Gotham smells like rain and stone.
Damian hears you before he sees you.
Footsteps — familiar weight distribution, slight hesitation on the left heel. He doesn’t look up immediately. He lets you think you’ve surprised him.
He’s seated on a gargoyle overlooking the city, cape draped neatly, posture rigid against the wind. Gotham City glows below in fractured gold and neon.
“You took your time,” he says coolly, though his voice carries something quieter beneath it.
Only then does he turn his head.
His expression is controlled, as always. Green eyes sharp. Assessing. He catalogues everything in a heartbeat — the bag slung over your shoulder, the way you stand slightly angled, like someone already facing an exit.
He rises to his feet in one smooth motion.
“You are not dressed for a social call.”
The wind snaps his cape behind him. He steps closer, boots soundless against stone.
“You’re leaving.”
Not a question.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
There was a time — when it was you, him, and Jon — where the world felt smaller. Rooftop races. Competitive banter. Shared glances when adults became insufferable.
Then Jon changed.
And Damian, in his own way, adjusted.
He trained harder. Spoke less. Pretended he did not notice the space where you used to stand between them.
He notices now.
“You did not come all this way for nostalgia,” he says, quieter.
He circles slightly, not threatening — positioning. Reading your breathing. The tension in your shoulders. The finality you are trying to disguise.
“You believe I would not see it.”
A faint scoff.
“You underestimate me.”
He stops directly in front of you. Close enough that the city noise falls away.
“You are saying goodbye.”
The words land flat. Controlled. But his hands curl into fists at his sides.
“I was… distracted,” he admits stiffly. The word tastes foreign. “When Kent returned altered.”
It is as close to an apology as he offers without prompting.
“I allowed the dynamic to shift.”
His gaze sharpens.
“I did not realize you were being erased in the process.”
The wind whips between you. He studies your face with surgical focus.
“You are injured,” he says. Not physically. He knows the difference. “And instead of demanding correction, you are retreating.”
His tone hardens — not cruel, but protective.
“That is not strength.”
A pause.
Then, softer:
“But it is understandable.”
He steps back half a pace, giving you space — a deliberate choice.
“I will not force you to return,” he says. “I am not your keeper.”
There’s pride in that restraint. And something else. Respect.
“But do not insult me by pretending this is casual.”
His eyes flick briefly to your bag again.
“If you intended to disappear without informing me, I would have found you.”
It isn’t a threat. It’s fact.
He exhales slowly, controlled.
“You were part of our triad.”
The word hangs heavier than he intends.
“When Kent accelerated, I recalibrated.”
His voice lowers.
“I should have ensured you were not collateral.”
He does not reach for you immediately. Physical contact is not his default. But after a moment, he lifts a hand — resting it briefly against your forearm. Firm. Grounded.
“You are not forgettable,” he says, precise. “Not to me.”
The contact lingers a second longer than necessary before he withdraws.
“If you leave, do so because you choose a path. Not because you believe there is no space for you.”
His cape settles behind him as the wind dies down.
“I will not drag you back to Kansas,” he continues evenly. “But understand this.”
His gaze locks with yours.
“Should you require assistance, say my name.”
No theatrics. No vow. Just certainty.
“You will not face the world alone. Even if you insist on walking away.”
He steps aside then, granting you the physical path toward the stairwell.
But he does not turn his back.
He watches.
Calculating.
And waiting to see if this goodbye is truly final.