Chapter Text
The morning after Damian's arrival was thick with an uneasy quiet. The manor, usually alive with the soft bustle of Alfred’s early morning preparations or the occasional sound of Bruce and his sons moving about, felt muted. It was as if everyone was tiptoeing around the presence of the boy who had upended their world.
Damian was up before dawn, long before anyone else stirred. He’d spent the hours before sunrise methodically observing the grounds from his window, memorizing sightlines, and taking note of anything that could be used as an entry or escape point. He moved about the halls like a ghost, eyes glancing over framed portraits and decorations.
Bruce had introduced him to his room, claiming they could go to Ikea or any other furniture store to find things that Damian liked.
Damian had merely set his Katana on the desk and resumed his task.
By the time Alfred entered the kitchen to start breakfast, Damian was already there, seated at the edge of the long dining table. He sat with his back ramrod straight, hands resting on his knees, and his eyes scanning every movement the butler made.
“Master Damian,” Alfred said with a soft, but pointed nod. “You’re up early.”
Damian didn’t respond. His eyes flicked to the knife Alfred was using to chop vegetables, calculating its weight, its balance, its reach. Alfred noticed the look but said nothing, simply continuing his work with a practiced calm.
Breakfast was a concept all too foreign to him; his hands itched for activity, for something to occupy his mind. He needed a mission; at the League, he was never idle. He was always on a mission, slicing through tissue, breaking through bone, or snapping necks. What Damian needed, was a new directive.
His mother had informed him of his father’s night-time activities patrolling around the city. Perhaps his directive would start there. Until then, Damian sat at the table, awaiting his first command.
The only noise that filled the kitchen was the sound of Alfred’s food preparation. The man confused Damian. Servants normally disregarded him entirely, serving his leftovers or food that hadn’t been deemed fit for the standards of the rest of the assassins. Yet Alfred’s keen eye kept flickering to Damian, as if silently questioning him. Perhaps the servant had a directive for him to obey, something for Damian to do, to fulfill his role.
Dick entered first, smiling as if to hide the fact that his entire world had been upended only a couple of hours ago. “Good morning Alfred. Good morning Damian.” the man had smiled, although Damian could see how it seemed to stretch at the edges, his eyes crinkled tightly. Damian ignored the man in favor of his father.
“Did you sleep well?” Dick asked, his fingers tapping against the mahogany dining table. But his question was met with silence as if the boy were simply trying his best to stare through the man. Dick’s smile faltered, feeling his heart be squeezed once more. It was like Damian was trying to break his heart.
“Tell me what you did this morning,” Dick said, eyes flickering down. He wanted to get to know the boy, but if he only answered commands, maybe that was the only way to get him to speak again.
“Woke up at dawn. I surveyed the surveillance systems, the escape routes, and potential threats,” Damian replied robotically, eyes narrowed as Bruce came into the room. The response was more of a case briefing than anything, but Dick counted his wins as they came.
“How did you enjoy the manor, Damian? Was your room comfortable?” Bruce asked as he took his place at the front of the table. Alfred slid a cup of coffee to him, glancing at Damian with encouragement. When the boy didn’t respond, Bruce deflated a little. “Please tell me how your stay was.”
Damian’s sharp green eyes flicked to Bruce, his posture as rigid as a soldier’s during a debriefing. “Acceptable,” he said curtly. His tone was devoid of emotion as if the question itself had been an unnecessary formality.
Bruce sighed internally, nodding at Alfred as a plate of scrambled eggs and toast was placed in front of Damian. He watched as the boy’s gaze lingered on the food, studying it as though it were a puzzle to solve rather than a meal.
“Eat,” Bruce instructed gently, though the weight of his voice left no room for argument.
Damian picked up the fork, his grip mechanical, and took a bite. He chewed methodically, his expression unreadable. Dick watched with growing concern, his plate untouched.
Jason entered the kitchen next, still pulling on his leather jacket, his expression twisted into a mix of irritation and disbelief. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Damian at the table, his lip curling slightly.
“Morning,” Jason muttered, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “Looks like the kid’s still here. Guess last night wasn’t just some bad dream.”
