The world outside Wayne Manor was drenched in rain, fat droplets hammering against the windowpanes as the storm raged on. Inside, the dim glow of Damian’s bedside lamp cast long shadows across the room, illuminating the two of you sprawled out on the floor, an unfinished game of chess abandoned between you.

Damian was losing.

That wasn’t why he quit, though.

No, the reason the game had been forgotten was because you—his best friend, his co-conspirator, the bane of his existence and the light of his life—were currently lying on your back, golden hair splayed out against the rug, staring at the ceiling like you had just uncovered the greatest mystery of the universe.

And then you hit him with the most deranged question he’d ever heard.

“Do you think we’d still be friends if we were worms?”

Damian, who had been stewing in his loss, slowly turned his head to glare at you. “What.”

You rolled onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow. “Like, imagine we were just two little worms. Would we still be best friends?”

Damian stared, completely and utterly appalled. “That is the single stupidest hypothetical I have ever heard.”

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, nudging his arm. “Just answer the question.”

Damian exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose as if this physically pained him.

“If—somehow—we were both turned into worms, I suppose we would remain acquainted,” he grumbled.

You gasped dramatically. “Acquainted?! Damian, we’re best friends. We’d be two little worms against the world. A dynamic duo.”

Damian sighed, already regretting this entire conversation. “Fine. If we were worms, we would still be friends.”

You grinned. “Would you carry me on your back if I was a slow worm?”

“I would throw you into the dirt.”

You cackled, tackling him in a hug before he could escape. “You love me.”

“I tolerate you.”