A/N: I'm going to keep this short and sweet because my cold medicine is starting to kick in and I'm exhausted.

I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Damian's POV

It's always under the duress of interrogations when criminals show their true selves. The calm, arrogant façade they present to their arresting officer quickly melts away when they see the intimidating glare of Batman's cowl covered whites staring deeply into their terrified eyes. A few minutes of the glare is enough to coax them into squealing like pigs.

It's a fascinating thing to witness; the fragility of a man's will, how quickly it dissolves while under Batman's scrutiny. Fear shows a person's true colors in a way nothing else can. Batman instills that fear in the hearts of men.

I, however, do not always have that same effect on people.

I'm not completely unintimidating. No longer am I the 4'6", 84 pounds 10 year old barely able to make it up to Grayson's waist. I'm now 17 years old and reached my growth spurt as soon as puberty set in. The years have been kind to my physical appearance, but apparently not the level of fear I'm able to instill in others.

That is, if the complete focus on Batman by the interrogation subject is any indication.

Father decided to bring me into the interrogation room with him to question the assassin Dee rendered unconscious after yesterday's… incident. It was an opportunity to test my intimidation skills now that Father no longer fears I may lose my temper and resort to bodily harm.

Any man who invades my home is damn lucky I have learned how to tame my volatile temper, or else he would have ended up face down on the floor with my boot on his skull the minute he mouthed off to me.

Though I was able to keep my temper under control, the interrogation did not go as smoothly as I was hoping for. The pathetic excuse for a hit-man paid no mind to me or my threats of what I would do to a very specific and vital part of his anatomy if he did not tell me what I needed to know. He merely rolled his eyes, and even had the audacity to scoff at me, as if I was a child playing dress up in his father's clothes. The condescending, holier-than-thou attitude enraged me. Father must have sensed I was near snapping, because he placed a hand on my shoulder and pulled me back, resuming the interrogation himself.

The prisoner's resolve snapped within minutes, which brings us to the present.

"Let's try this one more time," Batman growls lowly, narrowing his eyes and pressing the nose of his cowl closer to the trembling prisoner's sweat-drenched face. "You're going to tell me who sent you to Wayne Manor and I won't make the guards look the other way while I take you out to the most deserted section of the East End and break your legs. Start talking."

All color drains from the convict's face at what he and I both know is a very real threat. Rumors of all the harsh punishments Batman inflicts on the most stubborn interrogation subjects, true or not, spreads throughout Gotham's underground like wild-fire. And from the look on this scumbag's face, he is no stranger to these rumors. Though I am satisfied that Father managed to break this coward's petulance in half like a twig, a part of me cannot help but be bitter over the fact my threats could not even put a crack in his maddeningly arrogant exterior. I know I am not Batman.

But that doesn't mean I enjoy being reminded of that fact.

"I-I don't know, man!" the felon gaps, his beady eyes darting around madly. "He never gave me his name, I swear to God! He just gave me the address and told me what to do! I never even saw his face, I swear!"

The beads of sweat roll collecting around his forehead begin to roll down his face like tear stops as Batman's glare hardens, his eyes narrowing like small white daggers poised to shoot out of his cowl. I can tell the interrogation is finally going in the direction we are aiming for. The cracks have been added to the surface, and he is soon going to burst. It is only a matter of time…

5… 4… 3… 2…

"He sent a girl!" he blurts out, trying to push his steel chair as far away from Batman as possible.

I smirk.

I'm almost disappointed that my timing was a second off.

His will is even weaker than I anticipated.

"Go on," Batman growls, tightening his grip on the front of the hit-man's shirt.

"When I say I never saw him, I really do mean it," he states breathlessly. "He sent a girl to give me the details and cut of the money up front. I got the job from one of his friends. I've never actually seen him! Nobody sees him!"

Batman and I both raise an eyebrow at the bold statement. If the detective training Father has spent 7 years drilling into my skull has taught me anything, it is that every criminal, genius psychopaths and common punks alike, are not immune to mistakes. The East End Ripper has some sort of close compatriot.

It's just a matter of painstakingly connecting the dots back to said person.

"What did this girl look like?" Batman drills gruffly.

"I-I don't know. Dark blonde hair, blue eyes, skinny, probably 20 at the oldest. I never got her name. She never gave it up. She looked scared, but I didn't think much of it, ya know? Everybody is scared of the Ripper. Everybody."

I snort, earning a small reprimanding glare from Father.

I am most definitely not scared of a small time, narcissistic, wanna-be Jack the Ripper who thinks he can outsmart the World's Greatest Detective, and I look forward to seeing him go down.

Hard.

"What about the man who sent the job your way?" I jump in, not about to be sidelined on one of the few interrogations I've ever been able to participate in. The suspect's eyes dark flit over to me, his posture relaxing once he's no longer subject to Batman's hostile glare.

"I dunno," he replies, some of the anxiety melting from his tone. "He was average looking, I guess. 'Bout 6 foot even, dark hair, dark eyes, scrawny little thing. I never got his name either. Friend of a friend of a friend. I couldn't track him down if I tried."

Slowly, a cruel, pleased smile begins to stretch across his lips as our eyes lock.

"By the time you find him, there won't be anyone left to save."

The drive back to the cave was perhaps the longest drive I have ever been on. In reality, it couldn't have been more than 45 minutes. It felt closer to 4 hours with the suffocating silence permeating the air. Both Father and I too far into thought to acknowledge each other, though I'm sure we're not thinking about the same thing. I can practically hear the gears turning in Father's head as he thinks of ways to gather witnesses in this case and track down this 'friend'. But my mind is in a completely different direction.

