Actions

Work Header

Homeward Bound

Summary:

Those millions of years of evolution kicked in once again, and his chest was seized by the icy grip of fear. Damian was keenly aware of his body, every glaring vulnerability, every gap in his body armor.

He was a mouse standing before a lion, and he had just delivered the lion some very bad news, indeed.

Damian Wayne has some vital information for the Ghost King. All he has to do is summon the King, deliver his information, and secure an alliance with him. Sounds easy, right?

Except, when the Ghost King appears, he isn’t some horrible eldritch monstrosity. He’s a teenage boy, with a handsome smile and cheek dimples. Uh oh.

Notes:

This is a gift for ruewend on Discord for the Haunting Heroes Anniversary gift exchange! Happy anniversary, everyone!

Wen, I did a bit of a combo of your provided prompts - I tried to incorporate both Danny being summoned as the Ghost King and Damian dating someone from the Phantom clan/family freakout! I hope you enjoy :)

There will be a few more chapters on this fic, probably 4 or 5 more. Enjoy!

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter Text

Damian slipped through the door of the safehouse silently, quickly scanning the room for any signs of life. Finding none, he released a breath, his shoulders going slack, and armed the home security system.

It had taken weeks of careful planning, but he’d finally discovered an opportunity to slip away from his family’s watchful eyes. There were many upsides to being in his family, of course, but living in a house full of genius detectives wasn’t ideal for a teenage vigilante.

To Bruce and Alfred, he was in Metropolis visiting his friend Jon Kent. Dick was in Blüdhaven, so he wasn’t a significant factor, and Tim was busy with a case, so he probably wouldn’t even notice Damian’s absence. Jason, of course, did not ‘give a shit’ about his whereabouts, and Duke was almost certainly asleep after his daytime shift. He hadn’t bothered trying to keep it from Cass, and if she knew, then Steph and Barbara likely knew as well. He probably should have been more worried about that, but they’d never sell him out. They had no reason to suspect that he was breaking any rules, after all, and he wouldn't give them one.

He tried not to be too smug about it, but there was some small part of him that couldn’t help but preen. He was breaking the rules right under the noses of Gotham’s finest, and if all went well, they’d be none the wiser. He couldn’t help but smirk to himself as he knelt on the floor, extracting a stick of chalk from his pocket.

For a long while, there was no sound in the safehouse, save for the quiet clicking of chalk against wood. Damian was careful, occasionally referring back to a picture on his phone to check that he hadn’t made any mistakes.

Acquiring the summoning ritual of the Ghost King had been laughably easy. His Father’s security parameters in the Batcave were excellent, but that same level of vigilance did not extend to the rest of the Justice League; John Constantine, in particular, had few safeguards in the House of Mystery, which was a weakness that Damian was happy to exploit.

It had been child’s play to break in, take pictures of the ritual book, and escape without arousing suspicion. Truly, their world would be doomed if not for Damian’s strict moral code.

It took longer than he would have liked, but finally, Damian stood up and stepped back from the ritual circle. He double and triple checked the design against his pictures, his lips thinning as he closely examined his work. Finally, he deemed it acceptable and straightened out his uniform.

He breathed out slowly, rolling his shoulders.

“Lord of Specters, Ruler of the Damned, Keeper of the Lost,” he said quietly, barely suppressing an instinctive jump when the chalk began to glow a bright, familiar green. There was no turning back. “I invite your presence to the world of the living, to step into the doorway carved here for you. Be welcomed by the laws of hospitality, may they bind us both. For you, King of Ghosts, I offer information, and request favor.”

As he finished speaking, an acrid, sour scent filled the room, as if something was burning. The chalk circle flashed brighter, and the atmosphere grew thick with energy. Damian’s legs were moving before he could think better of it, and he took two steps back from the circle before his knees locked up.

His heartbeat roared in his ears, his breathing growing heavier as a miasma of soft sound slowly filled the room. It was quiet, but unmistakable. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of whispers, their words indistinguishable from one another but their voices strained with fear. It must have been the Voices of the Damned, he realized with a start, and his hands shot up to cover his ears.

Even with his ears covered, he could hear the whispers growing, their cries reaching a terrible crescendo as reality began to warp and distort in the space above the circle. It looked like a heat mirage, shimmering and flickering, before the distortion grew and twisted, shapes folding in on themselves—

Then, as if he’d blinked and missed it, there was a figure standing in the middle of the circle.

Damian’s back straightened as he saw the Ghost King, and he was taken aback by a youthful, pale face. He’d known that ghosts could choose their appearance, but he hadn’t been expecting to see a boy around his own age. It was strange, but he tried to see past the creature’s youthful veneer. He had to focus.

The entity wore a dark green suit, complemented by a dark purple, nearly black tie, which seemed to twinkle with very small, star-like embellishments. Perched atop his head, laying neatly on a nest of white hair, was a green, flaming crown.

Damian’s eyes widened before he could stop them, and he inwardly cursed himself before schooling his expression. Still, there was the crown, just as the ritual said it would be. He’d done it.

The King was taller than Damian, but only by a few inches, and there was a hollowness to his face that spoke to a bone-deep weariness. His eyes were a startling shade of green, literally glowing, and cast a soft light over his cheeks.

Damian, still starstruck, was taken aback when the King’s eyes met his own and widened. The entity seemed just as surprised as Damian was, but then, a smile twisted his dark, frostbitten lips.

“Hi, there,” the King said slowly, his expression melting into something genuine and curious.

Damian managed to school his expression, but just barely, still struck with the realization that the creature of prophecy looked like a handsome teenager. He cleared his throat. “Hello. Am I correct in assuming that you’re the Ghost King?”

“I’ve been called that, yes,” the deathly pale King said, his smile flickering for just a moment. He looked around the room, his gaze alight with curiosity before it settled back on Damian. “And I’m assuming that you summoned me. May I have your name?”

Damian snapped to attention, his eyes narrowing. “You can’t have it, but you can call me Robin. I summoned you to make a trade.”

The Ghost King grinned, his teeth just a bit too sharp for comfort. He took a step toward Damian, nearing the edge of the circle, and asked, “What can I do for you?”

This was it. Damian had spent so long preparing for this, but faced with this ancient entity, he found himself nervous. Why was he so afraid? He was a Bat, the grandson of the Demon Head, he’d faced down far greater foes. This was nothing—

The Ghost King watched him with an earnest, curious expression, and Damian noticed that he had dimples. The King of Ghosts, the fearsome Ruler of the Infinite Realms, had cheek dimples.

“I request a favor from you, in exchange for information that you’ll find valuable. As a part of this favor, I wish to be allowed to freely summon you,” Damian recited from memory, his voice steady despite himself. He didn’t miss the flash of surprise on the entity’s face.

Those green eyes narrowed, the cheek dimples vanishing in the wake of a thoughtful frown. He surveyed Damian for a moment before tilting his head to the side and smiling, his shoulders open and relaxed. “Okay. Well, the summoning will be free, but I can’t always answer a summon. Sometimes I’m busy with Realms stuff, you know? But, yeah, a favor in exchange for your information, that sounds fair. Uh, as long as the favor isn’t anything, like, unethical.”

“Really?” Damian blurted out before he could think better of it. When the King only nodded, he was left searching for something to say. “Um… Yes, those are acceptable terms. We may discuss the actual favor itself at a later date, if that is… fair to you.”

He wasn’t overly surprised by the entity’s insistence on keeping things ‘fair.’ Constantine’s books had mentioned that many creatures of the Infinite Realms operated on ‘fae rules,’ wherein language could bind a speaker to the hidden implications of their words.

As a result, there were strict ‘rules of engagement’ when dealing with denizens of the Infinite Realms. He wasn’t supposed to apologize to the King for any reason, or thank him, or say anything rude. If he did, he’d probably eternally indebt himself to the entity, which wasn't a position that he wanted to find himself in.

At Damian’s mention of fairness, the King’s eyes lit up, his sharp teeth making a reappearance as he grinned widely. “Yeah, we can do that next time! For now, though, what did you have to tell me?”

Finally, they were back on script. Damian breathed in slowly, mentally organizing his thoughts before a thought occurred to him, unbidden.

“Do you know anything about an organization called the League of Assassins?”

The entity looked confused for a beat before glancing upwards, sharp teeth worrying at his lip as he seemingly pondered the question. Finally, he shook his head and offered an apologetic shrug.

“Yeah, no. Er, maybe that’s something that I’m supposed to know about, but I’ve got nothing. It sounds like it might be self-explanatory, though? Just based on the name.”

“It’s alright, I assumed that you wouldn’t know them,” Damian said, unable to hide his surprise at the King’s mannerisms. For an entity that was supposedly as old as time itself, the King of Ghosts spoke like a teenager. It wasn’t helping Damian’s lingering nerves. How old was he?

Focus, focus. He was getting off track.

“The League of Assassins is a mercenary and criminal organization serving the Demon’s Head, a man named Ra’s al Ghul,” Damian explained, and he stubbornly ignored his own mixed feelings about giving his grandfather’s name to this creature. It was necessary. Having the Ghost King as an ally would be an incredible advantage for the Justice League, after all.

“So, it’s exactly what it sounds like,” the Ghost King said, snorting in a rather undignified manner. Those dimples made a reappearance as he smiled. Damian nodded sharply.

“Correct. The League is widespread, and its members are loyal to their final breaths. It’s… a difficult position, to find yourself entangled with them.”

The King’s eyes softened as he nodded, his lips thinning in understanding. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, his tone appropriately somber. “You were a member?”

Damian winced despite himself. He needed control. He could not show weakness. “It’s complicated. I was born into it, and until a few years ago… Escape from an organization like that is nearly impossible, as you can likely imagine.”

This wasn’t exactly where he thought the conversation would go, but he wasn’t too upset about it. Talking to the King of Ghosts was surprisingly normal, and if he didn’t know better, he’d assume that the King was a teenager just like him.

Of course, he wasn’t, but it was an interesting notion.

“From my time in the League, I learned about their connection with the Infinite Realms. They have these… pits, which are capable of reviving a person from the brink of death. They’re called Lazarus Pits, but I suspect that you might know them by a different name,” Damian began again, and the King’s expression morphed slightly. His white brows furrowed, his shoulders tensing as if he was on the verge of physically recoiling. “I believe that it isn’t a substance from… our realm, but yours.”

Damian had been thorough in his research on the Infinite Realms. Most academic writings on the subject were utter hogwash (including the works of the leading researchers on the subject), but some incident reports in the Justice League's archive were useful, especially when cross-referenced with data retrieved from the Justice League Dark files.

From the look on the King's face, Damian could see that his information was accurate.

“It sounds like... It must be ectoplasm.” The Ghost King was eerily still for a beat, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape. Then, he snarled, and the temperature in the room plummeted. His voice was distorted and warped, layers of agonized voices underscoring his own as he growled, “They’re using ectoplasm for what?!”

Damian was stepping back before he could control himself, something primal in the back of his mind screaming danger! It was pure human instinct, one rooted in millions of years of evolution. He could barely fight it. He rooted himself firmly in place, taken aback by the utter fear that had consumed him.

He shook his head, raising a hand to clutch at his chest, and fought to regain his bearings. The crown on the King's head was blazing, a bright beacon of toxic green that drowned out all other light sources. It was mesmerizing to look at, even as tendrils of white-hot fear threatened to choke out his next words.

“They’ve- they've been using it to heal fallen operatives and, in some cases…" Damian took a deep, shuddering breath, fighting to maintain his composure. Finally, after a long, quiet moment, he felt steady enough to say, "Well, extracting information from an enemy is far easier when you can revive them after using extreme measures. I have personally seen them use such methods."

The King’s eyes narrowed in fury, their green light intense and unforgiving. The flames of his crown burned higher, but there was no warmth emanating from it to cut through the frigid air. His shoulders were squared, his frostbitten hands curled into tight fists. The atmosphere was thick with the sheer force of his anger, and… No, it was getting colder, that was it.

Damian’s breath was coming out in sharp puffs of frozen condensation, and his fingertips were starting to become numb. He balled up his hands and shoved them into his pockets, his body suddenly wracked with shivers as the temperature kept falling. Green-tinted ice crept along the floor, beginning where the Ghost King stood and spreading rapidly as he seemed to grow angrier.

Those millions of years of evolution kicked in once again, and his chest was seized by the icy grip of fear. Damian was keenly aware of his body, every glaring vulnerability, every gap in his body armor. He was a mouse standing before a lion, and he had just delivered the lion some very bad news, indeed.

“Of course, I shouldn't even be surprised…” The King hissed, and there was a faint sound of whispering. The Voices of the Damned were back, but this time, Damian could make out exactly what they were saying. He couldn’t help but catch their words, and his hands faltered as he went to cover his ears.

“The Realms hunger- His Majesty wakes-”

“Run, run- can’t hide, never hide-”

“All beware, never safe- He takes, He takes, He takes-”

Cold panic seized his chest, but he found that he could barely move. The ice had begun to creep over Damian’s boots, spreading up to the heels before he snapped out of it. He jerked his feet up sharply, dislodging the ice, which started to climb up his boots again as he regained his footing. He stumbled backward with a choked gasp, only stopping when his back hit the wall and he was out of the ice’s range.

What was this?! His heartbeat roared in his ears, adrenaline rushing through his veins, his entire body shaking with energy. He wanted to run, to get far away from this nightmare creature, but he couldn’t. He had to stay, he had to—

The whispers grew louder, their din only growing even as Damian heaved for air, his lungs screaming in pain. It was too cold, and his vision was getting darker. Was he dying?

His head was spinning, and his chest felt warm despite the cold. He’d felt this before, when he’d failed a mission and disappointed Grandfather. When he’d known that he would be hurt for his disobedience. Adrenaline coursed through his body, and his mind felt fainter than ever. It was like he was floating outside of his body, his vision growing more narrow as he tried and failed to catch his breath—

Then, a cold hand settled on Damian’s shoulder, and he looked up into green, worried eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” The Ghost King looked worried, leaning down to steady Damian. The entity’s other hand met Damian’s elbow, pulling him upwards as his knees buckled. The King shook his head, gritting sharp teeth, and huffed out a breath through his nose. His voice was almost human again as he said quietly, “I’m so sorry, Robin. I didn’t mean to… I'm so sorry.”

Damian couldn’t answer, still trying to catch his breath. Thankfully, the whispers had vanished entirely, and his heartbeat wasn’t racing quite as fast anymore.

“What- what was that?” He wheezed, leaning into the Ghost King’s steadying grip. His body was slow to obey his commands, which was immensely disturbing. He’d spent years training to be the ultimate weapon, but, in the wake of the King’s powers, Damian’s lifetime of training had amounted to nothing. He tried to squeeze his hands into fists, but could only let out a faint whimper when his arms just went limp.

“It’s a new power, I’m not… It makes people afraid,” the King admitted quietly, his face ashamed. “I can’t control it. Sometimes, when I get mad, it just…”

Damian’s mind was still foggy, his body still distant even as he fought to regain control over it. Still, he wondered if he’d been wrong about the King. If he was still getting new powers, maybe he wasn’t an ancient entity— maybe he really was closer to Damian’s age than he'd thought.

He made up his mind and decided to try something crazy before he could think better of it.

“I’ll accept your- your apology in exchange for another favor, your Majesty,” Damian said hoarsely, meeting the Ghost King’s eyes without flinching. He must have looked like a mess, all clammy skin and poor posture, but he wanted to try. “It’s- it’s the laws of hospitality. You caused offense, which means that you owe me reparation. Isn't that right?"

His voice was shaky, his mouth dry as if he'd spent a year in the desert. His tongue felt heavy, somehow, and he distantly recalled that slurred speech was sometimes associated with anxiety attacks.

The King’s eyes widened before he nodded quickly, his expression earnest and apologetic. “Yeah! Another favor, absolutely, that’s- that’s more than fair. Um, and you can call me Phantom. That’s fair, too, right?"

Phantom. He’d entrusted Damian with a name, rather than a title. In terms of the laws of hospitality, he’d put them on even playing fields— it was a kind of recognition that humans were hardly ever allowed from entities like this.

“Phantom,” he repeated quietly, only slightly taken aback. It was strange, but the name suited him, with his white hair and pale, sickly appearance.

He wondered how Phantom had died. Hypothermia, maybe? His frostbitten hands and lips were a clue, and from this distance, Damian could see that even his eyelashes were frozen. He resisted the nonsensical urge to reach up and touch them, immediately attributing the impulse to an intrusive, foolish thought.

After a few minutes, the room had finally begun to warm up again, and the ice was gone. There was complete and total silence, save for the gentle humming of electricity in the walls.

Then, Damian realized that Phantom had left the circle to reach him. Oh.

His mind raced with questions. Was Phantom bound to the circle, or had the book been inaccurate? Was it another aspect of the laws of hospitality? Damian couldn't think of any loophole that would allow him to leave the circle, but…

Maybe it was about fairness again. After all, it wouldn't have been fair for a guest to just stand idly by while their host was in visible distress— perhaps that was the loophole…

Or perhaps Damian had summoned a powerful entity into the mortal realm and he had no way to control it. He tasted bile at the back of his throat.

“I need to sit down,” Damian said numbly, processing the fact that his legs were still shaking. To Phantom’s credit, he took it in stride and immediately helped Damian stagger over to the safehouse’s small, slightly bloodstained couch.

Phantom helped him sit, lowering him down with an unexpected attentiveness. Damian collapsed against the cushions, winded despite himself. He felt like he’d been running for miles, and that adrenaline was still coursing through his veins.

“Again, I’m really sorry. Uh, I can leave, if that would make you more comfortable,” Phantom said, taking a step back. He wrung his hands, as if unsure of what to do with them next. “I really didn’t mean to…”

“Stay,” Damian gasped, still breathing heavily. The room was beginning to warm up, but he was still suffering from the effects of the King’s rage, his body wracked with residual tremors. He caught Phantom’s gaze, fighting to stay awake despite his exhaustion. Ah, an adrenaline crash. Of course.

This was an unmitigated disaster. He'd summoned an elder god, pissed it off, and now found himself completely at its mercy. He cursed his own incompetence.

Phantom’s expression morphed into a look of concern. “Okay, okay… I can get you some water, would- would that help?"

Damian hummed a faint ‘no,’ finally catching a deep breath. He closed his eyes, focusing on the monumental task of regaining feeling in his aching body. His fingers twitched by his sides, still a bit too slow for his liking.

