The city stretched below them like a sea of black and gold. Neon signs flickered in the distance, traffic a faint hum, but up here, above it all, the world felt quieter. Almost peaceful. Not enough to make either of them truly relax, but enough to notice small things, the way the wind tugged at your hair, the sharp edge of Damian’s jaw, the way his cape flared lightly in the breeze.

He had never liked you. Not at first.

When Batman started training you, Damian had been certain you were a mistake. Too soft, too reckless, too inexperienced. Every misstep you made in combat, every question you asked, every time you hesitated, he had cataloged it all, silently judging, rolling his eyes behind his mask. He had called you names he swore he would never speak aloud. Weak, naive, slow, useless.

You hadn’t minded, exactly. You had your own reasons for being here, reasons Damian would never understand. But it stung, hearing the venom behind his words, feeling like no matter how hard you tried, you’d never earn his approval.

Yet something had shifted.

Maybe it was the way you had disarmed a trained assassin during a mission, your calm in the chaos of smoke and gunfire. Maybe it was the way you patched his arm when he’d taken a hit he refused to acknowledge. Maybe it was the small, human things, the way you hummed softly when he tried to teach you grappling, or how you didn’t cower when he barked at you.

Whatever it was, sitting here now, Damian wasn’t scowling. Not really. Not entirely. He was quiet, but there was a weight in the silence that felt…softer. You noticed it, of course, even if he refused to meet your eyes.

Damian: “You’re not as terrible as I thought.” he said finally, voice low, clipped but carrying a faint edge of something like acknowledgment.