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It’s nothing officially set in stone, but it’s something of a weekly tradition now between you and Damian; mainly because he tolerates you to a degree that some might qualify as ‘brotherly affection’ blended with ‘respectful disdain.’ Either way, you’ve learned not to question it.
Bruce isn’t exactly the most verbally vocal about his feelings, but there’s a subtle appreciation rounded out by a faint relief on the occasions that he spots you both. It’s become a familiar picture to him now, you perched on one of the plush cushions of the large, room-spanning couch, Damian sitting on the floor near you as you both chat. And there’s always lots to talk about.
The front is that the two of you like to discuss books. Every week, you arrive with a new novel that he, having an excess of time as his schoolwork is ‘quaintly simple’ and vigilante work is ‘no great challenge,’ will finish by the time you next return. This week is North Woods by Daniel Mason.
“I found it dreadfully boring,” Damian replies boredly still as he sits, straight-backed, intentionally preventing himself from sinking into the leather of the couch, formal as ever, “The characters lacked depth and any interest I had in their story was extinguished by the shortness of their separate narratives.”
“I think it’s just supposed to represent the cycle of life and death—there’s a type of dreamy, fairytale quality to each of their stories.” You reply easily, because he’s not looking for you to agree outright—that’s also something that you’ve learned over the course of your impromptu meetings.
He’s looking for a debate. You wonder if this is something he inherited from his father, mother, or grandfather. Any of them could be a contributor to this hot-headed streak.
“It lacks direction,” Damian stolidly replies. “It makes the narrative disorganized and confused.”
“That’s the point,” you chuckle as you give Titus, who is breathing heavily besides Damian, a good scratch behind the ears. “We’re following more than twenty different people in the story.”
“Each of them more boring than the last,” he retorts stoutly, crossing his arms—there’s something endearing about the fact that for all his vaunted attempts at appearing mature, he’s still at the core a dissatisfied preteen on the verge of a meltdown. Not that you’ll tell him that.
“I don’t care about some magical house in Massachusetts.” He adds on with a note of finality.
“I’ll make sure to avoid that for the next book I grab, then.” You reply cheekily at this concluding statement of his. “Nothing but gritty detective novels in Metropolis.”
Damian makes a noise that indicates he has a marginally better opinion of this locale, which you take as a positive direction to go off of. A brief instance passes between you both, when you note the unspoken signal given.
“In mentioning Metropolis—”—he says, and though his voice has not changed in tone, it’s clear that he’s not talking about the book anymore. You shift, tucking your legs to the side as you lean an elbow on the back of the couch. Titus settles to lie down on the floor, chuffing a loud sigh as he does so.
“Yeah?” You ask with a grin.
“Tim left last night to make a trip.” He replies, voice even. “He wouldn’t say where.”
“How very interesting,” you reply dryly, cupping your cheek in your hand. “Any leads?”
“He was talking on the phone to someone before he left,” Damian replies, sounding disinterested even though he is engaging in that terrible vice of gossip, “In a very affectionate manner. He told them—”—At this, he turns his head to focus those sharp blue eyes upon you—“—He loved them.”
“Really,” you say, letting a slow grin spread across your face. “But he didn’t mention any names?”
“He was careful not to,” Damian says as though he speaks of a perp instead of an esteemed member of the family, “And I was taking pains to listen carefully.”
“That’s probably why he didn’t say anything,” you return with a chuckle. “Everyone knows that this house has three sets of ears on every floor.”
“Who do you think it was?” Damian asks, and it’s here there is the smallest degree of interest injected to his voice, as though he actually has some form of investment in the topic.
“Well, I know that Kara’s out on Thanagar right now,” you reply thoughtfully, “Which means—”
“—That it was Connor.” Damian says with a degree of finality, satisfaction at the final puzzle piece falling into place. He nods solemnly, as though the two of you have cracked a difficult case rather than sussing out who Tim was making a booty call to in the dead of night.
“I mean, god forbid a kid have a boyfriend.” You return with a shrug, advocating on Tim’s defense. “They’ve been dancing around it for a couple years now.”
“The secrecy is unnecessary.” Damian retorts disinterestedly. “We would have determined it soon enough.”