“Need to finish,” Damian finally said, stubbornly ignoring how his legs and hands still trembled. He opened his eyes, blinking to adjust. He was starting to recover, even if it was slower than he would have preferred. “That wasn’t the part that you needed to hear.”

“There’s more…?” The King asked, sounding almost wounded. He took a breath, the star embellishments on his tie catching the light before he seemed to steel himself.

“Okay, okay, that’s… You can tell me, sorry.”

“And you won’t…?” Damian asked, wincing slightly. He didn’t want to put too fine a point on it, but he also really didn’t want to be driven into another supernaturally induced panic attack.

“Yeah, I think I can… Yeah.” Phantom had the decency to look ashamed, so that was something.

Damian watched him for a beat longer, taking time to watch his face for the tell-tale microexpressions associated with lying. Finding none, he sighed, leaning his head back against the couch cushion to stare up at the ceiling.

“…They had a prophecy about the Ghost King. I was young when I learned about it, but I remember that it mentioned a figure called the Sleeping Tyrant,” Damian said, and out of the corner of his vision, he watched Phantom’s entire posture change. After a beat, the being spoke.

“His name is Pariah Dark, that's who they’re talking about,” he said, his face growing solemn. There must have been some history there, something that he wasn’t saying, but Damian didn’t ask. “What did they want with him?”

Damian lifted his head, meeting Phantom’s worried gaze with a frown of his own. “Not him, but the person who would eventually defeat him and inherit the title of Ghost King. If I’m right, that’s you.”

He didn't mention the drawings, the depictions of a slim figure with white hair and a crown of green fire. It was clear that Phantom was the one they sought.

There was a tense silence as Phantom’s expression shifted. First surprise, then pain, and finally, solemn acceptance. He nodded, the fire of his crown dimming.

“Of course. It’s always something like that… Figures.” His tone was dejected, and even his pointed ears lowered. How often did he hear this kind of thing, that it wasn’t even a surprise anymore?

Damian filed away that information for later.

“I read some of their plans. It seems like they want to summon you and bind you into obeying their commands,” Damian said slowly, watching Phantom for any signs of anger. However, true to his word, the King remained mostly impassive, though it clearly was taking some effort to remain that way. "They have experts on magic, and I believe that they have the resources to attempt such a ritual very soon."

Phantom bowed his head, clearly processing that information for a long moment. Then, he stepped toward the other end of the couch and collapsed into it, groaning.

He covered his face in his hands, leaning backward as he did so. It was eerily human body language, and Damian’s lingering suspicions only grew stronger.

“Fucking… Yeah, of course. Sure, okay, that- that isn’t great,” Phantom said, his voice muffled by his hands. He pulled them away from his face, staring blankly upwards at the plaster ceiling.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Damian could only ponder their situation. On one hand, this wasn’t good for Phantom— on the other hand, Phantom didn’t seem to know what to do, so it wasn’t ideal for Damian, either. If Phantom was bound to obey the League of Assassins, then his favors to Damian were essentially useless.

He considered his next words carefully, still mindful of the nature of binding language.

“…I’m sorry that you'll have to deal with that,” Damian finally offered, glancing over to see that Phantom’s eyes were closed. He couldn’t really blame him.

Phantom opened his eyes and looked over at Damian, his lips twitching into a half-smile before falling again. “It’s not your fault. Thank you for letting me know, I appreciate it.”

Damian didn’t point out the fact that he was technically extorting Phantom in exchange for the information. It didn’t feel like the ‘polite’ thing to do, as Father and Grayson had managed to finally drill into him.

He hummed, glancing over to the still-glowing circle. He watched it for a moment before Phantom spoke up again.

“I’ll talk to someone about it. I think there’s a way out of this, but… It’ll be a pain.”

“Better to deal with it than end up bound to serve the Demon’s Head,” Damian agreed, absentmindedly checking the time on his watch. To his dismay, the display was glitching, perhaps due to the King’s presence. Interesting.

They sat for a few moments longer, the room falling into a companionable silence.

“…You gave me two vital pieces of information, when our original bargain was for one,” Phantom finally spoke again, sitting up fully. He turned to look at Damian, his face resolute with determination. “I think you earned another favor, Robin.”

Damian’s breath caught in his chest. The second favor had been a fluke, but being offered a third… He fought the smile that threatened to tug at his lips, instead giving the King a short nod.

“I appreciate that. You are a fair king."

With that, he reached out a hand, offering a shake, and Phantom accepted. His skin was noticeably cold, even through the material of Damian’s gloves.

He went to pull away after they shook, but Damian held fast. He cleared his throat.

“I hereby release you from parlay, and bid you safe travels in your return to the Realms,” he recited, and he caught the smile that graced Phantom’s lips. Then, he added, “Thank you for speaking with me.”

Phantom’s dimples were on full display as he grinned again. “It was nice meeting you, Robin. I’ll see you again soon.”

Before Damian could ask what he meant, the hand in his grasp faded, and Phantom was gone.

The circle in the middle of the room went dark, and Damian was left with a cold hand and a million questions racing through his mind.

 


 

Damian’s eyes narrowed as he circled Cass, his chest still heaving. His body burned with exertion, his shaking limbs sporting more than a few large bruises. His footsteps were slow and careful, and he didn’t dare to look away from her for even an instant.

Cass was panting, but there was a rigidity to her posture that spoke to her remaining stamina. She was a formidable opponent, even during a simple sparring match. Damian panted, warily eyeing her face for any movements that could give away her next attack.

Her face shifted and Damian surged forward, striking a fist towards her face. She blocked with her forearm and spun, her knee rising up sharply to meet Damian's side. He recoiled from the blow, but not quickly enough, and her kneecap slammed against his ribs harshly.

He growled under his breath, jumping toward her again. She kicked again, the flat of her shin almost catching his legs before he jumped, airborne for only a moment before he was spinning—

The side of his foot connected with Cass' forearm. His stomach dropped.

Cass grabbed his ankle and leg, twisting around with his momentum and—

He hit the training mat face-first, his leg burning almost as much as his face.

Above him, he heard Cass release a huff of air— a laugh. Humiliating.

Damian flipped himself over, but stayed on the mat. His chest rose and fell rapidly in time with his heaving breaths. He halfheartedly glanced up, and wasn't surprised to find that she had a smirk on her face. Before he could say a word, her hands were flashing through a series of signs.

'Distracted today. Why?'

"I'm not distracted," Damian retorted, though there was little heat behind his words. He stretched out his injured leg, tentatively feeling around the muscle of his ankle. It hurt, but it didn't seem to be sprained. "Just tired. Let's go again."

She clicked her tongue, prompting him to look up. 'No. Explain, please.'

"I'm fine!" Damian insisted, but based on her expression, she clearly wasn't buying it. He frowned. "I fail to see how it's any of your business."

'My brother, my business,' she signed flatly, but there wasn't much anger behind her movements. She was more insistent than anything else, which Damian could understand. They had a similar stubborn streak, at least.

He sent her a dark look for only a moment before he let it fall. Instead, he stood up and sank into a defensive stance, leveling her a scowl.

"Spar now, and we can talk after. Deal?"

Cass stared at him for a beat, her dark eyes narrowed. Finally, she nodded and ran at him. He blocked a blow towards his face, ducking under another, and her hands locked around his forearm in a tight grip. He fell slack, dropping out of her grasp with a harsh yank, and kicked his legs out—

His shin collided with her ankle, and he was rewarded with a sharp hiss of pain before she fell. He grinned, breathless.

Without giving her a moment to recover, Damian jumped at her, going for her throat. His hands closed around her windpipe, just as her left fist shot up and slammed against the side of his face—

Crack!

His head snapped to the side with the blow and he was thrown aside, rolling with the movement. He groaned, his vision whiting out even as he scrunched his eyes shut.

"Cassandra!" He griped, raising a hand to cradle his throbbing face. He saw her grimace out of the corner of his vision. "Damn it…"

She clicked her tongue again, her hands flashing rapidly through signs that he didn't bother to look up at. When he didn't look at her, still applying pressure to his rapidly-bruising face, he heard her let out a sharp huff.

Finally, Damian relented, looking up at her with a scowl. "What?"

'Dodge next time.' She was scowling, but her eyes were locked firmly on Damian's cheek, her hands pausing in the air for a beat. Then, she gave him a nod. 'Talk now.'

Damian almost said something rude, but held his tongue. He rolled his eyes, which actually hurt a bit, before rising to his feet. He motioned for her to follow as he went, setting out to the infirmary in the adjacent room.

Cass was a silent presence behind him as he pulled an ice pack from the freezer and immediately pressed it against his cheek. It stung unpleasantly, pain radiating throughout his entire face. He suspected that it was fractured, but he couldn't be sure until he saw Jon next.

Finally, he sat on the end of one of the beds, giving Cass a defeated scowl. "I've been busy. I'm working on a project, of sorts."

He tried to ignore the smug expression that overtook her face. She signed slowly, 'I was right.'

Damian shot her a dark look, but didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

'What project?' Cass signed after a moment, backing up to sit in a chair against the wall. When he hesitated, she signed, 'Our secret. Won't tell.'

He watched her face for a beat. He'd assumed that she noticed his absence when he'd first summoned Phantom, but he was surprised that she was so interested. Gaining the interest of another Bat wasn't ideal for him, especially if he wanted to see Phantom again.

"It's my project, not ours," Damian said, his tone bordering on a warning. He gave her a stern look, but she either missed the implication or simply didn't care to heed it.

'It distracted you. Not safe for patrol,' she signed, her movements sharper, more insistent. He was quickly starting to lose his patience. Then, she signed again, 'Maybe I could help.'

"I don't need help," Damian hissed sharply, gesturing up to his bruising face. "And if I did, it certainly wouldn't be coming from someone who can't even be bothered to pull their punches during a spar."

Some small part of him realized that he was being a total hypocrite, but a larger part of him— the one that knew that he would not see Phantom again if he was caught— was too angry to care. He was tired of his family getting involved in his personal business. At this point, some push-back was only fair.

Cass recoiled as if struck, her eyes widening. Then, she scowled, her hands flashing through harsh, jerky signs. 'Tell me, or I tell Bruce. Your choice.'

Damian was standing before he could even process his immediate, burning anger. He glared at her for a beat, utterly fuming, before spinning on his heel and storming out of the infirmary.

He heard her make a sound, too quiet to make out, and he resolutely ignored it. On his way out, he nearly ran into Bruce.

"Damian?" He heard his father ask, confusion coloring his tone. There was a choked sound once again, and an immediate, "Cass? What's wrong?"

Damian stubbornly kept walking, gritting his teeth as his frustration threatened to boil over. If she told Bruce, he'd find a way to deal with it. For now, he had an otherworldly entity to summon.

 


 

Getting away with this once was luck. Trying it a second time…

Damian took a deep breath, chasing away the nerves. His stomach was practically doing flips as he knelt on the floor of the barn’s loft, once again drawing familiar symbols on the wooden floor. The only sound in the loft was the soft clack-clack-clack of chalk against wood.

His first encounter with the Ghost King— Phantom, he reminded himself— had been an ordeal, but he had ultimately walked away unscathed. Now, he wanted to learn more about the entity, and to do that…

He needed to use one of his favors.

Damian continued to draw the circle, the movements already familiar. He cross-referenced the design to the pictures again, checking that his runes were drawn correctly, before stepping back.

Down on the ground floor, he heard Batcow moo quietly. He hated to stress her out, but he couldn’t use Jason’s safehouse tonight and he needed to learn more about Phantom. Besides, she liked meeting new people— even if Phantom wasn’t quite a traditional ‘person.’

Finally, he completed the circle and clambered to his feet, pausing to admire his work. He double and triple checked the design before clearing his throat, his heart pounding once again. He tucked the stick of chalk back into his utility belt and cleared his throat.

“Lord of Specters, Ruler of the Damned, Keeper of the Lost,” he spoke the incantation slowly, smirking when the chalk lit up a bright, acidic green once more. “I invite you into this doorway between worlds, binding us both to the laws of hospitality. Enter as a guest, honored and equal. I wish to speak with you and possibly use a favor.”

The circle glowed brighter, but this time, the whispers were softer, their voices less panicked. Reality again warped and distorted slowly above the circle, and the Voices of the Damned didn’t rise above a gentle clamor.

“Our Lord returns, he seeks the mortal-”

“He gives and takes, takes, takes-”

“We see the one called Robin, the hero, the traitor-”

Damian’s brow furrowed as he listened, but he didn’t cover his ears. Instead, he decided to test out a theory.

“What does he take?” He called out, and the voices went silent. They chattered and shushed one another, growing in volume before responding as one.

“Souls, echoes, ghosts- He will take them, bring them home, keep them there- No escape, Realms separate…”

Damian opened his mouth to ask another question, but before he could say a word, reality flickered and a green light appeared. The Voices went silent.

There, standing in the circle again, was Phantom. His crown still sat on his head, its green flames leaping up and flickering as he met Damian’s gaze with a smile. He wore a different suit, a dark blue three-piece with swirling gold embroidery decorating the front and sides.

“Robin,” Phantom breathed, his smile genuine though his eyes looked tired. His face was haggard as if he hadn’t slept between their first meeting and now, deep bags under his eyes. The ghost glanced around the room idly, his eyes catching on the bales of hay stacked on the other side of the loft. “Huh… This isn’t the scenery I was expecting.”

“The safehouse isn’t available to me tonight,” Damian explained halfheartedly, admittedly displeased about the situation. He wondered if it was rude to summon the highest being in the Realms into a barn, of all places. Then again, Phantom didn't seem to mind. “I know that this isn’t… ideal.

The King snickered, perhaps at Damian’s expression, before he abruptly gasped. He stepped forward, raising a hand, and motioned to his own cheekbone. "Robin, what- man, what happened to your face?"

Damian grimaced at the reminder. He raised a hand to absentmindedly rub at the bruise on his cheek, a twinge of pain radiating out from the injury. He'd checked it in the mirror before leaving the manor, and it looked worse than it felt. "Don't worry, I'm fine. I had a spar with a teammate earlier."

"I'd hate to see the other guy," Phantom said with a small, halfhearted smile. His eyes were still locked firmly on Damian's cheek, narrowed with worry. "It looks like it hurts."

Damian tactfully refrained from mentioning that the other guy was, in fact, a girl, and that she had won their spar. Instead, he shook his head. "I'm fine, really. I appreciate the concern."

Thankfully, Phantom took his word for it and moved on, sparing another troubled glance to the injury before he looked around the room. His lips perked up into a half smile, his shoulders relaxed and open as he took in their surroundings.

"So, why the barn? Other than the safehouse being unavailable, I mean."

"It's private," Damian admitted. "Aside from myself, there are very few people who would possibly come in."

It was also, in some small way, a safe space for Damian, and most of his family respected the sanctity of his space. If they knew that he was inside, nobody would enter without first knocking.

Phantom hummed, nodding along to the answer before apparently deciding that investigating the barn was more important. He turned and stepped closer to the loft railing, his green eyes raking over the room before catching on something down below. He gasped, his pointed ears perking up as he turned to grin wildly at Damian.

“Is that a cow??

Ah, so the King of Ghosts was an animal lover, too— Damian held back a satisfied smile. He quite liked Phantom, even after the misgivings of their first encounter.

“Her name is Batcow. She is friendly if you’d like to meet her,” Damian said, glancing down at the summoning circle. He knew that Phantom could cross the boundary, but he wasn’t sure about the rules of it. Maybe he needed to be invited? No, that wasn’t right; Phantom had crossed the boundary with no issues last time…

“Can I?” Phantom asked excitedly, turning to Damian with a bright grin. His enthusiasm was infectious, though it was possible that emotional projection was yet another one of his (seemingly endless) powers.

Damian didn’t fight the soft smile that tugged at his lips. He cleared his throat, motioning down to the summoning circle.

“King Phantom, I hereby give you permission to leave the circle for the purpose of meeting Batcow. You are… free to roam about the barn.”

Phantom laughed, stepping across the circle and immediately making his way toward the loft’s ladder. He started climbing down but paused for a beat to look up at Damian with a sly smirk.

“You know, you don’t need to grant me permission to leave the circle,” Phantom said cheekily before slipping down the ladder.

…What?

“…What?” Damian asked, quickly scrambling down the ladder after him. “What do you mean? The books said-”

“You already gave me permission!" Phantom jumped off of the ladder and politely offered him a hand. “I mean, the circle is a doorway, you know? The implication of inviting a guest into your home is that they’re allowed to come inside, they don’t just watch you from the door.”

Damian followed his lead down the ladder, only hesitating for a second before taking the extended, very cold hand. His boots hit the wooden floor with a soft thump as he contemplated the explanation.

“So, is there a way to change that? Not that I’d want to, but… I’m curious,” Damian said, wincing at his wording after the fact. He didn’t want to be rude, but he knew that his questions were often a bit too blunt for most people.

Thankfully, Phantom took his social blunder in stride. He extended a pale hand for Batcow to inspect, his face alight with joy when she butted her head against it.

“You could specify that I’m not a guest, but instead call me a visitor. Visitors are granted the same level of respect, but they aren't necessarily allowed to enter your home- er, your realm, in this context,” Phantom explained, reaching up to pet Batcow’s jaw.

“A visitor,” Damian repeated, nodding seriously. He considered writing it down for just a moment before thinking better of it. “I don’t plan to change the incantation, I was just curious.”

“I wouldn’t take offense if you did,” Phantom informed him, turning to look at him with a raised brow and a smile. “It’s a precaution, I get it. You don’t know anything about me, it’s only natural.”

Damian blinked, a weak retort dying on his tongue. He resisted the urge to say that he wanted to know more about him. He was begrudgingly fascinated by him. Instead, he scoffed, stepping past Phantom to the opposite wall.

“She’d probably take a treat from you,” he said, opening the locked cabinet where they stored her treats and miscellaneous supplies.

“She would?” Phantom was immediately by his side, peering over his shoulder at the bag. He stepped back sheepishly when Damian turned and gave him a look, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, that would be… That would be cool.”

Damian watched him for a moment longer, taking note of the green tint on his cheeks. Was his blood green? He opted to investigate that particular theory at a later date.

He shook off the thought and pressed one of the treats into Phantom’s cold hands, motioning for him to follow back to Batcow’s stall.

“You can hold out your hand like this,” he said, giving the ghost a demonstration. Batcow sniffed his hand before accepting the treat, her movements gentle as always. She was a refined sort of cow.

