No Dawn, No Day: Part Five

[flamingballs]

Title: No Dawn, No Day: Part Five
Fandom: DC Comics
Author: quipquipquip
Pairing: Damian Wayne/Stephanie Brown, mentions of Milagro Reyes/Iris West
Rating: R
Word Count: 11,000+ words
Disclaimer: All characters belong to DC comics and are used without permission. No profit was made from this work. Non-beta'd, so all sleep-related errors are mine.
Warnings: Violence, language, mild sexual content, Jason.
Notes: omg you guys so much fanart. Everything is amazing. We have Damian and Steph all dressed up from gabzilla-z, and one, two, three, four, and five beautiful pieces from minuiko. Words fail me on how much I love and appreciate these. You guys are wonderful and sldfkjfdg thank you so much again ♥.
Previous Parts: Part One * Part Two * Part Three 1/2 * Part Three 2/2 * Part Four * Part: Holy Glowing Genitals * Part: Holy Cats *



A junkie was never satisfied. That was the nature of addiction---it was constantly escalating, never, ever lessening. It ate at a person, licking up self-control until there was nothing left. Damian knew this, because he'd been born an addict. His mother had made certain that he'd be a killer, using the most effective means possible: she'd made him like it, made him want it, made it the best fucking thing in the world to him. Winning was good, but completion was better.

And that's why Damian understood Zsasz in a way his father had not. He'd labeled the man a true psychotic, saying that he could not understand him because he couldn't understand what drove him to kill. He came from a happy, loving home and was a successful man; he had no 'reason' to do what he did.

But Damian understood. It wasn't about power. He didn't do it for the sexual thrill.

He did it for completion. He did it because every mark that he slit into his skin made him feel godly, made him perfect, until he noticed a new spot that needed filled.

Damian knew, because he was just an addict that had been clean for some time. A junkie can always tell another junkie.

Zsasz had escalated in a way that only a true addict could. Long gone were the days of single-digit kills, of patiently cutting one hatchmark at a time. That didn't do it for him anymore. That didn't fulfill the need.

They found him in an apartment building in the Bowery. It was one of the worst parts of the city, but that didn't mean that it didn't deserve their protection---or that the residents of the filthy little apartment complex that rented by the week got what was coming to them.

There was no telling how long Zsasz had been in the building. Judging by the decomp on some of the victims, it had to have been at least four or five days. In that time, he'd methodically made his way from room to room, killing everyone inside and keeping score on the fronts of each door. It wasn't the kind of place where people talked to their neighbors, and Zsasz had been quiet, careful.

When they found him, almost everyone in the building was dead. They'd only been tipped off because of the smell.

Damian hated him. He hated him, because he was a junkie that had never had to get clean.

Sparing lives never got easy for him. It wasn't a switch that he could consciously flip. It was always a struggle, always an urge that he had to stomp and strangle and deny. His instincts told him to be ruthless, to be efficient, to not allow himself anything less than lethal perfection. He'd been trained to do the most damage with the fewest strokes. But, to beg forgiveness at the knee of his dead father, he had to blunt his own claws. Pulling himself short of completion was more than just difficult, it was painful. He never felt accomplished, never felt right. The concept of perfection had been so driven into him, he had trouble dealing with the sense of being unbalanced that plagued him when he didn't finish an enemy. It was more difficult to incapacitate a target without killing them, but it was also inelegant.

He had been taught to see it as an art. That could not be overwritten, not even by his father's laws.

This was the second time that he'd taken on Zsasz, and the second time that he'd known he would not be able to finish off the monster off. It was a weight, a dull resignation, and he resented that he had it hanging around his neck.

He wanted to kill him. Wanted to, wanted to, wanted to. Wanted to so badly that he could imagine it, could imagine a hundred different ways of doing it. He could only think of one reason not to, and it was the look of distrust he remembered in his father's eyes.

It'd been the look that'd said if he'd kill this monster, who wouldn't he kill? If he only kills monsters, what happens if his definition of monster changes? It'd been the look that had solidified the knowledge that his father would never trust him, not wholly.

Damn him.

Damn him and his laws and his cowl and the look in his eyes when he'd died.

It'd been the look that'd said I was right.

Zsasz's knife darted, slick as a silver fish, and cut his cheek open. The cut would knit quickly, but it notched his anger up even higher.

It was the kind of rage that was almost passionate. It was all-consuming.

Christ, he'd missed it.

Damian let it take him, let it wrap him up and suffocate him.

He'd say it was an accident, he decided as he grabbed Zsasz by the throat and crashed to the dingy carpet with him.

He'd say he didn't know that he was hitting him so hard, he decided as he slammed his fists into Zsasz again and again, feeling things shatter.

He'd say he was sorry, he decided as Zsasz howled and whimpered like an animal.

He'd say it wouldn't happen again, he decided as Zsasz swallowed blood and his own teeth.

Damian barely registered when Batwoman grabbed his arm on a backsweep, keeping him from moving by latching on with all her weight.

"No!" she screamed, high with panic. "Stop it! Stop it! Don't do this!"

But didn't she understand how much he wanted to? How good it'd feel?

He rounded on her, ready to scream back, but the desperation on her face stilled him.

Oh.

He had another reason. Her. She was his reason. That feeling was better, better even than this.

That completion wasn't destructive.

He nodded, forcing himself to relax. He took measured breaths.

"She saved you," Batman spat into Zsasz's ruined face. "Remember that."

Zsasz would.

He stared at Batwoman from the stained carpet, unblinking until Damian hit him again.

Zsasz would remember.

*

He woke up to screaming.

Damian functioned off of very little sleep because he could plunge into REM cycles on command, but it made waking up suddenly difficult for him. He couldn't tell if the screams were in his dreams, or if they were real, or even how to get his limbs moving properly to find out. His brain didn't switch gears quickly enough, though a threat against Stephanie shot adrenaline through him. They were in his room, in his bed, so he was utterly confused; nobody could get to them here, the manor was a fortress, so what---?

He tried to locate the threat, reaching out for her, but it became apparent that there was no threat to be found.

She was still asleep, curled in on herself. She'd kicked her covers off and was shaking, hands braced defensively over her head.

When she breathed in, it was a trembling sob. When she breathed out, it was an uncharacteristically thin litany of "No no no no no"s. She breathed in tears and breathed out pleads. He was silently horrified.

He tried to touch her, but she lashed out. Surprised, he wasn't able to duck quickly enough to spare himself from a fist to the face. It rattled him---she'd hit him hard, harder than she did when they were sparring. She was fighting like she was fighting for her life.

