BREAK IN ; [ damian wayne ]

xxx. charlotte

10/22/22
3:54 a.m

Charlotte never cried.

Charlotte's mother liked to say that once she was born, Charlotte realized nothing in the world was worth crying about.

Emery Solstice had to guess when her daughter was hungry or sleepy even as a baby because she didn't make a noise.

Nothing was ever worth crying over, therefore Charlotte never did.

She adored herself, her personality and appearance, and she understood that confidence was the key to living. Comments about her appearance didn't bother her; instead, they rolled onto the parchment of her notebook, which was hidden beneath a leather binding book with fading yellow pages.

When her best friends left for college, she didn't cry; when her cat, Phoebe, died, she bit her tongue and pushed on with her life. She always felt there was no point in crying over spilt milk. Even if that split milk was losing her part time job or getting rejected by the creative writing program at her school.

The twins - Evan and Hannah Solstice were never separated; they attended BCU (Blüdhaven City University) together, and even though Evan won the full ride, Hannah never harbored ill will against him. They vanished like water in a drought, while Charlotte remained like a boulder, eroding with the tides.

Hannah dropped out of university after only two months when she'd been electrocuted in the science lab, it scared her off her entire computer engineering degree. She was on her feet quick and in a week was hired as a paid intern at Wayne Enterprises.

Evan continued in college but lived off campus with his twin; he was a prodigy and knew his entire family expected him to beat the odds of poverty.

Everyone in her family planned to build a name for themselves.

Charlotte set out to create something. Create a name not for her - but for her mind. She was made to create, to tell stories, and to let the words build a vision of a better world. She was drawn to her pen and her old laptop, where she created people with lives she could only imagine. Charlotte wasn't much of anything, but her stories were so full of everything.

Exotic kingdoms and meadows, as juxtaposed to the smog-choked Gotham. Characters with tragic backstories and obstacles to overcome, fatal flaws but salvation written throughout their actions.

Her books, her poetry, her words could cry for help. Charlotte did not cry. But at a young age she realized her words did.

At least before the tabloids came out.

Charlotte sobs into her pillowcase's cotton, her hands gripping the cushion with the tenacity of a mother bear safeguarding her cub.

In her dark room, an open IPAD reflects cruel comments, the only light a faint sparkle of bulb fairy strings and the amber glow of her lava lamp. Split pens littered the floor like shattered glass, the result of her previous breakdown.

The gala gown she'd purchased with Evan was laid on the floor, its layers of light lilac hue pooling on the carpet flooring. The intricate embellishments on the bodice are obscured by her bedspread, which she flung over the disappointment of something she mistakenly believed she might have.

Her phone buzzes incessantly, most likely her siblings checking in on her and the situation.  

Charlotte is terrified of checking the texts.

Her sister is easily enraged, and her brother's reputation has suffered as a result of her actions.

Realistically, she knows they're merely worried about her and want to console her, but doubts linger like a tweed sweater's lent. It is persistent and itchy.

If she had only listened to Damian, none of this would have happened; if Charlotte hadn't been so insecure about their romance, she could've been with him without Gotham realizing.

Bernard and Stephanie had fought to calm her fears, but she couldn't stop them from returning like an estranged parent. There for the worst of times and leaving everything more shattered in their wake. They come for the baby showers and disappear for the birth, wearing on their children's trust until nothing but hallowed apathy endures.

She's so caught up in her own misery that she scarcely notices the creak of her old wooden door opening. It rattles against its corroded hinges.

As his presence looms, Charlotte's only thought is of the one self-defense technique she knows - the one Damian taught her.

She whips around quickly and thrusts her hand into the offender's nose in one rapid motion.

It makes minimal contact, and in a second Charlotte finds her wrists pinned to her back and a chin on her shoulder, heavy breaths echoing in the quiet bedroom.

"Relax, it's just me." Damian murmurs into her ear, his grip on her arms easing. "I'm impressed that you remembered the move," he massages his fingertips over her wrists in calming strokes. "You almost got me."

Despite the absurdity of Damian being in her bedroom at three a.m., she finds solace in his embrace. "I'm like a swiffer - quicker picker upper," she says with a tiny smile.

Damian shakes his head and plants a kiss to the nook of her neck, letting his breath fan against lighter skin.

It's weird, Damian was always off put by physical affection. The only time he touched another person was to strangle them or punch them.

With Charlotte it feels right, instead of going through the violent motions his body sinks into the warm and pleasant instincts to comfort the girl he adores.

Damian is incomprehensible to Charlotte. He's holding her after literally breaking into her house - ironic given how they met - and the next thing she knows, he's telling her she has no idea who he is. He spins like a saucer on a slow sue, hot and cool and all in between. Damian goes through phases when it comes to love, and Charlotte is beginning to understand them.

Love.

It frightens her, but Charlotte can feel it enveloping her right now, in his embraces and under his lips, in the aroma of vanilla cologne she had pointed out in the store as smelling lovely. She can feel his affection through the thumbing on her trembling hands and the strong grasp on her arms to keep her from shivering herself sick.

"I scared you." He states simply and  Charlotte has figured out by now that when his voice hits that octave, he's trying to apologize. He just doesn't know how.

"I mean kinda, not used to people breaking in."

"I imagined you would be," Damian laughs in wisps of air.

She leans into him and knows at some point they need to have a serious talk. Not tonight.

Tonight she laughs and enjoys his attention. Later she'll reape the consequences of the love he sowed.

e/n (evelyn note) : im exhausted and will edit later goodnight