“Woah…” Phantom said softly beside him, and Damian preened slightly. With little coaxing, Phantom presented Batcow with the treat, his eyes widening further as she accepted it.

The ghost grinned as he pet Batcow’s face, his expression openly amazed. After a beat, he turned to look at Damian, blushing that familiar green hue.

“Er, uh… She’s- she’s pretty cool, and I never really got to… I mean, I’ve seen cows, but never really up close,” Phantom admitted, the tips of his pointed ears flushed green. It was fascinating to observe.

Damian took a moment to consider Phantom’s words. It seemed rude to ask how old he was, but… His mannerisms were telling. How old had he been when he died? Damian wouldn’t put him at a day over 15, and if that was the case…

Phantom probably missed a lot of things about being alive, he realized with a start. Damian wondered if it was cruel to keep summoning him, to drag him into a realm that he wouldn’t ever really get to experience again.

“Did you figure out what to do about the League?” Damian asked quickly, ignoring the churning mix of emotions in the pit of his stomach.

Phantom’s face fell, and Damian immediately regretted asking.

Before he could say anything, Damian quickly blurted out, "That was rude, you don't need to- um, you don't have to answer that."

“It's fine," Phantom reassured him, that same tired smile tugging at his frostbitten lips. Damian wondered if they were as cold as his hands. "And, uh… Sorta. We’ve got an idea that might work, but I’m not, um- I’m not entirely comfortable with it. It’s complicated.”

Damian’s eyes widened. He was silent for a beat, unable to think of any words of comfort. He leaned against the door of Batcow’s stall, crossing his arms.

After a long while, Phantom quietly asked, “You… wanted to cash in one of those favors, right?”

Damian looked up, trying to meet his eyes, but Phantom’s gaze drifted, his mind clearly elsewhere. In the absence of eye contact, Damian hummed in agreement. “I wanted to learn more about you. Information on the King of Ghosts is probably worth one of the favors.”

His words hung in the air for a beat, fading away into the small space. He tried not to take offense at the way Phantom’s face crumpled slightly, his brows knitting together in something like exhaustion.

“Maybe,” Phantom said, his tone non-committal. Then, he blinked and turned to face Damian, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I can still set terms on the favors, you know. You’d be bound to them.”

Damian only recoiled slightly at that, taken aback by the ghost’s sudden intensity. He nodded seriously, his lips thin. “I know. I’d have to accept the terms, first, but… I wouldn’t want to force you to answer a question that you weren’t comfortable with.”

Phantom just kept watching him, his green eyes suddenly more unnerving than ever. He tilted his head to the side, watching Damian warily before saying, “You’d be bound for the rest of your life. If you agreed to one of those terms, you would be literally incapable of disobeying.”

Damian didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what Phantom wanted to hear. Instead, he nodded, his breath catching in his throat.

There was something unspoken lingering in the air around them, a tension that strained the atmosphere. Was this what Phantom felt? The fear of being bound to someone else’s command, was he trying to make Damian feel that? To what end? Phantom watched him for a long, uncomfortable moment, before turning back to continue petting Batcow.

“I’ll pass on any questions that I don’t want to answer,” he finally offered, and Damian released a breath that he hadn’t even known he was holding. “And… I can leave whenever I need to.”

Need, he’d said, not want. Damian wondered about that implication for a second.

“That’s fair,” Damian confirmed, unable to help the relief that coursed through him. He didn’t want to offend Phantom, but there was so much that he still didn’t know. Some questions felt intrusive, but some…

“Is Phantom your name, or just something that you’re called?”

He was starting with an easy one, they both knew it, but Phantom’s shoulders lost some of their tension. Good.

“Kinda both. It’s my ghost name, it’s tied to me, but it isn’t my birth name,” Phantom said haltingly, giving a half-shrug. He paused, and a smile tugged at his lips. “Mind if I ask some questions, too?”

Damian hummed, as if considering the request, but he already knew the answer. “You may. That counts as a question, by the way.”

“Dang, you’re tricky. You’d be a better Ghost King than me,” Phantom said with a snort, but there was something sad in his eyes. “Alright, go ahead with your next question.”

Phantom had inadvertently answered another one of Damian’s questions, though admittedly it wasn’t one that he considered to be important. Knowing that Phantom had once been alive was useful information, though. He wasn’t sure how it would be useful, but still.

“Why did you challenge the former Ghost King?” He asked, and Phantom barked out a laugh.

“I didn’t challenge him,” he said immediately, shaking his head. The flaming crown on his head glowed brighter for a fraction of a second before dimming once more. “Pariah Dark challenged me. He did something that I couldn’t ignore, and he knew that I would fight him for it. I guess he didn’t expect to lose.”

Damian’s eyes widened. He’d assumed that Phantom’s ascension to the throne had been a carefully planned endeavor, one created out of the necessity to overthrow a tyrant. If he was telling the truth and it wasn’t a coup, then…

“You didn’t want the throne,” Damian said slowly, and he knew that his assumption was correct when Phantom flinched.

He was starting to put together a larger picture, and he didn’t like what he was seeing. Phantom, a younger spirit being forced to defend himself, only to end up as the sole ruler of the Realms… Damian didn’t envy his position.

There was a tense, uncomfortable silence. Damian had opened his mouth to speak when Phantom turned to look at him, his expression more guarded than Damian had ever seen it.

“Let’s say that you’re being faced with an impossible choice,” he said, his tone soft and wavering just slightly as he spoke. This was difficult for him, it seemed. “Your responsibility to the world, or your responsibility to yourself. Which would you choose?”

Damian’s eyes widened. He’d known that the League would be a problem for Phantom, obviously, but if it was troubling him to this degree… He considered the question for barely a second before shaking his head.

“I’d ask my allies for their thoughts on the matter, and to see if they could help me to find another path. Failing the presence of a third option, I’d…” Damian paused, and he found that he didn’t know what his answer would be. “Hm.”

Phantom chuckled, a familiar light returning to his eyes. It was nice to see. “Not so easy when you’re the one dealing with it, huh?”

“They’re poor options for different reasons,” Damian said, considering ways to create a defensible position. “If I chose the greater good, I’d never hear the end of it from my family. If I chose myself… There are only so many things that one can live with, I suppose.”

“…That’s a good way to phrase it,” Phantom said quietly, his tired smile returning.

They sat in silence for a while longer, the only noise to fill the barn being the occasional rumble from Batcow. Finally, Damian shook his head, a sharp exhale leaving his nose.

“Has the League of Assassins tried to summon you yet?” He needed to confirm a suspicion.

“I think so,” Phantom said, frowning. “There’s… feelings that I get, whenever I’m being summoned. It’s like every summoner has a frequency, you know?”

“And you’re being summoned from an unfamiliar frequency, which is most likely them,” Damian guessed, which was confirmed when the ghost nodded. He frowned.

“Why do you care?” Phantom asked suddenly, surprising Damian. His expression was inscrutable, his hands going still on Batcow’s muzzle. “I don’t want to be rude, but why? Just your own self-interest?”

Damian’s first instinct was to argue, but the question gave him pause. He hesitated, taking a moment to articulate himself. “There’s… many factors at play. One of them is self-interest, I’d be lying if I didn’t address that, but…”

He trailed off, unable to help it. How was he supposed to say this? That he was upset on Phantom’s behalf, angry that another person could be forced into servitude?

“There are many things that I don’t know about you,” Damian finally decided, his expression solemn as he watched Phantom. “However, I know one thing for certain, and it’s that nobody deserves to be forced to act against their will.”

Phantom’s eyes widened, and Damian was struck with the realization that humanity must have truly disappointed this entity at some point. The bar was apparently pretty low, if he was so shocked by common decency.

“You really mean that, huh?” Phantom said, very quietly.

“I do.”

Phantom watched him for a moment longer, his eyes softer. Then, he sighed, leaning away from Batcow’s stall and glancing up at the loft.

“I should go soon. Not now, but… Pretty soon.”

There was something that he wasn't saying, Damian realized with a start. Phantom hadn't been in a rush when they'd last spoken, had he?

“Of course,” Damian allowed, trying to mask his disappointment. Perhaps Phantom had Realms business to attend to, given his position, but Damian had been hopeful that this visit could last longer than their first. At least he’d learned more, this time.

He still had so many questions. Before he could say anything else, Phantom glanced over to him with a halfhearted smile.

"How about a lightning round? You can ask a few more questions, that way."

Damian couldn't suppress a smile. He wracked his mind for just a moment before asking curiously, "What does it feel like when you're being summoned?"

Phantom gave him an odd look, falling somewhere between fondness and exasperation. It suited his features, handsome as he was. "It depends on the summoner. When you summon me, it feels like I'm under a heat lamp. Answering the summon is like… It's intense."

"In a bad way?"

"No. Never in a bad way."

Interesting. Damian considered that for a few seconds before remembering abruptly that he needed to use his remaining time efficiently.

"Is it alright to summon you in the barn? I know that it isn't…" Damian trailed off, motioning to the scene around them. To his surprise, Phantom just laughed, and the warmth of the noise took Damian aback.

"It's fine, yeah! This is great, actually," Phantom said cheerfully, motioning to Batcow. He was still rubbing lazy circles into the underside of her jaw, his touch careful and gentle. "I mean, come on, this is awesome."

Batcow was certainly enjoying it, Damian noted with no small amount of satisfaction. He was still reeling at the fact that the King of the Infinite Realms was an animal lover. He'd been so afraid of Phantom during their first meeting, and that image had been turned around rather quickly.

Damian hummed under his breath, watching Batcow's ears flick in satisfaction as Phantom smoothed a frostbitten hand over her cheek.

"You don't need to answer this, and I know it's rude to ask, but… Phantom, how old are you?"

"A lady never tells!" Phantom said with a cheeky wink. "Besides, that's hard to answer. My birthday and my deathday are different from one another, you know?"

His deathday. Damian frowned tightly, his eyes catching again on Phantom's hands. His fingers were darkened and slightly cracked near the nails, the skin appearing thin and fragile. Damian's stomach dropped as he imagined Phantom's final moments.

How long ago had it been? Was Damian in the League of Assassins while a teenage boy laid in a snowbank, his body slowly growing heavy with hypothermia? Had Phantom known that he was dying? Had he been afraid to die?

The acidic sting of bile tinged the back of his throat. He needed to think about something other than Phantom's quiet, cold death.

"Sorry."

"It's alright!" Phantom said, and he seemed earnest. "Uh, I'll tell you what- if I figure out a solution to this League thing, I'll tell you how old I am. Fair?"

"Fair," Damian said immediately. He leaned against the wall of Batcow's stall, considering his next question, when Phantom spoke again.

"How old are you?"

He winced. Right, there was the whole 'secret identity' thing to contend with. "Well…"

"Ha!" Phantom barked out a laugh, still pleasant and warm. It was nice to listen to, even if it was happening at his expense. "See? Not so easy when it's yours!"

Damian rolled his eyes, letting out a huff. He couldn't exactly argue with that kind of logic.

"Fine, easy questions, then… Do you eat food?"

"Eh… Kind of? There's no food in the Infinite Realms. We don't need it, so there's not really… There's no use for it." Phantom frowned just slightly at that, and Damian noted that the crown above his head flickered and dimmed again. It must have been responding to his feelings.

"But you can eat?" He pressed, and the King nodded sharply.

"Yeah, I can."

Damian filed that away for later use.

"Do you… Hm. This might be rude again," he warned, and Phantom smiled. "Do you miss it? Eating, drinking… The animal parts of being alive."

Phantom's green eyes dimmed for a fraction of a second. He shrugged, pushing off of the wooden floor to hover, rising slowly and 'sitting' cross-legged.

"Yeah, I'd say so. I'll- well, I miss the taste of food, for one thing. Being full after a good meal, too. That was always nice. And drinking cold water? Man, that's an underrated experience, for sure."

How utterly sad, to remark longingly upon the experience of drinking water. Damian had the (rather rude) thought that he did not want to become a ghost when he eventually died.

Well, at least he had a new data point about the spirit— Phantom liked animals and food. He could use this.

"Alright… Again, you don't need to answer, but..." Damian absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair, worrying at his lower lip. He didn't know how to phrase it, but it was an important one. "Your predecessor, Pariah Dark- he ruled for thousands of years. How did he deal with the summoning issues?"

Phantom recoiled as if struck. A grimace twisted his face for a beat before he visibly composed himself, his crown growing dim. "It's, uh…"

"You don't need to- well, it's not something that we need to discuss, if you aren't comfortable with it."

"No, no, it's a good question, I just-” Phantom cut himself off with a scowl, clearly biting back some of the words. "He… He did something drastic. I have the option to do that, too, and it would work, but…"

Oh. Damian's eyes widened as understanding clicked into place. When Phantom had spoken about making a difficult decision, he'd been referencing this. Whatever Pariah Dark had done, it was clear that it would be difficult for Phantom to replicate.

"That's all I needed to know," Damian tried to reassure him, though he feared that his efforts were in vain.

Phantom straightened his legs, lowering down to stand fully on the barn floor. He shot Damian a smile that was more of a wince.

"I, um… I should probably get going. Are there any other questions…?"

Ah, an olive branch. A polite extrication from the situation, yes, but he didn't shy away from more questions. Perhaps being in the mortal realm was uncomfortable for Phantom, in some way.

"I don't believe that I have-” Unbidden, a thought occurred to him. "…Alright, one last question."

The ghost leaned forward, his eyes alight with curiosity. "Yeah…?"

“…Do I- well, do I need to draw out the entire circle when I summon you, or can I just say the incantation?”

"Ha!" Phantom let out a sharp laugh, clearly not expecting the question. “That’s your last question? Seriously?”

“It’s a big circle!” Damian argued, his cheeks growing hot. He scowled, crossing his arms as he searched for a better argument. “It’s a lot to set up! I’m trying to streamline efficiency here, thank you.”

“Oh my Ancients, you’re such a… Trying to streamline efficiency, you dork,” Phantom laughed, rolling his eyes. He stepped away from Damian and started climbing up the ladder to the loft, shaking his head as he went.

Damian was quick to follow, still sputtering through an explanation. “Well, what- ah, what if it’s an emergency?? I can’t be expected to draw out this entire circle in a time-sensitive situation-”

Relax, Robin,” Phantom teased, clambering up the ladder and onto the loft floor. He offered Damian a hand once more, which he immediately accepted. “You just need the incantation, I’ll hear you. You’ve already summoned me, so I’ll be able to tell that it’s you.”

“Because you already know my frequency,” Damian realized, nodding. It wasn’t a particularly scientific system, all of these feelings and ‘frequencies,’ but he was grateful for the explanation anyway.

He looked down in thought and abruptly realized that he was still gripping Phantom's hand. He looked at their intertwined hands for a beat, utterly breathless for some strange reason, and looked back up to meet the spirit's eyes.

He couldn't breathe, but it didn't feel like he was dying this time.

Phantom released his hand and stepped back over the boundary of the circle, smiling crookedly. His green eyes were alight with amusement, even despite the dark circles under them.

“Right on the money, yeah. I couldn’t mistake that frequency for anyone else.”

Oh, there was some kind of implication there. Damian wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something.

"Well," he began, uncertain. "I, um… I hope that you stay safe. If you need anything, is there a way that you can get in contact with me?"

Phantom's expression shifted into something more fond. "I think so, yeah. It might be a reverse-summoning situation."

"Reverse-summoning?" Damian asked curiously. He wasn't sure that he loved the idea of being pulled away at a moment's notice— of course, he thought, that was probably how Phantom felt.

"It's not what you're thinking," Phantom said quickly, shaking his head. "I'd be able to pull myself to you, not the other way around. I've seen other ghosts do it, so I know it's possible! I'd just need some lessons, first."

Yet another reminder of Phantom's inexperience. He held himself back from just asking about the spirit's age again. He'd know eventually, he just needed to be patient.

"Right," Damian said, managing a small smile. Finally, he cleared his throat, motioning for Phantom to step back into the circle. "King Phantom, I formally release you from our parlay. I hope that you remain safe until our next meeting, and welcome you to reach out if there is anything that you would wish to discuss."

"You're so formal," Phantom chuckled as the runes began to glow a brighter shade of green. "Don't be a total stranger, alright? You don't have to summon me just for a favor."

Damian's eyes widened, but he couldn't help a small smile at that. So, Phantom liked being summoned? That was intriguing.

Yet another data point. Phantom was an intriguing puzzle, to say the least.

"I'll keep that in mind," he granted, and the King of Ghosts grinned. With that, he vanished, and Damian was left alone in the hayloft.

He watched the chalk markings slowly begin to dim, and he wondered why his heart was beating so quickly.

In the ensuing silence, Damian found himself standing still, watching the space formerly occupied by Phantom with a strange heaviness in his chest. There had been more to say, so much more, but he wasn't sure how to express it.

After what felt like an eternity, he shook himself out of his stupor and stepped away. He climbed down the barn ladder without aplomb, greeting Batcow with a tired smile.

"He'll be back," he said quietly, and he meant it. He didn't have any plans for the next favor, and Phantom had even given his blessing for a social call. "I promise."

She blinked large, brown eyes at him, her tail making quiet thwap sounds against the wall to her side. He chose to believe that she was forgiving him and slipped out of the barn without another word.

In the moments after his first encounter with Phantom, Damian had been physically drained— now, he was all but energized, his mind brimming with new plans and theories about the entity. He took in a slow, deep breath, and a thought occurred to him, unbidden; did Phantom breathe? Did he need to breathe anymore?

He closed the barn door and secured the latch, careful to keep the volume down. He surveyed the shadows for a beat before beginning the trek back up to the mansion. In the dead of night, there were few other sounds, save for the faint chirping of crickets and a faraway, lonely owl.

Damian was hardly more than a shadow as he slipped back in through the back door, careful to muffle his footsteps. Showing up in the Manor while in costume was expressly forbidden, but he was sure that he had successfully diverted all avenues of discovery—

"Good evening, Young Master Damian," greeted a quiet voice from his left.

Damian jolted, his entire body stiffening as if he'd grabbed a live wire. He whirled around, eyes wide, and was met with the silent judgment of Alfred.

Why was Alfred awake? Damian's stomach dropped as he realized that he hadn't accounted for a deviation in routine. He wanted to curse, and very nearly did.

