wayne manor feels impressively quiet despite it’s usual buzz from it’s inhabitants. not the peaceful, relaxable kind of quiet—this was the heavy, suffocating kind. damian would usually relish days like these, but it was the wrong kind of quiet.

you’re curled up on the sofa in the library, laid on your arm on your side that had gone numb hours ago, staring blankly at the embers burning in the fireplace. the fire crackles gingerly, but it does little to rid of the inevitable cold sinking deep into your bones, day by day.

you hear damian before you see him, thanks to training from bruce. damian hesitates at the open library entryway, just for a heartbeat, before stepping inside. he doesn’t say anything at first, just walks toward one of the endless shelves, running a hand along the spines of books that were centuries older than the batfamily combined, as if he was actually looking for something.

after a moment of terrible pretending, he turns to you, a slight furrow in his bat shaped brows.

“you haven’t left this room all day,” damian remarked, matter-of-factly and yet uncharacteristically careful. “all week, even.”

you sigh inauspiciously, sinking deeper into the cushions like the dull coldness into your bones. your silence spoke volumes.

you’ve had a bad few days, a depressive episode making it near impossible to muster up the energy for your usual teasing. it makes damian frown. he’s terrible at this — the whole talking about feelings business; he’s more emotionally stunted than others. it’s more dick’s forte than his own but there’s a small pang in his chest when he sees the way you shrink in on yourself, the bags under your eyes like twin bruises.

“you didn’t eat breakfast,” damian continues. “or lunch.”

you hum tiredly at that, unmovingly and unblinkingly as you just stare straight into the fire.

damian’s frown deepens, the soft dimples on his cheeks more prominent with the affect. he’s silent for a moment, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. he wants to fix this. but this wasn’t something that could be fixed with a fight, a strategy, or some trained move that’s been grilled into his head since he was 6. and that’s frustrating.

still, he tries.

“i... could make you something,” damian mutters, awkward, like he wasn’t sure if the words sounded right coming from him. might aswell have been dick or tim talking. “or alfred can.” his eyes are on you, his chest doing that squeeze again as he looks at you, uncomfortably tight.

your like a shell of your former self, hollow and unresponsive.

“or we can— we can play games. whichever ones you want. you can be player one,” damian offers up his spot (unusual for him), swallowing, because he just really hates it when you look like that — tired, empty, and so, so sad.