Prompt: Batman

Word Count: 2,474

Day twenty-five of the thirty day drabble challenge

I am slowly forgetting how to drabble. This is about a thousand words longer than it's supposed to be.

I run, my breath fogging in front of me, but the walls around me are alive. They shift as I run, always so close that if I reach my arms out, I'd touch both sides. They're leading me somewhere.

The walls stop moving, finally; they stretch in front of me and let out to a busy street. I'm at the back of an alley. A man stumbles toward me, but I don't think he sees me. He's holding his stomach like he's in pain.

"Hello?" I call, and I flinch as the man pitches forward and lands on the pavement face-first.

I hesitate but I run to him, and all at once I see the puddle of blood beneath him and the familiar bat-ears on the cowl that covers his head.

"D-dad?" I call, and I crouch next to him. "Daddy?" I lift the cowl and his hair is matted with blood, his face beaten in.

I gasp and turn, retching, and I'm not even sure where to go. Steph—Leslie—Damian—one of them will help me. I lift into the air, but a wave of bats flies in front of me, screeching, and the air is so full of them that I can't go any further, and they're hitting me with such force that I fall into the pavement, cratering it around me. A group of bats surround me and flap their wings furiously, and when I look down at myself I'm not in the Nightstar uniform anymore. I'm in a weird version of the Batsuit, the cowl tight around my eyes and the emblem gleaming on my chest.

My dad, Nightwing now, is walking away, his head slumped. "Wait, dad," I call, and I grab his elbow.

But he flinches back and I drop my hand. "I'm sorry, Starshine," he says, his voice cold. "Batman doesn't love anyone. Batman lives alone. With the bats."

"No, daddy," I whisper, tears filling my eyes. "Please—"

"Mar'i," I hear like an echo, and I turn away from my father. The voice is coming from past the swarm of bats. "Ri, wake up."

I gasp and spring into a sitting position, where Damian is waiting to pull me against him.

"It's okay," he soothes, and he cups my face between his hands. "You were dreaming."

My heart is pounding so loudly I can hear it. "I was having a nightmare. The same nightmare."

"Your father is fine." He assures me as he crawls off the bed and reaches for his dresser. He's tired, but it's not because of me.

Bruce was shot about a week ago. It was hell to deal with. So much worse than when my father got shot back in January. He took a bullet to his back, which was terrible because we had to brace his back and neck while worrying about bleeding out, and he took another to his leg.

Thank X'hal, his back is okay. But he's already had two surgeries on his knee and he's going to need so many more. I'm sure he'll be okay, though. He's the wealthiest man on the east coast. If there's a way—and I'm sure there is one—he'll find it.

What's got me so upset, though, is that my father's been taking on the role of Batman in Bruce's stead. I really, really hate it when my father has to be Batman. Yeah, he's Nightwing all the time, but being Batman is different. When you're Batman, you've got a bat-shaped bull's-eye on your chest. People will not fight you; people will try to kill you.

I wasn't on patrol today because it's Friday, and on Monday and Friday I have morning classes. I'm still sorta doing the vigilante thing full-time, but I get those days off.

Damian changes into pajamas, a t-shirt and sweatpants, and then he crawls onto the bed. He usually sleeps flat on his back, creepily still and with his arms at his sides, maybe bringing one arm up to rest on my back but usually not. Since Bruce got shot, though, he's been more... cuddly, I guess. Tactile.

He lays on his side and presses his chest against my back and curls an arm around my hips. I need more contact, though, so I roll until I'm facing him. He's watching me, worried, and I lift my hand to his chest to feel his heartbeat.

He leans forward and kisses me. It's not a particularly fevered kiss. It's slow and soft and reassuring. "I love you," he tells me, and he shifts a little to get comfortable. "Go to sleep, Mar'i."

I do. And, with Damian holding me like this, I sleep soundly.

In the morning, which is really only three hours later, there's the usual rush of getting ready, putting makeup on, shoving toast in my mouth, and kissing Damian before I leave. That last part always takes more time than I think it will.

Classes are boring, but not bad. I visit Bruce at the Manor. He's cranky, but he likes seeing me. His leg is elevated and he's wheelchair-bound for now. Alfred gives me some exceptional cookies and I snag a few for Damian.

When I finally get back, it's pretty late in the day. Damian's on the phone—something for Wayne Enterprises. One of the reasons he's so tired is because he's had to start working more since Bruce got shot. He's saying the words 'simpleton' and 'moronic' a lot, so I try not to bother him. He sees me, though, because it is literally impossible to sneak up on him, and he wraps an arm around my waist from behind me and kisses the top of my head without taking the phone way from his ear. I show him the bag of cookies that Alfred made and he nods at me, then he goes back to insulting the poor Enterprises employee on the other end of the phone.

I sit on the couch, pulling my schoolbooks on my lap. I'm taking astronomy right now, which is almost cheating because growing up, my mom basically taught me astrophysics by bringing me to planets and stars and moons and answering any questions I had.

I notice that Damian's sketchbook is open. He doesn't usually leave it out, and I'm way too curious to let that slide. I guess it's kind of rude to look without his permission but if he's mad I'm sure I'll be able to think of something to make him forget about it.

I realize that this has to be a newer one, because starting with the first page there are a bunch of drawings of the Batsuit, except not. I assume these would help Bruce in the unlikely even that he's too injured to jump right back into vigilantism. There's one version that looks like armor, there's one that's got braces that extend from the shoulder blades to the heel of the foot, and some that have the braces on the arms, too. There's a freaky looking neural-hookup type of suit that's been crossed out. As I flip through the pages, the suit changes drastically.

It's closer to a regular Batsuit, at first, but then I notice some minor differences. The symbol is drawn differently here, the cape is different there, this one's got spikes over the knuckles on the gloves, this one's got a bat whose wings streak down the arms into fingerstripes reminiscent of my dad's uniform. It's not until I see a much different uniform, with a sharper-looking batsymbol and a hood to be drawn over the head complete with a domino mask that I realize exactly what I'm looking at. I draw in a sharp breath and my hair ignites as my blood runs cold.

These are Batsuits for Damian.

"We'll have to continue this conversation at a different time," Damian says into the phone. He's looking at me with wide eyes and his mouth has fallen open and basically he knows he's about to be in trouble.

"Mar'i," he says to me as he shoves his phone into his jeans pocket, "wait just a—"

"Nonononono," I say, shaking my head furiously and backing up to the opposite arm of the couch. "How long have you been planning this?"

"I don't know what you mean," he says, furrowing his brow.

"This!" I shriek, throwing the sketchbook at him. "Batman!"

"You must control the volume of your voice," he growls.

"Are you kidding me right now?" I demand. "This is literally what I've been having nightmares about—"

"That's not true—" he interjects, but that's a mistake because now I'm shouting even louder to be heard over him.

"—and you didn't even think to tell me about it?"

"Mar'i, I know what you have been dreaming about because I can hear you in the throes of your nightmares. You're dreaming about the death of your father, and my becoming Batman will ease that fear." He looks so hopeful it almost breaks my heart.

Except that I'm so angry that it's easy to ignore. "You idiot," I hiss. "How could you possibly think that this will be any better?"

He narrows his eyes at me, calculating. I bet he's mad that I called him an idiot.

"When were you gonna tell me about this?" I pry. "What, you were just gonna fill your sketchbooks with your dream Batman costumes and sneak around being Batman behind my back?"

He doesn't answer. He knits his eyebrows together, unable to think of a response.

"X'hal curse you, that's what you were gonna do, isn't it?"

"Were you going to stop me from taking up the mantle?" he bites angrily. "There is something you must understand, Mar'i, and that is that I was born to be Batman." He's griping the arm of the couch across from me, and his bright eyes are blazing with a passion which, under different circumstances, might make my blood race and my legs go weak.

"Damian," I whisper, and his eyes snap into focus on mine and he frowns. "Oh, Damian," I say again, and tears burn at the back of my eyes. I'm still so, so angry, but I realize that of course I can't stop him from being Batman. I don't want to stop him. He obviously cares very deeply about this.

I guess that I suddenly realize that all of this has been a mistake. And that hurts, because I think it's the best mistake I've ever made. I swallow back tears because I don't want to cry. "I can't date Batman," I whisper, because my voice just won't come out strong enough.

His face falls and I may as well have slapped him, he looks so betrayed. "What?"

I shake my head because I'm running all these different scenarios in my head and I can't figure out how to make it work. "I can't, Damian."

"Ri," he says, and he looks so confused and sad and I don't think either of us are angry anymore. "Wait—" He jumps over the arm of the couch and he pulls me into his chest. My hair isn't on fire anymore, even though my emotions are all over the place, and Damian runs his fingers through it.

"It's not your fault," I say, and I twist my fingers into his shirt. "I just-Batman isn't like Robin, Damian. Batman is darkness and I'm—" I stop because he's looking at me doubtfully and it sounds stupid, but that's only one reason out of a lengthy list. "Being Batman is dangerous, Damian."

He shifts into a more comfortable position, leaning his back on the arm of the couch in a sitting position and he pulls me so I'm still leaning on chest, sitting between his knees. He grips me tightly like he's afraid I'll run away. "No more dangerous than being Robin," he tells me, his voice as gentle as his grip on my arm is tight. "In fact, Robins have sustained much worse injuries in total than—"

"But it's not the same," I insist. "Bruce has had his back broken, he's been buried alive—"

"So has your—"

"Shut up," I snap. "Every bad guy in Gotham and a ton of them not from here will be trying to kill you."

He actually smiles at me, a tiny smirk that I find unbelievably cute even though I'm trying to explain why I can't see him anymore, and he trails his knuckle over my cheek. "I am very, very good," he says.

"Damian," I growl, frustrated because I'm pretty sure he's trying to distract me. "Batman—he's not—you know Bruce. He's always... alone. He doesn't..." I bury my face in his chest because I feel so stupid this. "He doesn't let himself love anybody."

He doesn't say anything, and when I lift my head to look at him he pushes me so that my back is against the cushions and he's kneeling over me, then he kisses me until I think my lungs will burst. He touches his forehead to mine and he lets his breath fan across my face.

"I don't appear to have much of a choice anymore, do I?" he asks, his voice deep in his throat. He kneels over me, straddling my hips and keeping me pinned underneath him. "Let me see your wrist," he commands, watching me carefully, and I raise my hand with the bracelet he gave me for my birthday on it. He takes it off my wrist, then presses a hot kiss to the skin it was covering. "The inscription," he says. "Ya'aburnee. You were right. It does not mean 'I love you'. Literally translated, it means 'You bury me'. It's an Arabic idiom that means that one person wishes that their love will outlive them to spare them the pain of living life beyond that person." He leans over me again and he breathes, "I realize that it is a rather bold statement—"

I arch my throat to catch him in another kiss.

As much as I don't think I can date Batman, I don't think I can break up with Damian. It's going to be hard, but being in a relationship isn't about how easy it is to be with someone else.

"I'm sorry," I mumble as he peppers short kisses over my mouth. "I freaked out."

"I am sorry I did not tell you," he returns as he continues to press kisses over my skin and he unhooks my necklace, making the hologram waver and fade.

"I'm still angry at you for that," I tell him sharply.

"Tt," he breathes as he lifts my shirt over my head and presses warm kisses over my stomach. "Allow me to attempt to make you forget."

He almost does, too.

This was supposed to be so much angstier than it turned out. I just wasn't in the mood for angst, I guess.