Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gotham, Damian decided, was filthy.

It had taken a lot of coercing to get Mother agree to bring him along on this visit. He wasn’t due to fight for the right to meet his father until his tenth birthday, but he’d argued that coming to Gotham for the first time on his eighth birthday was hardly a breach of their prior agreement. She hadn't seen it that way. When she’d continued to evade his persistent requests, he’d gone so far as to appeal to Grandfather, not expecting much but deciding it was worth the attempt.

Grandfather, to Damian's surprise, approved. “He will not see the Detective in any case, dear daughter,” Grandfather had said, steepling his fingers. “It would be in our best interest for Damian to observe. He will be overseeing their activities himself, one day, and perhaps he may learn from them.”

Mother hadn’t been pleased, but she could neither disobey her father nor deny Damian now. He’d been given the cold shoulder for the rest of the week, and he was astonished when, before they’d left Grandfather’s palace for Gotham, she’d taken him aside to give him a stiff embrace.

“I would have protected you from this if I could, habibi. This is not a pleasant task we must complete.”

“I can handle it, Mother.”

Mother’s gaze had softened. “I would expect nothing less, but I must warn you. These...allies have their uses, as well as science and research beyond the likes of which we have ever seen. Your grandfather has taken a keen interest in their methods, but they are wretched and foul. Do you understand?”

“These allies are important,” Damian had summarized. “Brilliant. But you do not approve of them.”

“No,” Mother had agreed. “I do not. They cross a line even I find abhorrent. I ask that you stay close to me the entire time we are with the Court of Owls, my son. Do not speak unless spoken to, and practice caution at all times. They are dangerous, and I do not trust them.”

In retrospect, Damian hadn’t taken her warnings too seriously. He doubted this proposed Court of Owls (a ridiculous name) was as dangerous as Grandfather’s League of Assassins, as his mother had so implied. How could they be, when the League was the best in the world?

His opinion of them only diminished when he and his mother were swept away from the airport the moment they landed, without a single sign of the respect they were due. His mother had given him a stern look the moment he opened his mouth, ready to demand appropriate accommodations and food after their long flight. It was enough to silence him. He had to make do with glaring out the window of their vehicle as they drove, watching as the city his father so loved sped by.

The longer they were in the van, the more thoroughly disillusioned Damian became. They drove through what must have been the grungiest streets of the city, and Damian had to wonder how this could be the city that held the Batman’s attention and heart.

Had Damian been lied to? There must be some mistake. This dump was surely not the Gotham his mother had described to him.

He didn’t understand, and when he turned to Mother to ask, she stared straight ahead. Damian knew better than to break his silence now, not with her looking so serious, so he followed in suit, reluctantly saving his questions for a later time.

He was exhausted and suffering from his jet-lag by the time they descended below the streets, where, after another ten-minute drive, they eventually stopped and were forced to wait in a dimly lit tunnel, surrounded by slimy walls, grime, and piles of...things Damian would rather not consider.

 He and Mother did not speak, though it was clear the wait tested both their patience and their tolerance. Damian could not tell how many minutes had passed before a small group of men and women, all wearing blank, white owl masks, finally emerged from the shadows. Their escorts disappeared the moment the masked leaders appeared, slipping into their van and driving back the way they’d come, leaving Damian and his mother at their mercy. 

The effect would have been downright ghoulish and intimidating, had Damian been any other boy. As it happened, he found it all very childish and petty. He had to refrain from rolling his eyes.

The tallest Owl stepped forward and offered his hand. “Talia al Ghul,” he said, his voice a nondescript tenor.

Mother accepted the hand and allowed the man in the mask to lower his face to press nonexistent lips against her knuckles. “Grandmaster,” she returned. “I would see your progress before the night is over.”

Damian was grateful he was well trained in the art of composure. Otherwise, he might have had serious trouble hiding his smirk. He always enjoyed it whenever someone else was on the receiving end of Mother’s displeasure.

“Of course,” the Owl said smoothly, and as if taking notice of Damian for the first time, he lowered into a crouch. This time, Damian could not prevent his lips from turning downward. There was nothing he despised more than being treated like a mere child. “And who might this be?”

Mother’s hand grasped Damian’s shoulder. To anyone else, it might look as though Mother were communicating her pride through her touch, but Damian knew better.

“My son. Damian al Ghul,” she said. “We thought it would be a good idea for him to become accustomed to our allies’ operations. He will accompany me while I am here. Merely to observe, of course.”

The Owl contemplated Damian, cocking his head, soulless black eyes unblinking, and the longer he stared into the eyes of that mask, the more ill-at-ease Damian felt. The man was clearly studying him, inspecting and judging him, but Damian had the sense that this was a test he did not particularly want to pass.

It was only now that he appreciated Mother’s warnings. These were, in fact, very dangerous people.

Even still, he drew himself up, chin held proudly, and erased all emotion from his face, as expected of any al Ghul. “Grandmaster,” he mimicked Mother, whose nails were like talons themselves in his shoulder.

“Well met, little prince,” the Grandmaster eventually returned. He straightened from his crouch. Addressing Mother now, he said, “If your son ever wishes to train with our Talon Masters, he is most welcome.”

“Perhaps in a few years,” Mother responded, tone clear and cold. “We always appreciate the opportunity to train under new masters, but Damian still has much to learn from the League. It will be some time before I will allow him to train so far from home.”

Unbidden chills raced down Damian’s spine as the Grandmaster stared in silence for a moment. He finally nodded. “A wise decision. Gotham is not for the weak.”

Damian nearly hissed at the insinuation, but Mother pulled him to her side, reminding him of his place. “Gotham,” she snapped, “has not changed since I last stood within its borders. You promised Ra’s results, Grandmaster. We have funded your experiments as well as your other plans. Have you and your Court nothing to show for it?”

This did not fluster the Grandmaster. He turned and gestured over his shoulder. “Come.”

The other Owls fell into step around Damian and his mother, with the Grandmaster leading the way further down the tunnel, to a decrepit old service elevator hardly large enough to carry all of them deeper into the earth.

Damian watched curiously as the Grandmaster ignored the elevator and instead pressed his signet ring into the wall, intrigued when the wall itself shifted, revealing a hidden path, leading downward.

“Has your mother informed you about us, little prince? About what we do?” the Grandmaster asked suddenly. “Who we are?”

Damian nodded, and he stepped carefully between the false wall and the scrubbed floor of the Owls’ entrance hall. “‘Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,’” he quoted as the Grandmaster led them further away from Gotham’s smoggy skies. “‘Ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime.’”

“‘They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send The Talon for your head,’” the Grandmaster finished, voice hardly above a whisper. He sang the nursery rhyme to an odd, eerie tune that Damian himself had never heard before. “Yes. Our organization is centuries old, little prince. We have had plans for the betterment of Gotham for a long, long time, and they are beginning to come to a head, this very day.”

Mother huffed. “The Batman has uncovered most of your drug and arms dealers in the last few months. He has stopped every Rogue and elitist politician you manipulate to suit your needs. He's even out-maneuvered you in most of your legal business dealings. Where is your proof?”

“Mere distractions,” the Owl said lazily, somehow still ignoring the real question in Mother’s reprimand. “The Batman still is unaware of our presence. He runs in circles we create for him, trapped in a game he does not know he’s losing.”

Damian grit his teeth. An insult against his father was an insult against him, but he knew better than to reveal his truth to this man.

“We have spent generations working on this, Talia,” the Grandmaster said. “We will not fail. We finally have our legion preparing for the real war to come.”

Talia stiffened. “You have perfected the formula, then.”

“Mmm, yes. The sample of water from the Lazarus pit was the very thing we needed. Our Talons...are perfect now. You will see.”