"Pennyworth," he greeted stiffly, giving the butler a respectful nod. He didn't miss the way that Alfred's eyes crinkled with amusement, nor the way his gaze flickered meaningfully downwards to his Robin uniform. "Good evening."

Alfred leaned back in his armchair, his hands resting around a steaming mug of tea. Damian had half a mind to inspect it before he remembered that he was in a very precarious position, indeed.

"I do not suppose that Master Bruce has lifted the ban on capes in the house, has he?" Alfred asked slowly, his upper lip curling with amusement. He wore smugness very well, Damian had to admit.

"He has not," Damian admitted begrudgingly, feeling his cheeks grow warm. He resisted the urge to fidget with his hands and instead met Alfred's gaze evenly, sticking out his chin and saying, "I had an urgent commitment, you see."

"Oh?" Alfred said, raising a gray brow. He idly blew on his tea, the steam beginning to slowly dissipate from its surface. "Perhaps with your friend, young Mister Kent?"

"You are correct," Damian said immediately, nodding sharply. For a brief moment, he had half a notion to believe that he had actually gotten away with it, and then Alfred smiled.

"And this urgent commitment had nothing to do with the green light coming from the barn?"

Damian didn't bother to hide the wince that immediately overtook his face. Drat.

"It might have, perhaps," he admitted. He watched Alfred's face closely, his heart in his throat. The old man's expression remained the same, the picture of indifference. "Is that… an issue?"

Alfred's impassive stare bore him down for a long, agonizing moment. Then, the butler shook his head.

"I'd only wish to remain informed on such matters in the future, Master Damian."

Damian's shoulders relaxed. As much as Alfred was the enforcer of conduct around the Manor, he was still one of the few reasonable adults in Damian's life. The fact that he wasn't outright demanding answers was a boon, in itself.

"Of course," Damian said, bowing his head slightly. Before he could gather his wits to say anything more, Alfred motioned to the side.

"Perhaps you should go get changed, Master Damian? If there are still no capes permitted in the house."

He nodded sharply and fled, the sound of Alfred's quiet laughter following him all the way down the stairs to the Batcave.

 

Chapter 2

Summary:

Damian has places to be and people to see. One of those people happens to be dead, of course.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

The streets of Gotham were empty, but very much alive with familiar, faint sounds. Echos of distant gunshots, car horns honking into the din of midnight, and underneath it all, the near-silent footsteps of Robin's boots carrying him closer to his target.

Damian had prepared for this. He'd spent nearly two weeks planning out his exact movements, contacting the right people, and conducting research. Now, all of his scheming had finally come to fruition. Every calculated move, every quiet moment of planning, it had all been worth it for this. He tried to ignore the way his stomach twisted with nerves.

He leapt silently to another rooftop, his target finally within sight. His eyes narrowed behind his domino mask, catching on the dim lights of the restaurant. The street below was completely deserted. His research had been thorough.

Damian rappelled down the side of the building, landing as quiet as a whisper in a nearby alleyway. He crept out of the shadow and slipped in the front door of the restaurant, mindful to flip the sign on the door from 'Open' to 'Closed.'

He surveyed the quiet restaurant for a beat, his careful gaze sliding over unoccupied seats and neatly arranged tables. Finally, he called out, "Ms. Zhang?"

"Oh!" A startled exclamation from the kitchen rang out, and Damian couldn't suppress a huff of amusement. He started walking in that direction. "Robin, you're early! Come in, come in!"

"My schedule was rearranged at the last minute," he explained as he stepped through the dining room and proceeded into the kitchen. "I apologize."

"No, no apologies!" Ms. Zhang said cheerfully, turning to greet him from the stove. She was moving an empty wok off of the flame, setting it onto another burner before clicking the gas off. "Here's your food, right there- oh, and there are cheesecakes in the fridge for you!"

Damian nodded his thanks, surveying the large takeout boxes on the side table before turning to meet her gaze again. "Thank you, ma'am. Your payment-”

"You kids saved my life, you don't pay!" Ms. Zhang said sharply, her wrinkled face twisting into a stern frown. "Ah, and don't argue with your elders! No paying!"

"-Your payment for your silence," Damian said insistently, producing an envelope of cash from his utility belt. He pushed it into her hands, giving her a stern look in return. "Please. Having the restaurant to ourselves is already so much."

She opened her mouth, perhaps to argue, but finally slumped her shoulders in defeat. Instead, she reached out and pinched his cheek, clicking her tongue. "So rude to your elders… Eat well, Robin. Too skinny."

He didn't bother to argue with her. Instead, he gave her a small smile and nodded, mindful of her hand on his cheek. "Yes, ma'am."

Her dark eyes softened and she released his cheek, rubbing a thumb over where she'd pinched him. "Lock up tonight when you're done. I'll be upstairs if you need anything."

"Thank you, Ms. Zhang," Damian said sincerely, bowing his head. She gave him another pat before shuffling out of the kitchen, and he made a mental note to finish washing the dishes once they were done for the night.

As much as he loved being Robin, fighting by his father's side and truly proving his utility, he didn't always love Gotham. The sun had all but abandoned them, constantly hiding behind an oppressive gloom of clouds, and the criminal underbelly was always fighting to break free. This was the city that had stolen his father's childhood, murdered his grandparents, and tormented almost all of his siblings. Gotham was a hostile environment, even at the best of times.

Yes, there were many things to dislike about Gotham, but never the people.

His fellow vigilantes, who donned their masks by night in the hopes of creating a better world; Gotham's normal citizens, who did their best to live happy lives in a city teeming with crime; even the reformed criminals, those who had seen the darkest parts of Gotham and still sought to be better.

Damian stepped out of the kitchen and began the slow process of arranging the dining room to his liking. He pushed the tables aside with care, arranging the trays of food neatly atop them. Finally, he situated their table in the middle of the room, lighting a candle for the centerpiece and setting their places with cups of ice water, plates, and utensils.

His stomach was doing flips, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. He took a slow, deep breath to steady himself, but it was in vain. He had little reason to fear Phantom, but it seemed that his body hadn't realized that yet.

There was something about Phantom that made him nervous. Maybe it was his eyes, intense and focused, always watching Damian attentively. Maybe it was his hands, firm and steady against Damian's arms, hauling him upwards with surprising, unnatural strength. Worse, maybe it was his mouth, hiding sharp teeth and a mischievous smile, his lips dark with frostbite—

He shuddered. Whatever it was, he needed to ignore it. This wasn't productive.

He absentmindedly straightened out his cape, smoothing his gloved hands over the slick fabric. Then, after a beat, he unbuckled the attachments on his wrists, carefully sliding the gloves off.

He tucked his gloves away into his pocket, finally flexing his bare hands. It was a little known secret that vigilantes usually removed their gloves for meals, if only because they were prone to retaining smells and stains.

Damian stepped back from the table and surveyed the room, frowning to himself. He made a mental note to ask Alfred for tips on hosting— surely the butler would have useful insight, or at the very least, could guide him in the direction of the proper resources.

He took a deep breath. His heart was in his throat as he said quietly, "Lord of Specters, Keeper of the Damned, Ruler of the Lost- Phantom, I invite you into the mortal realm once more to come in peace and dine at my table."

The room was completely silent, save for the gentle thrum of electricity in the walls and the seemingly-deafening beating of Damian's heart. Then, every candle in the room lit up, glowing a stark, familiar green. There were no whispers, no voices— just the gentle flickering of green flame and a heavy, nigh tangible atmosphere of tension.

Damian watched as the air in front of him folded, reality shimmering like a mirage as the universe itself shifted. Then, slipping out of that strange tear in the fabric of reality, was Phantom.

Phantom blinked, green eyes wide as he looked around the room. As usual, he was wearing a suit, but this one was a deep, rich black, but shone a dark green when the light hit it at the right angle.

When their eyes met, Phantom smiled, his expression warm and pleasant. His eye bags, while ever-present, weren't so pronounced. He still looked unhealthy by human standards, but not terribly so. "Hi, Robin."

"Phantom," Damian breathed, feeling rather like he'd been punched in the chest. He bit back the nerves and greeted the ghost with a smile. "It's good to see you. I'm sure that you heard the incantation, but…"

He stepped back and held up an arm, motioning to the table behind him and the trays of food.

Phantom made a soft noise of confusion, his eyes widening as he stepped closer. A green flush rushed up his cheeks, coloring out to the very tips of his pointed ears. It was strange, but it suited him.

"This is for me? I mean, for us? To share?"

Damian nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak, and watched Phantom's face closely. He couldn't help his fascination with the ghost, not really— Phantom was just an incredible being. He was confusing, a figure of fearsome power and morbid reputation, but he was so painfully, horribly human.

"When we last spoke, you mentioned that you miss eating food. I wanted to take that into consideration," Damian explained, stepping over to the table and picking up their empty plates. He handed one to Phantom and led him to the table of food, smirking proudly to himself as the ghost looked over the spread with open shock.

Phantom turned to him, his green eyes creased in awe. "You remembered that? Really?"

"Of course," Damian said unthinkingly, nodding. "You're the Ghost King, and keeping your favor is the best way to secure an alliance between the Realms and the Justice League."

Something pained flickered behind Phantom's eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. Damian didn't have much time to ponder it before the ghost spoke again.

"Right," Phantom said, a small smile tugging at his frostbitten lips. His gaze slid away from Damian and towards the table of food. "So, you rented out a whole restaurant? And had all of this made?"

"It was a favor from a civilian contact," Damian explained. He almost explained more, but caught himself looking intently at Phantom's hands. He'd caught himself thinking about Phantom's hands quite a bit over the last two weeks. "You… Phantom, this may be insensitive, but are you able to use your hands very well? I apologize, I should have taken that into consideration."

The ghost's eyes widened, and he raised a hand, flexing it seemingly on reflex. The skin on his fingers was dark, seemingly paper thin, and Damian hesitated for only a second before he reached out to grab it. The action elicited a soft, startled noise from Phantom, but he didn't pull away. Damian took that as a good sign. "I- oh…."

Phantom's hand was icy in his own, his fingers bony and delicate. Damian carefully examined the discoloration, tracing a finger down the ghost's hand. His skin was surprisingly soft, and Damian idly flipped his hand over, rubbing a thumb over his palm to check for callouses. He found none.

"There are no lesions on your fingertips, and your tendons seem to be intact. The color is consistent with hypothermia, though," Damian mused to himself, pausing when Phantom's fingers twitched. He glanced up at him, only to freeze when he took in the expression on the ghost's face.

Phantom's pointed ears were angled downward, his green eyes wide and his eyebrows arched high. His cheeks were flushed with a soft green hue, and yet again, Damian wondered if his blood was green. Phantom's gaze flickered between Damian and his own hand, as if he was trying to communicate with his eyes that he was—

Oh. Phantom was afraid.

Yes, the lowered ears— dissimilar to most animals but their movements still familiar through that context— must have meant that Phantom was upset, and paired with his wide, clearly frightened eyes? And the blush on his cheeks, a familiar signal in mammalians of intense, sometimes negative emotions. The realization sat in Damian's stomach like a rock. He'd scared Phantom.

Damian released Phantom's hand like it was on fire, quickly taking a step back. "Oh, no, I didn't- I apologize, Phantom, I did not intend to cause offense. It won't happen again."

"You- I mean, you didn't…" Phantom trailed off, clutching his hand to his chest. He shuddered visibly, and Damian was hit with a sudden wave of guilt. He'd missed so many signs that Phantom was uneasy. "You didn't, uh… I'm not offended. I can use my hands just fine, the frostbite thing is just- that's just what I look like."

Oh. Damian winced at that, realizing with a start that he'd been very cruel, indeed. If Phantom's fine motor skills would have been an issue, he would have said something— it was hardly Damian's place to question that. His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

He didn't know what to say. How was he supposed to fix this? Thankfully, Phantom seemed to take pity on him and shot him a small smile.

"Let's just eat, okay? I promise, I can use my hands just fine," Phantom said, his green flush only darkening. He stepped up to the table, brushing past Damian's shoulder gently, and began piling food onto his plate. "Man, this looks great! How'd you find this place?"

"In truth, I wasn't the one who found it," Damian admitted, falling into step behind Phantom. He was pleased to see that Ms. Zhang had separated the non-vegetarian options and had even labeled them, and he began adding items to his own plate. "Another vigilante did. The owner of this restaurant was being blackmailed by a local gang, and once we started cleaning up the area, we were able to recoup some of her losses and assure her safety."

He was grateful for the change in topic. That was another thing about Phantom that was pleasant— no matter the blunder, he was somehow always willing to look past it. Even Damian's family had difficulty doing the same, yet here was Phantom, brushing past his most egregious missteps as easily as breathing.

His chest twinged. How funny, that he found an ally from another plane of existence more welcoming than his own peers. He wondered if it said more about him or more about Phantom.

"Oh, that's so cool!" Phantom said brightly, still continuing down the line of food. He paused to pile eggrolls onto his plate before asking, "Who are the other vigilantes?"

Damian let out a snort before he could stop himself. "There are quite a few of them. I'll keep it brief for your sake."

"Oh, no, you don't have to!" Phantom said quickly, turning to face him. His expression was almost fond, his shoulders relaxed and open. "I really like hearing about your life, it's one of my favorite things about your summons. I'd be happy to hear more about your friends!"

Phantom liked hearing about him? Damian's eyes widened, but he could imagine why. There probably weren't many other younger spirits in positions of power in the Infinite Realms, so maybe Phantom was just looking forward to talking to someone closer to his age. There was also the possibility that he just liked Damian himself, which was flattering in theory but ultimately unlikely.

"Do you know anything about the other Gotham vigilantes?" Damian asked instead. "Batman, the Signal, Nightwing?"

He wasn't sure how much Phantom knew about the mortal world, especially considering how recently he had (probably) died. The idea that Phantom had been alive while they'd been active was… strangely uncomfortable.

(Had someone failed to save him? Had Phantom died a cold, quiet death somewhere, all because some hero wasn't fast enough? Was it possible that Damian had failed to save him?)

"I studied these!" Phantom said brightly, dishing a pile of lo mein onto his plate. "Batman's a guy in a bat suit, right? With the bat ninja stars and scary wings?"

A sharp laugh escaped Damian's throat before he had even fully processed Phantom's words. "Wings? Who told you that?"

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw that familiar green-tinged blush reappear. "The royal archives. They're not- well, no, they're accurate, but I'm not great at navigating them yet. I was mostly reading up on your entries."

Oh. Damian felt his face heat up, only slightly. He supposed it was fair— arguably, it was simple due diligence, and really, he should have expected it— but he couldn't help but wonder. What had Phantom read? Was it all about Damian's stint as Robin, or had there been information on the others?

"He doesn't have wings," Damian finally admitted, careful to watch what he said. As much as he enjoyed being around Phantom, he couldn't compromise their operation. "But yes, he has a wide array of bat-themed projectiles. He is an excellent vigilante, entirely devoted to his mission."

There was so much more, hovering just on the tip of his tongue, barely held back. There was so much of his life that he just couldn't share with Phantom, not now— not with so many unknown variables. His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

Phantom hummed, adding more to his plate before stepping back from the table of food. He looked out over the spread again before meeting Damian's eyes with a bright smile. "That's pretty cool! And you're… I'm sorry if this isn't the word you'd use, but you're like a sidekick to him, right?"

"Sidekick, right hand, yes," Damian said, inclining his head. "He's a mentor, in some ways."

Technically it wasn't a lie, but it felt sour in his mouth all the same. He didn't enjoy lying to Phantom, but it was necessary. They were allies, yes, but no closer than Damian would permit any other ally.

He added more noodles to his plate before stepping back over to the table, Phantom following closely behind him. Before he could say anything else, Phantom very quietly asked, "So, why did you summon me, then? Instead of Batman?"

Damian tensed, putting his plate down on the table. He turned to Phantom, noting idly that the ghost's expression seemed guarded. Hm.

"Well…" Damian trailed off uncertainly. He hadn't anticipated this question, which was an oversight on his part. A foolish mistake. "He… This is an operation that has been designated solely to me."

Phantom's eyes narrowed, their green glow intensifying. There was the slightest pull to his lips, a hint of a smile. "He doesn't know, does he?"

It was embarrassing how easily Phantom could see through his subterfuge. They hardly knew one another, and yet.

Damian winced. He offered Phantom an apologetic smile, though it felt more like a grimace on his face. "No, he does not. In all honesty, I had not anticipated that our meeting would… Well, you surprised me, to say the least."

In some way, it was technically Phantom's fault. Phantom, who had been nothing but accommodating since they'd met, who had been kind to a fault, who had fascinated Damian beyond words.

Damian cleared his throat, his stomach twisting as he truly considered the reason. "I don't get to do many things by myself. The other Gotham vigilantes are overbearing at times, and I don't often have the opportunity to…"

"Spread your wings?"

He nearly laughed at the suggestion. "Something like that."

Phantom's eyes softened, melting into something like fondness. "So, you summoned an unknown entity without telling anyone what you were doing?"

"Hardly unknown, I did my research!" Damian protested weakly, taking a seat at the table. Phantom rolled his eyes and sat opposite him, putting his own plate down. "And I was adequately equipped, it would seem."

"Can't argue with you there," Phantom said, grinning widely as he gestured around them. "I mean, I'm getting a free meal out of the deal! This worked out pretty well."

Damian snorted under his breath. "Had I known that you could be bribed with food, that would have been my first approach."

"The food is pretty great, yeah," Phantom said, his smile twisting into something mischievous and genuine. Damian's throat felt tight. "The company isn't too bad, either."

Damian didn't have a response for him, taken aback despite himself. They were teetering on the precipice of something genuine, something real, and he wasn't quite sure of his footing. He didn't know what was next. He could only watch Phantom, utterly transfixed.

The future was unknown, but it seemed a bit less daunting if Phantom would be there. He tried not to think about that too much.

"You're right," Damian said, allowing himself a small smile. "It isn't."

The entity laughed softly, his green eyes alight with amusement. Damian wondered what had possessed him to do something as stupid as summoning an entity that could bewitch him so. Then again, maybe it wasn't a supernatural influence that made his throat feel tight around Phantom.

His hands twitched as he remembered the feeling of Phantom's skin against his own, pale and soft and cold.

"Did you… Hold on, I need to think," Phantom said, cutting himself off before he could ask a question.

"Take your time," Damian allowed, though he couldn't help but raise a brow. He kept his thoughts to himself.

