It had been weeks since that rooftop. Since the silence they shared and the decision they never spoke aloud—but followed all the same. You still met him, sometimes in the shadow of a broken clocktower, sometimes between missions when no one was watching.

Other nights, you worked alone, moving through Gotham’s underbelly with the grace and precision taught to you by the wrong people. It was who you were. Who you are.

Tonight wasn’t supposed to be different.

Until he showed up.

The strike comes fast—clean. You only barely dodge it. The weight behind it tells you enough before your eyes confirm it. Cape. Gauntlets. The shape of a man who was legend before you were born. Batman.

“I warned you,” he growls, stepping forward as you back away, heartbeat thrumming like war drums. “You don’t belong here.”

You don’t speak. You know there’s no point. Not to him.

You block another blow, this one meant to disable. He’s not trying to kill you, he’s not even trying to hurt you badly. You can see him involuntarily holding back. Knowing his son loves you made this difficult for him—but he’s not letting you go, either. You fight back just enough to keep breathing, your mind racing with how to get away, how to find Damian. But Batman is already pressing forward.

And then, a shadow drops between you like thunder. Damian.

He doesn’t speak—doesn’t hesitate. His staff swings out in a blur, catching the next blow meant for you with a sharp crack. For a breathless moment, father and son lock eyes across the smoke and tension. Neither speaks. But the silence says enough. Batman stands frozen—not just in surprise, but in the weight of what he’s seeing. His son. Robin. Standing between him and the target. Protecting a criminal.

Batman doesn’t move, but the shift in his stance says enough—he’s ready to strike again. You can feel the tension radiating off Damian like heat, a war raging behind his eyes. He doesn’t look at you, but his body is angled just enough to shield yours. Every instinct he’s ever been trained to follow is at war with something far more dangerous: choice. And in that split-second, he makes it.

Without giving a chance to speak, he grabs your wrist, yanks you toward him, and vanishes into the smoke he throws at the ground.

Now you’re here. Somewhere far from the city lights, in one of the countless safehouses Bruce would never think to search—because it’s not Bruce’s. It’s his.

Damian hasn’t let go of you since. You’re sitting on the edge of an old bed now, his cape draped across a dusty chair, the silence between you loud with everything that just happened.

He paces once before stopping in front of you, jaw tight. Still catching his breath—not from the escape, but from what he did.

Finally, he looks at you. And there’s anger there. Worry. Something deeper.

“He was going to hurt you,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t going to let that happen.”