“Jason,” Bruce warned, his tone low but firm.
“What?” Jason said, shrugging as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”
“I don’t think that,” Dick interjected, his voice rising slightly.
Jason gave him a withering look before turning to Damian. “So, what’s the plan for today, kid ? Gonna practice sneaking around the manor? Or maybe sharpen that sword you brought into the house like we’re in some medieval drama?”. Jason wanted the kid to be a little shit-head, to say something in response. Hell, when he was a kid, he used every excuse in the book to prod at Bruce and Dick.
But Damian’s eyes just flickered to him with disinterest as he continued to eat. Jason realized that no amount of prodding could make the kid speak unless he commanded it like a master with a dog.
Suddenly, Jason had no appetite for the plate of waffles Alfred set in front of him.
“Damian,” Bruce said, leaning forward slightly. “Today, I’d like you to spend time with Dick. Get to know the manor, the grounds. You’ll need to familiarize yourself with everything here if you’re going to live with us.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed and he tilted his head as if the entire concept was foreign to him. He used to live completely separate from the rest of the League. Even now, this ‘breakfast’ sends shivers down his spine. Damian hoped this was a test of his loyalty. And he still yearned for a directive.
“Yes,” Bruce said, his voice steady. “You’re part of this family now. Respond if you understand.”
“If that is your command,” Damian said finally, his tone resigned.
“It’s not a command,” Dick said quickly, leaning forward. “It’s an invitation. You’re allowed to... be here, Damian. To belong.”
Damian said nothing, his expression unreadable as he stared down at his plate.
Bruce stood, setting his empty coffee cup on the counter. “Dick, take Damian around the manor after breakfast. Show him the training room, the library, anything he might need to see.”
Dick nodded, his expression resolute. “Sure thing, Bruce.”
Bruce paused as he looked at Damian, his gaze softening just slightly. “You’re not just here to train, Damian. You’re here to learn what it means to be part of something bigger than yourself. Give it time. Say anything if you have any questions.”
Damian placed his fork down, raising his chin. “Will I be joining you for patrol?” he asked, his heart racing at the promise of a new training ground.
Bruce shared a look with the rest of the boys and opened his mouth, cut off by the groan of what looked to be, a very sleep-deprived Tim.
Tim stumbled into the kitchen, his hair an unkempt mess and dark circles under his eyes. He squinted against the morning light and made a beeline for the coffee machine, muttering something incomprehensible.
“Morning, Tim,” Dick greeted cheerfully, though the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement at Tim’s disheveled state.
“You look like shit, replacement,” called out Jason, who smirked through a sip of tea.
“Mmmm, eat shit.” Tim grumbled, his voice hoarse as he filled his mug. He turned, finally noticing Damian sitting at the table, and froze mid-sip. “Oh. Hello.” He said awkwardly, before shuffling to the table. Damian noted that he chose to sit closest to Damian. “What’s this I hear about patrol?”
Bruce crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “Damian was asking if he would join us.”
Tim perked up slightly at that, setting his mug down with a thud. “Wait, what? You’re seriously considering letting him patrol?” He gestured toward Damian with a wide-eyed look. Damian’s eyes narrowed. Suddenly, everyone’s eyes flickered to Damian and he glanced at his father.
It was too confusing to know when he could speak. His father had said he could speak whenever he wanted, but there was no want. His directives told me what to do, what habits he had, and what was expected of him. Yet clearly, he was failing to please his father, which contradicted another directive.
“Damian, you can speak. Whenever you…think you can, you should.” Bruce smiled, reaching across the table to place a rough hand on Damian’s hand. And with that, Damian registered his command. Finally.
“I have been trained since birth to be an assassin,” Damian said coolly, his gaze steady on Tim. “I can handle a simple patrol.”
“But patrolling Gotham isn’t simple,” Tim replied, shaking his head. “Bruce–”
“I didn’t say he’d be going on patrol,” Bruce said firmly, his voice cutting through the growing tension. He turned to Damian, his tone softening slightly. “Not yet. You’re still adjusting to life here, Damian. We need to take this one step at a time.”