“Talons?” Damian couldn’t help but ask. His eyes were drawn ahead again, his skin crawling. There was something about this place, in the twists and turns they traveled through, in the sharp, exact angles of the walls, in their uniformity, that set him on edge. Most curious, however, was the fact he could hear the echoing, sharp screech of metal on metal bouncing off he walls....and had no idea where the noise could possibly be coming from. “I thought there was only one Talon.”

“Once, perhaps,” the Owl admitted. “But why have a single loyal servant when you can have hundreds? We have been honing our Talons for years, little prince, and we have finally managed to erase all flaws from them.”

They had reached the end of the current corridor, and the Grandmaster, after typing a code into the digital pin-pad, he stepped through the now-open door and out onto an observation bridge overlooking a massive room below. He rested his arms against the railing and invited Damian and his mother over. “Come see.”

Mother did not hesitate to step onto the metal, and Damian was only a half-step behind her. The Grandmaster’s retinue slipped around them, dispersing at the command of their leader. Damian did not watch them leave, instead peering down, eyes widening.

Below were dozens of tall, sleek assassins, dressed from head-to-toe in black. Knives of the finest steel adorned their hands, forming three-pronged claws, and most of them wore head-coverings and bronze owl masks. They were grace incarnate, their movements so fluid and swift, they could not possibly be human. They struck their opponents without hesitation, without mercy, the exchange of blows and retreats and evasive maneuvers so fast, Damian had a hard time keeping up. Even the most well-trained assassin in the League could not move like that. These, Damian realized, were not men. They were killing machines.

There was a break in the pattern below, and Damian watched as one of the Talons, this one’s head uncovered, drove his claws into the stomach of his opponent. He spun away, black ichor dripping from his weapon. Damian could not stop his breath from hitching as he watched the man. He moved differently than the others. While the others moved like leopards through the trees, lethal and beautiful and dangerous, attacking with reckless abandon, this one danced as he moved. He was stunning and natural in a way the others weren’t.

That’s when Damian noticed the injured Talon standing upright again, completely ignoring his wound, crouched and ready to pounce. The unmasked Talon threw himself forward, taking advantage of the other's weakness and flipping into a cartwheel over his shoulder. If Damian had not been trained, he would not have noticed gloved fingers digging into the meat of the opponent’s neck.

The injured Talon crumpled to the floor, boneless. The unmasked one had just used a pressure point to bring his opponent down.

“Ah, you have an eye for good warriors,” Grandmaster hummed appreciatively, having followed Damian’s awed gaze. He pointed to the victor, who stood over the unmoving body, equally as still, only his clawed fingers twitching. “That is our newest recruit. He will be the best of them. Our Talons will see him as flock leader, once his great-grandfather deems him fit for service. At that point, I expect he will be beyond Talon.”

“And what do you call him,” Mother asked shrewdly, and Damian knew her well enough to note the odd timbre in her voice, “if not Talon?”

The Grandmaster half-turned to his mother. “We call him the Gray Son.”

Damian’s mother’s entire form went still as death, and unnoticed by the two adults, the Gray Son reacted as though he’d heard his name, fierce eyes swinging to land directly on the three forms above.

He met Damian’s eyes, and Damian’s blood froze in his veins. The man was almost inhumanly pale, and though he did not have any purple-black veins showing through his skin, like some of the others, his eyes...

They were not a natural blue. Not quite. They weren’t golden either. They were so pale they were nearly colorless, and in certain light, they looked clear as glass.

The Gray Son frowned suddenly, and his hand went to run through his mane of black hair. He stumbled, breaking eye contact with Damian and staring with some incredulity at the lethal claws adorning his hands.

Several handlers blew whistles, and everyone in the room went still. Damian came to the horrid realization that some of them had innards spilling from their bellies, necks slit and exposed to the spine. Black blood stained the floor, skin sewing itself together before his very eyes. And yet... the Talons stood stationary as several handlers went for the Gray Son, who, unlike the others, was having some sort of fit. He was lowering himself to the floor, cradling his head, shaking it back and forth. The rest of the handlers began to direct the others out, completely unsympathetic to the ones who limped, or in some cases, crawled to obey.

“They...do not die,” Damian muttered. 

This...was not right. The Lazarus pit may rejuvenate and heal, its powers and use in the League of Assassins bordering on sacrilegious, but this. This was inhumane.

“No," Grandmaster said, sounding far too pleased with himself. "It took quite a few of the brightest minds in the world to learn how to incorporate such a powerful healing factor into our Talons’ genomes. And a bit of Lazarus magic, which again, I thank you most dearly for.”

Damian felt sick.

“And him?” Mother asked, nodding toward the Gray Son, jaw clenched.

The Gray Son, it appeared, was proving difficult to control, growling as he swung at his handlers. Grandmaster frowned, watching the display with disapproval. “He still has a bit of training to go, I’m afraid. He resists the transformation. We suspect a dormant meta gene makes him resilient to our formula, but...we cannot determine that as fact." He sighed. "As glad as I am to finally have him, it is a shame we did not get him years ago, when his parents fell. Our Gray Son still has too much of his previous master in him. ”

Damian dared to sneak a peek at his mother and did not like the look in her eyes, the forced coldness and apathy there.

She knew this man, Damian realized, and he swung back to the Gray Son, scanning his face, trying to find a connection. The young man had been cornered by no less than four handlers, and he stared right back at Damian with those unearthly eyes, pain and panic so clearly displayed on his face as the handlers wrestled him into submission.

The other Talons hadn’t...they hadn’t shown this emotion.

“Stop,” Damian demanded before he could stop himself. His voice carried through the room, and everyone, even the Gray Son, halted. Mother’s nails were digging into his shoulder again, but he ignored her, stepping away. “He is not a wild animal,” he said to the handlers. “Have some honor, men. If you insist he’s your prized warrior, treat him as such. He may just learn some obedience yet.”

The handlers looked amazed at having been addressed in such a way. They deferred to Grandmaster, whose mask hid any true reaction. Damian met the Owl’s masked gaze fearlessly.

“Listen to the young al Ghul,” the Grandmaster ordered. “Once our Talon has calmed, then you may take him to his room.”

There was something ominous about the way he said “room.” Damian did not like it. 

“I would learn some restraint, prince,” the Owl murmured to him, tutting lightly. “Your status will not always be your shield.”

“Don’t presume to lecture my son,” Mother snarled. “Remember your place, Grandmaster. The League may not suffer weakness, but we do look after our own. It appears your Court has much to learn in the way of earning the loyalty you boast of.”

Grandmaster gave a bow, but even Damian could tell it was mocking. “I wouldn’t dare presume anything, Talia. Please, may we continue? There is still some business to attend to. I will tell you more of our success with the Talons. And what we plan to do with them.”

Mother took ahold of Damian again, more roughly than usual, and maneuvered him ahead of her. Together, they followed the Owl across the bridge and into the Court’s grand court room.

Damian found himself unable to think about anything but the Gray Son’s eyes on him for the rest of the visit.

~...~

Damian slipped into bed that night, cheek still stinging with the force of his mother’s blow. He winced as tender, broken skin scraped across the pillow case, and he turned his face to avoid further contact.

The moment they were alone in the rooms set aside by the Grandmaster, Mother had gone into a rage unlike any he’d seen in months.

He hadn’t understood what he’d done wrong, especially after she had given him support back in the Talons' training chamber, but it became clear from his mother’s screaming was that his having spoken out—his speaking at all—had been unacceptable. That he had disobeyed her. Embarrassed her.

Disappointed her.

