The gentle scraping of a razor over skin, clearing a path through shaving foam, was the sound that had characterised Bruce's mornings for decades. God, he felt old. The image in the mirror had more lines by the day and far too much grey at the temples. He was surprised the black had lasted so long in his hair. Maybe the follicles were as foolhardy as he was.

Bruce splashed water over his face and looked back up at the mirror. That would be Damian's face, in some years. He would grow in to it, as Bruce grew out of it, grew old, degenerated. The ripple of muscle with every move wasn't what it used to be. Batman would only live for so long in Bruce's flesh, before it would go to another. But it would always be in his soul- that spirit of justice, the creature of the shadows.

He recalled a conversation that he'd once had with Selena. God, he missed her.

Between gloved hands tipped with metal claws, she'd tenderly held his face, planted a kiss on his lips, and whispered, "You can't do this forever. I can't do this forever. The Bat and the Cat."

"You don't think we can last forever?" He had asked.

She had looked through his mask, at the man himself, beneath the borders. All he was had been lain bare before her.

"You and I, we'll outlive eternity." Her forehead had rested against his. "But these two," her claws had lain against the symbol on his chest, "they'll get slow. They can't dance forever. And I know it'll break you to accept it."

It would break him, Bruce realised. He could cling on to his strength, keep up the fight for another five, ten, fifteen years even. But the inevitable couldn't be fought. Not even when you keep company with gods.

What was the remedy then, to the desperation of losing purpose?

Repurpose yourself. Or find new purpose.

He couldn't just expire in his mid fifties. There was still the fight for justice. Oracle had proven it, after the paralysis.

That haunted him still. Her pain. Jason's pain. And Alfred. And Tim and Dick and Damian and Jim Gordon- the list just kept going on. If there were a button to press to make it all go away, he would press it in a heartbeat. But life isn't so simple. Keeping the company of gods couldn't help with that either.

Bruce looked, puzzled, around his room. What was he doing again?

The freshly pressed shirt and suit gave him the answer: another board meeting that Alfred was forcing him in to. Any second now, the old butler would knock to-

Knock knock knock

Right on time.

"Master Bruce," the butler stepped in to the room, "you've some visitors."

***

It wasn't the sprawling grandeur of the manor that weighed down Shiva's effortless confidence, but the knowledge of what lay within. Not the ancient beauty of the empty ballroom, dancing still with the ghost of the aristocracy, nor the dusty monsters of glimmering diamond and pale candle wax suspended from the ceilings, but a feeling and a person. Shiva's humanity pained her.

Within that house was what she couldn't give, and whom she couldn't give it to.

Pennyworth greeted the deadly pair at the door of the Manor with a familiar, unsurprised, "Ah good afternoon."

Shiva rued that they hadn't sprung upon the Batman in his cave, levelling him with a proposal, safe behind an armour that protected more than the physical. But Damian had insisted. This was as much dealing with Bruce as it was Batman.

At the thought of Batman, Shiva exhaled sharply. Batman was in that symbol. The symbol that her daughter wore, proudly emblazoned over her heart, every night.

Glancing down at herself, Shiva recoiled internally. A cardigan...from master of assassins to a cardigan-wearer on a social call. Pitiful. She'd had to borrow it from Zatanna.

'We look about the same size' the sorceress had said, and summoned the piece from her cupboard without much thought: 'emoc nagidrac'. Shiva's hand had tingled as she took the floating cardigan from the air, offensively suburban and coated in a magical glow.

Looking at the young man besides her, Shiva wondered how Damian had managed the transition. He now wore these clothes with such ease- moved in them with all the predatory sureness ingrained from his training. This was a world, like that of magic, that he'd slipped in to. Perhaps his was an example to follow.

Too much must have been given away by the assassin's expressions, or energy, she figured, for Damian met her eye and said, "You don't need to worry yourself Shiva."

She raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

They followed the butler through the foyer and in to the first room on the left. Her heart hammered against all will.

Alfred turned to them.

"Please make yourselves comfortable." He nodded to each.

"Thank you Pennyworth, I do live here- most of the time." He mumbled the last few words, prompting a smile from the butler, and headed forth in search of a sibling to irritate.

Stepping closer, Alfred met Shiva with a sympathetic dent between his eyebrows, "Cassandra is out with Stephanie, but they'll return soon. I've spoken on many an occasion with your daughter-"

Shiva pursed her lips, "I am aware of her sentiments towards me, Alfred."

He inclined his head, "Perhaps not as aware as you believe." Straightening himself, the butler said, "I shall inform master Bruce of your arrival, if he hasn't already seen. I trust you'll take your regular tea?"

Lady Shiva nodded gratefully, mulling over the older man's words.

An age seemed to pass, during which the assassin sank in to murky waters of contemplation, rooted in place. Then the air shifted and Shiva turned. Bruce Wayne faced her.

