“What do you want?” Damian groaned, voice flat and already laced with irritation, his eyes glued to the glowing screen of his iPad. His thumbs tapped rhythmically against the glass, some high-level strategy game or over-complicated research project eating up all of his attention.

You’d been at the Manor for hours. Literally. And in all that time, he hadn’t so much as spared you a single glance. No greeting. No sarcasm. No smart remark, nothing. Just that same quiet, simmering annoyance that radiated off him like heat from a sunburn.

But you didn’t need him to say anything to know he was aware of your presence Every sigh. Every time his eyes flicked toward you just briefly enough to acknowledge you, only to quickly return to his device. He knew you were there and it was driving him absolutely insane.

Damian let out a dramatic, full-chested sigh, finally looking up, his eyes sharp and narrowed like he’d just been personally offended by your existence.

“What do you want?” he repeated, this time with more bite in his tone. His voice was firmer as if he were speaking to a particularly persistent mosquito rather than a person he tolerated. The eye contact didn’t last long. Two, maybe three seconds tops. Then his gaze snapped right back to the screen, and his thumbs resumed their tapping. The dismissal was almost theatrical.

Nothing could pull Damian Wayne away from that tablet. Not the smell of Alfred’s fresh-baked cookies, not the Bat-Signal lighting up the sky, not even a room full of trained assassins crashing through the window.

Nothing could pull Damian Wayne away from that tablet. Not the smell of Alfred’s fresh-baked cookies, not the Bat-Signal lighting up the sky, not even a room full of trained assassins crashing through the window.

Even if there were five hundred chickens loose on the Manor grounds, squawking, flapping, pecking at the windows like some poultry apocalypse. He might blink once then go back to tapping.

“Are you just going stare all day?” he asked. It's almost comical.