A few tears leaked from puffy eyes, and he hastily rubbed them away. Where had he gone wrong? Shouldn’t she understand? Shouldn’t she be proud? He merely recognized the same line Mother herself mentioned was so abhorrent, back before they boarded the plane. He merely spoke his mind. He had never been punished for that before, though he supposed this was the first time he had done so outside of his Mother’s direction and in full view of a very, very dangerous ally.

It took him a moment of consideration, but he decided he wasn’t even sorry. What he was sorry for was leaving those Talons to these monsters. They were not loyal servants. They were slaves. The way they moved, the way they obeyed...that was not normal. Not natural. After listening to Mother talk with Grandmaster, it became clear that that was the point. These men and women were hand-picked and accepted into the fold for admirable traits, strengths, and resilience, and now...they hardly had minds of their own.

If it were his choice, Damian would free them all. They did not deserve a fate this cruel.

He rolled over and tried to close his eyes. Despite his exhaustion, he could not sleep well, and he tossed and turned fitfully, colorless blue eyes and the flash of sharp steel blinding behind his lids. His ears rang with threats of blood and killing, of more severe, more brutal training when he returned home.

He didn’t know what alerted him to another presence in his room, but he was moving for the blade under his pillow before he could fully register it.

He moved too slowly.

A large hand smashed against his mouth and another held him firmly to the bed. Damian thrashed, violently twisting away from the force of the hold, trying to escape.

“No, stop, please,” came a halting voice above him. “Please.”

And despite himself, Damian stilled, recognizing the form above him. The Gray Son’s pale eyes practically glowed in the night, reflecting in the dimmed lights from the corridor outside.

The Talon was breathing heavily, some lacerations and yellowing bruises covering his face, knuckles, and bare chest. It looked as though he’d crashed through a few pieces of glass to get here.

Or perhaps a few bodies.

“There’s not much time,” the Gray Son whispered. “I shouldn't even be here. I shouldn't be talking to you. I should go, but...I can’t...”

Damian made a motion to sit up, and after a moment, the Gray Son relented, slowly lowering his defenses and releasing Damian. The man watched him like a hawk, a constipated expression on his face as he crouched at Damian's bedside.

“What?” Damian demanded, rubbing his arm. “Why are you here? If you are trying to escape, I am the last person to stop you. Go! Now!”

The furrow between those dark brows deepened. “I couldn’t leave,” the man said slowly, “not without asking you something.”

Now more curious than anything, Damian frowned. “You would risk your freedom, for a single question? You’re an imbecile. Leave while you can.”

“I...” The Gray Son grimaced and winced, his hand sailing to his forehead. He pinched his nose, breathing steadily. “I don’t know. But I think...I think you do. I think you can help.”

“...Alright,” Damian said, not knowing what else to say.

The Talon’s eyes snapped open again, and he stared at Damian. “Who hurt you?” he asked suddenly, his hand leaving his own face to reach out to Damian.

“That is not your concern,” Damian snapped defensively, pulling away. “If you do not ask your question and leave now, I will summon our guards.”

“No, you won’t.”

Damian’s gaze snapped back to the man. “What makes you think I won’t?”

There was a spark of humor in the man’s eyes. “Because there are no guards. And you just said...” He trailed off and shook his head. “No, no, no time. No time. You said ‘our.’ Who is ‘our?’”

“Is that your question?” Damian asked. Without waiting for a response, he folded his arms and answer. “The Owls set guards to watch over me and Mother. We had our own, too. I suppose you have disposed of them?”

“No, not disposed,” the man said quickly. He ran anxious hands over his thighs and knees. Damian watched them move, quirking a brow at the odd gesture, and suddenly the Gray Son blurted, “What is your name?”

Odd question, but Damian saw no harm in giving it. “My name is Damian.”

That, apparently, did not satisfy the man. “No, no, that’s not...” He blew out a frustrated breath. “I recognize you. I feel like I know you. Who are you?”

Damian felt as though he swallowed a lemon. What in the world... “Damian,” he said again. “Damian al Ghul.”

That seemed to have more of an effect. The man hissed, baring his teeth, but Damian was not afraid. He had some instinct telling him that Gray Son would not hurt him, that he could actually trust him.

“Al Ghul,” came the strangled response. “Your mother? What is her name?”

Damian didn’t even have to answer that one because, together, they whispered the same name. Talia.

“Who are you?” Damian asked in bewilderment, turning the Gray Son’s question back onto him. “How do you know of us?”

The man’s gaze was fixated in the distance, and he mumbled under his breath. Damian tried to make it out, but it sounded as though whatever he was saying was in a different language. “Gray Son!” he hissed.  

The Talon’s attention snapped back to him, and for the first time, he looked more ferociousthan he did lost. “That is not who I am.”

“Then who are you?” Damian demanded.

“I don’t...I don’t...” He was staring at Damian again, eyes dancing across his face. “You have another name,” he said. “You must. What is it? You look...you look so much like him.”  

Damian’s heart nearly stalled in his chest, and he scrambled onto his knees. “What?” he breathed.

“You look like him,” not-Gray Son said again. “Like your...your father.” The surety in his expression faded as he struggled to remember. “But I can’t remember...no, I know him. I do. He’s there. He’s always there.”

And suddenly, it clicked.

Mother had told him of Father’s other children, the ones who learned and fought alongside Batman. She’d never referred to their civilian names, instead using the ones they chose for themselves, though more often than not, she and Grandfather referred to them by other degrading epithets like "the cripple" and “street rat.”

That was how Mother had recognized him. She’d fought against him.

A deep longing took Damian by the throat, and years of conditioning and caution could not prevent him from revealing that which he never dared to another outsider.

But this man was no outsider, was he?

“Wayne,” he whispered. “My father’s name is Wayne.”

Father’s ally slumped. “Wayne,” he echoed weakly. “Bruce.”

For a moment, the two shared a moment, but when Damian heard a disturbance down the corridor, he jolted into action, pushing himself up and off the bed, yanking on the other man’s arm. “You must go. I would not see you trapped here, Nightwing.”

He was just taking a shot in the dark, referring to the first of Father’s orphans by chance, and he was rewarded for it when the man gasped, jaw slack as he tried the name on...and found it fit.

“Nightwing,” he repeated, oblivious to the nearing crashes and shouts. He smiled. “That’s more like it. But you know what, Damian? I think...I think you can call me Dick.” His smile broadened, and he barked a laugh. “Yeah. Dick.”

“That is an asinine nickname,” Damian argued. “I refuse to call you that. Not that I will be calling you much of anything if you stay, you buffoon! You must leave. Go back to him. Go back to Batman while you can!”

Nightwing seemed to finally realize how close his pursuers were, and his entire body sharpened into a fighting stance. He turned back to Damian and held out a hand. “Not without you.”

Damian stared at the offered hand. “I cannot,” he said, resisting the temptation and fighting the lump in his throat. Everything he dreamed of...at his fingertips. “My mother—”

“Hurt you,” Nightwing finished. “I may not be the detective Batman is, but I know I’m not wrong. And I...I remember. Talia is no good, Damian. And neither is...Ra’s. They are no family for you. They do not deserve you.”

“I...” Damian shook his head, defiant. “No, I am loyal to the League. I am supposed to lead—”

“And I am loyal to the Court! I am supposed to lead its Talons!” Nightwing snapped hastily, tone sarcastic. “No. I refuse. That is not what I want.” He shook his hand more incessantly. “What do you want, Damian?”

Damian hesitated...and took his adopted brother’s hand.

Chapter Text

Nightwing stared at the wall of water with a furrowed brow, his expression perplexed.

For all the skill his father’s ally had displayed in escaping the Owls, as well as in navigating through the maze that was Gotham (spotty memory and all), this new hesitance was...unnerving. Damian, in a rare show of impatience and lack of decorum, danced from foot to foot as he waited for Nightwing to begin leading them on once again.