"…Did you summon me just for the favor?" Phantom asked after a long silence, his features unusually somber. His words were inflected in a flat manner, as if he was trying not to sway Damian's answer by leading the question. If Damian hadn't been so taken aback by the question itself, he would have taken a moment to applaud Phantom's interrogation technique.

As it was, he took a moment to consider his answer. It was clear that Phantom was referencing the first time he'd been summoned, and Damian wanted to give him an honest answer.

"When I learned about you, I was told that you would be-" Damian cut himself off with a quiet, frustrated noise. He paused. "They said that you would be new to the throne. Inexperienced."

His eyes, previously glued to the table as he tried to compose his answer, strayed back up to Phantom. He was met with an attentive, alert expression, those pointed ears tilted upwards at attention.

He didn't say a word. Damian was grateful.

"After I left, I forgot about it. It wasn't until I heard news about the new Ghost King that I remembered, and…" Damian trailed off, unable to articulate himself properly for a moment. His reasons had been selfish, hadn't they?

"You had leverage over me," Phantom said quietly, his face still solemn. Then, he smiled, weak and small. "I get it, it's okay."

"It isn't," Damian refuted heatedly, straightening his back in alarm. "You hardly deserved to be in such a position-"

"It's okay, Robin," Phantom said, any traces of hurt vanishing from his face. He was a good actor, but luckily, Damian was a better detective. "Let's just have dinner."

It was an opportunity to end this awkward conversation, to look past Damian's lack of social grace. It was kinder than he deserved.

He hesitated. There was so much more to say, there was so much that he wanted to tell Phantom—

One look at Phantom's face, his earnest, pained expression, had Damian's protests dying on his tongue. He swallowed, his stomach flipping as he truly saw Phantom for the first time all evening.

For all that Phantom was a powerful entity, a legend and protege in his own right, he was also a teenager. He was a dead, lonely teenager.

"Very well."

 

 


 

 

In the final hours of the night, when the sun was nearly peaking up over the horizon, Damian crept upstairs to his bedroom. Unlike most nights, when he returned from patrol practically dead on his feet, his body still buzzing with energy after his late dinner with Phantom.

His time with Phantom was rewarding in a way that Damian didn't get to experience often. He'd always found it difficult to get along with his peers at school, but he had no such problems with Phantom. Talking to Phantom was easy, and even when Damian said the wrong thing or asked the wrong questions, he took it all in stride.

Damian let out a soft sigh, walking silently through the cavernous halls. His socks muffled his steps against the wooden floors.

He counted himself lucky that there weren't many people in the manor these days. There were Alfred and Father, of course, but with most of his siblings living by themselves, Damian didn't need to worry so much about anyone catching him after a late night.

There was also the unfortunate fact that his situation with Cass hadn't improved since they'd last spoken, and it had been two weeks of… Not hostility, but coldness. It also meant that Damian was receiving a similar amount of indifference from Barbara and Steph, though admittedly he could ignore that when he had his meetings with Phantom to look forward to.

Finally, Damian slipped into his bedroom, blessedly undetected. He flicked the light switch on, turning to his bed—

Only to be met by the disapproving gaze of Bruce, sitting on Damian's bed, already changed into his civilian clothes.

Ah. Bruce had gotten done with patrol early, it seemed.

"Damian," Bruce greeted him quietly, his face expectant. His eyes were narrowed slightly, and it was only years of careful observation that informed Damian that his father was only mildly displeased. "You're up late."

"Father," Damian returned stiffly, offering him a nod. "I… Yes, I suppose that I am."

Ah. So this was what it was like to be in trouble, then. He did not care for the feeling. He subconsciously inched backwards toward the door, only pausing when he truly considered his inability to run in fluffy socks. Before he could flee anyway, Bruce shook his head and patted a space on the bed.

"We need to talk, son. Come here."

Damian's shoulders deflated. He weighed his options thoroughly and found them to be unsatisfactory. He asked very quietly, "Must we?"

Bruce must have sensed something in his tone, because he let out a quiet sigh through his nose. His eyes softened. No matter how many times they had these conversations, Damian was always struck by difference between Bruce and his Grandfather. Where Ra's saw weakness as a target, Bruce always seemed to view it with sympathy, no matter how angry he was.

It was a kindness that Damian was still unfamiliar with. He hated that he still waited for the other shoe to drop, even years after leaving the League.

"I'm not mad at you, Damian," Bruce said quietly, patting the bed again. "I just want to understand what's going on, that's all."

Damian watched him for a beat, hesitating longer than he would have liked before slinking forward and taking a seat. He sank into the mattress slightly, pausing to adjust his weight so that he didn't dip towards Bruce's position.

"With regard to what?" Damian finally asked, eyeing Bruce carefully. He wasn't sure what information had been gathered that could work to his detriment, and he had to be careful not to give away his hand.

Bruce gave him a look. "The fight between you and Cass. You two still aren't speaking."

Oh. Damian felt a twinge of guilt, but it was immediately overshadowed by the utter indignant annoyance that consumed him. "She started it! Why am I getting a lecture about an argument that she started?"

His words hung in the air, sharp and malignant, for only a moment. Then, his father smirked, raising a dark brow.

"So, there was a fight?" Bruce asked slyly.

…What? And just like that, Damian's annoyance evaporated, replaced instead by shock. He balked, opening his mouth only to close it a moment later. Finally, he processed that revelation and met Bruce's eyes again.

"She didn't say anything to you?"

Bruce shook his head. "She refused, just said it was private."

Damian's eyes widened, his stomach sinking. He'd left Cass to stew for two weeks, and she hadn't even bothered to rat him out to Bruce. He'd known that she was loyal to a fault… But he hadn't expected that loyalty to be extended to him.

He clenched his hands into fists, staring down at the floor. He watched the carpet absentmindedly, his thoughts racing.

In his indignation, he'd mistaken one of Cassandra's greatest strengths for a glaring weakness. What a fool he was.

Finally, Damian said, "We were sparring and I was- I was distracted. She kept asking why, but I didn't want to talk about it."

Bruce hummed, sounding thoughtful. "And you snapped at her?"

"I did." Damian didn't bother to deny it, looking away from Bruce. He watched the floor, acutely aware of his father's disappointment. "I left afterwards."

There was a brief pause, and then a careful, gentle touch on his back. Bruce pulled Damian into his side, his touch relaxed enough that Damian could still pull away. He didn't.

"I won't ask about it," Bruce said quietly, his voice a quiet rumble in his chest. From so close, Damian could just barely feel its reverberation. "It's your business, unless it's something dangerous. If you need help, we're all here- and if you don't want to talk to me, you have other options."

Damian felt a bloom of warmth in his chest. He'd been so certain that Bruce would demand answers, would press him until he caved, but there as no such effort. Instead, to his astonishment, Bruce was handling him less like a child and more like a person. It was gratifying in a way that he found difficult to fully grasp.

It was a kindness that had not been afforded to him for most of his life.

"It's not dangerous," Damian murmured, unable to bring himself to pull away from Bruce's half embrace. If he leaned closer, well, Bruce certainly wasn't going to say anything. "I promise."

Bruce hummed again. His arm tightened around Damian briefly, a gentle squeeze of pressure before immediately relenting.

They sat in silence like that for a long while.

It wasn't often that Damian and Bruce had time alone for any kind of bonding. Granted, they were technically alone on patrols, but with Oracle keeping them connected with the rest of the vigilante network, criminals roaming the streets, and the constant physical exertion of moving between rooftops— it was just different. Damian absentmindedly closed his eyes, releasing a soft sigh through his nose.

"Talk to Cass, alright?" Bruce said quietly, and Damian didn't bother to open his eyes. He just curled closer into his father's side, defeated yet content.

"I will."

And that was that.

 

 


 

 

Damian sighed through his nose as Barbara's apartment building came into view. His stomach was doing flips, despite his cool exterior.

"Should I be back to pick you up soon, Master Damian?" Alfred asked from the front seat, his tone only slightly hinting toward the 'correct' answer. Damian nearly rolled his eyes before thinking better of it.

"I do not think so, Alfred. Thank you," Damian answered truthfully, his eyes still locked onto her building. He really hoped that he wasn't about to get another black eye for his troubles, though he certainly deserved it.

He was begrudgingly impressed by Cass's ability to simply disappear, though it was currently working against him. He was working on a hunch— an educated hunch, sure, but a hunch nonetheless.

Finally, the car pulled up in front of the building and Damian opened the door, haphazardly slinging his backpack over his shoulder as he climbed out. He gave Alfred a distracted goodbye before closing the door.

He steeled himself as the car pulled away, leaving him standing by himself in front of the apartment building. He took a breath and released it slowly through his nose.

Finally, Damian started walking.

Every step brought him closer to the inevitable ego-death, the horrible pain of humiliation already stinging his pride. It was times like this when he almost missed being in the League of Assassins, because at least there, he didn't have to be a truly functioning person. Assassins didn't apologize for anything.

He opened the door to Barbara's apartment building and stepped inside, the early afternoon heat chased away by a wave of cool air. He gritted his teeth and trudged toward the elevator.

Arguably, this one wasn't even his fault— if Cass hadn't pried, he would have been perfectly fine! Really, it was more her fault than anything else, as he'd already told Father—

He paused that line of thinking, frowning to himself as he stepped onto the elevator and clicked the button.

An assassin didn't apologize for their faults. An assassin was efficient, orderly, and emotionless. His training commanded it, always lingering in the back of his mind, ready to activate at a moment's notice.

No, he had to remind himself. Damian was no assassin, and he wouldn't ever be one again. His hands tightened into fists by his sides, his nails digging into the meat of his palms.

He was a vigilante, a hero, and he was changing for the better. Even years after the League, surrounded by his family and friends, he had to remind himself of that.

The League's roots ran deep, and he would be pulling them out for many more years to come.

The elevator chime let out a soft sound as he landed on Barbara's floor. He blinked, snapping out of his stupor and stepping out.

Damian didn't let himself think about it any further. Instead, he strode confidently toward the apartment door, ignoring the ball of nerves resting at the pit of his stomach. He would be fine. This was nothing, he had faced deadlier foes than a simple apology—

He hadn't knocked yet. Damn it.

He raised a fist and knocked three times, his chest tightening immediately. It wasn't too late to run away, to slip down the hall and flee down the stairs—

There was the sound of a wheelchair rolling across the floor, followed by the twisting of a lock. Damian froze.

The door slowly opened, revealing Barbara, who immediately made a face. Instead of addressing him right away, she looked around the hallway, as if expecting someone else.

Finally, she addressed Damian, "Why are you here?"

Ouch. Damian suppressed a wince, already sensing that he wasn't welcome. He steadied his resolve. "I need to speak with Cassandra. Is she available?"

"She's not here," Barbara said, her eyes narrowing. Her tense body language didn't give much away, but Damian found himself doubting her words.

He frowned, his eyes flickering between Barbara and the space over her shoulder, looking further into the apartment for a beat. Then, he repeated, "I need to speak with her."

"I'm sure you do," Barbara said coolly, raising her chin. Her eyebrows were narrowed, her shoulders squared in a defiant manner. "Maybe I could pass along a message."

He gritted his teeth. He deserved this, sure, but it still felt awful. "I- no, that won't work. I need to actually see her, so I can apologize properly."

At that, Barbara's eyes widened. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of indignation at her surprise— why did his siblings and friends have such low expectations of him? He was capable of apologizing!

Well… Damian internally winced. He wasn't always very good at showing humility, especially in situations like these.

Fair. Maybe he had earned those low expectations.

"What are you apologizing for?" Barbara asked, snapping him out of his stupor.

It was Damian's turn to be surprised. He hesitated, watching the woman's face closely as he formulated a response.

Surely Cassandra hadn't kept Barbara in the dark. Why would she do something like that…?

Perhaps it was a test. He frowned.

"I was… Rude to her, if you must know. She was concerned for my well-being," Damian said slowly, watching Barbara's face closely. Her eyebrows twitched, knitting together briefly before she could school her expression. "Did she tell you about it?"

She shook her head. "Not much, honestly."

He hummed, a frown tugging at his lips. He considered what to say, curious but unable to ask. "I see."

What had Damian ever done to deserve such loyalty? He looked down, studying the floorboards as his stomach sank.

Barbara must have felt some measure of pity for him, because her tone was less harsh as she said, "She's not as mad as you think. Just hurt."

He winced. That didn't help.

"Just tell her that I'm sorry, alright?" He finally bit out, his face uncomfortably warm. He'd never been good at this, not really.

Barbara huffed, and when he looked back up to meet her eyes, she was giving him a strange look. "Alright. You can go, I'll let you know when she wants to talk."

He nearly let out a sigh of relief. He hadn't gotten to properly apologize, which was annoying, but the intent was there. His message would be passed along and, presumably, Cass would contact him when she was ready. That would have to suffice, for now.

Finally, Damian gave Barbara a sharp nod. "I appreciate it, Gordon."

"Just go before I change my mind," Barbara said, not unkindly. Her expression was more exasperated than anything else, which was probably a point in his favor.

Damian didn't push his luck. He spun on his heel and quickly started down the hallway.

He had another meeting to plan.

 

 


 

 

This was going to be harder than he thought.

He had a few ideas about what his next meeting with Phantom would look like. He didn't seem to have high expectations, which was admittedly depressing, but it worked in Damian's favor. Frankly, it seemed like Phantom would enjoy a simple visit to the mortal plane, even if that visit wasn't as exciting as a private dinner.

He'd considered the barn again, but with Alfred growing suspicious, he knew that he couldn't risk anything. No, if he was going to make this work, it needed to happen beyond the sphere of any authority's influence. Not Alfred, not Father.

That left him with one option, and that option was—

"It's not fucking happening," Jason grunted, not even looking up at Damian. His gaze was locked firmly on the gun in his grasp, his hands busy reassembling its inner workings. His fingers were stained with red-dyed grease.

"It's just for the night, and you aren't even using it!" Damian argued, crossing his arms and trying not to look too haughty. He didn't like it, but Jason's safehouse was his best option. At least, if he didn't want to be caught.

"I already let you use it a while back, and I know you used it for something weird," Jason said sharply, shooting Damian a brief glare before returning to his task. There was an underlying annoyance to his tone, and it was a warning that Damian was familiar with.

"Something weird?" Damian repeated, his brows furrowing. He actually wasn't sure what Jason was referring to, if there was any logic behind it. "What does that even mean…?"

Jason slammed the metal pieces onto the table sharply, abandoning them entirely to address Damian. "The weird green light coming from the windows? You know, the shit that the neighbors noticed?"

Oh. Damian spluttered, his eyes going wide as he realized just how badly he'd miscalculated. He went to speak, but Jason kept on as if he hadn't noticed.

"Whatever you did, it fried the surveillance equipment, so now that's just gone," Jason listed, his scowl growing ever more severe as Damian winced. "And the thermostat was fucked up for, like, a week-"

"I get it!" Damian said quickly, feeling his face heat up. He was at a loss for words for an excruciatingly long moment.

After a beat, Jason seemed to take pity on him, his upper lip curling.

"Fine, I'll bite- why do you need it? You guys have plenty of safehouses."

That was technically true, Damian had to admit. He hesitated, wringing his hands as he mulled over the situation.

Telling Jason wouldn't be the end of the world. Honestly, it wouldn't even be the end of his secrecy— but it would be another person who knew, another potential leak of information. His stomach twisted, his jaw clenching.

"I have… a project," Damian managed, wincing a bit at his own delivery. He was supposed to be good at this, damn it. "It's private."

Jason smirked, the smug bastard. The sinking feeling in Damian's stomach was immediately validated when the man said, "So, you've got a secret. I get it… Keeping things from the old man, I remember those days."

"That's not-" Damian started, only to quickly cut himself off. No, Jason was technically right, he was keeping a secret from his father. For some reason, it felt worse to think of it that way.

"Oh yeah, you're hiding something from the big, bad bat. How long do you think that'll last?" Jason jeered, leaning closer until he was nearly out of his chair. "A week? A month? A year?"

Damian stubbornly kept his mouth shut, shooting his brother a dark glare. He'd earned some mockery, perhaps, but not to this extent. His ears burned, his face heating up with a flush.

"Tell me more about this project of yours," Jason said, his face difficult to read. His keen interest spoke to his curiosity, though, and Damian saw an opportunity.

"I have acquired a new contact," he said stiffly, careful to watch his wording. He couldn't let too much information out, just enough to satisfy Jason's curiosity. "The situation is delicate enough with just one person, involving the others would be…"

To his surprise, Jason only nodded, a thoughtful frown on his face. "Your new contact is skittish, huh?"

In some bizarre way, he shouldn't have been surprised that Jason would understand his situation so well. He was accustomed to working with criminals and runaways, people who valued secrecy above all else— this type of thing was normal for Crime Alley.

"I… have concerns for their safety, as it is," Damian admitted begrudgingly, absentmindedly stepping over to the table to take a seat. Jason's eyes followed him, but the man made no moves to stop him. "If they felt unsafe with me, I likely wouldn't see them again. That is… not an acceptable outcome."

"Mhm," Jason hummed, leaning back in his chair. He watched Damian for a long moment, his gaze unwavering, before saying, "You're serious."

"I am."

"They'll find out eventually, if you aren't careful. Sneaking around like this, it only works if you have the resources to back it up," Jason said, his tone dangerously close to sounding like a lecture. Damian wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

"I know," Damian admitted. "I just need more time. I'll find a way to tell everyone, it's just… Not now. It isn't a good time, I need to build trust."

Jason hummed, nonchalant. Then, he smiled. "Fuck, I'd kill to see his face when you tell him. His littlest soldier, keeping secrets, ready to leave the nest…"

Damian shifted uncomfortably, as he tended to do when the grudge between Jason and his father was mentioned. It was a long-standing issue, one that had spawned long before Damian's own time as Robin, and it wasn't any of his business.

He finally said, very quietly, "In exchange for my use of the safehouse… I will consider your request."

There was a tense, horrible silence. Jason stared at him, his eyes wide and incredulous. Damian grimaced, suddenly very aware that he was alone with his maniac of a brother, and why did he even try? This had been a mistake, a horrendous mistake—

Suddenly, Jason laughed, bright and loud. He waved Damian away with a careless hand, instead returning to the disassembled gun on the table. "Yeah, you can use the safehouse. Just light a candle or something when you're done, alright?

And just like that, it was Damian's turn to be shocked. "Really?"