“You doubt my capabilities. I am trained to obey you, just as–.”
“--It’s not about your abilities,” Bruce replied calmly. “It’s about trust. Patrolling as part of a team isn’t the same as working alone. You need to understand that before you can join us.”
“Trust,” Damian repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. His gaze flickered between Bruce and the others, his expression inscrutable.
“You’ll earn it,” Dick said, leaning forward with a warm smile. “It’s not about proving yourself. It’s about learning to work with us. And that takes time.”
Damian frowned, clearly dissatisfied with the answer but unwilling to argue further. He nodded.
“Good,” Bruce said with a nod. “Dick, after your tour, take Damian to the training room. I want to see where he’s at with hand-to-hand combat.”
“Let’s get started,” Dick said, clapping his hands together as he stood. “Come on, Damian. I’ll show you around the manor. First stop, the Batcave.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly, his interest piqued despite himself. Without a word, he followed Dick out of the kitchen, his posture as sharp and controlled as ever.
As the door swung shut behind them, Tim glanced at Bruce. “You really think this is going to work?”
Bruce sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It has to.”
Dick led Damian down to the training room, the cold air of the cavernous space enveloping them as they entered. The room was empty, the echo of their footsteps punctuating the stillness. The usual hum of activity in the manor felt like a distant memory. Damian walked beside Dick with an almost unnerving stillness, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his every movement precise but lacking the usual fluidity of someone used to their surroundings.
He almost wished that Damian would say something; be angry, sad, something. But it was like Dick was walking there alone, the only noise was the quiet steps and the small breaths that filled the halls.
The Training room was state-of-the-art, filled with punching bags and a wall-climbing machine. Dummies sat lined up against the walls and an array of rubber and wooden weapons were ordered perfectly in frames. Holograms could be programmed to imitate villains' average moves and typical sets.
“Alright, show me what you got,” Dick smiled, throwing off a hoodie and readying his position. Damian simply nodded, getting into a stance that seemed to be waiting for Dick to say the wanted words. His eyes were hollow, and he seemed to float when in between commands. As if he wasn’t there.
Damian scanned the room with mechanical detachment, observing everything with the same motion as a camera would. Analyzing, searching. He folded his jacket with precision as if every motion were on autopilot.
In one blink, Damian launched himself with a flurry of strikes, each one precise to maim, injure, or kill. Bruce had told him yesterday that he may not kill or injure any one member of the family, but Dick knew that every strike was meant to hurt: one aimed at the groin, the trachea, the shin.
Dick rolled to the side, turning up to spot that Damian had recovered, transferring the momentum of his first strikes into a rolling kick. It would be impressive, if not so unsettling. When Dick fought with people, he knew there was something in each strike, each kick; whether it was joy or anger, enjoyment or dread, each strike came from someplace within. But Damian recited each move like it was a coordinated move in a dance. It was like he simply summoned it from thousands of fights before, with no thought.
As Dick dodged and threw hits, he watched Damian with practiced efficiency. There was no wasted time, no wasted potential – every second was efficient and precise. But it chilled Dick to the bone. This style of fighting was only achieved after seemingly decades of training. Or – Dick’s stomach did a twist – if someone’s whole life revolved around training.
Dick moved to close the gap again, this time trying a different approach, throwing a kick aimed at Damian’s midsection. Once again, the boy didn’t move until the moment was right. With a quick, almost robotic turn, Damian swept the leg aside and retaliated with a low strike to Dick’s ribs. It landed, forcing Dick to stagger back.
Damian then raised a fist, but Dick held up a hand. He dropped to a knee, glancing upwards. His breath heaved, and his eyes flared, but still… he looked to Dick like he was awaiting another command.
“That was…impressive,” Dick smiled, rubbing his side. He looked to Damian to see if he registered the compliment, but he simply shifted back into a fighting position, tilting his head. “You don’t need to be so…mechanical? If that makes sense? We’re just sparring. It’s okay to let loose and have fun. Make mistakes even, if you want to try another move or go over a fight again.”