(Mother would have punished him for showing such restlessness, but he could not find it in him to stop. He should stop. He knew he should).

Nightwing, however, either did not notice Damian’s agitation or was unbothered by it. He was frowning at the waterfall still, head slowly cocking to the side.

Damian huffed, and in an attempt to quell his uncharacteristic unease, he tried to make himself useful, taking note of the geography and tactical advantages of the wooded area. It would be a nice place to rest for a few hours, if nothing else. He did not look over his shoulder. He knew they were alone. He knew they had successfully lost their pursuers hours ago.

(But he also knew Mother would come hunting, and the consequences would be...unpleasant, if they did not find Father soon. He was trying not to think of it).

“Well?” Damian asked in a hiss. “Where next? You told me you remembered—”

“I got us this far,” Nightwing pointed out distractedly.

“And yet you look inexplicably lost.”

“I’m not lost. We are here. I’m just...” He closed his eyes, a furrow appearing between his brows as a brief expression of pain crossed his face. They flew open again before Damian could think to ask if he was alright. Nightwing fixated again on the rock structure and waterfall before them. “Give me a second,” he muttered.

Damian scowled and surveyed the small clearing. They were miles from the city proper, in the middle of the woods, and from what little he did know of his father, he knew they were still some distance from Wayne Manor. “This hardly looks like the legendary Batcave, Nightwing,” he said impatiently.

The fierce, calculating glint in the man’s eyes softened in an instant as he swung his amused gaze to Damian. “Dick,” he reminded, not for the first time.

“No.”

“No?” The fool was grinning. “It’s my name.”

And the poor, deluded man still looked very pleased about that. Damian shook his head.

Nightwing’s grin broadened. “Aw, c’mon, Damian! We gotta follow Bat Rule Number Two!”

Damian stiffened. “There are rules?” he asked, more than a little anxious. Did the man not realize how important it was that he knew this? Did Nightwing not want him capable of impressing Father when they met? How could he have neglected to mention any of this before now?

When Nightwing nodded in response to his question, looking completely unabashed, Damian stepped forward, pushing aggressively into Nightwing’s personal space. “Why didn’t you inform me? Father will—”

 The abrupt move was clearly ill-advised: Nightwing tensed. His hands, though no longer adorned with Talon’s claws, flew upward toward Damian’s throat on instinct, his entire body reacting to the threat. In the blink of an eye, however, he seemed to realize what he’d done and recovered, relaxing his stance and putting several feet between them, an expression of dawning horror and disgust on his face.

Damian blinked, stunned by the rapid change.

“I’m sorry,” Nightwing whispered, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean—”

“It is no matter,” Damian said.

But it does matter, Damian could see written all over Nightwing’s face.

Damian rolled his eyes. “Get over yourself. I am unharmed and unoffended.”

Nightwing studied him for a moment with those unearthly eyes and tried for a smile. “I was teasing you,” he said with a weak chuckle. “You know that, right?”

Damian did not know that. Teasing was not done in the League. He normally would refuse to acknowledge his ignorance, but it was clear Nightwing already knew the truth. “I know now,” he muttered to the grass. But to be absolutely certain, he raised his gaze and asked, “So there are no Bat Rules I must be aware of, then?”

“You’ll learn,” Nightwing promised. “Bruce has a lot of unsaid rules—things that just go without saying—and we’ve...” He paused for a second, a nostalgic, yet wide smile growing over his face as he remembered. It had happened often on the route through Gotham, and Nightwing became more and more alive with every memory that returned to him. It seemed people, his people, were very powerful triggers for him. “We made a list,” Nightwing finally continued once he was done reliving the memory. “To tease him. That’s what family does. You see?”

Damian did not see. He would have to get used to the feeling. Maybe, one day, he would learn. “And Bat Rule Number Two?”

“Names, of course.”

“...Names,” Damian repeated incredulously. “What kind of rule is that?”

“A good one,” Nightwing responded, smiling in that increasingly infuriating way of his. Without thinking, he leaned against the cliff-face embracing the small woodland waterfall, and Damian watched as instinct prompted the man to press the pad of his thumb onto a very peculiar spot on one of the moss-covered rocks. “No names in the field,” Nightwing was saying, not realizing at all that a control panel had slid into view at the recognition of his fingerprint. “No field names out of it. Secret IDs are all the rage, I hear.”

Knowing better than to distract him now, Damian relented. “Fine. Will Richard suffice?”

Nightwing—Richard—considered, nose twitching. “Only if I get to call you li’l D.”

Damian grimaced. “Absolutely not.”

“Awww, come on!”

“No.”

“That’s really a yes,” Richard said brightly, and he punched a code into the panel, fingers flying through the muscle memory. “I’m just going to elect to ignore your disagreeable tone.”

“Richard,” Damian said.

“Yeah, li’l D?”

Damian pointed, and Richard followed the finger and watched in some amazement as the water from the falls ebbed, a man-sized corridor into the earth opening before their very eyes. Richard whooped, racing ahead immediately and calling for Damian to follow him, babbling all the while that he’d known it would come back to him.

Richard’s joy was infectious, but it was not enough to prevent the butterflies from tumbling in the pit of Damian’s stomach. He couldn’t find it in himself to move all of a sudden, and he cursed himself, frustration causing heat to build behind his eyes.

He would not cry. He refused. Father would be so disappointed, to see him so weak. This was a bad decision. He should have never come.

(Maybe Mother was right. Maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe he never would be ready).

Damian caught Richard’s eye and saw his eldest brother’s bright smile fade.

Damian drew himself up, hoping to dispel Richard’s concern, but his feet remained rooted to the ground. This was Father’s oldest ally. His very first. His opinion likely meant more than Damian could imagine. He could not waver now.

 He would meet Father and his other siblings with his head held high, and he wasn’t going back to Mother, not until he did this. This one thing. The only thing he ever wanted for himself.

(And if he failed here, at least he wouldn’t live without knowing...)

He wasn’t afraid. Not in the slightest. He’d made it this far, and he was going to—

“Hey.”

Richard’s soft voice caused Damian to jump, and shame bloomed across his cheeks at his lapse in situational awareness. Before he could deny anything, Richard was exiting the secret tunnel and sweeping him into an embrace. Damian didn’t know how to react, frozen silly by the unwarranted and not-totally-unappreciated physical contact.

“You don’t have to worry, Damian,” Richard said, squeezing tight. Damian leeched from his warmth. He hadn’t been aware of how chilly the night was until that moment. He was quaking in Richard’s arms. The man himself must have been freezing, too, even with the light jacket he’d stolen from one of the Owls he’d beaten during their escape. “Dad is going to love you.”

Parents were supposed to love their children. Damian had read about it, once or twice. That, however, had never been his experience, so he wasn’t sure what to believe. “How do you know?” he demanded without thinking.

Richard shrugged. “The same way I know he loves the rest of us, even if we weren’t technically his first.”

“He chose you,” Damian said, voicing bitter revelations he’d had the previous year, after fully coming to terms with the idea his father had an army of children that did not include him. “He does not know me.”

“He doesn’t have to.”

Damian didn’t understand. “But—”

“Trust me,” Richard requested, and he pulled away so Damian could see just how serious he was. “I know he’ll love you the same way I know he’ll welcome me back with open arms. You’ll see. I promise.”

It was becoming a trend, this trusting business. Mother would never have approved. She’d always insisted that the only person you could trust in this world was yourself. Damian supposed it was his own fault, then, that he’d also trusted her.

To be fair, Richard had shown him more consideration and had honored more promises in a mere night than his mother had in his entire lifetime, and that,Damian decided, counted for something.