"Stephanie!" He said loudly, grabbing her wrists and holding them on either side of her head. She struggled, sobbing. He had to pin her with his weight, blanketing her until she stopped pulling and bucking and began to pick reality away from her nightmares. "You're safe. I'm here. You're safe."

She went unexpectedly limp. Her breath left her in short, hysterical gasps.

"You're safe," Damian repeated, letting go of her wrists. "It was only a nightmare."

Stephanie rolled to her side, face tucked against the crook of her elbow, and struggled not to cry.

He'd never felt so helpless before. It twisted and knotted inside him and felt a lot like fear. He had no idea what to do, so he laid back down next to her, pressed close, and held her. Her breathing evened after a few minutes.

"Sorry," she said, and he could hear the embarrassment in her voice. "I didn't mean to---I thought you---sorry."

"You don't need to apologize. I didn't realize that you had night terrors."

"Only once in a while."

"I see."

"I'm...I'm really sorry..."

"Don't. You weren't in control of yourself."

She gave a soft "Mmm" in reply, then said nothing more. He thought that she'd fallen back to sleep, but her breathing wasn't quite right. He faked it himself, hoping she'd drop off eventually.

But, a half hour later, she extricated herself from his arms---slowly, carefully, trying not to wake him. She disappeared out the bedroom door, and he wanted to respect that she clearly needed space, but he couldn't help himself.

Damian slipped on a pair of sweats and went to prowl around the house. Stephanie was out on the balcony, watching the grayish early-morning sky.

He stood next to her, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She looked more than tired---when she wasn't lit by her usual sunny energy, she was an overworked, scarred-up woman. He forgot that, sometimes.

"You don't have to tell me, but I would like to know. Was it the crime scene we saw tonight?"

And by that, he meant: is this myfault?

She shook her head, elbows propped on the railing and her gaze out on the distant city. The smoggy summer wind combed through her hair, teasing it.

"Nah. It's...old stuff, D. I haven't had a nightmare in a long time, but. It happens."

"Tell me," Damian said. It was phrased like a command, but sounded like a question. The please was left unsaid, but it was implied.

"It's---" she faltered. "Dumb, I guess. I mean, I know you've been through worse. I know that all the Bat-people have been through worse and I have no place to complain, but once in a while the...Black Mask, it...I dream about it."

"'It'?" He repeated, though he knew where she was going with it.

"When I got fired as Robin. When Black Mask killed me."

It wasn't that he was insensitive, not exactly. It simply didn't occur to him to ask certain things, to discuss the past. Some part of him had believed that the information contained in his fathers' files had been exhaustive. Facts were remote when they were distilled into bullet lists, so though he'd known about the gang activity that had almost claimed her life, it'd never sunken in for him.

But now, rehashing it in his mind, he couldn't chase out the awful images.

Damian had read the thick dossier on Black Mask, had seen photographs of his victims. He'd been a masterful monster, a sadist who'd elevated torture to an art. He'd known that Black Mask had kidnapped her, but he'd never married the thoughts, never put it together.

"He never thought that I could be Robin," she continued, unprompted. Who 'he' was was obvious. "I don't think he wanted me to, honestly. I was just bait to get Tim to come back to him, and when he didn't come, I," she shrugged, just the smallest flex of her shoulders. "Was fired."

"I knew that you were dismissed," Damian offered, leaning on the rail next to her. "But he told me that it was because you couldn't follow orders."

Again, she shrugged. "Maybe I was kind of headstrong, yeah. I was too much work to have around, so he told me I wasn't good enough and shut me out."

This, he understood. Even empathized with, though he said nothing. He could tell that there was more to the story, and that she was gearing herself up to tell it.

"So I went a little crazy, y'know? I wanted to show him---had to show him---that I was good enough. I wasn't super smart like Tim or Babs, or super athletic like Dick, or super deadly like you or Cass, but I knew I could still make a difference." She stared out into the city. Dawn was brushing steel spires and glass with rosy hues. "I wanted to help, but he wouldn't let me. More than that, he crushed and humiliated me because he was pissed off and I was a convenient target. I found one of his contingency plans, and all I could think was that if I could pull it off, I'd show him."

He knew of the plan---had read it, when he'd pored over his father's archives. It'd seemed like a good one, though it toed the line between manipulation and strong-arming. It was wrong in the name of right, a gloved alternative to Jason Todd's handling of underworld activity. It'd seemed solid to him, meticulously thought out, so he'd always wondered what had gone so wrong. But his father had never wanted to speak of it, had given him the stiffness and sneer that meant it was completely off limits.

But she would tell him. She'd tell him, and she was the only one he would trust to give him the unbiased truth. She was one of the only ones who didn't worship at the feet of the Bat.

"What went wrong?"

"The contact who was supposed to oversee everything never showed up. Matches Malone," she said bitterly. "Nobody told me that was one of Bruce's aliases. I kept waiting for this man who didn't exist, and it all went to hell."

Damian struggled with this, with the sheer weight of his disbelief.

"But that---Matches Malone is one of his oldest aliases. Everyone knew that---"

"Everyone but me. None of them trusted me enough to tell me that tiny, stupid thing. I didn't deserve even that much."

"That's not true. You're incredibly trustworthy. You proved that---"

"To you, D," she said tiredly. "Proved that to you, and to O, and to Cass. They were the first to ask what was going on when I went missing."

This troubled him. This troubled him deeply, because he couldn't believe that this had gone on---and that all of the blame had rested on her shoulders. Yes, she had been at fault, but so had his father. How could he not trust her enough to tell her about Matches Fucking Malone?

"Missing?"

"Black Mask got me. He had me for days."

Her face screwed up, half out of anger and half to stave off her own tears.

"He had me tied up to spreader bars. I stood for two days while he got his shits and giggles in. Soon as he left me alone, I freed myself, but I was...I knew I was hurt, badly. I wouldn't get far, so I decided to take him out when he got back. I got the jump on him---even had a gun to his head. But I couldn't pull the trigger, so. He beat me, shot me, and kicked me down the stairs. I did die, technically."

That sadist had tortured her for days, and Batman had not tried to save her. He understood that his priorities lay with the gang activity, but he hadn't even spared one of their own to search for her.

He was so furious, he could barely breathe.

"If it had been me," he hissed, gripping the railing so tightly his joints ached. "I would have wanted to kill him. Him, and Drake. I would never have forgiven them."

"That's you," Stephanie said, sniffing hard and rubbing her eyes with the back of one hand. She took a shaky breath, and when she exhaled she sounded calm again. "Not me. I realized that I wasn't going to get a thumbs up from them---not ever---but that didn't matter. I could still fight. And I chose to fight, and I'm still fighting, and if they don't like it they can kiss my cute bat-butt."

