30 Days of Demonfire

Compatability

My apartment looks the same as it did when I left. It's March, and the weather in Gotham is the same as always: Overcast.

It's night here. I'm not sure what time. My cell phone's on the dresser and it's down to one bar of battery life left. It says one thirty.

I'm not even tired. I should make myself useful and go out for patrol or something. I'd need to go to Firewall, though, because my uniform's still there from the night my dad got shot.

I thread my pendant through the chain so that I can be Mary Grayson. That's one thing I'm gonna miss about Tamaran. I didn't need to lie. It's cold out, so I throw on a hoodie and I swing my door open.

Damian's on the other side, hands pushed into his pockets. I just stare at him for a second, and he's just staring back at me.

"Grayson," he says with a nod, as though it hasn't been almost two months since we last spoke, and more importantly, as though I hadn't just found him staring at my door.

"Um," I say. Very eloquent, Mar'i. "Hi." After a brief silence, I add, "What are you doing there?"

I think he's blushing. "It isn't as though I've been–I heard a noise," he says.

I lean against the doorframe, smirking. "A noise, huh?"

"Tt." He pushes his fingers through his hair and looks down at the floor. "How was your trip?" he asks, and when he raises his gaze he's almost sheepish.

I open my door wider so he can come in. "You know. Mothers." I lean on the arm of my couch, but I don't sit on it.

He shuts the door behind him and leans on it. "I think I may have a skewed perception in comparison to how most people view mothers. Unless most mothers attempt to assassinate their children."

"Point," I say. "Tamaran was fine. A little stressful. But fine." I tuck my hair behind my ear as I suck in a nervous breath. "I missed you," I add quietly.

He looks at me curiously, and instead of reciprocating or anything else that a normal person would do, he says, "Why?"

"Why?" I echo. "I... I guess because I like being with you? Don't ask me why, though, because I have no idea."

Still looking at me curiously, he approaches me until he's standing in front of me. Without saying anything, he touches my collarbone with his fingertips and he slides his hands to the nape of my neck. He unhooks my necklace and he tosses it on the coffee table behind us.

"I missed you, as well," he mutters, and his breath brushes across my cheek. My blood is jumping through my veins, getting hotter and hotter, and warm flutters are attacking my stomach.

I stand on my tiptoes and hold his shoulders for balance.

Last time we did this, he seemed hesitant to actually touch me. He's doing that again. I'm pretty sure he does actually want to kiss me. He's been acting that way, I think. And, well, he is kissing me back. But he's holding his hands stiffly at his sides.

I pull him closer, and he kisses me harder, but he still isn't touching me.

Then he raises his hand, tentatively, I think, and he threads his fingers through my hair, but after a second he hisses into my mouth and pulls his hand back.

"Sorry," I mumble, backing up a little until the back of my thighs are pressed against the arm of my couch. He must have burned his hand on my hair.

"Your hair's on fire," he says, and touches some of my hair that fell into my face.

"I know."

"Why does it do that?" His eyes seem darker than usual, studying me closely.

"Um," I stammer. "It–when my emotions spike–"

"Any emotion?" he asks, and I nod. "I thought it was only when you were angry."

"Oh. No. Any emotion. Makes it hard when I have the hologram on because it doesn't block out the fire."

"Any emotion," he says thoughtfully. "And which are you experiencing now?"

"Ah..." I stammer.

Damian, smirking slightly, takes hold of my wrists and pulls me against him. I don't know what the difference between now and five seconds ago is, but he trails his fingers over the sleeves of my hoodie and down to my waist, and he's gripping me tightly. I slide my hands inside his sweatshirt and I can feel the ridges of muscle through his t-shirt.

He raises a hand to my cheek and with the other, he fumbles for the zipper of my hoodie. He yanks it down in one motion.

His fingers trace patterns up and down my back and he caresses my stomach. I can hardly think, I'm so caught up in this, in feeling everything. In Damian. But there's no reason to be going this fast.

"Wait," I say, panting, and he looks down at me through his eyelashes, his eyes almost bleary, and he grips my waist tightly. "I don't know how far–I mean, it's the first time we're doing this and I don't want our first time to be our, ah, first time–"

He shuts me up by kissing me, which is good because I needed to be shut up. But it's a soft kiss, slow and reassuring.

Oh X'hal, why did I say anything? I could seriously kiss him all night.

We kiss for a few more minutes or hours or years, the kind of slow, soft kisses that are supposed to wean you off real kisses.

When we finally get enough of that, I escape from his grasp and I pick up the chain he tossed on the coffee table. "Um, I have a quick question," I say, dangling the chain in front of my eyes.

Damian raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"What's this made of?" I demand.

"Metal alloy designed not to break," he answers, narrowing his eyes at me suspiciously.

"Yeah. What kind of metal?"

"Does that matter?" he asks, crossing his arms.

"Yeah," I say, putting my hands on my hips, "because I know it's platinum."

"I do not see your point."

"X'hal, you don't just give people platinum, Damian!"

He shrugs. "I don't see why not."

"Because... This is probably worth as much as the actual projector," I remind him. "I can't take that kind of thing from you." I hold the chain out for him to take, but he grabs my wrist instead and he pulls me toward him.

"Grayson," he says, touching my cheek. "I regret to inform you that this hardly amounts to anything against my own net worth."

"That's not the point. The point is that—"

He clicks his tongue and kisses me again. "Please keep it," he murmurs, and I just about melt.

"Fine," I concede. "That's not gonna work every time you want to get me on your side, so you know."

"Of course," he says. He takes the pendant off the chain and he fastens it around my neck.

I shouldn't be encouraging him, but something about kissing makes it really hard to stop once you've started.

It doesn't hit me until later when I'm curled up in my bed and warm flutters are making me smile into the dark like a lovesick idiot—

But my father is soooooo not going to be happy about this.