So when Richard turned back to the passage to the Batcave, Damian took a sharp breath and followed.

~...~

Tim slouched and spun in the swivel chair in front of the Bat Computer. The screens flew by in a blur, and he leaned back his head as he pushed off the floor again and again to keep the chair turning.

It was infuriating, feeling this useless. Not only had it been an unremarkable night, and therefore lacking in true distractions, but Dick had also been missing for twelve days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes, and they had no new leads.

The girls were watching Gotham tonight, but they had not reported anything out of the ordinary. That left Batman and his two remaining Robins to continue searching for Dick. Blessedly, Alfred had bullied Bruce to bed hours ago, and Jason and Tim, who, unlike Bruce, had gotten more than a few snatches of sleep over the past few nights, were allowed to keep investigating.

Unfortunately, Tim was about ready to pull his hair out.

He pushed off the floor again, and this time, he closed his eyes and drew his knees to his chest. Knowns and unknowns scrambled for space in his brain, evidence and the lack thereof running on repeat. He hadn’t been able to make a new connection or find a new rhythm in this pattern for days, and the longer he went without a breakthrough, the more he worried Dick was...

“Can you cut it out?”

Tim opened his eyes to find his chair had slowed to a more reasonable speed, and with every rotation, Tim saw Jason’s irritated scowl. Just to be contrary, he unraveled one of his legs so that he could get the chair spinning faster again, but Jason, apparently, had had enough. The older teen’s hands were suddenly gripping the back of the chair, halting Tim in place.

Dizzy, Tim looked up and found Jason’s annoyance had fled, a cracked, exhausted expression replacing it. “Maybe it’d be best if you took a break,” Jason suggested. “You’re obviously losing it.”

“Pot meet kettle,” Tim responded. “When was the last time you slept? Like, really slept? Because I know you’re not. And I know you’ve been lying to Alfred and Bruce and Dick about the nightmares.”

That knowledge had been an ace in his hand, one he’d been meaning to save for when he really needed the blackmail, but Tim figured it was worth losing the upper hand for Dick. Jason, much to Tim’s surprise, did not rise to the bait. He released the chair and folded his arms. “I suppose neither of us are at our best right now,” he admitted, and Tim stared. “Shit lot of good that’s doing Dick right now.”

Tim didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t like the tone, the posture...any of it. Jason Todd was not one to be defeated by something like this. He wasn’t one to lose hope. He never had, not even after his close call in Ethiopia. “We’ve missed something,” Tim insisted. “We have to find it, Jason. We have to. It’s right there. We just haven’t thought of it yet.”

Jason nodded, eyes distant. “Yeah, I suppose. Just...maybe both of us should think about attacking it again with some fresh eyes? After a nap?” Tim narrowed his eyes into a glare because he could see exactly what Jason was doing there, and Jason sighed. “Jesus,” he muttered. “How does Dick do this older brothering crap? I’m obviously failing miserably. He makes it look so easy, doesn’t he?”

Tim didn’t think that was true, necessarily—because Jason was a great brother, if not in the same way Dick was—but Jason clearly didn’t want any platitudes or assurances because he continued on, turning away from the computer screens. “Fine,” he said. “Fresh pot of coffee instead? And showers, at the very least?”

Tim looked back at the Bat Computer screens, biting his lip. It felt like a betrayal to leave for even a second, but Jason’s compromise did sound heavenly. He couldn’t remember the last real, hot shower he’d taken, and his head did feel as though it’d been stuffed full of cotton. He was about due for his next dose of caffeine.

“Dick’d hate to see us like this,” Jason added, and that cinched it for Tim, guilt curdling in his gut.

“Shower, coffee, and then we’ll start again from the beginning?” Tim asked.

“Sure, kid. We’ll call Oracle, too, so we can have a third set of eyes on this while we wait for Bruce’s Batcave ban to be up.”

 Tim could get behind that. He made to stand from his chair when an odd and unfamiliar trio of notes rang from the computer behind him. Both he and Jason whirled in tandem and then looked at each other, as though to verify the other heard the same signal from the computer.

In response to their question, the Bat Computer trilled again, and Tim scrambled forward. “Pull up the alerts,” Jason ordered. “Find out what the hell that was.”

It was already done by the time Jason had finished speaking. “Someone logged in through the old emergency tunnel system into the Cave,” Tim croaked, hope and panic alike making it nearly impossible to breathe. “That hasn’t been used since Dick was Robin. That was...that was before B and Clark created the newer emergency entrances, after that cave-in made the old one too dangerous to navigate. That was before us.”

“I know, I know,” Jason muttered, scanning the screens over Tim’s shoulder. “Who was it? Look at the credential history and get that security footage up, if you can.”

“If I can,” Tim scoffed, fingers flying over the keyboard. “Please.”

The credentials log popped up first, and Jason inhaled sharply behind him, recognizing the string of numbers before Tim could so much as read the DNA identification report that came up simultaneously. “That’s an old password,” Jason said. “One of Dick’s very first.”

RICHARD GRAYSON: ROBIN, the outdated security log read, proving Jason’s point.

“Holy motherfucking shit,” Jason murmured, his voice cracking. Tim was trembling as he rushed to find the appropriate camera in the computer. It had been some time since it was accessed. Bruce should have disabled the thing entirely, to be honest, but B kept it active, for reasons unknown. It had seemed superfluous at the time Bruce had taught Tim about the tunnel, but now, Tim thanked all his lucky stars and then some that Bruce had had the foresight to leave it be.

It took far too long for Tim to drag up the appropriate, nearly obsolete program, but when he did, he and Jason held their breath as the footage began playing, the time stamp indicating the motion detectors had picked up movement a solid nine minutes before the alert came through the computer.

They both watched as Dick emerged into the clearing, his eyes catching the camera almost immediately. He gave a dorky salute he’d designed as Robin, long ago, one that meant a combination of I’m-okay and reporting-for-duty-bossman. He’d taught Jason and Tim what it meant and why he’d come up with it, though they’d been much too old when they’d become Robins Two and Three to appreciate the fact the signal was more for Batman’s peace of mind than anything, much less use it as often as nine-year-old Dick Grayson had used it in the field.

“Oh my God,” Tim breathed, and he wasn’t even embarrassed when he started sniffling. “He’s okay! Jay, he’s—”

Jason was already in motion. “Go get Bruce and Alfred! I’ve gotta make sure this fucking idiot doesn’t kill himself tryin’ to get through that tunnel!”

The footage continued to play in the background, neither of the teens noticing that a second figure had joined Dick the moment their backs were turned.

~...~

“Remind me again,” Damian grouched, his voice echoing in the pitch dark, “why this was your chosen route?”

“Because I laugh in the face of danger,” came the cheerful response. “Or maybe because it was the first place I thought of. I don’t know. I do know we left supplies somewhere in here. Just—"

“—give you a second,” Damian finished for him. “Fine.” He counted ten drops of water from a nearby stalactite before he decided the silence was far too oppressive. “You do realize we could have walked directly to Wayne Manor?”

“We still could,” Richard agreed, though some of the levity had vanished from his tone. “If I could find the right way to get that door back open. But to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to test my luck. They could be watching.”

Damian fell silent, shuddering at the thought. Being trapped in a cavern with a partially amnesic Nightwing was far preferable than being anywhere near the Court of Owls and their kind.

“Besides,” Richard added. “This isn’t so bad. The Family will know we’re here. The Bat Computer pings all entrances in and out of these caves. They’re probably mobilizing as we speak.”

Damian nodded to himself and settled on the ground, back against the wall. It would be foolish to attempt to move too much in this darkness. One wrong step, and either of them could plummet to their deaths. He would have to trust that Richard’s vague familiarity with these caves would get them out of this uninjured.