"Yeah, whatever. Keep me in the loop, brat," Jason said gruffly, his shoulders relaxed and lazy. Despite his bluster, there was, perhaps, something in him that still cared for the family— or, at least, still cared for his siblings.

That was good enough for Damian.

 

 


 

 

Damian unlocked the door of the safehouse, awkwardly shouldering the door open to step inside. He picked up the rest of his groceries, shut the door, and made his way into the kitchen.

With a huff, he unloaded all of his newly-acquired items onto the counter. Overall, he felt that he'd done pretty well, even if he was working with advice from a… dubious source. He'd asked Jason what 'normal' teenagers did for fun, and had received some interesting input.

'Let's see, I died that year, so… Video games? Vigilante justice? Being alive? I don't know, brat, ask someone else.'

And, well, he couldn't ask anyone else, so… Video games.

Damian meticulously arranged the snacks, stocked the fridge with drinks, and after some trial and error, managed to get the gaming system set up. He wasn't overly familiar with many games, but there were a few that he liked.

His stomach flipped. Would Phantom like the same games? It was such a juvenile thought, and he was tempted to dismiss it out of hand, but it persisted.

For better or for worse, he craved Phantom's approval. He hated to imagine that he could lose it.

Damian shook it off, instead busying himself with tidying the safehouse. He absentmindedly lit a few scented candles, mostly in hope that he could cover up the 'wrongness' that Phantom seemed to leave in his wake.

He still couldn't get over that. Was Phantom's presence so distinct to everyone? Did his existence leave a stain on the mortal plane, invisible yet persisting? He shivered.

He'd felt the full weight of that presence during their very first encounter, that otherworldly pressure that threatened to swallow him whole. He'd since grown accustomed to Phantom's strange energy, but he wondered what it felt like for people who hadn't met the entity.

Did Jason walk into his safehouse and feel the lingering presence of a power older than human memory? Had he tried to ignore the feeling, or had he listened to those millions of years of human evolution? Had it overwhelmed him?

Damian couldn't help but wonder, lost in thought as he worked.

Before long, the safehouse was arranged to his liking. He took a moment to admire his handiwork before grabbing his backpack for one last thing.

A simple hoodie and domino mask. He didn't need the full Robin outfit, not when it was just him and Phantom. He trusted that he didn't need it.

With that, Damian was ready. He took a deep breath, the incantation catching in the back of his throat.

"Phantom," Damian said slowly, smiling slightly as he watched the candles flicker at just the mention of his name. "I invite you into the mortal realm as an honored guest. Join me."

It wasn't nearly as formal as his usual invitation, but the candles glowed a soft, inviting green all the same. Damian felt the breath leave his chest once more as reality warped, the room growing steadily colder and colder—

The fabric of time and space unfolded, and out stumbled Phantom, who looked exhausted. He pitched forward, as if he wasn't sure of his footing, pinwheeling his arms and somehow catching himself.

"Phantom!" Damian stepped forward uncertainly, raising his hands in case he needed to steady him. Phantom swayed where he stood, his green eyes unfocused and hazy in a way that Damian hadn't ever seen before. "Are you alright?!"

As he took in his friend's appearance, his stomach sank. Phantom's skin was even more pale than usual, faint green veins visible through a thin, translucent pallor. His eyes were lined with sunken bags, almost like bruises against his thin face, and even his lips were visibly chapped.

His flaming crown, normally a permanent fixture on his person, was notably absent, as if he didn't feel the need to put it on in his condition. He wore a rumpled button-down and plain black pants, which were arranged in such a way that Damian suspected that he had been wearing them for a few days, at least. He wondered about that for a long moment— did ghosts sweat? Did he even need to change clothes? No, that train of thought, while interesting, was not helpful right now.

"Robin," Phantom croaked, his worried lips curling up into a faint smile. "Felt you summoning me, wanted to… Wanted to see you. What's all this?"

"That's not- Phantom, are you sick?" Damian asked seriously, stepping closer to the entity. He hesitated for a beat before raising a hand to Phantom's forehead, pressing his palm into the cold skin and immediately remembering his friend's unique situation. Dead people didn't get fevers. "Right, you're… How do you feel?"

Phantom let out a quiet huff, his smile only slightly lopsided as he leaned into Damian's touch. It wasn't a forceful motion by any means, and Damian kept his hand steady. "Tired. Happy to see you, though."

"Ghosts can get tired?" Damian asked without thinking, wincing a second later as his manners caught up to him. "You do not need to answer that."

"I'd like to see you try to resist a bunch of summoning rituals every day," Phantom retorted, but it was halfhearted at best. He yawned, exposing sharp, white teeth, but he didn't move his forehead away from Damian's palm. "They're summoning me at night, too."

Damian's stomach lurched. If this was the toll of a few weeks of ignored summons, what would a month look like? Two months? A year?

Phantom was deteriorating quickly and Damian didn't know how to help. It was a startling realization.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Phantom groaned, finally standing up straight and lightly batting away Damian's hand. "Relax, Robin, I'm not gonna die. Been there, did that."

"Even if it won't kill you, it's clearly having an effect on your health," Damian murmured, eyeing the way that Phantom swayed on his feet like a seasick sailor. He stepped over to the couch and motioned for the entity to follow him. "You look like you haven't slept."

"I haven't," Phantom said, his tone casual even as he clumsily followed Damian. He flopped onto the couch, his long limbs sprawled out over the cushions. His white hair brushed against Damian's leg, a stark contrast to the dark denim of his jeans. "Can't rest. Not tethered."

Tethered. Damian considered that phrase, but held his tongue.

He wanted to speculate, to ask more questions, but satisfying his curiosity wasn't worth upsetting Phantom. He could ask later, once the spirit was in a better mental space, but right now… No, it was better to wait.

In the meantime, he knew exactly how to distract Phantom.

"I suspect that I can't help with that, but… We could do something to distract you," Damian said, glancing down to Phantom. The ghost hummed, but didn't say anything. "Games, food, drinks… It's up to you."

He was putting the power back into Phantom's hands— clearly something that he was sorely missing in recent times.

After a short pause, Phantom asked quietly, "What games do we have?"

He grinned and carefully stood, quickly getting the PS5 ready. He passed an extra controller over to Phantom and opened the interface, scrolling through the games mindlessly.

"If there's anything that stands out, we'll try that-" Damian started, only to cut himself off as Phantom's posture abruptly changed.

"Is that Minecraft?" Phantom asked excitedly, sitting up properly on the couch. The exhaustion on his face remained, but Damian was pleased to note that it didn't seem to put a damper on his enthusiasm.

"It is, yes," Damian said, quickly navigating over to the game. As it loaded, he absentmindedly asked, "Have you ever played it?"

"I've never played, but I've watched other people play it," Phantom said, immediately reminding Damian that his life had been cut short. He wondered what year Phantom had died, if he hadn't ever gotten to play such a popular game.

Had he roamed the mortal plane after his death? Had he been forced to watch others live their lives while he stagnated, never growing older? How long had he been forced to live in limbo?

His stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought. Someone like Phantom didn't deserve that.

"I did not play it until I left the League," Damian said, his speech only slightly stilted as he tried to find a way to relate their experiences. "The other Gotham vigilantes assigned me a mission during my first month- I was to beat the game with the help of my new associates."

"Your first mission outside of the assassin death cult was to play Minecraft?" Phantom said incredulously. "Seriously?"

"I was… temperamental, at the time," Damian explained, his face feeling warm. "They saw Minecraft as a healthy outlet for that temper."

"It's hard to imagine you having a temper," Phantom remarked as Damian started created a new world, adjusting their settings as needed. "You've been… like, super calm about all this stuff."

Damian snorted. "I tried to assassinate two of my colleagues within the first few minutes of meeting them."

"Really?" Phantom's nose wrinkled, as if he was hearing something absurd.

"You'd be surprised."

"Yeah, alright, that's fair," Phantom said with a lopsided grin, bumping against Damian's shoulder. "You've surprised me since the day we met."

Damian jumped slightly at the contact, but he didn't move away. Phantom was becoming more comfortable with touch, it seemed. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about that, but it felt nice.

"So… Did you beat the game?"

Damian let out an awkward laugh, internally grimacing. This story always made his siblings laugh, but it was still thoroughly embarrassing, even years later.

"Well… Yes, but I failed my mission. I was operating under the belief that this mission was a test, and if I wanted to prove that I was the superior sib- um, vigilante, I needed to eliminate my competition," Damian explained, stumbling over his words. He winced at the slip-up, but Phantom didn't seem to catch it.

"Oh! So, you betrayed them??" Phantom asked, his eyes wide. He was openly grinning, sharp teeth on full display.

"I did," Damian said. "I allowed them to enter the End portal first and dropped TNT in after them. They died, and I killed the dragon."

It had been a bloodbath. The entire family had gathered to watch the fight, but instead, they bore witness to Damian's darkest hour. He still remembered the look of muted horror on Father's face as Damian betrayed his siblings so viciously.

As an assassin, it was one of his most hard-won battles. As a person, it was an act of unspeakable cruelty.

Phantom snorted. His shoulders shook as he released his controller and clamped a hand over his mouth, his cheeks flushing a light green.

"Are you laughing?" Damian asked incredulously, a smile halfway to tugging at his lips.

"I'm just- pfft, you're so funny-" Phantom laughed behind his hand, throwing his head back as a cackle escaped his lips. "You- you say it like you actually killed them! You're so serious all the time-"

"It's a serious matter!" Damian said sharply, his cheeks flushing. His stomach twisted in a strange way as he watched Phantom laugh. "It- I betrayed my closest allies-"

"In Minecraft!" Phantom retorted. "That's so cute, oh my god!"

"It was-" Damian groaned, covering his face with his hands. His skin was warm against his fingers. "It was a healthy outlet…"

The world loaded in around Damian's character slowly, a vividly colorful jungle biome. He leaned over and pressed a button on Phantom's controller, logging him in as a guest to play in the same world.

"Alright, this button opens your inventory and crafting menu-"

"They're on the same screen now?"

"No, that's your recipe book. You will need a crafting table to actually craft those items."

"Gotcha, gotcha," Phantom said, clearly testing out the controls as Damian pulled away. "There's a chicken!"

Damian left him to his own devices and quickly set about gathering materials. By the time night was falling, he had a starter base set up, along with the beginnings of a mine and two beds. He was quite satisfied with their progress, though Phantom was unable to contribute much while he was still gaining his bearings.

He was busy smelting iron when the door to their base opened and Phantom's character walked in.

"Robin! I found flowers- here, give me your bed," Phantom said brightly, his character holding a cornflower.

"It's in the chest," Damian said absentmindedly as he collected iron bars from the furnace. "Did you ever- um, you are familiar with the more recent updates? You can dye the beds now, that's a newer feature."

Though he knew that Phantom was familiar with the game, he wasn't sure when the ghost had last seen others play it. Considering that it still received regular updates, he assumed that some of his knowledge would be outdated.

"No, no, I've got- here," Phantom said quickly, opening the chest and pulling out their beds. He placed them side-by-side in the corner of the room and placed a flower pot on the floor beside them, wherein he placed the cornflower.

Damian turned to look, and for a moment, he couldn't quite find the right words.

His bed was next to Phantom's bed. Phantom was sprawled right beside him on the couch, so close that their legs were just barely touching. His brain made a note of that before he could even process why it was so important. It felt important.

"I like it," Damian said without thinking. He didn't need to look to know that Phantom was smiling. "We've made decent progress. Excellent progress, even, considering that you haven't played."

"We totally have! We're great at this," Phantom said, clearly proud of himself. In the dim light of the safehouse, his eyes were literally glowing, a soft green that spilled over his pale cheeks.

Damian hummed, watching Phantom from the corner of his vision as he played. They were in a better place, things felt… good. Not perfect, perhaps, but good. He swallowed down his nerves.

He clicked on his bed and his character went to sleep. A few moments later, Phantom's character followed suit, and the night passed by quickly. Two beds against the wall with a flowerpot. Hm.

He decided to bite the bullet and just ask already. He didn't want to ignore it, not any more than he had to.

"Earlier, you mentioned something about being tethered," Damian said slowly. He hesitated for just a moment, unable to decide how to continue. "What did you mean by that?"

There was a beat of silence, tense and hovering. Damian could feel burgeoning nerves in the pit of his stomach, the horrible realization that perhaps this was it, this was the blunder that he couldn't take back.

Then, as easy as anything, Phantom hummed softly, noncommittally. "Ghost stuff," he said quietly. "Physics."

"Physics," Damian said to himself, his brows furrowing together as he considered what that could possibly mean. Did Phantom mean a literal tether? Some kind of binding force? If so, was it physical or spiritual?

As he pondered the idea, Phantom set his controller aside and moved to lay down on the couch properly. Damian stiffened as Phantom's head plopped down into his lap, carefully moving his hands and controller out of the way.

He found himself frozen for a long moment, eventually just pausing the game and setting his controller aside. This was fine. This was normal.

Phantom's head was in his lap, a steady, solid weight. His ally, his friend, was laying on him, visibly relaxed, his green eyes lazily looking up at the ceiling.

Damian didn't know where to put his hands, his lap currently occupied. After a second, he let them rest against the crown of Phantom's head, carefully smoothing out his white hair. He watched Phantom's face for any signs of discomfort, but he found none. To his satisfaction, Phantom's green eyes flickered shut, a contented smile overtaking his frostbitten lips.

He carded his fingers through the thin white strands, mindful not to pull. It was strangely soothing, though he wasn't sure if that was the result of their close proximity or the repetitive motion.

After a long moment of thought, Damian decided to test a hypothesis.

"I could be your tether," he offered, and he could swear that he felt Phantom stiffen. The entity was silent for a long moment, the room's tension growing thicker with every passing second.

Finally, Phantom sighed, very quiet. He seemed remorseful as he murmured, "That's a nice offer, Robin. I wish I could accept it."

They sat like that for a while longer, Damian's fingers idly twisting through Phantom's hair. He didn't dare to break the silence, though he was tempted.

He had stumbled upon something, even if he wasn't sure what it was. He needed to be tactful.

Phantom's scalp was cool against his fingers, not quite icy but almost there— a constant reminder of his otherness, the paranormal energy that seeped out from the very core of his being. He was cold, he was dead, but still so very human. So very, painfully human.

As a rule, Damian Wayne was not 'touchy.' He was quick to speak and quicker to attack, but casual touch wasn't in the repertoire of an assassin.

An assassin was efficient, orderly, and emotionless. An assassin did not curl their fingers into the hair of a potential asset. An assassin did not arrange dinner dates in the hopes of pleasing a potential asset.

An assassin did not stare at the lips of a potential asset and wonder if they would feel cold.

But, then again, Damian Wayne was no assassin.

At long last, those chapped, frostbitten lips parted, and Phantom spoke.

"It's gonna be fine," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm gonna figure it out. I always do."

Damian's stomach swooped as if he were standing on the edge of a great precipice. All at once, it seemed to click, and he understood what he needed to do.

He shifted his hand down to cup against Phantom's face, the entity's cheek cold against his palm. Those brilliant green eyes opened immediately and locked onto him, hopeless and hazy.

There was something dangerously genuine in Phantom's eyes.

"You don't have to do this by yourself," Damian said, his tone gentle but firm. "If you need help, I'll find a way to help you."

"I know, just…" Phantom's words were quiet, as if it was painful to even speak. "Give me time."

Damian's eyes softened. He nodded, not quite trusting himself to say anything.

They sat there for a while longer, Damian's hand returning to pet Phantom's hair. There were words yet unspoken hanging in the air, the atmosphere thick with potential, but neither made a move to disrupt the peace.

It was the most comfortable he'd been in a long time.

 

 

Notes:

Hope y'all enjoyed! Sorry that it's been a while, but I'm thoroughly invested in this fic and we're going to see it through to the end.

Remember to comment, kudos, and tip the waitstaff.

Chapter 3

Summary:

In which there is planning for Damian and Phantom's next meeting, an impulsive apology, and a Girl's Night invitation.

Notes:

This one is a bit shorter than the rest, but no worries! Next chapter will be longer + plot, and I'm excited to share it with you!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The streets of Metropolis were bustling and crowded, flourishing under a bright sun and a cloudless sky. Far above the streets, towering skyscrapers caught the light, shining and clean. The city was bright and inviting, and in the stark light of day, it was easy to see why so many people chose to call it home.

Yes, by all accounts, Metropolis was a beautiful city. Damian's lips pursed into a scowl as he blinked the bright sunlight from his eyes, spots dancing in his vision.

He was visiting Jon in Metropolis for the day, which, unfortunately, meant that he was in unfamiliar territory. He'd spent years acclimating to Gotham, which was often less of a city and more of a web of dark shadows and narrow alleyways, so the bright light and open spaces of Metropolis were borderline alien to him.

Speaking of aliens… Damian hastily followed Jon into the building's elevator, blinking the remaining spots from his vision.

"I'll bring sunglasses next time I visit," Damian muttered to himself, entirely aware that his friend would catch every word, as always.

"You said that last time," Jon pointed out, turning to press the elevator's button to the twenty-fourth floor. "Did you forget to bring them?"

"I've been busy," Damian said, a bit defensive. It wasn't a lie, of course, but it was a poor excuse. "You understand, with my extracurricular schedule."

Jon let out a quiet snort but didn't argue. They rode the elevator in silence for a short while, finally arriving on the correct floor.

Damian generally enjoyed visiting the Kents in Metropolis, though admittedly he didn't often see Lois or Clark when he visited. It wasn't for lack of trying, but the life of a journalist in Metropolis was a busy one.

So, visiting the Kents often just meant visiting Jon, which was perfect as far as Damian was concerned.

Jon unlocked the door to the apartment and Damian fell back into a familiar routine, taking his shoes off and placing them in the rack beside the door. It was in a state that Lois always called 'organized chaos,' which seemed to suit the Kent family.

"Alright, you've been acting weird since I picked you up," Jon finally said, rounding on him with a strange look on his face. It was one that Damian recognized, the line where Jon was horrendously curious about something but too polite to just ask— almost certainly a trait learned from the Midwestern side of the family. "Are you being, like, normal weird or weird weird?"

"I'm not acting weird!" Damian retorted immediately, shouldering past Jon to walk into the living room. He set his bag down beside the couch and sat, propping his legs up on the ottoman. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you very much-"

"You're making it worse," Jon groaned, flopping onto the couch ungracefully. "Is it Tim again? He and Connor have been hanging out a lot lately."

