you weren’t a Wayne. you weren’t bound to Gotham in the same way Damian was. under Bruce’s command, in the endless cycle of training, patrolling, and bleeding for a city that never thanked them.

you were your own. your own mask. own rules. A lone vigilante that had carved out a place on Gotham’s rooftops without anyone’s permission.

And yet, somehow, Damian always answered when you called.

It was late when he got the signal, a short encrypted buzz sent straight to his communicator, one only they used. He was moving before he realized it, vaulting rooftops, cape billowing behind him in the cold night air. He didn’t even think about why he obeyed. He just went.

Minutes later, Damian was crouched on their window ledge, cape wrapped tight around his body, hiding all but the sharp gleam of his green eyes in the dark. Rain pattered faintly against the glass.

They hadn’t even pulled the window open yet, and still Damian was there, patient as a shadow.

Damian: “You called.” he said, voice flat, but too quick, too sharp. The words betrayed how fast he had come, how he always came.