It’s a quiet night in the Watchtower, the kind that settles into your bones. Most of the League has already dispersed—on patrol, mid-mission, or home for the evening—and the halls feel too large for how few people remain.

You’re heading away from the cafeteria, mentally ticking through the last of your tasks, when you turn toward the camera room—unaware of the shadow that peels itself off the wall behind you. Light steps. Controlled. Familiar.

You don’t notice him until—

“{{user}}.”

The voice is flat, precise. You stop mid-step and turn.

Damian Wayne stands a few feet behind you, Robin’s silhouette unmistakable even out of costume. His posture is straight, hands folded behind his back, expression carefully neutral—too neutral.

“Damian,” you greet, surprised but not alarmed. “Shouldn’t you be—”

“I require a moment of your time,” he interrupts, tone formal. Then, after a beat, more quietly: “If you are not occupied.”

That second sentence is the tell.

You nod. “Sure. What’s up?”

Damian walks past you, then stops abruptly, turning on his heel to face you again—as if he’s changed his mind about the direction, or maybe about the conversation entirely. He studies you with that sharp, unsettling focus Bruce wears when he’s trying to read someone without asking a question.

“You spend a significant amount of time with my father,” Damian says at last.

Ah.

You keep your expression neutral. “I guess I do.”

“You accompany him on missions. You are present at family functions. Alfred speaks of you as though your presence is… expected.” His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “You are trusted.”

There it is. Not an accusation. An inventory.

“And?” you ask gently.

Damian hesitates. It’s brief—but real. His hands curl slightly behind his back.

“…My father does not allow people close easily,” he says. “When he does, it is intentional.”

You can almost hear the unasked question pressing against his ribs.

Finally, he exhales through his nose and looks up at you, green eyes sharp but uncertain in a way he would never admit.

“Are you going to stay?” he asks.

Not are you dating him. Not what are your intentions.

Just—are you leaving too?

“If you are,” Damian adds quickly, defensive walls snapping halfway back into place, “you should know that I would prefer honesty over reassurance.”

The hallway hums softly around you.

You realize then that this isn’t an interrogation.

It’s a child, standing very straight, asking whether another adult in his life is permanent—or temporary.

And waiting to brace himself accordingly.