"I approve of you," Damian said, because he didn't know what else he could say. He wouldn't apologize on the behalf of those who hadn't seen her for the warrior she was.

He knew what it was like to accept that you would never truly be accepted.

She touched his shoulder with light fingertips. "Let it go, D. I have. It's okay---really. I survived, and I'm here, and if a nightmare every once in a while is the worst that I have to deal with, I consider myself lucky."

He let the tension drain, hands loosening their death-grip on the rail, but he couldn't let it go, not totally.

That was her, not him.

She grabbed his ear and pulled until he muttered a curse and leaned down far enough for her to kiss.

"I'm going to suit up and go for a run," she said once they came up for air. "Don't worry about tagging along. Go get some rest---I'll be back in an hour and make some waffles."

"Fine," Damian said.

But he had zero intention of letting her go out alone---not in her emotional state---but what she didn't see couldn't hurt him.

*

There was a saying about staying out of dark alleys, but Steph hadn't ever paid enough attention to remember it. But it'd been a cautionary saying, like look before you leap---which, actually, wasn't something she did very often, either. The moral of the story was, Stephanie Brown wasn't very good at being cautious, and once in a while it bit her directly in the ass.

If she'd been more careful, she would've seen that shiny red head a mile away.

But she hadn't, and now Jason Todd was standing not ten feet in front of her, a dead gangster at his feet and a gun in one hand.

Oh boy.

"Well," Jason said brassily, amused. "You're not the Bat that I was looking for, but I can dig it. How's the good ol' fight going? Hanging in there?" The gangster groaned, raising a hand toward her sluggishly. "One sec." He shot him again, and he went still. "Sorry about that. I was just wrapping up some loose ends here. Anyway, how've you been? Good?"

It took a lot for her not to make a break for it. She hadn't brought half of the ordinance she usually carried when she went out, and she doubted she'd be able to take him even if she'd been armed to the teeth. All she'd wanted to do was swing around some buildings, maybe kick around a drug dealer or two, and clear her head. Was that too much to ask for? Apparently, it was.

"Great," Steph said, managing to sound much calmer than she felt. "Just great. You know. Just. Doing my thing."

"I hear you're the littlest Batman's partner," Jason continued, kneeling and pushing the dead body toward the trashbags lining the alley. "How's that working out for you?"

Steph could hear her heart drumming in her ears, but she kept her voice steady.

"If you have Wayne problems, I feel bad for you, son. But I got ninety-nine problems and a Bat ain't one."

She wasn't making jokes because she was comfortable. No, it was the exact opposite: she was making jokes because she was scared witless, and that was the only way she knew how to cope.

Jason's laughter just made her insides jitter.

"I need to come clean," he said, strolling closer to her. "'Cause I feel bad. I've known you were around---knew you existed. But I never tracked you down to talk, 'cause I didn't think you were worth my precious time. Now, though, now I regret it. I like you. I like you a lot."

Jason Todd liked her. Jason Todd liked her a lot. Steph wanted to burst into hysterical laughter.

She couldn't handle this. Not right now. Not when she was overtired and still keyed up from nightmares full of blood and sharp edges.

He was close enough that she could smell him---cologne and cigarette smoke and sulfur and leather, all cut by the acidic burn of gasoline. He smelled like a bomb. Walked like one, too.

"I gotta go. I have a thing. A justice thing," Stephanie said, already reaching for her grappling gun. He grabbed her wrist before she even registered his movement---he was fast.

"Justice'll wait, sugartits. I want to talk. You and me, we---"

"LET HER GO, TODD."

She wasn't sure if she was relieved or frustrated to hear the roar of Damian's voice. He wasn't imitating Bruce---no, that was all him, all his rage. Jason hit her, a flat palm against her back that kicked the air out of her lungs.

Batman dropped down not a half second after. He came down fast and hard, boots planting squarely on Jason's chest. Both men hit the cement and skidded, a mass of muscular limbs and heavy fabric.

Jason came out on top. He straddled Damian and started punching.

She knew he could kill him. She knew he probably would.

And she knew that just wasn't an option.

When Damian had hit him, his gun had gone skittering away. Without taking the time to really think about what she was doing, she grabbed it. Taking the safety off, she pointed the gun straight up and fired it, twice.

Jason froze, arm cocked back and fist still doubled up, and looked at her.

Steph pointed the gun at him.

"Go," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You have five seconds to get off him and go. If you don't, know that I won't miss and I won't lose sleep over it. P.S.? Call me sugartits again and I'll make sure there won't be any Little Red Hoods in your future."

She wasn't sure if she would shoot him, really. Wasn't sure if she could.

But, thankfully, he didn't know if she would, either.

For a few seconds, the only sound was the staggered gasps of their breathing. Damian turned his head to the side and spat bubbly blood and saliva.

Then, Jason unfurled his fists and held them up. He stood, stepping away. There was a tense moment, then he jumped and grabbed the bottom of a fire escape. Agile as a cat, he swung his way to the roof.

"Call me, kids!" Jason shouted before he disappeared back into the night. He held his thumb and pinkie to his ear, miming a phone. "You got my number!"

And she did, she realized when she undressed later. When he'd hit her, just before Damian crashed in, he hadn't been trying to push her away. He'd been slapping a sticker on the back of her cape.

It was white and rectangular---a name tag. It said HELLO, MY NAME IS: in even print. Below it, he'd filled in ROBIN in sharpie, as well as a phone number.

It gave her an idea, but it wasn't one that she particularly liked.

*

He might have been hesitant to introduce sex into their relationship, but once they got started Damian was incredibly pleased by it and wondered why he'd been hesitant in the first place. There'd been a definite learning curve, a lot of awkwardness and miscommunication, but Stephanie had been patient and he'd been an eager student. He learned what was good, what he liked and what she liked, and assimilated the knowledge very quickly. He was, after all, a genius. It didn't take them long to master what she called the 'basics' and move on to more 'advanced' techniques. She liked surprising him with new things, and he liked surprising her with how well he picked things up and put them into use. Oftentimes, it was a welcome reprieve from the rigors of keeping the streets clean.

It made him happy. That wasn't something that he had been able to contextualize before, when he'd been young and struggling with abstracts. Happiness had been synonymous with winning, with accomplishments, with positive appraisal. His definition had been limited by his mother, because he was easier to control that way.