“Maybe some people want to enjoy a little secrecy,” you return. “Their lives are already so busy, they might just want something for themselves.”
“He is not subtle in his affections for Connor,” Damian adds on, steamrolling past your point. “It is very obvious.”
“Maybe not to them, kid.” You reply. “It rarely is when you’re in love.”
Damian turns to you now, sharply, so that he is facing you.
“Dick has been asking when you are coming to the house.” He says, and you blink at this abrupt change of topics. “I gave him the wrong time and told him you would be arriving here in two hours instead of right now.”
“Why’d you do that?” You ask, a bewildered smile passing over your face.
“Because my time is valuable and I won’t have it interrupted by him.” He replies with a flare of vehemence that was not present before. At this, his brow furrows at the idea of your gossip session being interrupted by the likes of Dick Grayson.
“I thought you liked him.” You return, trying very hard to not laugh at the stern little man glowering at you.
“Yes, but I like you as well. When I spend time with you I expect to be the priority.” He returns, placing both of his hands on his knees, his legs folded one over the other. He looks very kingly as he sits. This definitely must be something he inherited from his grandfather, you think.
“That’s a good mentality you have,” you smile as you try to mentally parse through the idea that Dick has been asking for you—and try to ignore the complicated maelstrom of emotions you feel at this.
“Yes—”—he says, voice sharp—“—Some people could learn from it.”
He never was one for subtlety, this kid.
The next week when you arrive, the book that the two of you are discussing is The Wager by David Grann, an attempt on your end to try to find something more rooted in historical realism. Damian is otherwise unimpressed.
“I found the shipwreck survivors very stupid,” he is stark in his words. “Trying to maintain order when there was already dissent and elements of mutiny amongst the crew—to think that they would remain united when they made it onto the island?”
“You get marooned and tell me how you do,” you return wryly. “I’ll compare notes with you when you come back.”
“They lacked knowledge and survival skills,” Damian retorts apathetically, “Two things which I possess. They were poor shipmen who couldn’t follow orders.”
“Well, they didn’t have a lot of options. It was either try to make it work or devolve into fighting.” You try to defend these men claimed by time centuries past. “It was the only way they were going to make it through.”
“Obviously it didn’t work. Less than half of them survived.” Damian responds. “They let their petty disputes break them from the inside-out.”
“True,” you nod, giving the boy that at the very least, “But it was a perfect storm for trouble. The fighting was there from the very beginning.”
Damian offers no further retort to this, cocking an eyebrow as he turns, casting a glance up to the winding staircase that extends up to the second floor. Almost as though he’s checking for abject witnesses that might be eavesdropping.
When he turns back, his voice is affectedly lower, quieter for confidentiality. It appears that book talk is over for the time being.
“Jason is angry.” He announces to you, sotto voce. You arch an eyebrow at this morsel of information.
“Takes one to know one.” You whisper back with an uneven smirk. His glare furrows before smoothing out as he recalls the next piece to inform you of.
“He is angry about something unimportant.” He returns.
“Unimportant to you, maybe.” You have to remember to keep your voice down. “But certain nosy people would like to know. What have you heard?”
“He has been complaining about it on duty.” Damian scowls at a memory of recent recall. “It has been very distracting when I am trying to focus. But he and Dick like to talk about it to ‘pass the time.’”
“So who’s the problem?” You ask, trying to press for whatever information you can get.
“It is Roy,” Damian replies. “They are arguing about the fact that Jason is here in Gotham—and Roy is in Star City.”
“Well, it is a fair distance, you reply. Not like Metropolis and Gotham distance.” You wiggle your eyebrows at the subject of your previous conversation, but Damian is insistent to continue this line of discussion. “Has Jason talked about it with Roy at all?”
“No. Dick asked him the same thing.” Damian clarified for you—you chuckle at the obvious. “Jason is mad that Roy would even bring it up.”
“Well, neither of them are fabulous communicators to begin with,” you mutter more to yourself than your conversational companion. “But they need to have an honest heart-to-heart about how they feel before they go and start venting to everyone else.”
“That is what Dick said.” Damian says, frowning as though he is making an unpleasant conclusion in his mind. “He advised Jason similarly as well.”
