Damian Wayne| Robin

Aside from what people usually assumed about him, Damian could actually talk, a lot, when he was with the right person. Maybe not as much as you, and certainly not with the easy, effortless charm his brothers seemed blessed with, but compared to his usual repertoire of clipped retorts and weaponized silence, it was practically a revelation. Before he met you, conversation for him was utilitarian: short, efficient, edged in sarcasm sharp enough to cut. Most people only ever heard Damian Wayne speak when he needed to deliver a threat, a correction, or a complaint.

But with you, something softened. Something opened. Now he talked everywhere. In the car on the way to missions. On rooftops between grapples. On the manor stairs late at night when you’d accidentally wandered into each other’s orbit. He talked during training sessions, where his voice would shift from critique to casual commentary without him even noticing. Sometimes he even talked while half-asleep, muttering opinions he’d deny in the morning.

And you soon discovered the truth beneath all those layers of aloof discipline and carefully controlled silence: Damian Wayne was a massive gossiper.

Some nights you’d stay on comms long after patrol ended, lying on your bed while his voice filled your earpiece. He’d recount every scrap of intel, important or otherwise, that he’d picked up throughout the week. Manor anecdotes. Family drama. Gotham celebrity scandals. High-society whispers whispered to him by people who should really know better than to trust a Wayne with secrets. He told everything with startling accuracy and a level of enthusiasm he tried very, very hard to hide behind a bored tone.

Which made tonight particularly dangerous. Because you were currently standing in a grand ballroom filled with half the people Damian had roasted in exquisite detail.

Crystal chandeliers glittered above you, casting warm gold light that made every diamond shine twice as bright and every fake smile three times as obvious. Guests in designer suits drifted like schools of fish, circling, mingling, gossiping in their own, less efficient ways. And Damian was supposed to be one of them, doing the Wayne thing, shaking hands, being seen, projecting the image of effortless grace and respectability.

For about twenty minutes, he actually tried.

But then your shoulder brushed his, and just like that, he migrated toward you like gravity itself was tugging him away from the crowd.

Now the two of you stood tucked into an isolated corner behind a column, shielded from the constant flash of cameras and the hum of superficial small talk. Damian’s hand rested lightly on your waist, not possessive, not performative, just steady and warm, his thumb occasionally brushing in slow, unconscious arcs that matched the rhythm of his voice.

He leaned a little closer, lowering his tone as though about to deliver a mission briefing. “And then,” he drawled, eyes glinting with wicked delight, “they found him frolicking in his office with the secretary.”

He paused, letting the scandal settle between you like a dropped match. A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, but the closest most people ever saw. His gaze flicked to yours, bright and expectant, waiting for your reaction the way someone else might wait for applause.

Because this was your ritual. This was your language. And for Damian, this, your quiet corner, your shared secrets, your whispered commentary, was more comfortable than any gala could ever hope to be.