"ME NO AM WORLD'S WORST DETECTIVE!"
"There are days," Damian said, brassily annoyed, "Where I hate this city and every soul in it."
"Except for me," Steph reminded him, handing him a length of chain.
"When you're useful."
"I'm always useful."
"When I need something large to hide behind, yes."
"Guess who's sleeping on the Bat-Couch? Youuuuuu aaaaaaare."
"Tt."
"WHY AM PAYING ATTENTION TO BATZARRO? BATZARRO NO AM IGNORING YOU!"
"I rrrrrreally dislike this guy," Steph said as Damian wrapped one end of the chain around his fist.
"Not worth the air he 'no am' breathing, no. I'll finish this quickly. Make sure the kids are herded together for when the GCPD deigns it appropriate to arrive."
"Just don't break his spine. He probably needs that. I mean, I don't know because everything about him is wrong on eighteen levels, but-"
"The children, Batwoman."
In their line of work, there were two types of rough nights. There were the nights that were physically draining, where they came back to the cave nursing new cuts and bruises, and then there were the nights that were just emotionally draining. The kind of nights where any caped crusader was forced to turn their gaze inward and reflect on what the hell it was they were doing, really.
For them, this was that kind of rough night. It'd started with a riot, which had been followed by a meth lab explosion, which had been followed by a robbery...it had all blurred together.
It'd all been capped off by Batzarro taking several children hostage in a fairground. Steph didn't like Batzarro on a good day-a big, toothy abomination unto the Bat name that did nothing but kill and howl nonsense? Uh, no. There was nothing there that was likable. She could tell that Damian had hit the absolute end of his patience, so she let him at the not-Bat-better that he get some of that rage out and tucker his little self out. That way, she wouldn't have to deal with him being keyed up and cranky for another six hours before he finally went to bed.
"C'mon, guys. I'm the nice Bat," Steph said, kneeling beside the two little boys that Batzarro had kidnapped. He needed a Robzarro, he'd claimed, and you only found those at circuses.
Poor kids. So much therapy lay in their futures. They'd been pulled from their beds, so they were still half-asleep and upset and confused. They were probably about four or five, too young for a potential Robin, but small enough that she could carry one in each arm. They hugged on tightly, the unhappiest of koalas. She walked quickly away from where Damian was already laying into Batzarro with the chain; hopefully, she could stave off at least some of that need for therapy.
"We'll get you home soon, don't you worry," she said gently, soothingly. One of the boys had his thumb jammed in his mouth, sucking unblinkingly. The other one wouldn't stop crying. "It's okay, it's okay. Shhh. Shh."
The fair was a tiny one, one of the ones that set up for a couple of days before moving on. That was the safest way to do business in Gotham anymore-get in, get paid, and leave before it could get its claws into you. There wasn't anything really impressive about it. The largest attraction it had was a big moonbounce.
And that gave her an idea. Steph carried them over to the moonbounce, toeing off her boots and ducking inside. They were too shell-shocked to see what she was doing, too terrified to even contemplate the idea of fun.
But this was a two-prong plan. One, Batzarro had the IQ of a brick, so if by some ungodly chance he got away from Damian, he wouldn't think to look for them there. Two, she could at least startle them enough by bouncing with them that they might calm down a little. She pulled off her gloves-nothing sharp, nothing that might puncture the inflated castle.
"You guys ever do this before?" She asked, since they were still staring at her with huge eyes. "It's fun. All you've gotta do is jump, and it's like you can fly." She did it once with them still in her arms-she jumped down hard, sending the three of them flying up.
The boys shrieked, but it was a different kind of cry. It was surprise, not fear. Steph jumped again, and again, and soon enough they were waving their arms and wriggling to be let down so that they could jump on their own.
"Big arms, guys!" she instructed, holding her cape out to show them. "Like Batman!"
If there was a God, they'd think that this was just some kind of nightmare that'd traversed into the realm of dreams. She had her fingers crossed, at least.
"You called?" A voice rumbled from outside of the moonbounce. Damian poked his pointy-eared head in past the flap, and the response was instantaneous: the kids started screaming, scramble-bouncing back to her. They held onto her legs like she'd protect them from the bad man.
Damian recoiled visibly.
"Oh no, no, shh, shh boys. That's my Batman. He's my friend, and he came to play with us." Steph said, a comforting hand on each child.
"I came to what," Damian echoed flatly.
"You came. To. Play." Steph said, her voice sweet but her emphasis sharp. "Because you're my Batman. So take off your shoes and get in here. Now."
"You do realize that I just chained a supervillain to the-"
"Take off your shoes."
One of the boys gave a hiccupy little giggle as Batman pulled off his boots and gloves with a loud sigh. He crawled into the castle, looking dour and irritated. The braver boy tugged on his cape, chirping a high, uncertain question.
"Bounce?"
And Damian, bless him, picked up the kid and started bouncing.
The situation was defused, the day was saved, and Steph might have successfully saved some parents some money on therapy. She grinned at him.
"Remember," he said quietly, then paused. "Remember when we did this?"
And she did-of course she did. It'd been the first time she'd teamed up with him, back when they were Batgirl and Robin, ten and eighteen, Fatgirl and the Boy Psycho.
"Of course," she said. "That was forever ago, god. I didn't think that you'd remember, though."
"How could I forget?" He asked, as the boy in arms giggled gleefully and waved his chubby fists. "It was the first time that someone allowed me to be a child." With a rare smile, he added, "As well as our first date."
Stephanie was still laughing with the police showed up.
When Stephanie had a problem, she didn't let it lie for long. It wasn't in her nature to allow things to fester. She was nothing if not straight-forward. Damian imagined that this was a good thing, because woman was not a dialect he spoke fluently, so he would not have survived if she'd been the type to bury her feelings and lash out passive-aggressively. All lashing out that she did was extremely aggressive and guided by her fists.
So, she didn't beat around the bush.
"Are you attracted to me?" Steph demanded, her voice quaking shrilly. He'd learned that that particular note was a red alarm, so he set down the file he'd been reading. "Or do you just want the idea of me? Is anything going to happen, or can I just stop shaving my legs already?"
"Excuse me?" Damian asked. Where had this come from? "What gave you the impression that I'm not attracted to you?"
"There's more to life than kissing," she said, and there was a desperation in her voice that he didn't understand. "Is this going to go further than kissing? Because if it's not, that's fine-I'm used to it. But just. I don't want to keep waiting for something that isn't going to happen."