I'm deep in thought about Dee.

Why in the world I'm wasting my energy thinking about that girl, I have no idea. But my mind betrays me with constant thoughts of her.

How she's fairing after the attack, how we'll protect her in the future, whether or not I should initiate a conversation with her when we get back home…

Why am I even considering conversing with her of my own free will? Have I completely lost my mind? Maybe I'm suffering from a fever and the delirium is beginning to set in. That seems like the most logical assumption. Why else would I wish to talk to the girl of whom I've spent so much of my time avidly avoiding? It's not as if she and I are even on the best of terms as it is. She'll most likely be as receptive to me as I have been to her, which is not at all.

But if she's going to be living in my home, right across from my room, then I suppose I'll have to speak to her eventually. She's not going to magically disappear, no matter how hard I wish for that very thing. So I may as well suck it up and make peace with her.

That doesn't mean I have to enjoy it, though.

So after changing out of my uniform in favor of a red sweatshirt and jeans, I trudge up two flights of stairs, bypassing the warm sanctuary of my room for the room straight across from it; the room where Dee is staying.

Hopefully not for long.

I cross the small distance between our doors and reach for the doorknob.

I stop short.

I can't just open her door. It may be my house, but I have no idea what she's doing in there. She could be changing her clothes for all I know.

The tips of my ears burn red hot at the mere notion of accidentally walking in on Dee undressing. I'm not sure I'd ever live down that amount of humiliation.

So, instead, I knock lightly. It's weak, barely there, and I would attempt again if I didn't hear a soft voice wafting over through the heavy oak door,

"Come in."

I turn the doorknob carefully in my rigid hands, pushing the door open and squinting against the natural light that floods from the room and into the hallway. When my eyes adjust, I see she's lying flat on her back on the pale white sheets, staring up at the wall with a blank expression on her face. The windows are open, filling the room with the pale light of a day winding down. The lily white curtains billow out from the slight breeze, as if they're reaching out to touch Dee.

I blink, suddenly feeling like a complete dolt for coming in here without having prepared anything to say. Especially when she turns her head in my direction, looking at me through big hazel eyes. I freeze up in my spot, carefully returning her gaze and waiting for her to be the one to break this silence. I have never been so uncomfortable before in my life.

Social interaction is such a chore.

"Cat got your tongue?" she whispers, giving a weak smile. I raise an eyebrow.

That's really the best she has?

Pity. I was expecting more witty banter from her.

"I simply came to check on you," I respond with a noncommittal shrug, entering the room and leaning on the wall across from the bed. "Do you require anything? Food? Water? More pillows? A warm towel and a face mask?"

She grins playfully and reaches her arm across the mattress, grabbing a pillow from the other side and flinging it at me. I catch it with ease and without breaking the smirk on my face, much to her chagrin. She groans and buries her head in her pillow.

"No faaaiiiirrrr."

My smirk widens slightly.

It's like a game around her. We play cat and mouse, tip-toeing around each other with playful banter and pretend annoyance, avoiding real conversation. We're keeping each other at arm's length for now, neither of us having any desire to get any closer than necessary, but still intrigued enough to keep up this teasing relationship.

And that's where it will remain.

Friends are more of a hassle than anything, really. Colin and Grayson are enough in my book.

"But now that you mention it…" she begins, raising her head up out of the pillow.

I swear on the lives of all the assassins in my mother's armada, I am not going to get her a warm towel and a face mask.

"I'd like to get out of this house for a while."

Hm.

I should have known she'd ask this eventually. She has yet to step foot outside the Manor since she has arrived here. Father took care of arranging for her school work to be brought to her, and I overheard a phone conversation she had with the person I am assuming to be her employer, in which she asked for time off. From how much she cringed and how little she was able to get her words in against the voice booming out of the receiver, I'm assuming her boss was not very happy about her absence.

I squash the twinge of guilt that comes from that thought.

It's not my responsibility to keep her job afloat.

"I'm afraid that isn't possible," I inform her. "Not unless you're accompanied by a chaperone to make sure you don't weasel your way into trouble yet again."

I expect to earn a giggle from her and a cliché retort such as 'I don't go looking for trouble, it finds me', but the only response I get is a grin. A mischievous, pleased grin that makes something foreign turn over in my stomach. I purse my lips at this new feeling.

It's strange and I'm not sure I enjoy it.

"Soooooo, what you're saying is…" she begins, rising from her bed and tip-toeing over to me, as if she fears Father or Pennyworth will hear her and walk in at any moment. She leans in towards me, closer, closer, closer… Until her lips are right next to my ear. I can feel her hot breath adding warmth to my already burning ears.

I silently curse my embarrassing tick. I'm Damian Wayne, son of the Bat and Talia al Ghul, grandson of the Demon; I should be above this.

"I could go out if you come with me?" she whispers.

I nod mutely, my breath catching in my throat when I feel her lips accidentally brush against the shell of my ear.

Much to my relief, she pulls her head back to look at me, running a hand through her light brown hair with a lopsided grin. Before I can regain my wits and pretend none of this ever occurred, she reaches out and grabs onto my hand.

"C'mon, rich boy. I'm gonna show you my side of the world."

A/N: Summer is coming up soon for me so hopefully I'll have more time for updating. Please don't be shy to tell me what you thought of this chapter! :)