Sasha's P.O.V

When I awoke, I found myself in darkness.

Where was I? It felt like I'd been waking up a lot in random places lately, particularly over the past few days.

I had little memory from the hours before. Was I still on that plane? That jet that Damian had carried me onto? Had we gotten away safely, or was I back in one of the cold cells at the League?

I let my eyes adjust to the light of the room. I felt soft fabric beneath my skin, my fingers gliding along the smooth texture.

Satin.

I was in my bed.

Jolting, I attempted to sit up, but an agonizing pain shot through my entire body and I winced, falling back into the comfort of my sheets.

"Sasha," a voice spoke.

I could recognize that voice anywhere.

"Damian?" I breathed, realizing just how sore my throat was. It was painfully hard for me to speak.

I saw him, seated casually by the bed in what I recognized to be the large pink chair that usually lived in the corner of the room.

Moonlight seeped in from the windows to my left, luminescent rays lighting up his sharp features. Those beautiful emerald eyes were locked on mine, jet black hair messy atop his head and jaw clenched tight.

I'd always loved the way he looked at me, even when he was mad. It was like he was protecting me, watching over me like some dark, brooding angel. His stiff posture and rigid frame didn't scare me like it used to, and that was because I knew he wouldn't hurt me. Couldn't hurt me.

And that comforted me greatly.

I noticed the black shirt he wore, tight against his lean body. My eyes focused on those defined muscles that didn't belong on an ordinary kid. Muscles that, I realized, paved a way into his past, revealing the extensive training I knew he'd been put through.

A slip of white bandage peeked from beneath his shirt, wrapping around his shoulder. "What... what happened to you?" I asked, a sense of panic taking form inside me.

He followed my gaze to his chest, the bandage glowing in the moonlight. His eyes met mine again, brows creased into a frown.

"You're worried about... me?"

Now I was confused. Of course I was worried about him, he was my closest friend. My best friend, even. Hell, we'd been through a ton of shit in the past 24 hours that I still hadn't properly processed yet. I was allowed to be worried for him, was I not?

"Sasha..." his tone was shocked, disbelieving. "You almost died."

What?

That was when I noticed what I was wearing. Instead of the robes the League had dressed me in, my entire torso was wrapped in thick bandages, a large circle of red seeping through the fabric on my left.

I saw the bruises that covered my skin, the cuts and the grazes and other smaller stab wounds that had been patched up neatly.

I lifted the sheets. My bare legs weren't much better, both littered with an assortment of injuries.

"Why... why don't I feel anything?" I gasped, my anxiety climbing as I gazed back at those emerald orbs. "I should be feeling this... I should be... Why doesn't it hurt? Why is everything so numb?"

"Sasha," Damian coaxed, voice calm and steady -- a stark contrast to my own. "You're on medication. Anesthetic. We had to use a number of... strong drugs."

That explained why everything felt so weird, like my mind was a mess of tangled thoughts and emotions.

But the panic wouldn't leave me. All the memories came flooding in, all the horrible little experiences that had resulted in me lying in this bed, broken and battered, nearly dead.

And then I looked at Damian, the raven-haired, emerald-eyes boy sitting across from me like a watchful protector, body alert like it always was, ready to fight.

"Damian," I whispered, the realization of his past settling in, my brain processing everything that had just taken place. "You're an assassin, aren't you?"

He flinched ever so slightly, head turning away. He wouldn't look at me and I knew why. He was ashamed. Of course he was ashamed. I was, too, of my own history at Midnight.

But being ashamed meant you had a conscience. And having a conscience meant that deep down you were a good person, no matter the deeds you had done.

I knew that Damian was a good person. Despite what he thought, and how he acted, and how he wished to be perceived, his heart was purer than everyone gave him credit for. He cared for people, cared about those he loved, cared about bringing justice to those wronged. He treated everything, I concluded, like a mission; always getting the job done, no matter how difficult.

I moved my arm slowly, my muscles dull and sleepy. It felt as heavy as lead, and I knew if it weren't for the drugs I would've been in extreme pain.