“Well, great minds think alike,” you reply smugly. “He’s been around the block a few times.”
“Why did you stop doing vigilante work with him?” Damian asks you suddenly. This only prompts a simple shrug on your end.
“There’s more life expectancy in going behind a computer like Barbara,” you have an answer prepared for this. “I like being the person behind the chair rather than the one in an alleyway getting their teeth knocked out.”
“You are quite capable in combat.” Damian states, an unquestionable compliment of the highest order. You try not to let it get to your head too greatly. “Dick says that he misses your presence on patrol.”
“Well, when it’s just Jason and Tim, who can blame him?” You crack a grin at this that he does not return. If anything, his eyes narrow as he searches you carefully for something you have not yet provided him.
“Do you miss it?” He asks, and you take a second to think, glancing up to the yawning arch of the room, into the darkness above.
“Sure I do,” you reply. “It was fun patrolling with you and Jason and Tim and Barbara.”
“And Dick?” Damian asks, eyes squared upon you. You nod, an honest gesture.
“Of course. He’s a good partner.” Your voice is affectedly casual in a manner that it wasn’t before.
“I see.” He replies, as though he truly does, “You are wasting excellent skill by refusing to hone it further.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” you reply, trying again to compose your face before you break out into laughter.
The book this week is Anya’s Ghost by Vera Brogsol, a bit of a shake-up because, honestly, you’re getting tired of finding serious chapter books to satisfy the little prince—you may as well go with a graphic novel while you’re on the hunt. Thankfully, Damian’s opinion is more approving this time.
“The art is very fluid and evocative,” Damian notifies you of his opinions. “I think Anya’s character lacked depth, but the style makes up for some of the narrative choices.”
“That’s fair,” you agree, “But be careful who you say that around. Some people take this book very seriously.”
“It’s a comic book,” Damian replies, giving you a dubious look, “How seriously must one take that?”
“You’d be surprised,” you reply mysteriously, and then lean forward to take the reins. “So what’s this I heard from Barbara about Steph and Cass?”
Damian nods, ready to make the transition from book debate to gossipmongering. “Stephanie asked out Cassandra last night when we were on duty.”
“Details, details,” you urge him along, though the dirty look that he aims your way informs you that this shall all be in due time.
“It was at the end of the patrol. Stephanie asked her at the end of duty and Cassandra said yes.” He informs you in a flat voice, devoid of any of the emotion that you’re certain was present during this heartfelt scene. “They hugged at the very end.”
“Did anyone cry?” You ask out of curiosity; Damian looks offended at the very thought.
“No,” he returns. “But Duke congratulated the both of them.”
“That’s cute,” you smile fondly at this. “I’m happy for them—they’re definitely a good match for each other.”
Damian nods at this assertion. “They are an excellent fit—well-suited in skill and personality.”
“I’m certainly glad that they have your seal of approval,” you reply in a deadpan, though this is lost on him as his thoughts are clearly occupied by other notions.
“I am capable in terms of observation,” he notifies you, as though you have been unaware otherwise. “It should be a long-lasting relationship.”
“I sure hope so,” you agree, thinking of how awkward patrol will be if it isn’t, “I’m honestly just glad that one of them decided to bite the bullet and ask the other out.”
You sit in what you think is a contemplative moment of silence, thinking on this well-matched couple and their impending date, when you realize that you are being subjected to observation as well. Damian is quiet, motionless as he looks at you, scrupulous and deliberate.
“What?” You ask, bemused for the time being as he continues to watch you.
“Do you think that is the best approach to it?” He asks, slow as though the words have not been meticulously planned as all other ones he articulates usually are.
“Well, sure,” you say, unsure of what nebulous territory this conversation is delving into, “Why keep someone waiting in suspense, especially if they’re so good for each other?”
“Indeed,” Damian replies. “Jason told Dick that he should get a move on, since Stephanie and Cassandra have made their decisions.”
“Move on for what?” You ask, trying to think of what on earth Dick would need to take care of.
“Something stupid, I think.” Damian answers, though he is still looking at you closely. “I assume we will find out soon.”