But now, happiness meant many things. It meant sleeping next to Stephanie at night, making her laugh. It meant arguing with his stupid cat, having him choose to sit on his lap and purr. It meant suffering through Disney movies so that she'd lean against him. It meant bringing her to toe-curling orgasm and lording his accomplishment over her the next day.

He was happy. There were things that he struggled with, things that made him angry, but for the most part he was happy.

Happiness meant waffles with too much syrup, just as much as it meant being so comfortable with her that he'd allow her to tie him up.

He knew that he could get out of the bindings if he really wanted to, but the fact still remained that he'd willingly let her tie his wrists to the bedposts with the same rope that they used in training scenarios.

He liked it, which was new. Then again, she had a firm grasp on what he liked and usually knew it before he even did.

"Do you trust me?" The question surprised him. He would have thought that the answer should be obvious---he had allowed her to tie him up.

"Are you daft?" Damian demanded, rolling his eyes.

"Say it."

"I shouldn't have to," he groused, pulling on the rope around his wrists. "You have me tied to my own bedposts. Isn't that enough proof that I trust you?"

"Say it," she insisted, close to his ear. It shivered through him. "I'm going to do something, and I have to know that you trust me enough to let me."

"I trust you," Damian said solemnly. She could have gotten him to say just about anything at that point, really. "You have my word."

"Good."

And then she slid off of him, grabbing her boots from under the bed. She put them on, tucking knives between her calf and the leather. Steph pulled her coat on, zipping it up.

What the hell was she doing? Where did she think she was going? She didn't honestly plan to leave him tied up, did she?

"So, listen carefully. I'm going to go. I have something that I need to wrap up, and I can't have you involved. You're not to leave the manor under any circumstance."

He gaped, bewildered.

She'd tricked him.

She'd actually, successfully tricked him.

"Stephanie---"

Leaning over him, she pressed her fingertips to his mouth.

"You said that you trust me. You swore that you trust me. So please. Please, trust me. If you don't untie yourself by the time I get back, we'll pick up where we left off. Girl scout's honor."

His father might have thought her a subpar strategist and a clumsy tactician, but the part of him that wasn't furious was impressed. She'd thought this through. His word was his bond, even more so than the ties around his wrists. He wouldn't go back on his word, even though he wanted to already.

"You will be back."

"Of course I will. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

"You say that every time you know that you're in over your head," he said plaintively. He bit his lip against what he wanted to say. "Don't do this."

Stephanie kissed him. She took her time. She made her point.

"Damian. Look at me." Steph cupped his face with both hands, blue eyes intent. She stroked the curves of his cheekbones with her thumbs. "I love you. Trust me."

Three little words. They'd never said them, never traded them, because to do so felt like a jinx. Despite it all, neither loved easily. Stephanie gave her love freely to almost anyone she came in contact with, but this was different. Anyone she might have said that to---her parents, Drake, maybe even his father---hadn't told her that they loved her, even if they had returned her stunning, sunny adoration. To trot those words out was begging for an awkward silence without reciprocation.

She'd said it to him, and she'd meant it. Her love, her hope, was a gift. He would treat it as such.

The trust that she put in him was almost overwhelming.

"And I---" Damian struggled with the words. "And I---I, you."

The smile she gave him was worth it.

"I'll be back," Stephanie said, and he prayed that those three words were not the last ones that she'd say to him.

*

She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but the man at the booth near the back wasn't it. Jason was the cautionary tale every subsequent Robin got as a bedtime story: this is what happens when you cross the line, this is what happens when you don't listen, this is what happens when you go against the wishes of the Batman. Jason was more myth, more monster, than a person. She'd seen pictures of him, but they'd only been cause and effects, before and afters, photos of a toothy little boy with bare, skinny legs and surveillance shots of a man in a reflective red hardhat for a head. She'd seen the latter for herself.

The man in the booth was neither. He was big, filling his half of the booth, and he wore a simple black leather jacket. He needed a haircut, his riotously red hair curling around his collar, but other than that he looked normal.

The way he flicked a look over his shoulder the moment she zeroed in on him screamed otherwise. He had training, and he was good. He didn't have to look bunched up and ready for action, because it was all second nature to him. He wasn't a natural like Dick or Damian, but he'd had a thorough education in the school of hard knocks.

As a graduate herself, Stephanie knew a fellow alumnus.

She slid into the seat across from him with a smile. She kept her smile genuine and her composure even by mentally cataloguing what she had on her: a KA-BAR tucked into the back of her sweatshirt, an Italian stiletto switchblade in the front pocket, and a weighted throwing knife in each boot. She knew which was quickest to grab, and which hand she'd use to grab it.

If there was one thing that Bruce had taught her, it was that there was peace in preparation. And if there was one thing that Damian had taught her, it was that knives were very handy.

"I thought you were kidding," Jason said, by way of greeting. "When you said you wanted to take me out for a milkshake."

"I never kid about milkshakes," she said. He was even bigger up close, which prompted her to wonder what, exactly, she'd been thinking.

Milkshakes with Jason Todd---yet another stunning Brown strategy. This one's going in the scrapbook. Was this worth pissing Damian off? God, oh God, I hope so.

He smiled, folding his hands neatly together on the table. "So, how was your day? Been pointing guns at anyone new?"

"Oh, you know how it is. Always with the punching and running around. Crime never sleeps."

"Not in Gotham, it doesn't," he agreed. "But I find it keeps me on my toes. Always something new---no such thing as the doldrums in my office."

A waitress approached their table, two milkshakes in hand. One was strawberry, the other vanilla. She set them down with a smile.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"We're all set. Thanks, pudding-pop," Jason said brightly. The waitress' cheeks pinkened and she burbled a little nervous laugh as she walked away. "I went ahead and ordered for you. Didn't think we'd get long to chat. Hope vanilla's fine."

"It is. Do you always flirt with teenagers?" Steph asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Nah," he said, sipping his drink. "That was a self-esteem boost. Notice that nasty bruise on her cheek?"

She nodded. "Mmhmm."

"Her boyfriend's got a bad habit of gettin' mean and gettin' handsy when he's all coked up. All her friends told her to go to a shelter, but man, that's a hard decision for a sixteen year old runaway to make. Good news is, the decision was taken out of her hands. Boyfriend hasn't been seen in three days and it's like life's all fresh and new for her. No more getting slapped around, no more taking dick when she doesn't want it. Ain't it grand?"

"Lucky girl," she said, staring at her milkshake. What else could she have said? He'd just admitted to killing a man---an abusive, low-life drug-dealer. He'd saved her, but...ugh, the stickiness of the situation gave her a headache.