Damian snorted at the assumption, though it wasn't far off. Technically he was still fighting with Cass, at least until she accepted his apology and allowed him to explain the situation. No, his problem was a far greater adversity— social norms.

"No, it's not…" Damian trailed off, searching for an explanation. Finally, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, sensing exactly where the conversation needed to go. With a growing dread mounting in the pit of his stomach, he murmured, "I have a project."

"You always have a project," Jon said, which wasn't quite wrong. Damian was good at keeping busy, though it was usually just with detective work. "And you always drag me into it. What's happening this time? Are we stealing something?"

"Alright, for one, I'm not always dragging you into things!" Damian said, more confused than defensive. "Sometimes you're following me into things, and I can't exactly stop you, if you recall-"

"That's a lie and you know it-"

"Shut up. The point is, it's a different kind of project. Your… expertise is needed."

At that, Jon looked earnestly confused. "My expertise?"

"Your experience with 'normal' people our age," Damian clarified, and he felt just a bit annoyed when Jon immediately perked up. Jon was his best friend, there was no denying it, but asking him for help felt like a new low. "Your… people skills."

Jon's face flickered between a few emotions before finally settling on doubt. "You want my help because it involves… a normal person? Seriously?"

"They're not- normal, per se," Damian hastily corrected himself, his cheeks flushing pink. "They… were once a normal person. That foundation is still there, I just want…"

Damian hesitated. He wasn't even sure if Jon could help him, but he was out of meeting ideas and he wanted to keep things exciting for Phantom's sake. Phantom deserved some nice experiences, for all that he'd been doomed to an eternity of monotony.

"I want to make them happy," Damian said quietly, the realization sitting in his stomach like a rock. This was a good thing, obviously, so why did it feel so damning to say aloud?

He craved Phantom's approval, that much was evident, but that wasn't all. He wanted to see the glow of happiness on that pale face, those dark lips upturned in a sharp smile, those green eyes creased with joy—

He wanted.

Jon's quiet hum snapped him out of his stupor, his expression clearly deep in thought. "So, what do you need from me?"

"There's context that you'll need. When I meet with this person, I arrange different meeting locations for security purposes," Damian explained, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke. "We've met twice at a safehouse, once in a restaurant, and once in the barn."

At that, Jon's eyes widened and he sat up straight. "The barn? Like, at your house?! Wait, wait, do they know your identity?"

Damian's stomach dropped as he realized his error. He scrambled to find an excuse, but kept his face impassive.

"Precautions were taken," he said shortly, keeping his breathing steady. Jon's superhuman senses were no match against his lifetime of deception. "They have seen the inside of the barn, but nothing more. My identity hasn't been compromised, because I'm careful… Unlike some people."

Jon didn't look any less disturbed, nor did he acknowledge the pointed barb. "You risked your identity to meet with… What, some random person? That's not like you."

"They're hardly some random person-" Damian said, cutting himself off as he became slightly too heated. A flush settled over his cheeks as he took in a deep breath, steadying himself. "Back to the topic. I have been meeting them in various places, but I need something… Better."

He couldn't just continue summoning Phantom in convenient locations, that was… Well, it didn't feel like enough.

His explanation clearly wasn't satisfying, if Jon's expression was any indication. He looked confused, his brow knitted together in a strange sort of scrutiny.

"Why is this so important?" Jon asked, and Damian abruptly realized that his subterfuge had failed. Jon wasn't one to press on issues like this, wasn't one to ask questions— at some point, he had grown suspicious, and this conversation had become a potential minefield.

"It's…" Damian searched for the right words, but they failed him. Finally, his stomach twisting with uncertainty, he made a decision. "They are important to me, beyond just being an ally. I don't want to treat them like…"

He didn't know how to articulate it. He didn't value Phantom for his utility, his strength, but rather his personality. He was kind and patient, funny and needlessly caring, even when Damian did little to earn that kind of regard. It was still a strange idea, to care for a person beyond their usefulness…

It was one of the few common links between being an assassin and being a vigilante; people were either civilians, allies, or enemies, and there was little room for blurred lines. Allies were useful, civilians were not.

Damian Wayne was not an assassin anymore. He did not view people as tools, that wasn't who he was—

But Robin did.

Robin was the light of Gotham, a shining beacon for the helpless and a fierce defender of the weak. Robin wasn't a person, he was a symbol. He wasn't human, he was more. He was clever, cunning, and efficient— he was kind, yes, but at his core, he was a weapon to be wielded against Gotham's enemies.

Damian Wayne was not a weapon anymore. He was dangerous, yes, and he wasn't ever going to stop being dangerous— but he was more than that. He was a person.

He was human.

Just like Phantom. Phantom, who balked at the formalities of ruling an entire plane of reality, who sat with him on the couch and played Minecraft for hours, who laughed easily and laid his head down in Damian's lap without hesitation. Phantom, who always smiled at the sight of him, who always listened to him with rapt attention, who always forgave him his flaws.

He didn't want to treat Phantom like a weapon for justice, nor a tool to be utilized whenever he felt it necessary. Phantom was a person, a good person, and he deserved the very best that the mortal world had to offer. It was just that simple.

"They're important to me," Damian said, and it was the truth. It settled over him like gospel, unwavering and solid as the ground beneath his feet.

Lost in thought, he almost missed the look of dawning realization on Jon's face. He was shocked for a second, before he was suddenly disgustingly smug, grinning like a madman.

"You have a crush," Jon said suddenly, sitting up in his chair and leaning forward. "You have a crush! Oh my god, that's the best thing I've ever heard-”

"I do not have a crush!" Damian snapped, though as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized that it would only add fuel to the fire. "I'm not interested in him, he's just… a friend."

Was he? Damian considered Phantom to be one of his closest allies outside of his family, but that was all they were. He wasn't even sure that Phantom was comfortable around him, based on his inconsistent body language.

He still remembered holding Phantom's hand, tracing a fingertip along shaking, pale skin. He remembered looking back up into wide, frightened eyes, knowing that he was responsible for causing that distress.

But… then again, he recalled Phantom's fondness. He could see a sharp smile on frostbitten lips, surely soft and cold. He could feel the weight of Phantom's head in his lap, trusting and relaxed, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but lovely as ever.

Perhaps they were friends.

"It's a guy?" Jon asked, visibly confused, but it vanished almost immediately. He always was an adaptable sort, his worldview malleable as clay. "Huh, cool."

"Ignore that," Damian told him, inwardly cursing at his slip. He'd been distracted, too distracted. Some vigilante he was. "You understand the situation well enough. Provide your input."

"Tell me more about him!" Jon argued, but before Damian could protest, he shot him a serious look. "If we want to do this right, we need to tailor it to his interests. One size doesn't fit everyone!"

"Of course it doesn't, it's an advertising strategy," Damian said, uncaring as Jon rolled his eyes. "One size fits most, and I've already told you too much about him."

"I won't tell anyone! I promise!" Jon begged him, his eyes wide. "Come on, I'm your best friend- I've earned this! Please?"

Damian scowled, but in truth, Jon was harmless enough. He kept secrets closely guarded and he was unlikely to face heavy scrutiny from his family, unlike Damian himself. Besides, his feedback was invaluable.

"…He likes animals," Damian admitted after a beat, avoiding Jon's eyes. "He enjoyed our meeting at the restaurant. He likes hearing about the other Gotham vigilantes, as well, if you believe that it is relevant."

"Is that all you can think of?" Jon asked with a frown, crossing his arms. "Come on, there's gotta be more. We can't base a whole date around that-"

"Not a date," Damian said, but there was little heat behind his words. He wasn't trying to date Phantom, he was just… trying to get to know him. "He places great value on independence. He is adverse to physical touch unless he is the one to initiate it. He worries about my safety, and often enjoys my presence outside of vigilante-related activities."

Jon's curious frown morphed into something unreadable, hesitant and careful. After a beat of silence, he said slowly, "What kind of physical touch are you talking about?"

Damian's face felt warm. "Nothing like that, it's- normal levels of physical touch, I would assume. He seemed upset when I grabbed his hand without asking-"

"Need more context there- were you trying to hold his hand??" Jon asked, looking confused. It was gratifying to see him taking the situation so seriously, examining details meticulously in a manner befitting of a detective. Damian privately thought that he had chosen the correct person to confide in.

"His hands have some scarring, I was examining them closer to see if he maintained full range of motion," Damian explained, skipping the finer details. "He didn't say that he was upset by it, but he clearly was, so I have not done it again."

"Okay, he didn't like you grabbing his hand- but you said it's fine if he initiates it," Jon said.

"Yes, that seems to be the case," Damian agreed, quite pleased that his friend was following along so closely. "During our most recent meeting, he laid his head in my lap and allowed me to touch his hair. There was no verbal communication, but… He seemed to enjoy it."

He could still clearly envision Phantom's peaceful face, pale and relaxed as Damian combed fingers through his hair. They'd remained that way for a long while after their conversation ended, only eventually disturbed when Damian offered Phantom refreshments.

It had been a rather successful evening, by his standards.

"…Dude," Jon said, his brows furrowed in something close to disbelief. When Damian didn't say anything, he groaned, leaning back on the couch and burying his face in his hands. "You're- oh my god, are you serious?!"

Damian recoiled, taken aback by the strong reaction. Jon didn't seem surprised, just exasperated. But about what? He paused, considering past instances of Jon's outbursts, and came to a quick conclusion.

"Why would I lie about that?" Damian asked slowly, evaluating Jon's body language closely. "I am consulting your expertise, this isn't the time to lie about vital information."

"You can't be serious, though!" Jon whined, pulling his hands away from his face. He looked almost distressed. "You're a detective, this is literally your job!"

"My job-" Damian spluttered, shifting from confused to downright offended. "I'm excellent at my job, thank you very much!"

"He likes you!" Jon said sharply, his tone bordering on hysteria. "He likes you, and you haven't even noticed!"

…What?

Damian blinked incredulously, pausing to consider whether he'd heard that correctly. When he determined that he had, of course, been correct, he scoffed.

"Impossible," he said, shaking his head. The idea was preposterous, someone liking him— people tolerated him, at best. "He's just nice, he doesn't have feelings for me."

Jon stared at him like he was an idiot, which was a very strange reversal of their typical roles. Damian wasn't fond of it.

"You're a detective," Jon repeated slowly, as if he were trying to make sense of it. "You're messing with me, right? Crap, I can never tell when you're being serious."

"I'm being serious," Damian said dryly, thoroughly unamused.

The idea of Phantom liking him was absurd. No, it was beyond absurd— it was unthinkable. Phantom was… Well, he was Phantom. Where Damian was cold and unwelcoming, Phantom was warm and inviting. He was an ethereal being, he was wasting his time in even talking to Damian, let alone tolerating his frequent summoning.

Damian had enough humility to know where he stood in life. He wasn't Phantom's equal, not in any meaningful way. Even Robin, the light of Gotham, couldn't measure up. He was a bit offended on Phantom's behalf, frankly.

Phantom was all-encompassing. If Robin was the light of Gotham, a flickering candle in a dark room, Phantom was a supernova. His warmth was a thing that enveloped the universe around him, radiating heat into the cold. God, he practically had his own orbit, that smile, those hands, those lips—

Damian was a planet in the orbit of that supernova, helpless against the force of gravity. He was so warm, so horribly comfortable.

He wanted to explain himself, to somehow articulate the depth of his fascination with this incredible creature, but he couldn't do it. How was he supposed to find the words for it? What dictionary contained enough words to capture this creature, this singularity?

It was a ridiculous notion, the idea that Phantom could have feelings for Damian. Unthinkable, absurd. Of course, Jon didn't have the full context of the situation, so he could hardly be blamed for such a profound error in judgment.

After a long silence, Damian had enough. He leveled a somber look at Jon and quietly asked, "Do you have any suggestions on our next meeting location?"

Jon gave him a look, but when he didn't budge, he just sighed. Finally, at long last, he nodded. "I think I have an idea, yeah."

Damian smirked. He loved it when a plan came together.

 

 


 

 

He breathed in a lungful of smoggy Gotham air, the cold settling deep into his chest. Far below him, the roads were quiet, illuminated by the occasional streetlight. It was a quiet night, typical in every way.

Damian absentmindedly flipped up a panel on the left forearm of his armor, revealing a small screen. He tracked the locations of the other vigilantes on patrol, immediately locking onto the usual suspects— Batman, Red Robin, Batgirl, and Black Bat.

He was in the quadrant closest to Black Bat— a key factor in his plan. He smirked and closed the panel, immediately jogging southbound across the rooftop.

He leapt from the rooftop and tucked into a neat roll, landing smoothly atop the next roof and springing back up. He kept his steps light and quiet, though he was sure that it was audible for the building's top floor residents. He absentmindedly wondered if vigilante activity negatively impacted property value.

Damian discarded the thought promptly, firing his grappling hook to the next rooftop. He threw himself off of the roof, launching into a smooth circular arc and building momentum sharply. Wind whistled in his ears, forcing itself through the sparse gaps in his body armor, cold air licking against his bodysuit.

He landed on the next rooftop smoothly, tucking into a roll to preserve the movement. He jumped up and continued running, moving faster as he heard short beep over his earpiece. It was the sound of someone switching to his comms channel.

It had scarcely been a minute since he'd left his quadrant, and it seemed like Oracle had already noticed. She hadn't said anything, though. She was just there, present, observing him.

He huffed out a scoff, panting as he slowed to a brisk walk across the rooftop. He hesitated, catching his breath, and heard a soft hum from the other end.

"You're in a hurry," Oracle said, sounding disinterested. He chose not to take it personally.

"Do you need something?" Damian asked, pointedly not addressing her comment. He didn't really care enough to start a fight about it, but he was tempted, as usual. Maybe that made him a bad hero.

"Nothing in particular," Oracle responded slowly, as if she was trying to gauge his mood. He didn't deign that worthy of a response, so he just fired his grappling hook again and launched himself into a clean arc.

He landed on the next rooftop, growing ever closer to his target, and heard Oracle typing in his earpiece.

"Stay there," she instructed him suddenly, and he froze. He heard a short beep as she left the channel and relaxed, knowing fully well that she wouldn't leave him in genuine danger.

He stayed stock-still, idly looking down at the streets as he waited for her return. The streets were quiet, the shadows empty of lingering criminals, especially this late in the night. With the sun threatening to rise in the east, perhaps ten minutes from sending the first beams of light streaking across the night sky, there was little activity.

Gotham was a lurking danger by night, all writhing shadows and cruel sneers, but daytime was a different story altogether. Daytime was manageable, to an extent. Not safe, never truly safe, but the world was kinder in the daylight.

The light never really chased away Gotham's shadows, but it forced them to hide. They sought refuge in other places, in other forms— money laundering instead of mugging, wire fraud instead of carjacking.

Those crimes, perpetrated by the white-collar thieves and fraudsters of the world, weren't really problems that could be fixed by a vigilante. That work was left in the hands of the police, though their work was often mediocre at best and actively harmful at worst.

Admittedly, it was good insight into Grayson's decision to become a police officer. He wouldn't ever say as much to him, of course.

Finally, he was pulled from his thoughts by a sound over his comms. Beep. Ah, she was back.

"She'll meet you there in a couple of minutes, just stay put," Oracle said quietly, her tone indiscernible. Damian's stomach twisted uncomfortably, his pulse picking up.

This was it. Either Cass would accept his apology, or she wouldn't. Either way, this was going to be awful.

It was going to be awful, but it was the right thing to do. He sighed through his nose, schooling his expression as if anyone could see him.

"Thank you," he murmured gratefully, bowing his head. He absentmindedly fidgeted with his grappling gun, his gloved thumb sliding along the trigger.

"Don't mention it, kid," Oracle said, and her voice was warmer than he'd heard in weeks. That was probably a good sign.

Then, he heard a quiet beep. Then, another— beep.

Maybe Barbara had accidentally switched between channels? That had happened before, often enough that it wasn't exactly remarkable. He suspected that her setup was rigged intentionally, in that regard— being able to switch quickly between channels during emergencies was a tremendous advantage, after all.

He wisely chose not to say anything, lest he risk embarrassing her.

The channel was quiet for a long moment, Damian too busy absorbing his situation. The lights of Gotham filtered up into a smoggy sky, not bright enough to matter, but certainly enough to hide the stars. Finally, he let out a sigh through his nose. "I'm not good at this," he admitted.

She didn't say a word, but he could hear that she was still there. There was a soft rustling, the shifting of fabric, perhaps. He was grateful that she was still there, still listening, even if she didn't have to.

He didn't dare to think about it, to consider why he was spilling his guts to a teammate— it was stupid, and there would surely be consequences, but… He needed to do it.

He couldn't keep it all to himself, not anymore. It would surely kill him.

"I'm not good at being a person," he said quietly, a dawning sense of shame coiling in the pit of his stomach. "Being a person, it's harder than being an assassin. It doesn't… It doesn't come naturally for me, and it probably never will."

He could hear a quiet shuffling on the other end of the line, multiple sounds layered over one another, but he ignored it. He needed to get this out, to articulate the many ways in which he was a failure.

"And it always seems like I'm making the wrong choices," he continued, thinking of cold, frostbitten hands and a candlelit dinner. "Even now, even after I've been here for years, it's like…"

He didn't have a good analogy for it. He'd never really needed one— well, before now, he'd never cared to try to explain himself.

Damian had the incredible ability to make the people around him angry, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd really tried to make amends with anyone. Sure, he'd begrudgingly apologize for the sake of the mission, always the mission, but this was different.

Now, instead of apologizing for the sake of the team, he was apologizing because he felt bad— because it was the right thing to do. It was a novel feeling.

"I don't know," he said softly, and it was true. "I should be better, after all this time. I should know better… But I don't. It doesn't matter if I'm an assassin or a person, because clearly I'm not cut out for either."

Before Damian could respond, there was a flicker of movement on the opposite end of the roof. He jolted, turning around, and was greeted by the blank, hollow face of the Black Bat mask. He internally winced, preparing himself as Cass started walking closer.

"She's here," he informed Oracle, glancing down to avoid Cass's eyes, and he heard a quiet sigh on her end. He frowned. "Oracle?"

"Not Oracle," the voice on the other end responded, and Damian froze. He knew exactly who that was, their voice raspy and hoarse.

Cassandra.