Trust, again. Strange.

“Tell me about them,” he requested quietly. “The Family.”

Richard shuffled around, several loose pebbles pinging off boulders and crushing underneath his light footsteps. “What did your mom tell you about us?”

Damian shrugged and realized belatedly Richard would not see the motion. “Not very much.”

“And?” Richard pressed.

Damian did not really want to speak of it. Richard had been kind to him, far kinder than he deserved. “And what she did say of you was...not flattering,” Damian said.

Richard snorted. “I’m not terribly surprised. She’s always hated us. I expect she gave you a thorough education on Batman’s operations, at least?”

“I was given profiles of your vigilante personas, to assess your skills, weaknesses, and alliances, assuming I would ever need to face and defeat you myself to take my place by Father’s side,” Damian said, and even to him, his voice sounded off, emotionless and cold.

And for the first time, he hated it. He hated that he knew Nightwing’s greatest strength was also his greatest vulnerability, that he had the trust of the entire community, as well as an easily exploitable heart. He hated that he knew Red Hood had a weakness for poor children and abused women, that he had an even greater fear and obsession with The Clown, one he’d tried to claim as his own by taking the Joker’s old alias. He also hated that he knew that the newest Robin was still largely untested in the field, that he took escitalopram for his generalized anxiety disorder, and that to cripple Robin was to cripple them all irreparably.

Richard didn’t make any sign of discontent or pity in response to Damian’s admission. Instead he said haltingly, “Jason is...an asshole, but he’s also funny and bright and tenacious. He’s been shit on, constantly and repeatedly, but he always manages to pick himself up and flip off every last person who ever dared to say something as silly as ‘you can’t do this’ to his face.” The smile had returned to Richard’s voice, and Damian could sense it growing the more he spoke. “He thinks he’s tough, but underneath all the bluster, he’s a total marshmallow.

“Tim’s our resident genius. He found out Batman and Robin’s identity when he was really young, though that part was mostly my fault, if anything, but that’s a story for another time. Tim’s got a lot of heart, and he works himself ragged to try to prove himself. He’s compassionate, selfless to the core, and tends to worry far, far too much. He’s got enough spirit and drive to fuel the entirety of Gotham city.”

“And Father?” Damian prompted.

Richard seemed distracted, responding with a slight hum. Damian flinched when a torch was illuminated. He squinted against the sudden light and saw Richard rising from a crouch and slinging a small pack over his shoulder.

“Found the supplies,” Richard said unnecessarily.

“Clearly.”

Richard, strangely, laughed at Damian’s harsh sarcasm. “You’re something else, kid. You’re gonna fit right in, I think. Now hold still.”

Damian did not fidget as Richard maneuvered him into an old climbing harness and outfitted them both with ropes and gloves. Once, skin like ice brushed against his, and Damian flinched, causing Richard to withdraw momentarily, fingers fumbling. Damian did not like the way his eyes darkened, how careful he became afterwards, so as to not touch Damian again.

“Your dad,” Richard murmured suddenly, “is one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

...that was it? “You remembered him first,” Damian commented, hoping that would prompt more details.

Richard was silent for a moment, instead focusing on testing the line tethering them together. He appeared satisfied when he judged it stable. “I never thanked you for that. Getting me out of there.”

“You orchestrated your own escape,” Damian said, confused. “I did nothing except come with you.”

“You were there,” Richard said. “And that made the difference. It was...fuzzy. Getting fuzzier, harder to...harder to remember, to see that I wasn’t meant to be there. Until I saw you. Until you called me Nightwing. It’s becoming clearer, too, every second I'm with you. You didn’t owe me anything, but you helped me anyway, Damian. Thank you.”

The warmth in his voice wasn’t something Damian was familiar with. “You’re welcome, I suppose,” he stated simply.

Richard made a contented sound. “You ready to get moving? They’ll be waiting for us.”

Damian nodded, a fresh wave of unease gripping him at the reminder that his family—or rather, a family that had yet to accept him as theirs—was somewhere in this labyrinth, expecting them.

Steeling himself, Damian said, “Lead on.”

~...~

Bruce skidded into the Batcave, Tim flitting like a sprite ahead of him. Alfred was only a few steps behind, all sense of propriety gone the moment Tim rushed upstairs and shouted for them.

He’s come home.

Bruce hadn’t even needed to hear Tim’s rambling report. He knew the moment his youngest raced up to him, his tear-streaked face and bright grin telling him everything he needed to know. The relief that Bruce felt in that instant had nearly brought him to his knees, but he hadn’t the time or the inclination to give in to the weight.

His son was alright. He was home.  

Jason looked up the moment they burst into the Cave. He was dressed in climbing gear, his expression serious, and Bruce hesitated at the sight, something like ice dripping down his spine.

Something was off.

“It’s okay, B,” Jason said, sensing the imminent demand for information on Bruce’s lips. “The idiot came in through the old emergency entrance.”

Bruce didn’t like that. He’d told all of his boys that that entrance was only active for use in the most dire of circumstances. Dick must have felt particularly threatened if the benefits outweighed the risks of using such an unstable tunnel. Or, perhaps, more likely, someone was on his tail, and he’d wanted to keep the other entrances as secure as possible, to prevent himself from accidentally compromising them. 

That’d be like Dick—to see to the Family’s safety before his own.

Renewed dread pooled within Bruce’s gut at the thought, the lead he’d been keeping from the Family niggling at him. It had been far too outlandish to propose aloud, not without more evidence, but the more he sat on what the others would assume was an irrelevant piece of information, the more relevant it became to him. It was something he’d discovered long, long ago, before Dick had spent a single night in the Manor, back when Tony Zucco was still alive and Bruce had investigated Haley’s Circus, looking for a stain that would have incited the scum of Gotham to come and take from little Dick Grayson.

Missing children, deaths and accidents...Bruce hadn’t thought much of Haley’s history at the time—the circus was compromised of runaways and outcasts, and of course acts would rotate in and out. Of course accidents would occur. Those cases were nothing that couldn’t be explained with a little common sense—so Bruce had dismissed them. They had happened decades ago, and none of the cases had related to Zucco and Dick Grayson in particular, anyway.

Until, suddenly, Dick was gone, and Bruce couldn’t help but wonder...and begin to see a pattern the others had missed.

He just hoped he was wrong.

“I’m going in to see if he needs help getting through,” Jason was saying.

“I’m coming with you,” Bruce said immediately, already turning toward their supply room.

“Nah, you stay put,” Jason said. “We’ll be fine. Better to get in there sooner rather than later. Besides, Dick’s already probably contorted and acrobat-ed his way through any obstacles in his way, anyway, the freak. Just watch.”

Bruce’s lips twitched into a smile, and he huffed a bit of a laugh, unable to help himself. It had been far too long since he’d heard Jason joke like that, at one of his brothers’ expenses, and the familiarity brought a little bit more of Bruce back to himself. “Glad to have you back, Jay,” he said.

Jason mumbled something that sounded awfully like “you too, old man” before he disappeared down the appropriate tunnel, tucking a comm into his ear as he went.

~...~

“Figures.”

That wasn’t Richard’s voice. Damian leaned around Richard to see a dark head of hair leaning over the hole they were climbing out of. The boy above them was younger than Richard by at least two years, but even from below, Damian could tell he was much broader, built more like a wrestler rather than the gymnast Richard was.

Jason, Damian had to assume. Otherwise known as Red Hood. Damian immediately ducked back underneath Richard, pulling himself closer to the rockface, heart threatening to fly right out of his chest.

I am not afraid, he told himself. Again. I am the son of the Bat and heir to the Demon’s Head. Fear is nothing to me. 