"Shiva, it's good to see you again." He started, as amicably as one with a face permanently set in a frown could.

"Detective." She said in acknowledgment.

"Cassandra should be back at the Manor soon."

"Alfred informed me." Shiva said.

It was strange. Uncomfortable. Trying to figure out what to say. The awkward space between words. Grappling for conversation.

Combat was nothing like this. Combat was reflex and intimidation and skill. In fact, upon reflection, combat was a lot like conversation- and Shiva was a woeful novice.

Lady Shiva had accompanied Damian on a mission of reconciliation (as well as actual detective work of course). But how? How to foster a good relationship with the Batman?

"Damian is here, but he's in search of his siblings. He should return soon." Shiva said.

Bruce sighed, "That's good."

It was?

Standing before her, in a black turtleneck, with sleep in his eyes and skin flecked by old battle scars, Shiva was struck by the resemblance between father and son. And there it was, in Bruce's sorrowful sigh, the same rare fragility that would pass over Damian's features when he thought of home, of the things he loved- the people he loved.

"How is he?" Bruce asked.

It wasn't a pleasantry. He implored her, in earnest, for news of his son.

"Zatanna informed me that he's been spending some time in the House of Mystery...with the demon, Raven."

Shiva couldn't tell if that was disapproval in his voice. Oddly, she found herself hoping that it wasn't.

"Damian's doing well, from what I have seen and have spoken to him about. He has...purpose...and community, of a kind. The company that he is keeping," Shiva paused, "I have too spent time in. This House of Mystery...it's is powerful. It's inhabitants are exceptional. As for Raven, understand her to be a rational, balanced individual, but certainly one of great strength. And one with whom Damian has a strong connection." She fixed Bruce with a clear gaze, "I do not doubt that her support and affection for your son is in earnest- and likewise."

Bruce hummed thoughtfully.

"I trust in your judgement" he confessed. "If you think that Damian is happy, then I can't complain."

Shiva raised an eyebrow, "Yet he leaves home unannounced for days on end, consorts with dangerous magic, and has severed most communication with you for some time."

Once again, the man sighed, "He fears that I'll pass judgment. Attempt to control his life."

"And will you?"

Bruce answered honestly, "I'll try not to."

His brute honesty seemed to satisfy the assassin. She regarded him with fresh perspective. The tense competition, the warrior's edge, that had defined their previous relations had dissipated.

There were stark similarities, Bruce realised, between Shiva and his son; not the Damian now, but the boy before, who'd fought painfully to free himself from the bonds of his former life under the shadow of Ra's Al Ghul. The guarded look in her eyes- faintly shielded uncertainty in uncharted waters. Perhaps it was sympathy then, and hope, which made Bruce extend an olive branch to the assassin.

He reached for conversation, "Have you had word from-" but the words died in his throat.

Shiva turned round at his pause, noticing his eyes trailing over her shoulder.

Her lips paled.

"Cassandra..."

***
Deep in the bowels of a throbbing cesspool of sin, a witch with skin demon-red stalked her way through a swaying, pulsating mass of the desperate and godless. Her soul inhaled the depravity- it became her. The isolation. The inebriated bliss. The hard lust. The empath could have surrendered to it all. But what those feelings made her want wasn't to be found in that sea of gyrating sinners; her isolation and bliss and lust could only be reconciled by a single individual.

Slipping through the beings around her, all real purpose was quickly draining from Raven's mind. Isolation and bliss and lust. One thought throbbed within her, illuminating to the throb of the music around her. Damian.

She wanted to hold his soul and cling to his skin and kiss and whisper and-

And then complete release as she broke from the crowd, as if escaping a trance. Her purpose returned, in the clarity of open space.

Lucifer.

Her skin was painted blue, then green, then red under the lights above. In spite of them, all Raven's vision was black. The pounding of music was distant. She carved through the seeming abyss until her hand fell on a hard surface.

Wood.

The door was deep brown. It was startlingly bright, standing alone in pure blackness. Raven knew it well.

She knocked. The door swung open.

"Ah," came a familiar, honeyed, devilish voice, "Raven darling. I've been expecting you."

Lucifer, adorned with wicked charm, sat forwards in his seat and pushed away the hungry lips of an incubus- as much an ornament as the other beautiful creatures and objects that decorated the devil's lair.

He raised an eyebrow at the witch, "Tell me, what is it that you desire?"

A.N:

Hi guys, back again much later than I had expected.

I hope you liked this chapter. Also happy Pride month!! I hope you all are living blessed and happy lives- I know that I'm doing quite well know, and I wish that for all of you. Thank you for sticking with me on this story. I do love writing and I'm frustrated at how slowly I've been progressing with this book. I promise, we'll be getting some more real Damirae content!!

Luv you guys!

-Bats