . I don't know, you're a messed up little duck-but, come on, kid. I know you don't give Bruce this much trouble. And, you know, you want to stay here, and I want some peace of mind, so why don't we compromise-"

"I'm not giving you trouble." Damian lied innocently. He was perched on the sink, so that I could easily run his hand under the stream of cold water coming from the faucet, which put him above my eye level. Looking up at Damian was proving disconcerting. I propped my hands on my hips. "Really." I said, skeptical.

Damian actually looked sulky. "What have I done that's been troublesome?" he asked. I rolled my eyes. "Well, you've been following me around since I got here, pester me with useless facts, correct me ceaselessly whenever I dare say something that is either politically incorrect or against your views, stare at me in some childish attempt to pysche me out, be of no use whatsoever when I need actual help-do I have to go on?"

Damian looked at me. He just . . . looked. No expression, no smirk, not the faintest glimmer of evil in his dark brown eyes. "I . . . didn't know I was bothering you." he said, averting his eyes to the floor and speaking so softly, I could barely hear him. "I was . . . trying to be . . . I would like to be . . . friendly."

For a brief second, I didn't register. Then I saw the brief look of vulnerability flit over his face, and I understood.

Embarrassment flooded through me. "Oh, Damia-"

He abruptly got down, shoving into me, either accidentally because of his momentum, or on purpose because of his eagerness to get away from me. "I'm sorry I 'troubled you'." he said in a clipped tone. "I'll leave you alone from now on."

He didn't need to, but he slammed the door on his way out, just to get his point across.

I slumped to the floor, mentally berating myself. It didn't make me feel nearly bad enough, so I groaned out loud, banging my head repeatedly against the wooden cabinets.

"Stephanie Brown, could you be any more obtuse?!"

It was around eight o'clock by the time I went looking for Damian. Bruce had specifically told me that Damian had to be in bed by eight, and though I had the sneaking suspicion that the youngest Wayne was hiding(and when he's hiding, no one can find him), I was determined to at least make a go of being a decent babysitter. Even if I wasn't. Even if I totally missed his trying to reach out to me. And made him feel like crap. And burned his hands. All on my first day.

Having no better place to start, I headed to Damian's room with trepidation. His room was in the same hall that mine was, but further down, and some time ago he'd painted the oak wood with a tar black paint that I thought maybe sixteen or seventeen layers of primer could conceal after he outgrew it. I knocked once, received no reply, and went for the doorknob. It was cool to the touch, and I hesitated for longer than a second before finally turning it, slowly and quietly, and stepping over the threshold.

It was pitch black inside, with only a faint trace of bluish light coming in from behind curtains and a shade over the sole window. Being July, the nights were coming later and later as the sun stayed out longer, but by eight the moon had appeared and the sun had gone, leaving only shadows to peek out from the edges of Damian's window. The faint light illuminated hulking dark shapes, things that no doubt made sense in the day, but in the dark caused his bedroom to appear as dangerous and scary as its owner.

"Damian?" I half-whispered. "You in here, buddy?" I winced. He didn't like derogatory nicknames. "Look, I get if you're mad at me." I said, venturing in as far as I dared without something to show me a path through the floor strewn with mysterious objects. "I acted kind of stupid, and I hurt your feelings. I'm sorry, but if you don't want to forgive me, well, whatever. But I'm here to do a job, see, and it's not for me, or you, but for your father-so if you could just show me that you're going to bed, following the rules; you don't even have to actually go to bed, as far as I care. Just . . . work with me here, OK?" I felt silly, rambling on and on-and on and on. I felt sillier when Damian said, from behind me, "Are you done?"

"Damian!" I'm ashamed to say that I jumped. Even Bat-senses don't work on Damian; not unless you're being very quiet and expecting him. I whirled around, and he eased past me into his room. "I was just going to brush my teeth. Dental hygiene is important. I'm going to bed now." He recited the phrases mechanically, sounding more like a wind-up doll than a kid.

"No." I said, and he paused. "You just said-" he began.

"I'm answering your question." I interrupted. "No, I'm not done."

Damian folded his arms over his soft, black t-shirt, and looked at me. His expression was hidden in the liquid black that slid over his face when he turned to face me, and I found that not knowing what he was thinking, even just a whisper, unsettled me. The kid was already secretive enough.

He also had Superman pajama pants.

"Well, then?" Damian asked, softly, but not the same kind of soft he'd used in the bathroom. Then, he had sounded unguarded, just another sad, lonely kid-here, he sounded more like the snake from Rikki Tikki Tavi. Dangerous, and cunning.

"I-" I stalled. "I don't always understand you, Damian. You're a hard person to know."

"I'm getting old, here." he said, sounding like he was yawning impatiently. His stance shifted, almost imperceptibly. He was listening to me, no matter what he said.

"I make mistakes." I said, in a rush. "A lot; you know about the majority of them, you're there . . . I mean to say," I sigh, "no one's perfect. This family, least of all. We all trudge along on our merry little ways, and we only notice other people's feelings-most of us, anyway-when we bump into them, and bruise them and ourselves. Everybody's just circling around in the dark and sometimes we can't help but crash into each other. You and I, we had a misunderstanding. It happens, Damian, you have to realize that. It happens, and people get hurt, but you have to keep going. You can't hide in your room, or from the other person. It you meant one thing, and they-and I thought it was another . . . well, you need to rectify that. And I apologize."

"Look at you, using big words again." he sneered, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Damian was back to his usual self.

He was next to me in an instant, one hand on my elbow, guiding me to the door. "I think I've had enough of the nightly Devotional, Pastor Brown. I'll be sure to keep Christmas in my heart year-round. Now, good night." He said the last two words firmly, shutting the door in my face as he did so.

And then, when I'd turned away, intending to walk back to my room, I heard him say, waaaay to quietly for it to have been meant for my ears, "Thank you."