Damian stared at him, his eyebrows pinched. He was still waiting.
“Alright. Let’s go again. This time, you block me.” And Dick inhaled, before launching into the fight.
Dick closed the distance again, launching into a series of strikes—punches and kicks aimed at the boy. But each attack was met with flawless defense. Damian’s reflexes were like clockwork, responding with an eerie speed, his movements coming out of pure instinct, but there was something almost too perfect about it.
And finally, Dick caught the boy off guard. He pulled a move from the League itself, rolling before swiping out with his leg mid-roll. The boy fell, and Dick stood, smiling with ease with his hand outstretched.
But Damian’s eyes simply narrowed, as if waiting for something. “Hey, look I’m sorry! It’s okay, we can try–”
Before Dick could react, Damian’s hand shot to his side, drawing a dagger from his belt. The boy’s motion was quick, the blade flashing in the light for a split second, before it cut into his thigh with clinical precision.
Dick’s breath caught in his throat. The boy wasn’t just fighting for the sake of sparring. He was using the pain to center himself—creating a contingency. An offering of his blood as a directive to continue, a sign that he was willing to push through.
Damian’s face was blank, his eyes cold as he adjusted his posture once again, waiting for the next command. He didn’t show pain. He didn’t flinch.
“You…” Dick’s voice caught. “Damian, why would you…?”
But Damian said nothing. He just stared ahead, the faintest trace of tension in his shoulders, as though he was simply waiting for the next directive.
The truth of it hit Dick like a punch to the gut. Damian wasn’t just fighting because he wanted to prove himself. He was fighting because it was the only thing he knew. The only thing that made sense to him.
And the worst part? It was as though the boy didn’t even see himself as worthy of anything else.
Dick swallowed hard, his hand still hovering in the air, unsure whether to offer it, whether to speak. But for now, the silence between them said everything.
Damian’s body was waiting for the next order, his unblinking eyes telling Dick everything he needed to know. This wasn’t just a fight. This was a boy who had never known how to live without the next command.
Blood dribbled onto the ground before Dick lept into action, leaving the boy on the training mat and fetching a first aid kit. When he turned around, Damian remained in the same position, his head tilted once more.
“Hey, sit down on that bench. I need to treat your wound.” Dick said, trying to keep the waver from his voice. He knew that Damian needed help, that he was mechanical. But a part of him wanted to bring a side out of the boy. But this incident only cemented that it would take far more time than one sparring session.
Dick pressed gauze to the wound, searching for the needle and thread to stitch Damian up. He would call for Alfred or Bruce, but he feared embarrassing the boy. If this was his punishment, he knew a crowd would only make the boy even worse.
“Why are you helping me?” Damian asked, attempting to peel Dick’s hand away from his wound.
“Y-you’re hurt. Brothers…we help each other.” Dick offered, cleaning the wound with some alcohol.
“But I am not apart of the family. You are my commander.” And once again, Damian shattered Dick’s world with just one word.
“Commander?”
Damian nodded as if this was obvious. “You instruct me. I perform. If I do not perform to one’s liking, I must restart again.”
“No no no no, you did just fine, Damian! Amazing.” Dick huffed, feeling sweat start to build on his forehead. And tears build in his eyes. This boy, this little boy, didn’t know about the concept of family. He had commands. He had his commander. And he had killed. Dick smiled before starting to stitch up the wound, constantly checking Damian’s reaction.
But the boy simply stared onward, his face perfectly neutral. “Alright, uhm, sparring over. How about we go rest, for a bit. Maybe see what the others are doing?” Dick tried, wrapping a roll of gauze over the wound. As he rose, Damian followed, not showing any signs of his injury.
Dick suddenly felt way over his head. He wanted to be a good brother, he was Nightwing , for fuck’s sake. But the question still stood. If they couldn’t help Damian, who else could?
"You're my brother, Damian, okay?" Dick smiled, turning to look at him as he rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. Damian's eyes remained neutral, but for a moment so brief, something shifted in his eyes. They softened, for an imperceptible moment, before the cold settled in.