Richard tensed the moment he heard their brother’s voice, which didn’t comfort Damian in the least. “Heyyy, Jay,” he sang, tilting back his head. Damian caught a fluttering note in his tone, and he prodded the man’s ankle, uncertain why Richard, who’d been collected and calm throughout their entire journey, suddenly sounded so discomfited. “I’m home!”

There was a snort above. “Yeah,” Hood said gruffly. “I can see that, you complete and utter fucking asshole. Jesus fucking Christ, Dick. Where have you been? Do you have any idea how worried Timmy and—”

“C’mon, watch it!” Richard exclaimed. “There are sensitive ears here!”

“I’ll talk any damn way I please, thank you very fucking much, dicks-for-brains. You can’t just disappear for two weeks and suddenly think it’s fucking okay to—”

“I’m not talking about me,” Richard interrupted.

That was the only warning Damian had before Richard was swinging around and out of the way, exposing him to his second eldest brother, who blinked down at him with a scowl that quickly morphed into an expression of utter incredulity.

Damian stared back, unable to move, his fingers beginning to scream in protest from gripping at his handholds as hard as he was.

“You go missing for twelve days and end up...what, pulling a Bruce? Bringing a random kid to the Cave? Where the fuck did you even pick up a kid?” Hood asked. “When did you pick up a kid?”

Damian bristled, but Richard cut him off before he could say anything, nudging him gently. “That’s kind of a long story.”

Hood mouthed what the fuck, and suddenly, his hand went to his ear. “Yeah, I just found him.” A pause. “No injuries, from what I can tell.”

“C’mon,” Richard muttered to Damian. Together, the two of them climbed the rest of the up, Hood moving out of their way and still speaking quietly to whoever was on the other end of his communication device.

Richard pulled himself fluidly out of the crevice in the ground, turning to help Damian out. Damian ignored the offered hand and followed without assistance. When he got out, he found Hood staring at them both, slack-jawed.

Or rather, staring at Richard.

“Dick...” Hood whispered, eyes dancing over Richard’s form. The confidence he exuded puffed from existence, and he looked younger, somehow, and very uncertain. Damian could see exactly what Richard meant earlier about Hood’s disposition. “What happened to you?”

Richard avoided Hood’s eyes, instead working quickly to disengage his and Damian’s climbing lines. “Like I said, Jay,” he murmured. “It’s a long story.”

Hood exhaled heavily. “Alright,” he said simply. “I didn’t just lie to the others, did I? Are you okay?”

“I’m getting there,” Richard said. “Thanks to Damian.”

Piercing blue eyes landed on Damian, narrowing as they looked him up and down. Damian had to prevent his shoulders from creeping up to his ears. He stood straight-backed as Hood surveyed him.

“You okay, kid? That’s a nasty shiner.”

“I am fine,” Damian muttered, his fingers tracing the edge of his bruise.

“You know, you look a hell of a lot like...” Hood swung to Richard, jaw gaping. “No way.”

Richard began to grin. “Yes way.”

Hood’s grin grew to match Richard’s, and Damian could see, even though these two did not share blood, they were of a kind, clearly influenced by and close to one another. His chest ached, longing and something like jealousy and loss replacing his anxiety.

This could have been his, years ago. This could have been his all along.

Hood burst into laughter, and all of the hesitance from earlier was gone. He was across the cavern and slinging an arm over Richard’s shoulders, leaning into him as he laughed, in an instant. Richard, for his part, tensed at the contact, instinct to fight rising, but he managed to quell the response far faster than he had earlier, when Damian had gotten into his space. This time, he ended up brightening considerably at the contact, the stiffness in his shoulders melting away.

It occurred to Damian that Richard was just as nervous about his family’s acceptance as Damian was.

What a ridiculous notion. Richard was obviously adored, partial Talon transformation and incomplete brainwashing or otherwise.

“This is too good,” Hood hooted. “Oh my fucking God. I can’t call this in. I refuse to. I can’t wait to see his face!”

“...Father does not know I am here?” Damian dared to ask.

“No, sorry, kid, and that’s the beauty of it. We missed you on the camera,” Hood said, through fits of laughter. He wiped his eyes. “All we saw was that this lout—” He jerked a thumb at Richard. “—was okay, and we were out of the room.”

“Oh,” Damian muttered, trying not to feel anything but panicked by this revelation. He had figured Father would have some warning, some knowledge, at the least. He did not want to be a complete surprise or an inconvenience.

Hood patted his back, and it felt a lot like Richard’s touch. “Hey, no worries. Bruce took in an orphaned circus brat, a street rat, and a neglected geek without thinking twice. That should tell you what kind of person he is, if nothing else, right? This’s going to be hilarious.”

“It’s going to be even more hilarious when he comes down on Talia for keeping Damian from us,” Richard said, with a surprisingly satisfying amount of venom in his tone.

“Talia? As in al Ghul?” Hood repeated. He examined Damian again, as though looking for a sign of his mother in him. Damian had not ever felt more ashamed of who his mother was until that moment, under Hood’s judgmental eyes.

It appeared, however, that he’d misjudged Hood when his older brother simply finished his assessment with a single comment: “That bitch. How dare she.”

Damian almost leapt to his mother’s defense. Almost. But as Hood had reminded him, his face was still bruised from her last punishment.

And she didn’t...she didn’t deserve that blind loyalty, did she? She never had.

“Talia will get hers,” Richard growled. “But for now...I need to report in.”

Hood caught the serious note in Richard’s voice, and before his very eyes, Damian saw the switch from protective brother to intense vigilante.

“Roger that, ‘Wing,” Hood said.

~...~

Tim did not hesitate.

The moment Jason and Dick entered the main Cave, Tim was dashing across the cavern and throwing his arms around Dick’s waist, babbling about everything and nothing at the same time.

Bruce and Alfred stood waiting shoulder-to-shoulder across the room and drank in the sight of Dick ruffling Tim’s hair and pulling him close, murmuring back to him in a soft, comforting voice. The rise and fall of his eldest son’s voice...Bruce hadn’t been sure he’d ever hear it again.

Bruce took a step forward, heart clenching in his chest, and over Tim’s head, Dick raised his eyes.

And Bruce stopped dead. He didn’t recognize those eyes. Pale blue, nearly colorless, glinting gold, and cold in their intensity.

Talon.

He hadn’t wanted to believe it was true. The Court was supposed to be a myth. They weren’t supposed to exist. He’d proved it, so very long ago, when his grief had been fresh, and he’d been convinced the Owls were real. He’d found no evidence to support it, and it had taken years to accept that his conviction had been reduced to a mourning child’s survivor’s guilt, bundled up into a dark little fantasy he’d come up with to deal with his pain, a fantasy he’d come up with to place blame for the mindless violence he’d witnessed when his parents had been gunned down right in front of him.

All lies. Everything he knew, unraveling before his eyes.

“Bruce,” Dick whispered, and suddenly, Bruce saw through the changes. He saw the warmth and humor that’d brought light back into his life so many years ago. He saw the Robin he raised and the man Nightwing had become. He saw past the Talon they’d tried to create and saw his son.

But how?

“It was the Court of Owls,” Bruce said, because he had to be sure, “wasn’t it, chum?”

Upon hearing the old endearment, Dick lit up. It was like watching the sun come from behind storm clouds, and a little of Bruce’s paranoia eased. “It was.”

With a gasp, Tim pulled back from Dick and looked up at his brother with wide eyes. He let go like he’d been shocked.