Reaching across the sheets toward him, I said, "It's okay. I know you, Damian... You're not as bad as you think. You're not a monster."

He shook his head, eyes never meeting mine.

His voice was as cold as ice. "You don't know what I've done."

And maybe I didn't know. But i sure as hell wasn't one to judge, not with my own fucked up past.

"Whatever it is, you can tell me," I mumbled, my body still groggy and tired. "Please... Just talk to me."

A few moments passed, nothing but silence filling the air between us. Damian turned, his figure softening ever so slightly, face tilting toward me.

He looked at me again, in that way that made my stomach flip and my heart flutter. Those hard eyes staring into the depths of my soul where even I hadn't been before. The way he just... saw me. Saw me for who I was, saw me for the raw, real and vulnerable person that laid on the bed before him.

And suddenly he stood, body moving with the shadows. It amazed me how he could slip through the darkness with such precision and ease. So many years of training had done this to him. It was as if he was one with the night.

A crease in the space beside me as Damian positioned himself on the bed. The proximity of his closeness startled me, his warmth and smell drifting toward me as I noticed my pulse quicken.

Waves of vanilla rolled off of him, mixed in with that "boy" scent he always had after showering; fresh and masculine. He rested his head on the pillow, face pointing to the ceiling and hands resting on his belly.

"I was raised by two of the earth's most despicable people," he began in a low hum, chest rising with every slow and even breath he took.

"My mother -- Talia -- and my grandfather, Ra's Al Ghul," he clarified.

I shifted closer to him, craving to be near him. His voice calmed me in a way I didn't know how. It was soothing.

Just talk to me. Just be with me.

"They treated me like a project, a specimen, building me to perfection so that I could someday rule the world. They trained me every second of every day, pushed me to my limits so that in the end I had none, leaving me with the ability to do whatever they desired."

I let his words wash over me as I closed me eyes, listening. I knew this. Somehow, I knew this. It just made so much sense now, the way he'd always acted and behaved, like everyone was out to get him. How I'd thought he was a spy or an agent at the detective-like skills he'd displayed, clearly derived from Talia and Ra's teaching.

Damian's body stiffened. "And then, one day, your father came. In the span of only a couple hours, all my mother's work was undone, my grandfather's legacy diminished as the League collapsed. Ra's was killed. My mother fled with me and the few assassins remaining."

In a small voice, he concluded, "That was when I met Bruce."

I knew what happened next. I knew in my gut, and I knew from when the Batwing had pulled up on that field in Nanda Parbat.

"...And that was when you became Robin?" I whispered.

A second of silence.

Then, a nod, slow and simple.

"Bruce made me want to become someone... better," Damian said quietly, and I noticed the way his jaw clenched and his fingers curled at the mention of that.

"And for some... pathetic and idiotic reason I thought I could."

I shook my head weakly, my lips forming a frown. "But you did. You've saved hundreds of people, Damian."

He let out a small scoff. "And I've killed thousands more."

I opened my mouth to retaliate but found that I had nothing to say. Yes, he'd done some terrible things, but hadn't everyone? I for one had caused more bad then I had good, but I knew that what I had done was wrong, and therefore I knew that I would never, ever do it again.

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm not exactly an angel either," I smiled softly.

"I've killed, I've tortured, I've done fucked up stuff that will haunt me forever. But I'm also healing, slowly. I know that what I did was wrong and I'm trying to make things right."

He glanced at me, brows furrowing as he listened to my words.

I continued, "You're doing that, too, Damian. You've been doing it far longer than I have. I've only been here for a few months but even I can see you changing."

He just stared at me, a mixture of emotions settling on his face that I couldn't quite describe. Confusion was definitely one of them, as was doubt.

But there was something else. Something that suggested he agreed with me, even a little bit, about the fact that he was growing. He was getting better, just like he'd always wanted. It almost amazed me how he couldn't see that as clearly as I could.

I felt his milky breath on my skin as he whispered, "Why do you do this to me?"

Now it was my turn to be confused.

