BREAK IN ; [ damian wayne ]

xiv. damian

11/13/22
1:12 a.m.

Seeing him did little to ease her worries, especially as she scanned him from head to toe and noticed numerous bruises and scabs. They appeared quite old; the bruises had faded to a mustard yellow instead of the initial plum purple, and the scabs seemed on the brink of falling off. But that only made Charlotte feel worse for never noticing them.

"What the hell happened?" Charlotte murmurs, sliding her finger across his tanned skin and feeling the scarred flesh rise with her touch.

They were seated in his room at the manor that night. Charlotte had told her parents she was staying with her friends and had snuck into Damian's car instead.  Alfred gave her some tea, which she gratefully took, and invited her to make herself at home. Damian grumbled about how he could have told her that, and she whacked his shoulder for being rude.

He looked different at night, she realized. He was as bright as the sun in the morning, with all-consuming warmth and a presence that was hot to the touch. He shone with brilliance everywhere he went that sometimes Charlotte felt the urge to close her eyes and hide beneath his rays. At night though, he was darkened. His complexion shimmered beneath the twinkling stars, and his eyes shifted from a spectacular emerald to a subdued mossy hue. He wasn't all-encompassing and dazzling, but rather darkened like the city draped in smog, effortlessly blending into the shadows. He was calm and mysterious, his quiet strength drawing her in. It was a different kind of beauty that captivated her in a new way.

"Nothing for you to concern yourself with," he assures, as he gently takes her trembling hand and presses his lips to her palm. His kiss was soft and delicate, as if afraid she might shatter under his touch. Moving from her open palm to each fingertip, he eventually turned her hand over, planting a kiss on the back before placing it back in her lap.

"Is someone hurting you?" Charlie asks gently, peering up at him through heavy eyelashes. She pulls his from its spot on her lap with soft, gentle eyes. Damian can't help but grin at her endearing concern.

"No of course not don't be ridiculous." He tenderly kisses her cheek, and she utterly melts beneath his touch. His heart pulls with a ridiculous amount of fondness. Damian gazes upon her so sweetly that it almost gives him a cavity. She's staring at him as if he hung the sun, the stars, and the moon. But he didn't. He was born into the League of Assassins to serve as a weapon for his grandfather, birthed in a womb of lies and lust, and raised in a house rather than a home.

His thoughts churn in a whirlpool of contrary emotions, his fears like sharp needles piercing the delicate facade of confidence he exhibits to the world.

"I was never meant for love," he thinks bitterly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The idea of a caring partner seems exotic to him, like a faraway fantasy that he will never realize. How can he, the product of violence and deception, ever hope to have an honest, loving connection with Charlie?

The echoes of his grandfather's teachings murmur in the back of his mind, sentencing him to a life of darkness and isolation. "Love is a weakness," Ra's al Ghul's voice repeats in his head. "It will only bring you pain and distraction."

Damian knows he should push Charlie away and shield her from the chaos that stalks him like a shadow. But the notion of losing her, of being abandoned once more, strikes him with a profound terror. He's suffered so much in his young life, losing his mother, his father's trust, and any semblance of a normal childhood. Charlie's love is the one bright spot in his dark world, and he clings to it desperately.

Yet, even as he holds her in his arms, he can't shake the nagging doubt that whispers in the depths of his soul. "She deserves better," he thinks, his gaze falling to the floor. How can he offer her a future when he can barely come to terms with his past? How can he thrust her into a world where criminals and press alike threaten her very existence?

The lack of a true home haunts him, a constant reminder of the fractured fragments of his identity. His fears manifest in subtle ways, a hesitance in his touch, a flicker of doubt in his eyes when she speaks of them together. He yearns to be the man she sees in him, the man who hung the moon, stars, and sun. But deep down, he fears that he will always be the weapon, the assassin, the legacy of blood and darkness that he can never escape.

"Hello?" Charlie interrupts his thoughts with a sweep of her hand. "You in there?" She pinches one of his cheeks and gently puckers against the other. "I'm sorry I accused your dad of hitting you, that was classless." She lowers her head on his shoulder. He smells like the roots outside and the air after a downpour. He has a hint of her perfume trapped within the folds of his hair from their earlier makeout session. She chews on her lip.

He shakes his head, thumbing at the red spot on her lip where she bit. "Habibti, don't do that." After a brief moment of hesitation, Damian lowers his face, plants a kiss on the area where she hurt, and says, "You didn't do anything."

He knows he needs to tell her, that Charlie will only let his scars go for so long and allow him so much time to tell her before she demands it. He shouldn't have let her see it in the first place, but her hands made him weak and vulnerable. Now he must reap the consequences of his actions.

She is a wilted flower and under his attention she finds herself beginning to blossom.

Then, the window shatters.