"I thought waiting was supposed to be an admirable trait," he said, glancing away. He hated when he did or said something-or, in this case, failed to do something-that made her bafflingly unhappy.
It wasn't that he hadn't thought about intercourse.
He was eighteen and kept exceedingly close quarters with a woman. He rarely stopped thinking about sex.
But there was a very real possibility that Timothy Goddamn Drake could beat him at this one thing, and that thought made his heart pump ice. Drake and Stephanie had been in an established relationship for years, the longest one that either of them had held. The foolish oaf had ruined it, but that didn't erase his fingerprints. He'd touched her, loved her, and had experiences that Damian lacked. It was one thing that Red Robin could feasibly best him at-one very, very important thing. He couldn't accept that. He just couldn't.
What if she changed her mind? What if he made a fool of himself and she decided they were better off as...whatever it was that they'd been before.
"I know that...that you and Drake..." his voice petered off into a miserable mumble. "I lack his experience. I want you to know that, so you won't be disappointed with me."
"Oh," said Stephanie, a hand over her mouth as her cornflower blue eyes widened. "Oh, D. You think that Tim and I-that we did the nasty-"
"Please," he cut in, rubbing his face with one hand. "I don't want to imagine it, much less discuss it."
"-so you think that you've got to do better than him, and you think that I have a second degree black belt in sex or something-"
"Stephanie."
"Shh. Look. Do you want to know the honest to goodness truth? Nothing happened between us. We kissed. That's it. He was uncomfortable with doing anything with me when I was fat and pregnant, and I don't blame him, but-"
"I would have," he offered. And it was the truth, too. The idea of her being with child was more interesting to him than repulsive. And maybe-maybe someday, he would pursue that with her. By his lofty estimation, she was the only woman worthy of carrying his child.
She smiled crookedly, patting his cheek.
"I know you would've, but you were kind of seven years old at the time. But, that awkwardness aside, I'm serious about me and Tim. I think that he's a romantic asexual-he likes the connection, but he doesn't have any interest in messy bits. That's the way he's wired, and now that I'm a stable adult and not a broken-hearted teenager, I can respect that."
"Hm," Damian said, processing that. Romantic asexual? He hadn't known that such a thing existed, but he did know that Stephanie would not say something like that just for the sake of putting him more at ease. She didn't humor him like that, which was something that he respected about her.
Steph took both of his hands and put them on her breasts. He could feel the weight of them, the warmth, the lines of her brassiere's cups. His face caught fire.
"Tim never even touched my boobs," she told him very seriously. "Congrats! You just beat Tim at Sex-Fu. How's minor league second base treating you, champ? Feel free to tell me that my boobs are awesome."
"I-" his voice cracked embarrassingly. "Your-I-he was an idiot."
"Nah, don't say that. I just ended up not being what he wanted. That happens."
"I do," Damian mumbled, standing stock-still and just touching her. "I do want you."
She smiled, her cheeks invitingly pink.
"So...are you just going to...keep hanging onto them? Because they're not doorknobs. I give you permission to fondle. Want to make a run for another base? I won't stop you."
"You're impossible," he huffed, but he dropped his hands to her hips and kissed her thoroughly.
He was a quick study.
It happened when it was meant to happen, or as close enough to that as possible. She didn't rush him, and he didn't push her. They both had things that they were wrestling with, so hurrying the process along would have made it awkward and unenjoyable.
They'd just returned from their nightly patrol, settling into their usual routine. Suits were shucked and cleaned. Steph brewed a pot of tea, and then she went to bed. He usually stayed up longer, making certain that the nights' activities had been catalogued and processed. He couldn't sleep when things were left unfinished.
But this night was different. He couldn't say how, or even why, but he'd been all too aware of her the entire evening. When she brushed by him, his mouth went dry; when she smiled at him, he found himself smiling stupidly back at her.
And Batman wasn't supposed to smile stupidly at anyone.
They got out of the Batmobile and shed gloves and boots wordlessly, tiredly. He followed her to the washroom, leaning against the counter as she scrubbed her face and hands. They took turns, and it went without saying that ladies used the sink first.
As tired as she was, she wasn't doing much more than going through the motions. That's why she missed the stream of water and got soap in her eyes.
It was such a small, stupid thing.
Stephanie yelped like a banshee, patting blindly around for her wet washcloth.
"Jesus, woman, are you completely inept? Don't answer that, the answer is on your face, you-"
"Shut up!" she said, still flailing around wildly.
And she was supposed to be an adult, too.
Damian grabbed the washcloth and went to hand it to her, but she'd flail-bumped her way to the lightswitch, and the washroom went pitch black.
"Wonderful," Damian deadpanned. "You never cease to amaze me."
"Shut up," she said again. "Keep talking. I want to know where to hit."
"I have no idea how you ever managed to survive on your own. Stand still," he instructed, and she did.
At the tender age of six, he'd been capable of tracking a man's breath and movements in the dark, pinpointing him expertly enough to kill him. Loss of vision didn't bother him, and night had never been a stranger.
He cleaned her face off with the damp cloth, taking care to wipe her eyes.
"Thanks," she said, her voice oddly high. "That's-ah. That's better."
He could hear her heartbeat in the dark, the soft shudder of her breathing. She was scared, which he didn't understand. He knew better than to entertain the idea that she could be scared of the dark; they were the night and all that. She should have known by now that he wouldn't hurt her, and that if he did he would hate himself. Her pulse was high, her breathing uneven, so-
She gave a moan as soft as a sigh when he touched her again, and understanding slammed a hot line from his head directly to his crotch.
Oh.
No, she was not scared.
No, her pulse was racing for an entirely new reason.
"Do you-?" she asked, and he didn't even allow her to finish the question.
Damian put an arm around her, lifting; her thighs hugged his sides, ankles crossed behind his back. Just the pressure of her thighs around his waist, her nails digging into his back, made him want to goddamn cry.
She was perfect. Stupid, obnoxious, brilliant, and perfect.
Yes, he wanted to. He wanted to so badly, he couldn't find the words to voice it. He wanted to so desperately, he didn't care if his first time was in the same room they hosed their boots down in.
But.
"I don't-I've never-"
"You're a virgin," Steph said, and the dark warmed with the smile in her voice. "I know. Listen. I've got a terrible secret that I've been keeping from you. Guess it's a good as time as any to come clean."
No. No, no, no. Not now. Not when they were so close, not when he wanted this, wanted her, what was she-was she-was Drake-?