His hand appeared by my face, finger gently pushing strays of my hair out of my eyes. I felt my heart going into cardiac arrest.

Why is he doing that?

It was making me feel something, deep down in my gut. Something I'd never really felt with anyone before.

"What... what do you mean?" I replied, praying to God that he couldn't hear my heart hammering in my chest.

He blinked, eyes narrowing and brows creasing as he searched my face, as if he was trying to figure something out, trying to make sense of his own thoughts.

"Give me... hope," he simply answered, his hand sliding down my cheek, tracing my jawline.

I didn't know what to do, what to say, how to feel. Everything was exploding around me, my emotions skyrocketing. It was all happening so fast. It was overwhelming me.

I lifted my own bandaged hand to his, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine, holding him there.

I don't want you to ever stop touching me.

"You fixed me when I was broken," I whispered, closing my eyes, just wanting to feel him. I wanted to bask in his warmth, his aroma, his mere existence and presence beside me.

"Now I have to fix you back, don't I?"

We were so close, only inches apart. Our bodies were connected in a way I couldn't describe -- our minds even more so.

"You can't fix me, Sasha," Damian's voice broke, forcing me to open my eyes and stare back into his emerald ones. "There are some things that can never be healed."

I squeezed his hand even tighter. "You're wrong. There's always a way."

But his eyes searched mine, shaking his head like he was trying to understand how I could possibly believe that.

"I'm not who you think. I'm not like... them. Good people, like Grayson, and father, and Summer, and... Conner."

I couldn't believe he was saying all this. Did he really think I'd choose any of them over him? That I preferred them? That I thought they were above him in any way?

"I don't care," I whispered, subconsciously tracing circles on his hand with my thumb. "I don't think I could ever care."

He was so close to me. I wanted to reach for him, wanted to hold him and never let go.

I continued, "I'm not... I'm not like them either. I'm not a good person. You and me, we're different from everyone else. We're broken and we're fucked up and we're traumatized, but so what? What if I don't care about that?"

His breathing filled my ears, my lungs, every part of me. All I felt was him. I placed my spare hand against his chest, right above his heart, feeling the sculpted muscles beneath.

But Damian pulled my hand away, shaking his head. "No..." he whispered, seeming visibly in pain.

"I don't... I don't deserve you."

No, no, no.

You're wrong.

You're so, so wrong.

He shuffled away from me. "You deserve someone better. You deserve someone like... Conner."

No. He was slipping through my fingers. I was losing him, scaring him off. He'd put himself out there and now that he was exposed like this, he wanted to run.

I reached toward him. "But what if I don't want him?"

Please don't leave me.

Damian's body froze, his breathing halted. Slowly, he turned his head back toward me

"What?"

My heart was like a jackhammer in my chest. Was this... really how I'd felt all along? Was this secretly what I'd wanted after all these months spent with him, the brat with the dark hair and the tan skin and the body of a young god?

The assassin who'd been forced to murder, forced to train ruthlessly, forced to miss out on an entire childhood, forced to grow up too fast.

The hero, who'd risked his lives to save people he didn't know for the sake of justice. For the sake of humanity. For the sake of his father and the people of Gotham.

"I..." my mouth opened and closed like a fish, my brain at loss for words.

This was how I felt, wasn't it?

Just say it.

It all made sense now. Everything seemed to fit into place perfectly.

"...I don't want him, Damian."

He came closer, emerald eyes locked on mine, unwavering. I felt my fingers drifting to his face, to the curve of his jaw, the smoothness of his skin. It was unfair how stupidly attractive he was... it was so, so unfair.

"Who do you want, then, Sasha?" He breathed, an aura of desire rolling off of him in waves and washing over me.

Say it.

But I guess I always was better with actions than words, and suddenly my lips were on his.

I want you.

IT HAPPENED BITCHESSSS

the moment u were all waiting for...

sooo as u can see i was feeling some type of way when i wrote this chapter so i hope y'all can enjoy it as much as i did! *squeals and fan-girls*

and yes i just uploaded twice in a day so u can thank corona for that