"I'm a regular guardian angel."

"Uh-huh," she said flatly, twisting her straw between her thumb and forefinger. "So, are we going to talk, or are we going to blow the evening on criminal activity show-n'-tell?"

"I thought we might compare notes," he said, chin in his hand. "Heard you got up close and personal with a crowbar. Heck, I even heard a rumor that you died, once. We're just so darn alike, I wanted to get to know you. So tell me, little sis. Tell me all about you."

She knew that anything she said, anything she gave him, could be used against her. But at the same time, she knew that if she lied, he'd know. If she wanted to keep him loose and talking, she'd have to give up the goods.

"My name's Stephanie. I'm twenty-seven, and I've been wearing a mask for twelve years. I've been the Spoiler, I've been Robin, I've been Batgirl, and I've been fired from all three positions."

"And you're Batwoman now," he added, sounding thoughtful. "That's a lot of time spent wearing a bat on your tits. That's funny, considering it hasn't done you any favors."

Her nostrils flared, hard, but she managed to keep her temper in check. Guys like Jason purposefully baited people. She couldn't let him get to her, couldn't pull out any violence, because he'd pay her back triple.

"Says you. Being a Bat is the best thing I've done."

"Huh," Jason said, a sharp exhalation. She jumped reflexively. "Really? The best thing you've done? By whose estimation? Yours, or the big Bat himself? And I'm not talking about the kid; I mean the Bat."

Because for them, there was only one real Bat. Even Damian felt that way, and he was the closest any of them had gotten to being Bruce Wayne.

"I lost track of how many times the Bat told me that crimefighting was the worst thing I've ever done."

"And yet, here you are," he said, gesturing at her. "Batman with a feminine touch. A pretty pretty princess who carries knives to a milkshake date. He made you what you are and then trashed you, all because you're not a boy with black hair and blue eyes. Doesn't that get to you?"

Her guts twisted. Lesson learned: there was no such thing as concealed weapons when it came to Jason Todd.

"I...look. This is how I see it," Steph said, spreading her napkin out on the table. She pulled the lid off a pen with her teeth and started drawing. She drew a wide circle, then a smaller circle inside it. The outer circle got ubiquitous bat ears and goofy eyes. Underneath, she wrote, THE BATBRAIN. "Bruce had to justify himself. Like, a lot. I think that he wondered sometimes if he was as crazy as the people he fought, you know? So he had to draw lines."

Jason didn't reply, but sucked noisily on his milkshake. Steph started sectioning off parts of the Batbrain and labeling them.

"He had two rules for his Robins." She wrote JUSTICING in the largest section. "One: no killing. That's the line he drew that separated him from the rest of the crazies. If he could stop them without killing them, it meant he couldn't be faulted for being a vigilante. He wasn't totally circumventing the judicial system by throwing down Batlaw." In the second largest section, she wrote PROTOCOL. "Rule number two: do as I say, not as I do." In smaller sections, she wrote, LEGACY, DEAD PARENTS, and PERFECTION. "That rule was a softer one. He only trotted it out on the Robins that questioned him. He couldn't have some perky kid in tights questioning his methods, because he spent enough time questioning them himself." In the tiny, tiny space left over, she managed to fit in ALL THE FEELINGS. "That's why Tim was always his favorite. He worshipped him, so when Bats barked he jumped. I'm not saying that he didn't care, but I think that sometimes, he didn't know how to. He wasn't reading normal across the board. None of us do. If we were normal, we'd be construction workers and housewives and doctors. But no, we play it like we're badcops and every day is Halloween. Personally? I've coped with it. I am what I am, and I've got a mean right hook and a thirst for justicing."

She spun the napkin illustration around so that he could read it. His eyebrows arched up toward his hairline.

"What the hell kind of Robin are you?" Jason asked with a laugh. It was deep, sudden, and real.

"The kind that gets fired," she deadpanned. "So look. I made you a visual aid and everything. Bats 1.0 didn't have it in him to understand us. There's literally no way he could accept us for what we were---because you had dicey morals, I was a mouthy girl, and Damian was born with an innate 'stab first, ask questions later' policy. When things existed outside of this---" Steph circled the Batbrain several times before recapping the pen. "---he didn't know how to handle it. He cared about us and he tried, but we're not yesmen. He only accepted the gray areas that he defined, and we challenged him. So---so what I'm saying, what my point is, is that I don't agree with what you do. I don't think killing is the answer, but I do know that I can't convince you of that. I know that if I exhaust time and resources trying to take you down, I'm going to lose---and I can't lose, not when we're the only ones keeping this city from eating itself alive. I also know that treating you as less than human isn't going to fix anything."

Jason finished his milkshake, wiping a smudge from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. Said thumb got cleaned off on the napkin.

"Y'know, I thought that I was going to have to preach to you," he drawled, leaning back in his chair. "I thought I was going to have to tell you that the big bad Bat had pulled the wool over your eyes this whole time. But you? Princess, you already get it."

She wasn't sure if she liked that or not. She wasn't sure if the fact that she'd gotten Jason Todd was a good thing or not. It was what it was.

"So, tell me," Jason continued, voice velvety low. "Who did it to you? Who brought on the epiphany? I mean, I can guess, if you want me to. It'd be like Clue. Who killed you, with what, and where? For me, it was the Joker in the abandoned warehouse with the crowbar."

Steph's mouth had gone dry. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.

"Black Mask. Power drill. Knives. A gun. Kicked me down stairs. A torture sampler platter."

He hummed thoughtfully. "Everything but the kitchen sink. And you died."

"Legally and medically, yeah."

He steepled his fingers. "Tell me. What was it like?"

What was it like? It was clawing, it was suffocating, it was beyond words and descriptors. It was violent enough that she still woke up fighting and screaming once in a while. It never lost its punch.

"Dying wasn't bad," Stephanie said after a long pause. "It was getting there and coming back that was hard."

"Was he there?"

This was personal. She knew he was stacking it against his death and Bruce's reaction. She knew, so she knew that she could be honest and let the bitterness out. He'd eat it all up.

"Yeah. In my last words, I asked him if it'd all been a trick, or if I'd really been Robin. And he said yes. He said that I wouldn't be forgotten. He lied, and I flatlined happy."

"And he didn't kill Black Mask for what he did to you."

"No."

"And he didn't come to save you himself."

"No. He didn't."

The corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smirk. The answer had satisfied him.

"But you came back."

The journey back was the hardest part. She hadn't been remembered, hadn't been wanted. It'd broken her heart over and over, but she hadn't let it stop her.

"Africa was good to me."

"Africa?"