He turned fully to face Cass, mortified. He couldn't see her face beneath the mask, and he didn't care to imagine the expression she probably wore. He found himself taking a step back, his breath caught somewhere between his sinking stomach and ribs.

"I…" Damian started, but he lost his nerve. He took another step back, but Cass just kept walking towards him, her steps unfaltering.

Stupid, utterly moronic. Why hadn't he checked the comms? Why couldn't he use his brain for once, instead of relying on faulty, useless instinct? What was wrong with him?

Cass came to a stop in front of him, staring intensely at him even through the mask. She was close to his height, maybe even a bit shorter, but that didn't stop her from being the most frightening person he'd ever met. After a beat of hesitation, she suddenly lunged forward— fast, too fast for him to counter, and he was being yanked into—

Cass hugged him tightly, leaving no room for argument.

He gasped, rigid in her grasp, but he couldn't struggle. He didn't even breathe, his lungs simply freezing along with the rest of him. Oh….

"You're not a bad person," she murmured, squeezing him tightly. "You're my brother. I'm sorry that I made you doubt that."

Oh. He went still, absorbing her words as the weight of reality hit him.

Without another word, he raised his arms up to settle against her back, tucking his head into her shoulder. He shuddered and hugged back tightly, almost desperate despite himself.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and he wasn't even sure if she could hear him, with his face pressed against her so tightly. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"I shouldn't have pushed it, either," Cass admitted, and it was strangely liberating to hear that. To share fault was a wonderful thing, indeed. "I'm sorry about that."

She pulled away from the hug, holding Damian's shoulders out at arm's length— he tried to pretend that it didn't sting, just a little. He failed, of course, but he was doing a lot of that lately.

He couldn't see her face under the mask, but her shoulders were tight, tense, as if she was searching for the right words but couldn't quite find them. At long last, she said slowly, "I get it. I really, really do. So, if you ever want to talk about it, about finding that balance between weapon and person… I'm right here."

"You don't have to offer that," Damian said weakly, but he didn't really have the heart to argue about it. Honestly, he didn't want to argue about it.

She was probably the one person in the world who could really, truly, relate to his struggles. Admittedly, he didn't want to talk about it— uncomfortable, messy conversations weren't exactly fun— but he knew that it would probably be healthy.

"I know," she said shortly, and that was it. "But I think it'll help, and I want to. Talking this stuff through was important for me, and I don't think that anybody's really done that for you."

"Father tries," Damian admitted softly. "He doesn't understand. Not really. He knows about my training, about the world I lived in, but it's not… gone. It never will be."

She didn't say a word, but she almost certainly knew what he was talking about. His identity was so deeply entrenched in dichotomies, and the messy gray area of human imperfection didn't exactly fit in there.

At long last, Cass's arms fell away from his shoulders and she reached into one of her many utility pouches. She retrieved a small piece of paper, folded and crumpled, but very clearly an invitation of some sort.

She held it out for him, and he accepted it. The design was cheesy, embellished with pink hearts and cartoon clouds. The top of the invitation read, 'Congratulations! You are cordially invited to attend the nth biweekly meeting of the-’

"Gotham Vigilante… Girl's Night?" Damian read aloud, raising a brow. He looked back up to meet her eyes, and was met with the blank, staring mask of the Black Bat. Right, he couldn't see her face, so he couldn't gauge her reaction.

"Girl's Night," she confirmed, nodding her head sharply. "You are invited. Cordially."

Damian blinked, glancing down at the invitation again before looking at her. He wasn't sure if there was a tactful way to inform her that he was, in fact, not a girl. Finally, he asked, "Who will be in attendance?"

"You'll have to come see," Cass said, and there was no mistaking the smile in her voice. He dared to smile back, tucking the invitation into a pocket on his own utility belt.

By now, the sun was beginning to rise over the city, streaks of reds and oranges dancing across the thick smog. The daylight was no place for a vigilante, he knew that, but he hated to leave this moment. This clarity, this peace, it was a rare thing.

Cass's shoulders lost some of their tension and she leaned closer, stealing his attention once again. Very quietly, she said, "I get it, you know. It's like everyone else is speaking a language that you never learned, and you can't ask, or it's weird. I know."

And that was it, really. Damian couldn't suppress the soft, pained huff of laughter that escaped from his chest. "That's a good way to say it. I hadn't realized that you…"

Struggled, he wanted to say, but that wasn't quite right. He'd known, intellectually, that Cass struggled with her upbringing, that it affected her every day— especially on those days when she did not speak, where her shaking hands did the speaking, instead. He'd known, yes, but he'd never truly seen. Her struggle had been invisible, after a point.

He wondered if she hated him for that, once upon a time. He'd seen her pain, acknowledged it, but hadn't ever bothered to try to connect. Honestly, he hated himself for it, just a bit.

But now, the past was behind them, fading into the shadows as the sun began to rise. He breathed in, breathed out, and found that the world hadn't ended.

He was okay, he'd done something right, and his sister wasn't mad at him anymore. They were okay, standing beneath a vast sky of gentle, blooming color.

"Let's go home," she said quietly, nodding over to the closest fire escape. "I'll put out a signal for the Batmobile."

His chest felt warm. He nodded, unable to help but smile, ever so slightly.

"Let's go."

 

 


 

 

Two days later, Damian found himself standing in front of Barbara's apartment door, clutching a grocery bag in one hand and the strap of his backpack in the other.

He breathed slowly, keenly aware of his pulse thundering through his body. It was often difficult to tell the difference between physical danger and social danger, which made situations like this… Well.

His research had been thorough. He'd spent the better part of the last two days researching the concept of 'Girl's Night,' and his efforts had been fruitful. He gripped the handles of the grocery bag tighter.

He'd gathered a variety of supplies for this particular mission. For the sake of group cohesion, he needed to be successful tonight.

Damian steeled himself with a deep breath. He was ready.

He raised a hand and knocked three times.

There was a faint sound on the other side of the door, the rumbling of rolling wheels and a distinct lull in the conversation. He stiffened, his back straightening as he tilted his head back proudly.

The door swung open, revealing Babs, who immediately smiled at the sight of him. "Hey, Damian! Glad you could make it."

Damian tactfully refrained from mentioning that he obviously wouldn't have other plans. Well, no, that wasn't quite true— sometimes he was hanging out with Phantom.

"Thank you for inviting me," he said stiffly, inclining his head in thanks. The formality felt appropriate, though the look on Barbara's face seemed to suggest that it was weird. Okay, maybe he needed to switch tactics. "I… I brought- here."

He handed her the bag hastily, which she accepted. She set it down in her lap and peered inside.

"Oh! Okay, this is… Yeah, come on in," Barbara said quickly, rolling her chair back. He stepped inside and closed the door, immediately removing his shoes and placing them onto the neatly organized rack.

He recognized a few of the various pairs of shoes, though one pair was a surprise— two yellow and black Nikes, almost certainly the same shoes that Bruce had given to Duke on Christmas. He blinked, absorbing the information before immediately understanding. He shouldn't have been surprised, Duke was friends with everyone.

Barbara led him into the living room, where he was greeted with bright smiles and familiar faces.

"Damian," Cass greeted him with a smile, which seemed genuine. He'd half suspected that this meeting could be an opportunity to publicly shame him, but that theory was looking less likely with every passing second.

"Cass, it's good to see you. Stephanie, Duke, it is good to see you both, as well," Damian greeted politely, and Steph sent him a smile. Duke seemed to be falling asleep on the couch, sprawled out and visibly bedraggled.

"Don't mind him, he had patrol today and I don't think he had a nap afterwards," Steph said, waving in Duke's general direction. She was laying on the couch, occupying the area closest to the wall, while Cass lounged on the floor near her and fiddled with her phone.

Damian nodded solemnly at that news. As the Signal, Duke spent many of his days patrolling Gotham for crime— and it certainly took a toll on him. In all honesty, Damian admired him for it. Patrol was difficult enough at night, and that was when he had an entire team backing him up. Duke didn't have any such luxury, and if he needed backup, it could easily take an hour to arrive.

"Damian, you brought some supplies for Girl's Night," Barbara said, drawing the room's attention back to the plastic bag on her lap. "Is it alright if we look through them together?"

Her tone wasn't casual, it was more like an announcement— as if she was creating an invitation, subtly trying to open the room to a new activity, and in turn, integrate him among their ranks. It wasn't the first time that he found himself impressed by Barbara's emotional intelligence, and he suspected that it would not be the last.

"Of course," Damian said quickly, straightening up. "I am, admittedly, not an expert in… girl items. I did some research."

"You did research?" Steph asked, frowning thoughtfully. "On what? Like, activities?"

Before Damian could answer, Barbara cut in, "Oh, I think we'll find out. Let's start with…"

She pulled out a pink box, holding it out for everyone to see. Damian's face felt warm as the room's attention turned to his meager offerings— even Duke was blearily opening his eyes and craning his neck up.

"Face masks!" Damian suddenly blurted out, suddenly self-conscious about his choice. "For… moisturizing purposes? There should be enough for everyone."

Barbara snorted, a playful grin tugging at the side of her mouth. "Moisturizing purposes? Oh, that's precious."

"Don't worry," Cass suddenly cut in, looking serious. "You're already doing better than Tim did. He arrived late and he didn't bring anything."

"Not true," Duke said, scooting up into a sitting position. He propped an arm up on the side of the couch and leaned his head against it, still clearly tired but tuned into the conversation. "He brought his laptop. Said he had too much work to 'just take the night off.'"

Damian frowned. Was Tim not aware that this was a sacred event? It was a night for girls, clearly it was a privilege to receive an invitation as a boy.

"Alright, our next offering…" Barbara pushed aside a few smaller items to retrieve it. "A box of grocery store cookies!"

Damian nodded sharply, confident in this one. "Most social gatherings are improved by the presence of food."

"You nailed this one!" Steph said with a bright grin, sitting up properly and reaching out. "Babs, gimme!"

"Leave some for the rest of us, please," Barbara reminded her, rolling closer and handing the box over. As she moved, the remaining items in the bag made soft clink noises as they collided with one another, reminding Damian of his final offerings.

"What else is there?" Duke asked, eyeing the bag. Clearly, he'd heard the noise as well, and his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"Was that glass?" Cass asked curiously, moving up onto the couch to peer closer at the bag.

"Our final offering is…" Barbara reached into the bag with both hands and gathered the small bottles up into her grasp. Without further ado, she held them out, colorful and bright. "Nail polish!"

"Oooh!" Cass and Steph chorused, and even Duke was grinning tiredly.

"Not bad, little man," Duke said with a smile, giving Damian a nod. It felt like high praise, especially coming from someone who had clearly been accepted by the small, exclusive group. If Duke was one of the 'girls,' surely he would serve as the perfect role model for Damian's integration into the group. "Not bad at all."

"Usually we don't have specific activities in mind," Cass informed Damian, but she didn't seem upset about his offerings. Quite the contrary, she seemed pleased. "These are really good, though. Nice work."

Damian preened at the praise, unable to help but smirk. Of course he'd done better than Drake, he wasn't surprised in the slightest. If the rest of the evening went well, perhaps he would even be invited back to their next meeting… It was a noble aspiration.

"Hey, dibs on the purple!" Steph said suddenly, her eyes brightening at the sight of the nail polish. She held her hands out to grab it, but Barbara didn't move to give it to her.

"I think our guest of honor should get to choose, actually," Barbara informed her, a smirk pulling at her lips. She gestured to Damian, and he immediately tensed. "Which one do you want?"

"Oh, no, they're for you all," Damian informed her, and her smirk only grew wider. He hesitated, her expression throwing him off, and glanced around the room for assistance.

Sure enough, everyone else just looked amused. Had he missed something? Damian looked back at Barbara, earnest and confused.

"It's very nice that you brought nail polish," Barbara explained, her tone laced with amusement. It didn't seem mocking, though— it was as if she was expecting him to catch on quickly, some inside joke that they shared. "And it's only fair that you get first pick. Go on."

He blinked, processing the hidden implication for a moment before it finally clicked. He glanced down at his fingernails, taken aback despite himself, before meeting her eyes again.

"You're saying that I should paint my nails, as well," he said, aiming for direct confirmation. She nodded.

Of course, he should have realized that they would want him to participate in the group activity. In any other circumstance, Damian would have cursed his lack of foresight, but this seemed pretty harmless. Still frivolous, obviously… So it made no sense to agree. Why participate in an activity that served no function for him?

"Only if you want to," Duke said, and he held up a hand with visibly chipped nail polish on his own nails. It was a dark, pleasant green. lighter in the areas where the polish had chipped away slightly. "I don't think I agreed until, like, the third time they offered."

"It… doesn't serve a practical purpose," Damian said, eyeing Duke's nails curiously. "Does it?"

"I've noticed that it makes my nails sturdier," Cass offered, her eyes softening as he looked at her. Perhaps she knew how badly he needed input from someone who understood his hesitation, his reluctance towards anything purely aesthetic.

He considered it seriously. Finally, his eyes caught on the bottle of blue nail polish in Barbara's grasp, and he thought back to the safehouse.

Two beds in a virtual world, one right next to the other. A flowerpot on the floor, holding a single, blue cornflower.

Phantom's head resting in his lap. Damian's fingers carding through soft, white hair.

Utter foolishness. Sentimental idiocy.

"The blue," he said without any further thought. He couldn't bring himself to regret it.

"Good choice," Barbara said. He didn't bother to fight the pleased smirk that tugged at his lips.

 

 


 

 

The nail polish was cold, he noted. He kept his hands carefully still, casting a sideways glance to Cass. She was carefully painting the polish onto Steph's nails, meticulously dragging the brush along the cuticle.

Barbara had maneuvered from her chair onto the couch, her legs spread out over the ottoman as she painted Damian's nails. His hands were positioned carefully on a laptop tray, kept flat while she worked.

He was just glad that he didn't have to do it by himself. He'd received some instruction from Cass and he'd given it his best shot, but he'd only succeeded in making a mess, hence Barbara taking over. Honestly, he was grateful for her interference.

He glanced down at the bottle of nail polish remover before looking down at his nails again. She was almost done with his left hand, and he found that he liked them, so far.

He hoped that Phantom would like them, too.

"So, Damian," Cass said suddenly, her eyes still locked onto Steph's nails. Damian looked up at her, curious. "You said that you had a project."

Damian considered her phrasing— 'had,' indicating the past. It wasn't an accusation of current wrongdoing, but a gentle prod about the past. An offer to talk, but merely an offer.

He had every opportunity to tell her that it wasn't important anymore, that he'd finished it and moved on. Cass had given him a precious gift with just her words, alone. It was an olive branch, held out in a display of kindness.

He didn't take it.

Instead, Damian inclined his head and offered, "I'm still working on it. When I started, I had a goal in mind, but now…"

Gaining Phantom's allegiance for the Justice League had, ultimately, been his primary target. Now, after getting to know Phantom, becoming acquainted with him— perhaps even friends…

Using Phantom's kindness for his own gain felt cruel, plain and simple.

"Come on, tell us more about it," Steph prodded, either oblivious to the context or uncaring. He appreciated her for both. "You can't just tease us!"

Damian hesitated for just a second. "I… met someone who could be very useful. He's strong, and he'd be an incredible contact for…"

He trailed off, wary to even say anything about it. After a long moment, he looked up and realized that everyone was paying close attention to him. He swallowed his nerves, ducking his head to avoid their gazes.

Before he could say another word, Barbara quietly said, "So, you made a friend, but you think that he could be good for hero work. Is that right?"

Damian nodded, still staring stubbornly down at his nails. He didn't want to see their faces, for fear that they would see the weakness in his own.

"You know, you can just be friends with someone," Duke said slowly, his tone growing more assertive as he spoke. "Like, your whole life doesn't have to revolve around the vigilante stuff. Seriously."

"I know that," Damian said quickly, meeting his eyes. His stomach twisted uncomfortably. "It's just that… I think I'm being selfish. If I were really dedicated to the mission, I would just tell Father about him, I'd find some way to make use of our friendship. Instead, I'm…"

Instead, he was constantly badgering Phantom to hang out with him. He was monopolizing the time of an eldritch entity to play Minecraft and eat junk food. What kind of hero was he?

"Oh, fuck that!" Steph said hotly, turning to look fully at Damian. Her face was scrunched up in anger, but not directed towards him. "The mission can't be your whole life! You're allowed to have friends, dude."

"Allowed and encouraged," Duke agreed, nodding sagely. "Civilian stuff is separate, but it's still important."

Damian knew that. He totally knew that, and it was important, but this was clearly an exception. He couldn't properly convey why it was an exception, he just knew that it was one.

"He doesn't know me as a civilian," Damian admitted, and he caught a flash of surprise on Duke's face. He watched the older boy share a look with Steph and Cass, who seemed equally surprised.

"So, then, how did you two meet?" Cass asked, putting the nail polish brush down. She fanned her hands over Steph's nails, which were coated nicely in the purple polish. She was clearly well-practiced in this craft, an admirable trait.

At the question, Damian winced. "It's a long story. Not relevant."

A long story that involved intense stalking, breaking into John Constantine's house, and taking pictures of one of his ritual books. He'd been tempted to steal it, but his common sense had won out. He wasn't exactly proud of any of it, but he didn't regret a thing.

"Okay... What do you want from him now?" Barbara asked, calmly reorienting the conversation. He glanced between her and Cass, whose expression was curious but thoughtful.

Damian winced. He looked down at his nails, his stomach swooping strangely at the sight of that familiar blue.

He was already so lucky to even know Phantom. How could he ask for more? How could he possibly…

Well.

"…I think that I want to hold his hand again," he finally admitted, thinking back to their meeting in the restaurant. "And… I'd like to touch his hair again, too."

His chest almost hurt with the force of a sudden, desperate need. He wanted this so badly, perhaps more than he'd ever wanted anything.

For the first time in his life, there was something that he wanted for himself. There wasn't some secret plan, no overarching goal, no disapproving authority figure telling him what to do— finally, it was Damian's life, for better or for worse. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"Do you want... advice about it?" Cass finally asked, her words slow. One look at her face and Damian could see his own hesitation reflected back at him.

"...I would like that, actually," Damian's face felt warm, and he frantically looked down at his nails to avoid eye contact. "I don't know how people do this. I never learned, but… I'd like to try."

There was a beat of silence.

"Oh, Damian."

 

 


 

 

Notes:

I hope y'all enjoyed! Remember to leave kudos, comments, and tip your waiter! <3

Works inspired by this one: