𖹭| Valentines day...maybe he went a little overboard? (req)

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As someone raised to bury every flicker of feeling beneath discipline and duty, Damian had never understood the appeal of Valentine’s Day. Love, in his mind, was proven in loyalty, in protection, in consistency, not in gaudy displays wrapped in red ribbon. Shouldn’t couples care for each other every day?

The oversized teddy bears, the glittering cards, the absurdly priced roses flown halfway across the world, it all felt artificial. Manufactured. Weak. Every year when February fourteenth arrived, he met it with a scoff and a roll of his eyes, dismissing it as yet another sentimental indulgence.

Every year, until this one.

Because this year, he had allowed himself to love.

Y

ou had slipped past walls he hadn’t realized were still standing. With you, affection did not feel like a vulnerability to be exploited but something steady and grounding. You were more than he had ever permitted himself to want, let alone have. And though he still found the holiday ridiculous, he found the idea of letting it pass without doing something for you... unbearable.

He had spent hours researching in secret, articles, forums, even embarrassingly earnest relationship advice columns. None of it felt adequate. Nothing seemed worthy of you. Eventually, swallowing every ounce of pride he possessed, he sought out Grayson. He grumbled the entire time, of course, complaining about commercialization and societal expectations, but he listened. And, reluctantly, he followed through.

By the end of the torturous shopping excursion, he stood in possession of a massive bouquet of your favorite flowers, gourmet chocolates imported from a patisserie Grayson swore by, and a carefully arranged basket filled with every snack you had ever casually mentioned enjoying.

Perhaps he had gone overboard. In fact, he knew he had. But perfection was the only acceptable outcome.

There weren’t many rooftops in Gotham suited for romance, most were better suited for surveillance, but he found one quiet enough, high enough, private enough. In the afternoon light, the skyline stretched out in shades of steel and amber. He laid a thick blanket across the concrete and arranged everything with meticulous precision. A few candles were placed around the edges, subtle, controlled flames.

Candles.

He stared at them for a long moment, mildly horrified at himself. If anyone from the League could see him now, they would never let him hear the end of it.

Still... it mattered. You mattered.

When the rooftop door finally creaked open, his spine straightened instantly. And there you were. Not overly dressed, nothing dramatic, but effortlessly radiant in a way that made his breath catch despite himself. For a moment, all the rehearsed lines in his head scattered like startled birds.

He rose to his feet, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from his jacket, and cleared his throat.

“Beloved... you look lovely. As always.”

There was the faintest edge of nervousness beneath his composure, so subtle most would miss it, but not you. He stepped forward and handed you the extravagant bouquet, the flowers nearly dwarfing your hands.

"I am told,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with uncharacteristic self-consciousness, “that this is traditional.”

He still thought the holiday itself was foolish. Overblown. Excessive.

But for you, only for you, he would endure the candles, the chocolates, the absurd bouquet. He would brave sentiment and spectacle and even seek Grayson’s advice. If loving you made him look like a fool, then perhaps... he did not mind being one.