"I live an exciting life, what can I say?"

When Jason looked at her, his eyes were almost black. His pupils were blown, only rimmed by the thinnest edge of blue.

"Aren't you just something else." He rubbed a gloved hand over his chin contemplatively, then checked his watch with a turn of his wrist. "I'm surprised. About you, yeah, but also that little brother hasn't come crashing in here yet. I was giving him fifteen minutes before he put his boots through the door."

"That," Stephanie said, chin raised. "Is because I tied him up and left him at home. I don't mess around when it's get-shit-done time. I've slapped Bruce when he was expecting me to hug him. Don't kid yourself, Jason---nobody intimidates me."

Jason winked. "Keep the pimp hand strong. And tied him up? Nice. I think I'm starting to see why the old man had trouble with you. Calling him on his shit and boinking his kid? You've got balls, cupcake. Iron clad."

She grinned savagely. "You'd better believe it."

She was breathing easier, now. She'd never allowed herself to rehash what had happened, to voice how she really felt about her legacy---or the lack thereof. But it'd been the perfect pot-sweetener, and now Jason was talking to her casually, really engaging her. She'd passed whatever battery of tests he'd had primed for her, and she hadn't even had to stab him to get her point across.

Bruce had told her once that Jason couldn't be reasoned with. And maybe he couldn't have been reasoned with, no---not when your version of 'reasoning' was 'my way or the highway'.

"So, let's make a deal," he said, loosely crossing his arms over his chest. "If I'm reading your feel-good talk correctly, you're not interested in my newsletter, but you and the littlest Bat are gonna let me keep publishing it, so long as I don't flood the market."

"I'm asking that you don't challenge Damian head-on. Do what you do, but keep it on the DL."

"You're condoning murder," Jason said, catching her gaze and holding it unblinkingly. He was looking for a reaction---she knew it.

She didn't give him one. She didn't blink, didn't look away, didn't back down.

"No. I'm accepting that I can't stop you. I'm making peace with that. I know that you're not insane, and that you're not going to start killing innocents for shits and giggles. You do it your way, and we'll do it our way. Gotham's too far gone for us to persecute you."

"And even if it was all sunshine and buttercups, you wouldn't." He leaned forward, elbows on the able. "Because you and me, we're the same story with different endings. Baa baa, black sheep."

Steph swallowed, with difficulty.

"Anyhow. I'll play your game, and if you ever need a pair of dirty hands, you know who to call." He leaned across the table and kissed her cheek. It was a dry kiss, chaste. His stubble rasped against her skin.

Maybe it should have worried her that everyone seemed to be trying to give her a way 'out'.

"Yeah," she said. She couldn't help but feel like she'd made a deal with the devil.

"Furthermore, if you ever wanna upgrade, I'm single. Sure, the kid's precocious, but I've got experience. Just ask his mom."

Steph blinked rapidly. Wait. Damian's mom, Talia?

"No way."

"Yes way," Jason said, digging into his pocket. He left a generous tip on the table. "I live an exciting life, what can I say? There's not a Boy Wonder around who doesn't have a thing for older women. Dick and Barbara, me and Talia, Damian and you---shit, Timmy's the only one who broke formation."

"Tell me something I don't know," she sighed, and slipped out of the booth.

*

Damian had never had a problem with anxiety. He'd always controlled the situations he was a part of, always took solace in the knowledge that there was very little that he could not handle. He had been trained thoroughly and was a genius in every definition. No one scared him, and he'd overcome any childish fears long before he'd stopped being a child. He couldn't be killed---what could possibly strike fear into him?

He'd never had problems with anxiety, because he had very few people in his life that he cared about. He didn't fear for himself, but he did fear for those people who weren't immortal. There were only a handful of people whose deaths would affect him, but those special few had rooted deeply inside of him.

So, to know that Stephanie was doing something that would likely get her killed---and not being able to go after her---slammed him into a panicked mode he rarely reached.

He'd stared at the ceiling for a half hour after she left, but his patience had worn thin. He couldn't banish the thoughts of Black Mask, of Croc, of all the people who had hurt her in the past. He couldn't get her screaming out of his head. The ghost note rang in his ears.

She'd tied him up neatly---and not just with the wrist restraints. Stephanie knew him better than anyone, so she'd known how seriously he took his own word. He had said that he trusted her, and she'd used that to lock him in place. If he broke his word and went after her, she would be furious with him. If he did as she'd told him to do and she died as a result, he'd be furious with himself.

Damian didn't know what to do. His thoughts frantically chased their own tails, giving him no solution. This brand of helplessness was even worse than what he'd felt when she'd been plagued by nightmares---at least then, he had been able to convince himself that touching her had helped her somehow.

With this, there was nothing he could do.

Damian tried to take out his frustration on the training room, but punching and hitting the training dummies hadn't drained the fear out of him. It'd only keyed him up further, adrenaline giving way to shakes and nausea.

He threw up twice. It was shameful. He'd created such a weakness for himself---such a terrible blind spot.

If he were smart, he would cut the connection to her off at the quick. That was what his father would have done.

But he knew he wouldn't.

"Hey! Batsy!" An all-too-familiar voice rang through the cave. Despite her size, the woman could make her voice boom. He winced, pinching the bridge of his nose against his building migraine. "Come out, come out, wherever you are! I got enchiladas from Mama---you've got twenty seconds to ditch the shadows and come get 'em!"

The Bats and the Lanterns had a colorful history. Each thought the other slightly insane, and their partnerships were tenuous at best. The new generation strove to be more welcoming and inclusive of other capes and cowls, but Damian consciously resisted their efforts. He did not want to team up. He did not want to be invited to picnics. He did not want to be included in their asinine and poorly organized group.

Most of them respected that. Many wrote him off as being too much of a sociopath to warrant inclusion, much less their friendship.

But there were a few who tried, no matter how curtly he rebuffed them.

"Dami---que?"

Milagro Reyes was one of the few people---if not the only one---who willingly visited him. He tolerated her presence. Maybe even liked her. When she brought him food, at least.

Damian glared at her balefully. He was too emotionally wrung out for threats.

"Sssso," Milagro said, sitting down in his chair in front of the monitor and crossing her legs. "You look like crap. Wanna talk about it?"

"Please," he said haughtily, pouring himself a glass of water. He took a sip, swished it around, and spit in the sink. It didn't quite get the sour taste out of his mouth, but it helped. "I have better things to do than to indulge you in talk of 'feelings'. Isn't that what you have Iris for? I was under the impression that all lesbians do is talk about their twice-damned feelings."