She arched, pulling her baggy nightshirt off over her head. She took his hands, guiding one to the curve of her hip and the other to her breast. He could feel her scars dance beneath his palms when she twisted, when she moved. He may or may not have stopped breathing altogether.
"I'm not a virgin," she said, with the tone of someone giving up some great, weighty confession.
Damian spluttered-well, of course she wasn't; she'd had a child when she was younger than he was-and she laughed.
"Relax," she instructed, arms loose around his shoulders. She carded her fingers through his hair, and he could feel the edges of her fingernails drag against his scalp; he swallowed reflexively, closing his eyes with a slight shiver. "This isn't a big deal. You don't have to worry about impressing me, or performing a certain way. I like you, okay? No matter what. I don't care if you're too nervous to pop a stiffy."
"Can you not talk about my-" He couldn't say it. Couldn't get the word out. Couldn't get any version of the word out, not even in the dark. "Like that?"
"Your what?" She asked, feigning complete innocence. Her long lashes brushed his cheek as she leaned into him, her hand trapped between them. She palmed him through his sweats, and he had to keep his hips from pushing into her with a rabbity little thrust.
He prayed that the high, broken squeak he heard hadn't come from him.
He could feel the shape of her smile as she kissed his throat. It had definitely come from him.
"This is supposed to be fun. People forget that sometimes."
"I don't...fun is...it always was..."
He fought with the words, with the explanation he didn't know how to give. Fun wasn't an attractive trait in a killer. Fun wasn't necessary, as much as she believed otherwise. Fun was-
Stephanie kissed him with a light graze of teeth.
Fun sounded so, so appealing all of a sudden. He could learn to like fun.
"I'm your fun sensei. I'm going to teach you things that I expect you to practice. Got it?"
"Ah-hahn-mmn..."
She understood the yes, even if it was the single most undignified response he had given in his entire life.
She needed more sleep than he did. Damian had conditioned himself to follow his father's example-even at age ten, he'd functioned off of three or four hours' worth of rest. Whatever was good enough for Father was good enough for him. So even though he had more than ample reason to stay in bed longer now, he usually left the bed he now shared with Stephanie several hours before she woke up. She had her limits, and he had next to none. Though he was learning to enjoy companionship-really, really enjoy it-he liked having time alone.
In those very early morning hours, where the moon sat fat on the horizon and the pollution began to take on a pinkish haze, it was just Batman and Gotham, the city and its protector.
He spent his time wisely. There were cases that he followed, trails that he explored, that dove deep, deep into the gutters. He could have unpacked those cases with Stephanie, but he preferred to do them alone. There was no chance of her getting hurt, and no one to hold him back.
That's not to say that he killed when she wasn't keeping a watchful eye. No, he didn't dive into the refuse like some kind of junkie desperate for a fix. He stuck to the rules, but he didn't pull as many punches. When he barked, it was with teeth.
It seemed like every street had a dark alley, now, every block a corner where shadows intersected and filthy things switched hands. The 'bad' parts of town spread like a cancer, and he couldn't stop the spread if he was the kind of Batman that only used his father's voice.
Stephanie had her beliefs. Her ideals. Her innocence, despite it all.
He couldn't ruin them.
Damian never knew exactly what he'd find when he chased rats and turned over rocks. There were the old, familiar faces-Two-Face, whose new motto rang Heads, I win, tails, you lose; the Penguin, whose empire had exploded after the King disappeared; the list went on and on. There were the new ones, too, like Catwoman. Selina had left the city and retired somewhere warm, claiming that Gotham was going to the dogs. The new Catwoman was generally helpful and sickeningly optimistic, though Damian didn't like how often she found a reason to touch or talk to Steph.
And then there were the old, familiar faces that felt new for all the wrong reasons. They were his ghosts, his dark mirrors.
He found his oldest living 'brother' in a slaughterhouse that had taken on a whole new life with fresh meat. Gone were the cows and pigs-the racks of ribs and halves hanging by hooks were too small for either animal. Jason had beaten him to the place and had taken care of it.
He hated that, because he'd done exactly what Damian had wished he could do: he'd killed the butchers, every last one of them. They were not worth the taxpayers' money that would go to feed and clothe them in jail. They could not be rehabilitated, so Jason had made certain that they wouldn't be draining anything more off of society.
When he felt the cold length of his shadow pass over him, the Hood looked up from washing the blood off his hands. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he laughed, sounding nothing short of delighted.
"Ha! Look at you! All dressed up in big bat panties and everything. How're you doing, little brother? You look good."
"Don't call me that," Damian sneered, hands loose at his sides.
He could end it, he realized. The torturous tango between justice and mercy, the one thorny threat his father had never been able to eliminate. He didn't have his father's emotional investment in Jason, his guilt. All he had were the memories of being hurt by him as a child.
He could end it right then, right there, and still be back to the cave before Stephanie finished making waffles.
The thought was enticing.
"Are you thinking about killing me?" Jason asked, shaking his hands dry. "How about crippling me? I hope you are. I'll be disappointed if you aren't."
"I could do it," he said icily. "Make it so that you never walked again. And it'd be the right thing to do."
"See, the problem with you is that you think you know better," Jason said, conversationally, taking his gun out of his belt and gesturing with it. "And you don't. You're still a stupid kid, and all you're doing is following a dead man's marching orders. Doesn't that ever get to you? Newsflash: you're not going to get a pat on the back. I'll bet he didn't even give you one when he was still kicking."
"Shut up," Damian snarled, bending slightly at his knees. He couldn't kill him-no, not him; he was the one at the top of the no-kill list, because killing him would punctuate a point he'd been trying to make for years-but he could hurt him. He could break things. He could make him bleed.
And it'd feel good. Pressure, pops, then releases. Always satisfying.
But that line of thinking wasn't unique to Damian. No, those were all thoughts that Jason had thought first. He was the original unwanted son of Bruce Wayne, after all.
That was why he hit first, and hit hard. He was every inch the cheater that Damian was-the only difference was that he had more practice.
He'd been primed to jump, ready to aim for a tackle the would hit him squarely in the gut, but Jason moved first. He fisted a hand in a heavy meathook and swung it at him. The strategy had seemed to juvenile; he'd dismissed it when it'd flitted through his own mind. That's what they did in the cartoons, in the movies. It never worked in the real world.
The metal hook hit him in the ribs with enough force to send him flying. He hit the gritty floor, skidding on his back.