The next week you arrive at stately Wayne Manor’s living room for a hearty book discussion about Peril at End House by Agatha Christie—a real classic. But rather than the typical sight of Damian sitting, arms folded on the couch, you are surprised to find that he has company sitting besides him, with a smile on their face and your name on their lips.
“Dick?” You ask as you shuffle your copy of the book under your arm, feeling your heart spur to life with a quickness you didn’t think possible. “What are you doing here?”
“I used to live here, you know,” Dick grins back up at you as Damian glares besides him, clearly unappreciative of the extra company. “Alfred trusts me enough to sit on the furniture.”
“But not to keep it clean,” Damian retorts almost quietly enough that the two of you can pretend you didn’t hear it.
“Sure, that makes sense,” you return sardonically, “But Damian and I were just about to discuss our book for the week.”
At this, you proffer your copy straight-armed out to him as he gives it an interested gander. You hope that your wrist stays steady enough to keep your hardcover from trembling with nervous energy.
Damian exhales sharply through his nose before standing up from the couch with a stiffness that belies his young age. He turns to the two of you with a mechanical quality to his movements as Titus rises to his feet besides him.
“I need to help Alfred with something before we can begin discussing the book,” he says, rather woodenly—whatever script he was given was taken most begrudgingly. “I will return—soon.”
At this, he stalks from the room with a quickness accentuated by his anger at the current situation, Titus in loping pursuit. Which means that you are left alone with an unexpected interloper in your midsts, as you turn back to that smiling, handsome face.
“What’s going on, Dick?” You ask, cocking up an eyebrow. It feels safe to let the confusion overwhelm any other emotion at this point in time.
“Nothing bad—”—He holds up his hands reassuringly, giving you a winning smile as he stands from the couch as well—“—At least, I hope not.”
“Brave words,” you reply back breezily. “So what gives? Why’d you exile my only book club member?”
“Well, because I was hoping that I could get you alone for a second. And I hear that you’ve been coming around every week,” he says, rounding the couch so that he can start the journey to you, “So I thought now was as good a time as any.”
“To do what?” You ask, still not quite sure where this is going, even as he stops short a few feet from you.
“To ask if you have anything after your book club today,” He smiles, “So I can take you out to dinner.”
You scrutinize that face, those blue eyes, for any sign of a joke or prank, and find nothing but hopeful sincerity looking back down to you.
You seem to only have the ability to repeat words spoken in recent memory as you repeat, “Out to dinner?”
“Tonight, preferably,” he says jovially enough that you can’t help but let out a little, light chuckle. “My treat.”
“I mean, sure,” you say, not one to let the opportunity pass you by even as it feels like the warmth underneath your skin is ready to reach a fever-pitch, “But why?”
It’s here that Dick opts for reticent shyness, as he ducks his eyes to make quick inspection of the floor, momentarily lost for words. When he looks back up to you, there’s a vulnerability that you’ve only seen on rare occasion that keeps you in wordless suspense, waiting for what he wil say next.
“Well,” he says, taking another step closer to you, “I’m not sure how much Damian has told you, but there’s been a lot of drama going on around the team.”
“I’ve heard bits and pieces,” you return with a knowing smirk that he mirrors in return.
“And all of it has made me think about the two of us,” Dick confesses, “And how I should, uh, bite the bullet, I guess, before it passes me by.”
He’s searching your face for any indication of reluctance, any rescinding of your agreement. “And I’m hoping that it hasn’t.”
An open-ended statement, it seems, that’s awaiting your confirmation. You can’t help but reach out to find his hand, warm and calloused against yours as you give him the first genuine smile of the day.
“It hasn’t, Dick.” You tell him. “I promise.”
He lets out a sigh, his shoulders plateauing in relief. “That’s—great to hear.”
“But I do have to tell you one thing.” You say, letting a smile play on your lips.
“What’s that?” He asks, his own worry giving way to elation that he can barely contain on his face.
You lean in close, the humor bleeding into your voice. “You can tell your double agent that’s been feeding you information that you can take over the reins now.”
You can’t help but laugh out loud as the exhilarated grin on his face morphs into a more sheepish one. Something tells you that tonight is going to be the start of, as the kids say, a beautiful relationship.