And maybe he deserved being slapped by a giant green fist made of energy. Maybe he did. Maybe he could even admit that he did. But it still nettled him.

He couldn't say that Guy Gardner had taught her well, but he had taught her thoroughly.

And damn them both for it.

"You're the kind of offensive that's just funny," she told him cheerfully. The hand patted the top of his head before disippating back into her ring. "Irey said to say hi. And for the record, pendejo, we do a lot more than just talk about our feelings. Dating a speedster is like having a sportscar you can make out with. You need to get out of your cave and experience some culture once in a while. You, me, Irey, and Steph could go on a double date."

Damian rubbed the cheek she'd smacked, grimacing.

"Absolutely not. I would rather die. Did you have a goal behind this visit, or have you come solely to insult and disgust me in my own home?"

"I'm doing community service," Milagro said, spinning in the chair. "I know your girlfriend can't cook to save her life, so I brought you some grub. It's my good deed for the day---other than saving the universe. I did that, too."

Lanterns. Uppity bastards who specialized in fighting crime with fashion accessories. If they hadn't been such effective fighters, he would have had no respect at all for them. As it stood, he had just a modicum of respect, but it was outweighed by his annoyance. He could deal with them so long as they stuck to arresting aliens and left his city alone.

"Thank you," Damian said. He was too tired to fight with her. "Was that the response you were fishing for?"

She cocked her head to the side, looking at him intently.

"Yeah. And you said it, which is weird."

"I'm fully capable of thanking others," he said, running a hand through his hair. "And I just chose to do so. Take it and be grateful."

"That's not how thank yous wo---kitty!"

And people wondered why he didn't like Green Lanterns. Alfred, hearing voices, had peeked around the corner. Ever the attention whore, he padded to Milagro and rubbed against her leg, lifting his chin to be scratched. She did so with happy little chips and the mumbling nonsense-talk one used when addressing a baby.

He shot Alfred a look. Traitorous twice-damned harlot.

"Are we through?" Damian asked, exasperated. "I have things I need to do."

Using the highly selective hearing of the female of the species, she continued to gush at the cat and ignore him.

"Who's the sweetest little furball? You are. Yesss you are. You and your sweet little whiskery face. Your daddy's a hardass with a Bat attitude, but you're just the most precious fuzzy soul. Yessss you are."

"Reyes," he ground out, crossing his arms over his chest. "You will stop addressing him in that tone immediately. Thank you for the meal---and there, I've said it twice now---but you should go. I---"

The elevator notification pinged on the monitor.

She was back. She was back, and she was alone, and she was okay, and everything Damian had been thinking was pushed out of his head by his swelling relief. When the doors opened, he cut the distance of the cave and pulled her into his arms before she could so much as say "Hi, Milagro".

Her hair smelled like night air and menthol cigarettes. She was uninjured. If he'd believed in God, he would have been thanking him over and over.

"Don't ever do that to me again," he hissed, holding her crushingly close.

"Is that adventure I hear calling me?" Milagro said, a hand cupped around her ear. She looked at the cat in her arms. "I think that it is, Alfred. Hold on, adventure, I'm coming!" Setting the cat down, she spared Damian and Stephanie a brilliant smile. "I'll leave you two to hug it out."

"I despise Lanterns," Damian huffed once she was out of earshot. "Utterly despise."

Stephanie just shook her head, baffled. "Social call?"

"Unfortunately." Damian took a deep breath, squeezing her upper arms. "Where did you go? Why did you do that to me? I can't believe that you would pull a stunt like that one. I won't allow it again."

"I know," she said, looking truly apologetic. "And I'm sorry. I feel terrible, D. I really do. I just couldn't think of any other way to bench you."

"You shouldn't have had to 'bench' me," he growled, his ire rising. "I'm much stronger than you are."

"And I know that, too, Mr. Machismo. But this wasn't an arm-wrestling competition. It was a heart-to-heart, and you can't do those unless the situation calls for literally ripping hearts out."

"You didn't answer me. What did you do?"

There was a note of his father in his tone, though he didn't mean for it to be there. It was habit, now. Steph didn't look away.

"I took care of the Jason situation."

He suddenly felt like he was going to be sick all over again.

"You did what?"

"I talked to him, and we made a deal. Simple as that."

"Impossible," Damian snapped. "That's impossible. You cannot reason with him. I don't know what possessed you to think that you could go toe to toe to him, you stupid woman! He's---you just---"

"I could and I did," Steph said, her voice hard. "I got results. Call me stupid again and I'll deck you. If I hadn't offered him the olive branch, he would have continued to fuck with us just for the sake of fucking with us. So don't you dare tell me that I made the wrong call. I did what Bruce couldn't---what you couldn't. I talked to him."

His father didn't forget. He forgave, but he never let you forget when you messed up. Damian knew this better than anyone.

"Are you...are you positive?"

"He gave me his word. If we don't try to lock him up, he won't target us. He spent a lot of years trying to make a point to Bruce, but," she sighed. "We already read him loud and clear."

"But," he said, still reeling. "He will continue to kill."

"Yeah, he will. What he does is monstrous, but that doesn't mean that he's a monster. He has his code of ethics and he doesn't stray from it. The city's dying, D. What we're doing is triage. We have to choose what is worth fighting, and he just isn't."

He nodded woodenly, dragging her to his chest again.

Damian fully understood the concept of fighting against---and for---the things worth fighting.

*

Forgiveness was not discussed, but it was implied. She swore up and down that she wouldn't tie him up and leave him again, and he promised he wouldn't follow her anywhere against her wishes. Relationships were all about balance---even one as strange as theirs.

They were both worn out from stress, so they dropped into bed earlier than usual. Alfred curled up a their feet, and they tried to sleep.

Sleep didn't come. They laid there for hours, changing positions every so often with huffed breaths and sighs, but sleep just wasn't in the cards.

"What happened, Damian?" Stephanie asked the dark, her voice so low and soft that he thought that he'd imagined it at first. She found his hand underneath the covers, her damnably small hand fitting neatly into his palm. "Why did you leave for so long?"

He debated pretending that he was asleep. He thought about saying that he didn't know. He briefly, briefly contemplated lying. He'd known that this would come up someday, that it was only eventual, but he hadn't had a lie primed and ready to go.

The truth fell out instead.

"I got lost," he admitted hollowly.

"Lost? Seriously?"

"Yes. I was traveling, and I became lost. It took me some time to find myself again."

"Tim asked me," Steph said. "He said he didn't understand how I could have lived with you for a year and still not know what happened to Bruce and Dick---or even where you'd been for all those months. Every time I talk to him, he asks. Closure, I guess."