Jason was there before he could recover. He looped his cape around his neck and behind his head, creating a sloppy noose that trapped one of Damian's arms against his side. The Red Hood sat squarely on top of him, pulling his fistful of cape tight with one hand and bringing his other fist down again and again.
He was quick. Creative. Ruthless.
In some calculating corner of his brain-one that wasn't being rattled by the punches-he respected that about him.
"Eventually, you're gonna get tired of the hypocrisy. You're gonna get tired of being the good little soldier. Honestly? I hope it's sooner rather than later. You're wasting your fucking time."
That sunk in, a cool trickle of logic. It was appealing. It was a thought he'd had himself, many times. Father was gone. Father would never know. Who was he pretending for? They all hated him.
Everyone but Stephanie.
"GET OFF OF ME, YOU BASTARD!"
"I'd really hoped you'd be reasonable. You might be fooling the rest of them, but I know a black sheep when I see it."
He nearly had his arm free-Jason shot his shoulder. His aim was good and his eye was better; he knew where the under-armor of the suit had a weak joint. Damian barked a curse, but didn't flinch.
He should have. As soon as he saw his eyebrows arch with curiosity, he knew that he should have faked it. Pretending would have kept Jason underestimating him, would have kept his secret.
Jason jabbed his thumb into the hole in the suit-and he should have dug deep into ruined flesh. His thumb hit bloody but unblemished skin instead. He'd already healed.
He whistled, long and low, then gave him a grin as wide as a Cheshire cat's.
"Well, would you look at that. You do party tricks, too."
Todd had him pinned. Todd had him pinned. Everything in him screamed. He couldn't kill him-no one could-but he could humiliate him. And he was doing just that, masterfully.
"You're a fighter, little brother," Jason grinned, all teeth. "I like that. I'll be honest-I like you. You're my favorite brother," he patted his chest. "And that's coming from the heart."
"Fuck you!" Damian howled, straining against his hold. But, his deal had only made him superdurable, not superstrong. Todd had at least forty pounds and several inches on him. He was bigger. Stronger. Damian hadn't fully grown into himself yet, and he was using that to his advantage.
"I mean, I heard about what happened with the King," Jason drawled, and clamped a hand over his throat. He'd picked up quick that Damian was resilient, so it wasn't just a squeeze-he was crushing his throat, probably simply to see if he'd survive it. "I'd been angling for him for months myself, so imagine my surprise when I found that someone had already made boots out of the big bastard. And I asked myself, shit, who could've done that? None of the other mob bosses were standing up to take responsibility for the kill, and they'd be stupid not to. Croc was strangled to death with barbed wire. That left a message, but nobody signed the note."
Damian's pulse slammed in his ears. With the Hood's weight on his chest and his crushed larynx, he couldn't breathe, much less talk. His vision darkened like a vignette, shot through with dancing motes of light. He could keep conscious through sheer force of will, but that didn't make his lungs burn any less. It was dying, dying slowly and without resolution.
"Now, who'd do that? Who wouldn't want it known that they were a bad enough man to garrote the Croc?" Jason's voice dipped into a silken murmur. "And then-bam!-it hit me. Someone who was trying to keep his nose clean. Someone who was trying to pretend that they were better than that."
He was almost glad that he couldn't speak, because he wouldn't have known what to say. He couldn't deny that.
"So, we've got a killer Bat. Beautiful." Jason leaned into him with a creak of leather, pressing something into his forehead. He scratched it with his fingertip.
It was a sticker. A purple scratch-n'-sniff star sticker.
"Grape job, little brother," he said, laughing. "You do me proud. You and me, we could be something great. We could do more than dear old Dad-Bat ever did-what he was afraid to do. You and me, we could clean this city up once and for all. What do you say? Let's eliminate this filth. I'm sure our sister would go for it. She's just as much of a black sheep as we are."
To his oxygen-deprived brain, that didn't click over. Didn't connect. Didn't make sense. He had no sister. There was no our, nothing that they shared because Father had excommunicated him for his behavior, for killing, for being the unwanted son-
"She grew up good, too. A fucking spitfire, but hey, what else do you expect from a kid with a bad background? If it makes you feel better, I took care of those goons that took a crowbar to her. It rubbed me the wrong way, and I just so happened to have a crowbar laying around myself. You don't have to thank me. Consider it a gift from me to her. Shit, you could almost consider us kindred spirits."
Stephanie. He was talking about Stephanie. Had been watching Stephanie. Fuck.
"Ahh, there we go. You want to kill me. Good! You've got potential, sport. Gimme a ring when you're willing to talk."
Jason abruptly unloaded half a clip into him. He lost count after the fourth bullet ripped through his right lung-it hit the peak of his pain threshold, and his body buckled. He healed, but that didn't mean being shot didn't hurt.
When he came to, the Red Hood was gone. The cement under him was pocked with bullet-holes and slippery with his own blood; for Damian, this was par for the course. He found five spent bullets, checked again, then swore.
That meant the sixth one was trapped inside him still, buried deeply enough that he couldn't feel the bulge of it in his skin. He'd have to find it and cut it out-and hope that he could do it quickly, so that he didn't heal before it was free. If he did heal over, he'd have to slice himself open again and again until he fished it out. It was messy, bloody business. Functional immortality could be a complete pain in the ass-especially since he'd have to stage this self-surgery without Stephanie's knowledge.
He did not need this new complication in his life. It figured, though. Every time something went passably well, karma overbalanced the scales and sent him tumbling.
Damian growled a curse under his breath, peeling the scratch-n'-sniff sticker off of his cowl.
Family was always, always problematic.
Cooking was not among Damian's considerable talents. Culinary prowess was not in the Wayne genetic code, and since it wasn't a skill necessary to an assassin, he had not been taught to know his way around a kitchen. He could offer some support-no one was as talented as he was when it came to using knives-but he'd learned that it was best for everyone if he did not touch any pans or pots. Nothing went right for him, not even simple tasks like steeping tea.
So, cooking duties fell to Stephanie. It was better than nothing, but it wasn't good.
Stephanie's dishes weren't what anyone would consider epicurean delights. They were filling and edible, but they weren't what he was used to. Pennyworth had been an excellent chef who had delighted in making fine meals. Stephanie's cooking was more...rustic. 'Comfort' food, as she put it.
Comfort meant carbs, which he didn't turn down given their level of activity. Waffles and casseroles were mainstays, though the latter was dicey. More often than not, he watched what she piled into casserole dishes and barely stopped himself from asking if she was completely mad and wanted him to die.
Tuesday was tater-tot casserole night. It was...edible. The conversation she picked for their dinner was one that robbed him of his appetite, though.
"So...I've been talking to Tim."
Damian went very still, like an animal that had just seen the sharp outline of a predator. Shit.
"Excuse me?"
"Tim Drake-Wayne," she repeated, but there was a lilt in her voice that would have been absent had she been really talking with Drake. "Your brother. Do we even know any other Tims?"
"Fortunately, no," he said smoothly.
"Ignoring you. Anyway, he's been e-mailing me and calling for weeks. He heard about my mom, so." Steph dragged her fork through her square of casserole, smashing tater-tots with the tines. "He wanted to make sure I was okay, and asked if I'd visit for a couple of days. It wouldn't be a terrible idea."
"But it is a terrible idea," Damian ground out, dropping his fork.
"Keeping positive ties to the Justice League is important."
"So visit the alien." Kara. "Or that other Batgirl, the good one." Cassandra. "They have the same sway within the group." He liked them.
"He called, D," Steph said flatly. "He's still my friend."
"I have no idea how or why."
"I'm telling you that I'm going for a couple of days, not asking for your permission. I'm not Little Miss Stockholm Syndrome here, and making more appearances outside of Gotham will prove that to everyone else. So, hackles down. I'm doing you a favor, honestly. You could use some good PR in the capes and tights circle."
He scowled at his half-eaten meal. He didn't care what others thought of him-he would continue his father's work, whether or not the world approved of him. But, after his run-in with Todd, maybe it...it would be wise to have her leave for a couple of days. The thought of not being able to keep an eye on her made his pulse shift into a rabbity beat, but he knew that she would be safer away from the streets.
And, he justified, he could probably wrap up the Todd situation much more easily if she wasn't around. Jason knew things, things that were potentially ruinous to their fledgling relationship. He had to treat it with utmost care.
Damian was all too aware that if Stephanie knew half of what he'd done in the past handful of years, she would leave and not come back. There were some things that were unforgivable, even to someone like her.
"Fine," he said, sounding cross. "But keep in contact. And if Drake tries anything-"
Stephanie leaned across the table and dropped a swift kiss on his nose.
"You're adorable when you're being a stupid caveman," she said, smiling. "Now, I'm going to ignore what you were implying, because if I don't ignore it I'll have to hurt you. That won't be good for either of us, because I have to somehow convince the head of the Justice League that you didn't knock me out with a club and drag me back to your cave by my hair."
"Tt," Damian said with an impressive eyeroll. "I'm not the barbarian that hit her romantic interest over the head with a brick."
"Ah, man," Steph gushed. "Those were the good ol' days."
"You look good," Tim said, and the warmth in his voice and the width of his smile made it obvious that he meant it. "I like the new costume."
"I thought it was about time I traded up. I kept getting crap for calling myself Batwoman while wearing last moniker's fashion," she grinned, and hugged him. He hugged her back, his grip firm.
The old familiarity of it all made little bubbles of happiness rise and pop in her chest. The time and distance had been good for them. They were both adults now, and with age came a fond perspective of the past. It was easier to look back and see the good times, the times worth remembering, instead of the fights that had caused them to grow in opposite directions.
Once upon a time, they'd been friends. Good friends. It was funny-the kind of funny that made you want to shake and cry, not the kind of funny that made you laugh-that she had ended up becoming the Bat, not him. He'd renounced the cowl, even allowing it to hang empty for a year. Tim's priorities had shifted, widened: he was worried about the whole world now, not just one rainy, dank city that'd fed on its own entrails for decades.
It could be said that he was the only smart one in the family.
"You look good," Tim repeated, though now it had the faint upward turn of a question.
Steph's smile turned wry.
"Good for a girl who spent six months fighting crime out of the back of a minivan, right?"
"You did what in a minivan?" Tim demanded. So he hadn't gotten the whole memo, then. It was just as well. If he only had a passing knowledge of what she'd been doing in the two years since they'd seen each other, this whole conversation would go much more smoothly. "Are you serious? Why didn't you call? You know I have partial access to the Wayne accounts, and it's not like the League wouldn't pitch in to help you out. You're one of us."
"Unofficially," she reminded him, because she'd turned them down not once, but three times.
"Unofficially," he agreed with a sigh. He gestured to the tiny, spartan kitchen of his apartment. "C'mon. Hang up your cape and sit for a few. Want something to drink? I've got lemonade."
It was so blessedly normal, so uncomplicated. She was visiting one of her oldest friends, drinking tall glasses of lemonade and talking about the few normal things they had in their lives.
"I'm just glad that Mom got the satisfaction of being clean for ten years," Steph said, once the conversation turned back to her mother's death. "It'd been so important to her. I mean, I'm not saying that she died happy, you know? But I feel like she was at a place where she felt like she had control of her life. After all those years with Daddy, and what it did to her, emotionally, I just...I'm glad."
Tim nodded, stirring around his ice cubes with his straw. "Yeah, I understand. Your mother really turned it all around. So did you."
"Not another statistic. That's my motto."
"Well, you're anything but that. I can't believe that you're..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely. "When my Dad died, I barely held it together. You went straight to doing what Bruce did on a billionaire's budget from the back of a minivan. That takes guts. Bruce would be impressed."
"I'm not doing it to impress Bruce Wayne's ghost. I'm doing it for the people in that city who need help."
"And that's why I'm impressed. It's a big job."
He didn't mention the new Batman in Gotham. She knew that he had to know about him, though, and he had to know who was wearing the suit. Whatever had run him out of town had made it so that he didn't want to even touch anything tied to Bruce's biological son.
But she never did know when to leave something well enough alone.
"Why'd you leave Gotham?" She asked. It had the soft push of a plead behind it: why'd you leave, why'd you leave me, how could you leave when I needed you and you knew it?
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. They'd moved all too quickly from rehashing the good things to dredging up the bad. Story of their relationship, really.
"You mean the brat didn't tell you?"
"He's an adult. Drop the brat stuff," she said before she could stop herself.
"Adults can be brats. And if we're going to use correct terminology here, he's a sociopathic son of a bitch. You know that. You don't have to pretend to defend him. I won't think less of you for it. There's something about him that's just not right."
Anger swelled in her chest like a balloon filled to its very limit. She wanted to yell, wanted to explode all over him.
"He's changed. He's grown up. Believe me-I've seen it for myself. He's more committed to Gotham than Bats 1.0 had been."
Tim tilted his head curiously, giving her a dissecting look. It was the kind of look that came with the territory and tutelage of the World's Greatest Detective-the kind of look meant to crack invisible shells and lift false pretenses and read what was going on under someone's skin. Usually, Steph would have steeled herself, retreating to a calm and unreadable neutral expression, but she was angry. She was angry, and that made her childishly spiteful. She wanted him to figure it out.
Understanding bloomed behind Tim's eyes.
"Oh, God," he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. "No. Steph, you're not. Please. Please, tell me you're not."
"Not what? Not working with him? Not his partner? Not supporting him? Not his friend?"
She saw in his eyes the one thing that she hated most, the one thing that turned her insides to fire. Whatever he was going to say next, it was going to be patronizing. He was going to talk down to her, because gosh she just didn't have any self-control when it came to men.
Her voice dropped to a furious whisper. "Not sleeping with him, since that's my M.O.? Please, Tim, give me a version of patronizing slut-shaming I haven't heard before."
"I didn't say that, I-"
"No, but you were thinking it, weren't you?" She bit back, her tone hard. She knew that she was jumping down his throat, that she might've been overreacting a little, but to hear him say that to her just...hurt. It hurt more than she was willing to admit. So he could forgive her for being a knocked up fifteen year old, but when she had a consensual adult relationship that veered a little to the left of normal, he trotted out the sighs and disgust? "That because I'm older than he is and because you don't approve of him, what I'm doing is wrong."
"You've been through a lot lately. I know that you're having trouble, because I know you. You don't know how to ask for help." Tim's lips thinned as he pressed them together. "I also know that you have kind of a kneejerk reflex when you're feeling lost."
She stared at him, unbelieving that he'd actually said that to her, that he had the gall to believe that he knew her and could pass judgment-
"What gives you the right to say that to me? Are you going to write that one off on you being a concerned friend? Really?"
"I'm not calling you a slut," he said tiredly. "I'm worried about you, okay? I don't want you to do something that you'll regret. If it were anyone else, I'd be happy for you. I'm just saying that I know-"
"No." She cut in, fingers tightening on the edge of the table until her knuckles were white. "You don't know. You don't know anything about how I'm wired. You don't get to stand on a pedestal and tell me that you know better than I do. That-what did you call him? Oh, right: that sociopathic son of a bitch." He actually flinched at how sharply she said it. "Well, listen up, Timmy. My mother's been dead for a year. That sociopathic son of a bitch found out within weeks of returning to Gotham, and he gave him a place to live. This new suit? That sociopathic son of a bitch made it for me because everything I had was broken down from overuse. I was injured recently-a bullet in my stomach, three broken ribs, full spiral fracture of my right ulna and radius, and extensive internal bleeding. In fact, I was bleeding out. That sociopathic son of a bitch saved me, performed the surgery himself, and then spent the next three months helping me heal and rehabilitate. You're judging him by who he was when he was ten fucking years old, by the mistakes he made when he didn't know how to be human. So don't you dare tell me that you know that sociopathic son of a bitch better than I do, and don't you dare imply that I'm too naive to see what that sociopathic son of a bitch 'really' is."
Finished, she dragged in a shaky breath. That'd just burst out of her, without pause or rational thought. Tim was visibly stunned; his mouth opened, but he was at a loss for words.
"We give criminals second chances," she said, tone gentling. "Why don't we give our own people the same treatment?"
"I'm sorry," Tim said. He sounded sincere. "I had no idea."
"I know," she said. "And I didn't mean to lose it like that. It's just, he's trying to be better. He's trying so hard, Tim, and it breaks my heart that he thinks he has to be next to God to be accepted by anyone at all. I know that he's got a reputation-and I know that he's earned at least half of that rep-but he's grown up, and he's devoted to doing the right thing. He's giving it his all. You have to at least respect him for that. You know better than anyone that doing the 'right' thing when you're wearing the bat on your chest isn't ever the 'easy' thing."
He digested that for a few seconds, taking a sip of lemonade. She wasn't surprised that he needed a moment to process it-she kind of had yelled it in one steady, defensive stream. It'd been her immediate reflex, her natural response.
It'd surprised her a little, too. She'd wondered what she'd do if someone found out about her and Damian's...yeah, it was serious enough now to call it a relationship. She'd assumed that she'd duck out of saying anything concrete, that she'd be too embarrassed about dating a barely-adult man eight years younger than she was.
But no, her response had been ferocious, and unwavering and proud. She was proud of the man that Damian had grown into. She was proud to be with him.
She loved him.
Tim slid a communicator across the table. It was small, glossy, and stamped with the League insignia.
"If you use this, someone will pick up. No matter what. I was going to say that it was for your use only, but." He paused. Took a breath, then released it. She knew that this was taking a lot for him to say, given all the years and fights and bad blood between him and his adopted brother, and she was proud of him for it. "Tell Batman that he can call anytime. He's got the JLI's backing, as per the recommendation of Batwoman. I'll tell them that your report was thorough and...convincing."
Allies. They had allies, now. The approval of the big names, the official nod that what they were doing was right.
Finally.
"Thank you," she said, holding the communicator to her chest.
"There's always a place for you on the team. I heard about the falling out with Babs, and...I don't want to see you put all your eggs in one basket. You don't have to isolate yourself in Gotham. Just...remember that."
That wasn't the first time that particular offer had been laid out on the table. Tim had nearly begged her to leave Gotham with him, Kara had pleaded that she was scared that she was going to get herself killed, Cass, overwhelmed, had only been able to cobble together a soft 'Don't be alone'. She'd said no each time, and would continue to turn them down. Sure, the grass was greener with them, but Steph knew where her real obligations were.
She knew on a bone-deep level that she was keeping that sociopathic son of a bitch on the straight and narrow. He relied on her to draw the lines for him.
Like she'd told Tim, she wasn't naive. She knew who and what he was, knew what he was capable of becoming. It was absolutely vital that he kept trying to seek her approval.
When she thought of it in those terms, she felt like a horrible person-like she was manipulating him. But she wasn't. Was she?
"You look good," Tim offered again, and she could tell that this time, he meant you look happy.
She gave him a watery smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
She hadn't forgotten that he'd ducked out of answering her question.
"You," Damian growled, sprawled back in his chair. "You have no right to judge me! You don't know what trials I've gone through-what I've endured since the day I was born. And I wasn't really born, you know. I was cultured and ripened in an artificial womb. I loathe my birthday, because it wasn't truly the day of my birth. It was the day that my mother arbitrarily decided that I was done enough, ready to be picked. So, you cannot hold me to your standards-you, who are a monster far worse than I."
He took a burning gulp of bourbon, squinting into the soulless eyes of Chuck the Chicken.
"I am allowed to take a night off once in a while. I am allowed to indulge in alcohol if I choose to do so. I am allowed these things because I am the goddamn Batman and you are nothing but an overly judgmental chicken. You don't know me, Chuck."
In general, he could have been doing a better job of coping with Stephanie's absence.
The first day had been fine. He'd eaten three meals, patrolled for longer than she would have been able to, slept for three hours, and then finished up some repairs to the Batmobile that he had been putting off. Sex, while enjoyable, had cut deeply into his productivity. He was slightly ashamed that it didn't bother him as much as it should have, but it had boosted his mood and energy so much that he felt that it was worth the sacrifice.
The second day, he'd finished his list of put-off projects, and then didn't know what to do with himself. He'd spent a good chunk of hours combing various networks for signs of Todd, but nothing had turned up. His 'brother' had burrowed in and was biding his time. No matter; he would find him eventually. His father's law prevented him from killing him, but there was no shortage of things that he could do that would render him a non-threat. He'd enjoy doing a great many of them, too.
The third day, all of the asinine loneliness he'd been keeping at an arm's length had caught up to him. He'd patrolled, but his head was elsewhere; he'd ended up cutting it short, returning home, and pouring himself a rare drink.
And that had led directly to his heart-to-heart with Chuck.
He finished his drink moodily, setting the glass on the computer desk.
"Mmmrrr," Alfred greeted him. His meow was muffled by what he had in his mouth.
A bat. A very dead bat.
Damian's stomach gave an unexpected lurch.
"No, Alfred! No! That behavior is unacceptable!" He said sharply, which made the cat skitter backwards with his prey, his ears flattened against his skull.
He seemed more confused than angry, staring at him with large yellow eyes. His tail swished as he crouched just outside of Damian's reach.
"We don't kill the bats, Alfred. They were in the cave before you were. They mean something. Bad!"
The cat didn't cower or growl. He just froze, bunching into a black and white ball with a madly whipping tail, the dead bat hanging out of his mouth.
Alfred had been bringing him the bat, he realized. It'd been a gift. A present, because he knew that he was a hunter. He was bewildered, because he'd expected him to be proud of his kill.
It might have been the alcohol, but that got to Damian. It tugged at him, because he remembered presenting the severed head of the Spook to his father and getting the same reaction. He remembered the hurt, and the confusion, when his father had turned on him and roared. He'd told him no, that he could not be his Robin because he was wild and unfit, and had implied that he would not be dispensing any parental love unless his rules were kept. These rules, of course, went against everything else he'd been taught-everything that had become his natural instincts. He might as well have been telling a kitten not to catch rodents.
He hadn't understood what he'd done wrong. Neither did Alfred.
Damian slid out of his chair. He sat on the floor, opening his palms wide and lowering his voice to a gentle murmur.
"I'm sorry," he said, keeping very still. "I didn't mean it. That's an excellent kill. Come. Let me see."
The cat paused for a moment, not trusting this sudden behavior change after all that yelling. He swore that he could see the conflict in the cat's eyes-the fear of being scolded again, when he'd been trying so hard to please his master. But then he unspooled, slowly padding closer to him. Damian sweet-talked him along.
"It is impressive, you know. To bring down an animal that spends most of its time high above your head is an accomplishment. You must have had to be patient and bide your time."
Alfred gingerly laid the bat down where he could reach it, his rough pink tongue licking the blood from his mouth. Then he arched up and pushed his head into Damian's palm. He stroked the length of his back, relieved when he began to purr.
"Good boy, Alfred. I'm proud of you."
He could be better than his father. He could learn from his mistakes. He knew that he could.
"You should..." He got his footing, then nodded briskly to the cat. "You should take care of that. A messy kill is a disgraceful one, Alfred. You are a Wayne, and I expect the best of you." He paused, then added, "But I will love you regardless. You are a good cat."
With that, he made his way back to his room. Damian flopped on his bed, tired enough to sleep but lacking the drive to undress and get under the sheets. He sprawled bonelessly on top of the duvet. The four posts around him gave a seasick lurch.
This was why he didn't drink. It was disgraceful, it compromised him, and he could barely keep his thoughts and emotions in check. He could live without it. He didn't need to have a ready source of it the way many others did. He was capable of going without.
Wait.
He blinked at the ceiling, frowning.
Had he been thinking about alcohol, or had he been thinking about love? Both were addictions, the favored indulgences of the poor and weak, and his father had resolutely denied himself either of them. He kept sober and strong. Nothing controlled him-not an addiction, not a woman, not his own emotions.
Damian didn't believe that his father had loved his mother, just as he didn't believe that his mother had ever loved him. He had been raised to hold them up as examples, to emulate them so that he could be just as strong. As a child, he had never doubted them-they'd been his personal parthenon, his gods.
But now, he was confused. He'd followed his heart, just like the Disney films had instructed, and the damned traitorous muscle had reduced him to this.
Drunk, lonely, and mooning over a woman he was desperately in love with.
He didn't know who was right, or who was wrong, or if he could force himself to give up the love he had now for the strength he'd always yearned for.
He knew that he wanted her partnership, that he wanted her support. He knew that he wanted her to continue to sleep next to him at night, even though it stretched his sleep schedule from three hours to six or more. He knew that he wanted her to continue to live with him, even though she put hamburger and cream of mushroom soup and tater-tots together in a pan and called it edible. He knew that he was stupid and childish and desperate, but she loved him.
He couldn't allow her to stop loving him. He needed it, needed her. She made him feel things in heights and depths he had never known were possible. It was a kind of madness, but one he embraced.
"Mrrrrow," Alfred said, hopping lightly onto the bed next to him. He headbutted his cheek, rubbing his furry face over his nose and mouth like he was actively trying to smother him. All was forgiven between them.
"Beast," he greeted warmly. "I take it that you've disposed of your prey. Good."
Alfred rumbled with a throaty purr, curling against his neck. This seemingly doubled Damian's alcohol-induced sleepiness, so he found his eyes fluttering shut.
But cats were twice as fickle as women, he'd learned. He went from sleepy and satiated to leaping up and streaking toward the door without any warning whatsoever.
Well, damn him and damn his whims. He was going to sleep.
The cat started clawing at the door-something he knew he wasn't supposed to do.
"Stop it, Alfred," Damian muttered, not opening his eyes.
