quillsareswords:

Nightmare

Damain Wayne (fluff)

Requested (anonymous)

A sort-of part two of “Intuition”: this is the other side of the coin. Instead of the reader having a nightmare about Damian, it’s the other way around.

Damian hardly ever got more than a few hours of sleep in a night. You were glad he got more than Tim, but you still worried. He needed more, no matter what he said.

It wasn’t rare for him to wake up from a dream, more specifically a nightmare, but that didn’t make it any better. He usually preferred to sleep beside you, weather it was your house or his, because that was one less thing he had to worry about. You were there, within reach.

He was glad that both your parents trusted you enough to let you stay at the manor at the drop of a hat, or allow him to stay at your house, even if one of you usually ended up sneaking into the other’s bed.

Tonight was different.

You were asleep in your own bed, in your own room.

Damian had been alseep in his own bed, in his own room.

That is, until he was jarred awake at the sound of your blood-curdling scream. He jolted up in bed, heaving another harsh breath, fingers curling into the sheets until his knuckles were white. He could feel the slick layer of sweat sticking his shirt to his chest, the damp sheets beneath him. The dry portion of the sheets were tangled and wrapped around him like tentacles dragging him to the bottom of the ocean. It would have made sense, considering how hard it was to breathe.

When he finally reined in his scrambled mind and forced himself to calm down, realize that he wasn’t in a dark cement room, wasn’t bound to a chair, and that Slade wasn’t driving a sword through your abdomen, his breathing finally leveled out.

He reached for his phone, yanking it off the charger. He unlocked it quickly, and pulled up your contact with equal speed. He pressed the green call button and lifted the device to his ear.

He knew it was irrational, and that he should just let you sleep, but he already knew he wouldn’t if he didn’t hear directly from you that you were okay.

It rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. When it went to voicemail, Damian’s anxiety was reaching a peak. Rationally, he knew you were alseep. Or course you were, it was two in the morning.

But he couldn’t help himself. The dread was pouring down his spine like buckets of ice water. He untangled himself from his bedsheets and stumbled across the dark room, threw on the closest set of clothes, and pulled on a pair of discarded Converse. You would be angry with him for waking you up, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. He grabbed a hoodie and pushed the window open.

Your whole apartment building was dark, like most of the other buildings on your block. He was thankful your bedroom window was on the fire escape, because he had left his key in his rush over. Besides, he didn’t want to wake up the rest of your household.

He crouched down in front of your window and peered in. The blue nighight plugged in by your door gave off enough light for him to see inside, and he could plainly see your form tucked under a pile of blankets. The nightlight wasn’t really for you, it was for him, after the time he came over after patrol to check on you, he had tripped over a pile of school books and narrowly avoided getting caught in costume by your parents (you ended up shoving him into your closet and telling your parents you had just gotten up for the bathroom and tripped).

He pushed up the window as quietly as possible and slid inside, this time stepping over a new pile of reading books. He planned on getting you a bookshelf for your birthday.

He stopped at the side of your bed. You laid with your back to him. He leaned over you, steading himself with his hands on the mattress, and pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

You drew in a deep breath, an immediate sign of your awakening. Your eyes cracked open, a small smile already tipping your lips upward. You only rolled over a enough to look at him properly, and he stayed in place. “Hello,” you murmered groggily.

He didn’t fight off the little smile curling his lips. “Hello, beloved,” he replied, only loud enough for you to hear.

He saw your eyes darting toward your alarm clock, your eyebrows furrowing. You looked back at him. “Why are you here to late?”

He didn’t answer right away, and you already knew why. It was something that mattered to him. A lot, if he wouldn’t even tell you. You didn’t let him wage the inner battle on weather to lie or not. “Doesn’t matter,” you hummed, wiggling closer to the other side of the bed, “but you should probably stay here tonight.”

You could see it in his eyes: the worry dissipating. It was the same gleam in his eyes every time he woke up from a nightmare, waking you up in the process, and turned to see you. The visible wave of relief washing over him, shoulders rolling to a more relaxed place, wrinkles between his brows disappearing.

He nodded, feigning reluctance as he pulled his hoodie off. “I suppose, if you insist.” You almost laughed at how easily he gave in, but at the same time, it made you wonder just how bad that dream must have been for him not to put up a fight. You pulled the covers back just as he sat down prying off his shoes by the heels and dropping them to the floor.

He laid down beside you, pulling the covers down with him. You smiled sleepily at him, hoping to provide as much comfort as possible. You might risk asking again in the morning, but for now, this was the best you could do.

He reached up, gently tapping the end of your nose. You scrunched your face up, which earned a wider smile from him. Then, you lay there together in the silence, listening to the sound of city nightlife outside.

“You asked why I came,” he suddenly said. “I had a nightmare about you. I came to be sure you were alright,” he admitted queitly, carefully studying the beautiful [E/C] in your eyes. It reminded him of a whole galaxy.

You were honestly a bit startled by his openess, which, knowing Damian, was understandable, so it took you a moment to reply. In fact, you weren’t sure exactly how to. “I’m okay, Dame.”

His hand, still resting by your face, moved up to cup your cheek. “Yes, I see that.” He tried to make it sound cool and slick, but you could easily hear the raw emotion behind those words. Worry, relief, adoration, and a few others you couldn’t identify.

You wriggled closer to him, burrying your face in the soft material of his T-shirt. You fealt his arms wrap around you securely, the same as you felt his whole body relax and his breathing grow deeper.

You were safe. You were okay. You were tightly wrapped in his arms once again, and anyone who wished to change that fact would have to face the worst side of Damian Al’ Ghoul Wayne to even get the chance.