"Drake should give up," he snapped, more venom in his voice than he'd meant to inject. "Neither of them will be coming back. Not this time."

She was silent. He could feel her unvoiced question, the logical followup that she was trying to keep in.

How do you know?

"My father was a proud man. I'm only giving him the respect in death that he demanded in life."

Her sigh was bone-deep, fanning warmly over the side of his neck.

"You know how it looks, don't you? Not telling them implicates you. Babs---"

"Believes me to be a monster. Yes, I know this."

"More than that, she refuses to have anything to do with you." Her voice petered off into a mumble. "Or to have anything to do with anyone who'll have anything to do with you."

That fissure, that absence in Stephanie's life, suddenly made sense.

The Commissioner had given her a choice, and she'd made it.

Guilt pushed the air out of his lungs.

"He was shot," Damian said finally. Each word took effort. It had to be found, pried, and pulled. "During the riot. He and I had been arguing, because he'd reprimanded me for use of force. I was insisting that I was doing what was necessary, that we would be able to save more my way, and I was---I was so angry with him, so tired with being told that my every move was unacceptable."

Stephanie said nothing. Her hand tightened, squeezing his.

"It was luck. Mad, horrific luck. The angle, the timing---everything. Father was shot. He bled out in minutes. There was nothing that I could do to save him. I don't believe that he knew he was dying, even as he did."

He let the words hang. He could feel their weight.

"No one can know that the Batman was killed with a gunshot, as easily as any other man. He survived too much, accomplished too much, became too much for his legacy to end ignobly. It would have taken his teeth and softened the impact he had made. I couldn't allow it."

"So all these years, you've let people think it was you," she said, voice hushed. "Because you didn't want him to lose face."

"The truth won't change their opinions of me. They decided what I was years ago. To them, I will always be an animal. And I don't care. Let them think what they want."

"But they hate you, and they shouldn't. If they knew, they wouldn't, they'd---"

"I'm very comfortable with being hated---I have been for most of my life. I'm intimately familiar with human nature, so I know that the truth would change nothing."

That statement staled in the dark. It was as sour as bile.

"Dick knew, didn't he?"

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Yes. But he respected my wishes and did not tell anyone. The truth died with him."

"Died?" she repeated, and the yawning hole in his chest that split was as painful as a physical wound.

"Dick left without telling me. He left---he gave up the cowl---because the stupid, stupid man thought he could save---" Me. Dick had left because he'd been positive that he could find someone who could save him, some loophole in his deal that could be exploited. "---the city. After Father died, it all crumbled. I went after him, followed his trail for a few weeks, but then it---"

He vividly remembered the first week that he'd traveled blindly, the first week that he'd had no trail, no sense of direction, nothing to go off of. It'd been endless panic, choking denial. He hadn't wanted to believe that there was no trail to follow, that the trail had gone dead, that his brother was dead, but the facts had been clear and Damian had been a born pragmatist.

It had still taken him a year to stop looking for Dick. He'd wanted to believe that he'd show up one day without warning, his smile indulgently forgiving. He'd wanted him to squeeze his shoulder and tell him good news, that he'd found a way out for him, that everything could be fixed.

He'd known better, but he'd wanted it so badly.

"There was nothing to follow. Grayson is gone. I searched for a year, but I...he's gone, and it's my fault. That's why I had to return, why I had to take the cowl. My father and my b---Grayson, both of them, they died because of me---because of my shortcomings. Becoming the Batman was...penance."

He hadn't known any other way to beg for forgiveness. Wearing the cowl, following the Law of the Bat even though he knew he wasn't worthy of it, had felt like punishment enough.

"Oh, God," Stephanie said, and he was glad that he couldn't see her face. He couldn't have handled seeing the disgust in her eyes, the knowing that he was exactly what Ivy had said: allelopathic. He was deadly poisonous to everything around him. If he were any less selfish, he would push her away.

But he couldn't. He needed her. She was the only thing that kept his head above water, the only reason he had to keep the code. He despised himself for it, hated himself so deeply that the emotion could only be described as black.

The mattress dipped as she sat up, moving closer to him. She was clumsy in the dark, fingers skating over him as she tried to find his face, his hands. Steph's breathing was ragged; he got a knee to the stomach as she all but crawled over him. It was like she couldn't get close enough, couldn't decide what to touch or hold.

"Listen to me," she whispered fiercely, though there wasn't anyone else to hear them. "Listen. Nobody can blame you. None of this was your fault. What happened to Bruce and Dick wasn't your fault. And even if it was? Eve---"

"Stop," Damian croaked, finding her shoulder and pushing her away half-heartedly. "I can't. Stop."

She smacked his hand away, hard enough to sting. Her fingers knotted in the short hair at the nape of his neck. She forced him to hunch forward, guiding him with that shaking hand against the back of his neck. Stephanie gathered him up like he was a child, despite his size. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close and keeping him there. He could have broken away---God, her arms were thin compared to his, willowy---but he didn't.

"Even if it was your fault, they'd forgive you."

He knew that. He knew, and it just dug deeper into that black, horrible pit inside him. Giving a shit about him had killed them. How could he feel like anything but cursed?

The first sob ripped its way out of him as painfully as a bullet exiting his body. She held onto him tightly, and it felt like his sobs would rattle him apart if she let go. But she didn't, and she wouldn't, because that wasn't in her nature.

Father hadn't thought her capable of being one of them, assuming that weak, motherly streak in her would ruin her. Crime wasn't abstract statistics to her; it was people who had faces, people she cared about, people she would die for. She'd taken his father's fight to a level so deeply personal, it hurt to watch.

It'd kill her, someday. He knew that it would.

Damian cried like someone who didn't know how to do it. He couldn't breathe properly, couldn't control himself, couldn't stop the hysterics once they'd broken out of him. His eyes burned and his nose ran and it was all so shamefully weak. He had his face buried in her neck, strands of her sweat-damp hair stuck to his mouth.

It was an uncomfortable turnabout; he'd comforted her and listened to her horrors, and now she'd done the same for him. The difference was, she was bright and gregarious and prone to sharing. He had told no one, had kept it all stuffed into a black mental box he'd labeled do not open.

Because he was of the House of al Ghul, of the bloodline of Bruce Wayne, and nothing was allowed to break him.

He didn't feel good after the initial spill slowed. He didn't feel better. He felt fucked-out and raw, but he did feel lighter, somehow.

"It's okay," she murmured, rubbing his back. "I'm not going anywhere. You've got me."

And he did. For that moment, he did.