He caterwauled piteously.
"Shut up!" He said crankily. " I'm not letting you out, so shut up!"
Feline stubbornness was amazing. Cats did not know the meaning of stopping, especially when it came to things that they knew full well they weren't supposed to be doing. He understood now, he thought, why Catwoman had been one of Father's most lasting adversaries. Cats had a dangerous charm to them, able to lull you into loving and petting them even when you'd wanted to throw them down a flight of stairs not two minutes before. It was an admirable skill, if an underhanded one.
Yelling did nothing to dissuade him. He kept scratching the door, punctuating his assault on the fine rosewood with long, shrill meows.
Damian heaved a sigh, pushing himself to his feet again.
"Fine!" He snapped as he flung the door open and gestured widely. "Go!"
Alfred twined between his ankles, rubbing against his legs. He stretched out the door, elongating impossibly while somehow leaving his back feet inside of the room, then turned and sat. He looked up at him, yellow eyes owlish, and meowed again. It sounded disturbingly like a command.
"I'm not going with you."
"Nyyyyaaaaaowwwn."
"You cannot manipulate me. I'm your master, not the other way around."
Alfred abruptly laid down, sprawling over his bare feet. He began to groom himself, ignoring him.
"MAKE UP YOUR GODDAMNED MIND!" Damian bellowed. The cat, all too used to his outbursts, ignored him. Only the very tip of his tail twitched.
Damian had been involved with bank heist standoffs that had been less intense.
"Fine," he sighed. Alfred got up and padded happily out into the hall, his tail held at jauntily victorious angle.
He lead him, unsurprisingly, into Stephanie's room. Before sharing a bed had become a fairly regular thing, she had slept here. He wasn't positive whose bedroom it had been before, but it reflected her touch now-charmingly messy, makeup and tubes of rarely-used lipstick spread on the dresser, unfolded clothing and much-loved paperbacks strewn about the floor. When Damian read, he consumed a book, absorbed the information, and didn't touch it again. Stephanie was a sensitive person, prone to maudlin emoting and impractical behavior. She held onto things-onto people-and cherished them.
He sat down on the edge of her bed, frowning pointedly at the cat.
"So this is where you want to be, is it? Her room? She isn't here, monster. She's in Metropolis, and you know that as well as I do. If she were here, I would not be indulging your terrible behavior at all. Being here is your decision, not mine, so the blame will fall on you."
"Mmmm-rowww," Alfred trilled, satisfied. He kneaded the comforter to his liking, then curled into a ball and promptly fell asleep.
"And now you're happy," Damian sighed, laying back on the bed and giving Alfred a dirty look. "Of course. Intruding in her personal space because you like the smell of her-in humans, that kind of behavior is called stalking. It's undesirable. But when you do it, it's cute. She'd think that it's just adorable how much you miss her, but if I-"
He let the thought hang for a second, then realized he didn't want to say it. Not to the walls, not to the cat.
"Tt," he said instead, closing his eyes and rolling onto his side.
Next time, he would go with her. Just to make sure that nothing happened.
As pleasant as the pleasantries were after the almost-fight with Tim, Steph cut her trip short. She loved seeing her friends, loved the hugs and the smiles and the way Metropolis felt five times brighter than Gotham. But she couldn't allow herself to love it too much, because it was the kind of happiness that left bruises.
She knew where she was needed, so she went back home. The sense of home that she associated with the Wayne property was new, but it was strong.
And it was ironic, really, because she'd never felt welcomed in the Batcave when Bruce and Dick had worn the cowl. She'd been the outsider, the intruder, the wannabe that tried so hard she almost convinced them all that she was one of them.
But in the reign of Damian Wayne, it was the place where she felt the most centered and at peace. It was her home, her cave, her perfect place in the world. No apartment or rented house had felt like that for her. It wasn't the grandness of the place that made her feel that way-it was the company.
"D?" Stephanie called, but the echo of her own voice was the only response she got. "Damian? Olly olly oxen free! Which means hi and come out, because it just now occurs to me that the only hide and seek you played as a kid involved ninjas and knives."
Usually, witty jabs about his childhood made him surface from whatever project he was working on.
He wasn't on patrol because the suit was still there, and he wasn't working under the Batmobile, and he wasn't in the kitchen, and he wasn't in his room, and by the time she'd checked most of the usual spots she was verging on hysterics.
If he was gone and he wasn't wearing the suit, that was bad. That meant that he was doing something that neither she nor Batman would have approved of, and dammit she had just told Tim he wasn't like that. She stormed to her room, to drop her overnight bag off and zip into her suit so that she could start looking for him, but there he was.
He was asleep on her bed with Alfred. He smelled like booze, and he had several days' worth of unshaven scruff.
Poor guy. She wouldn't have pegged him for the type to have separation anxiety, but he looked and smelled like a hobo and was passed out in her bed. The facts spoke for themselves, and it made her stomach twist and flutter.
When he was asleep, he looked much younger. Even at ten years old, he hadn't looked like a child-he'd been a warrior, raised by killers to be sharper and deadlier than they were capable of being. So no, he didn't look like a child when he was asleep, but slack thoughtlessly smoothed out the lines his usual frowns and snarls dug. He slept on his stomach, one arm hugging his pillow, Alfred curled into a tidy black and white ball of fur on his back.
Stephanie gently picked up the kitten, trading the cat for a kiss on the nape of his neck. He mumbled something thick and sleep-garbled, squinting one eye open.
"...mmphmie?"
"Hi, drunkypants," she said, dropping her bag. "Did you miss me?"
"I'm not drunk," he said, trying for an authoritative tone and falling way short.
"Of course not," she said, smiling indulgently. He sighed, letting himself fall face-first into the covers.
"You can't leave like that again. Alfred was out of control. He ate a bat."
Hearing his name, Alfred stretched and started up a rusty purr. Damian shot him a dirty look.
"Well, if you can't handle raising our furry child on your own, I guess my hands are tied. I'll just have to stay with you forever."
"Good," he grumbled, mostly into the bedspread. "Anything less is unacceptable."
"You all set to pass out there? I hate to break it to you, but I don't think that I can carry you back to your room bridal-style. You're bigger than you used to be."
"I know," he said, and paused like he was trying to say something more. But he didn't know how to articulate what it was that he did want, so he just wrapped a hand around her wrist and tugged gently.
He couldn't admit to wanting her to sleep next to him, but she got it.
"Sleepover in my room it is, then," Steph announced, and let him pull her into bed with him.