Dick looked a little hurt, but he pushed it to the side, a mask of indifference settling onto his face. “Haley’s Circus has been funneling kids to them since the beginning. I was—” His jaw clenched, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose. Bruce could hear the tears threatening to break through his composure. “I was groomed for this,” Dick eventually bit out, gesturing to himself. “I...was supposed to be taken the night my parents died.”

“Jesus,” Jason whispered at the same time Alfred muttered a choked “good heavens.” “You’re not serious right now? The Court of Owls?”

“Dead serious,” Dick said.

“So you were meant to...” Tim muttered, beginning to sidle back toward Dick, looking up at him with calculating eyes.

“I wasn’t meant to be anything. Not for them,” Dick snapped, and when he saw Tim flinch, he grimaced and adjusted his tone. “They tried. They failed.”

“Damn straight,” Jason said.

“I’m...I’m sorry, Dick,” Tim muttered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be,” Dick said. “They’re the ones who overestimated themselves and underestimated me.”

Tim’s expression darkened. Already, his youngest was scheming, running probabilities and considering contingencies. “We’ve got clowns, metas, and a mutated crocodile man. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised the Court of Owls exists too. And that means...”

“They’re everywhere,” Jason supplied, finishing Tim’s thought. “In everything.” He looked toward Bruce. “We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

That wasn’t the primary thought on Bruce’s mind. “How did you escape?” he demanded Dick, though it hurt to ask, to cast suspicion on his son, who he’d worried he’d never see again. “I doubt the Court would willingly let a potential Talon go.”

Unexpectedly, Dick began to grin. “Well...about that.”

~...~

Damian didn’t know what to do the moment Robin came flying across the room to bury his face into Richard’s chest. He stared at the spindly boy and caught himself wondering how someone so slim and weak could possibly hope to take up the mantle of Robin.

But then he remembered reading Robin’s file. He remembered his grandfather dubbing the boy “Detective,” a respectful title he usually reserved for Father.

He’d been warned not to underestimate this one. Resident genius, Richard had also said.

He’d reserve judgment. For now.

Now feeling like an intruder on Robin and Richard’s reunion, Damian hid behind Hood in the shadows and found himself looking toward his father, who stood with an elderly gentleman who looked seconds away from rushing over to fuss over Richard as well.

Father was...not as tall as he’d expected, but he was large. He held himself like a monarch, with every bit of poise Damian had imagined. He had a heavy brow, regal nose, and stunning blue eyes even more shrewd than Mother’s. He was imposing, and Damian could see the warrior in his form and movements. How anyone could look at him and not see the Batman was beyond Damian’s understanding.

The gentle, nakedly relieved expression on his father’s face as he watched Richard and Robin, however, was something he hadn’t ever imagined, despite both Richard and Red Hood telling him to expect just that.

Compassion. Love, Damian marveled. Is that what it is? 

They began talking, but Damian wasn’t paying attention. He was watching Father. How his expressions morphed from one emotion to the next, how Batman and Bruce Wayne interlocked and blended together, as well as how they didn’t. Their differences were even more enthralling, Damian decided, and he soaked it all in, amazed—no, downright thrilled—that he was here.

He was actually here.

Damian was jolted from his thoughts when Richard reached into the shadows to lead him into the light.

Father stared at him, and he stared back, mute.

“This,” Richard said, “is Damian.”

“Holy shit,” Robin breathed, and Damian spared him a glance. The boy was grinning at him, his near-mischievous and welcoming smile mimicking that of his older brothers’. 

“Explain,” Father barked, and Damian flinched, drawing his eyes away and down in deference, as he’d been trained in the League, awaiting orders.

“You...are right to ask about what happened, B. The Court was trying to brainwash me. Mold me into their weapon,” Richard explained. “I...almost lost myself, until I saw him. He gave me a reason to get the hell out of there. And once I realized who he was, my memory started to come back, and I broke through the Court’s conditioning. I’m...not all there yet, so I’ll subject myself to any testing you want, and I’ll agree to getting benched for the time being. I’ll agree to anything if it means being here, back home, because it means I’m not there. I’d still be there, if not for Damian.”

Silence reigned after Richard’s declaration, and Damian felt horridly vulnerable and exposed, control slipping away from him and making his entire reality turn on its head, until, finally, someone spoke.

“Master Bruce...” the older man whispered, and without waiting for Father’s permission, he approached Damian and knelt to his level. Damian dared to look up and found kind, twinkling eyes looking down at him.

“Well I’ll be,” he said, and offering his hand to Damian, he said, “You are the spitting image of your father. Well met, young sir.”

“Pennyworth,” Damian recalled aloud, grateful beyond words he didn't choke on the name, that his voice didn't falter. Alfred Pennyworth was Father’s surrogate father, previous British intelligence and retired Royal Air Force medic, ally to the Batman and Wayne family butler. A man he could respect, having already lived a worthy, noble life. He accepted the hand and shook.

Pennyworth beamed at him, eyes somewhat moist as he stood to his feet and dusted nonexistent dust from his knees. “Well,” he said primly. “I’d wager you’re all feeling peckish after your dramatic escape with Master Dick. I’ll just...yes, if you’ll excuse me, young Masters. I will prepare some tea and—”

“Oh, c’mon, Alfie,” Hood said. “You have to stay for the show.”

Father, who had not stopped staring at Damian, suddenly flashed a pained, exhausted, and downright exasperated look at Hood, and it broke some of the tension layering the room.

Teasing, Damian realized. This was teasing, and he felt his lips twisting upward into a smile.

Hood was right. This was a little amusing.

Richard laughed, nudging Damian forward. “Get that stick out of your ass, B. Two of your sons have returned home, after all.”

Damian tried and failed not to bite his lip, catching himself from stumbling as Richard forced him to move. “Father,” he greeted quietly.

Father inhaled sharply, and before Damian could gather the courage to explain himself, pledge himself to Father’s crusade and ask that he not send him back to Mother, because after seeing everything he had seen tonight—after being accepted by his brothers and Pennyworth so readily—he could not bear the thought of leaving so soon, of subjecting himself to Mother's wrath, but he would, if Father wished it, though he’d do anything to prove himself, anything to ensure—

Father’s arms wrapped around him, and Damian froze against Father’s warm chest. Lamely, he worked his arms around Father and squeezed.

And once he returned the hug, he could not let go. Over the man’s shoulder, he began to talk. It was easier, now that he didn’t have to look the man in the eye.

He told him about the League, about Mother, about the things he’d done, about the Court and how he met Richard. He told him everything he wished he’d known before, and everything he would do to stay with them, now that he was away.

He spoke concisely and detachedly, his spiel sounding almost rehearsed. The Cave was dead silent as he reported, the entire Family listening intently, no one daring to interrupt.

Father did attempt to hush him every so often, rubbing his back as he did, and Damian tried not to draw courage from the comfort, knowing he did not deserve, and could not afford, to become accustomed to it. When Damian finally ran out of words, Father pulled away to wipe tears away from his cheeks. Ashamed and embarrassed, Damian tried to maintain face. Frowning, he jerked away and wiped his own face.

This time, Father didn’t let go. “Damian,” he whispered, his tone catching Damian’s full attention. “You seem to be the type who doesn’t tolerate fools. Or lies. So I won’t lie to you. This...is unusual—” Damian’s heart fell, until he realized Father was not done speaking “—but not unwelcome. I’m not perfect—any of the others will tell you that—but I’d be honored if you chose to stay with me.”

Damian stared disbelievingly. Was...was it that easy? It couldn’t be that easy. 

 “I, personally, will deal with your mother,” Father promised in a growl. “I will ensure she never touches you again, if that’s what you want.” Large hands, gentle fingers, brushed at the injury on his face. “I am so sorry,” he rumbled, tone softening. “I...Had I known, I would have taken you from her a long time ago.”

It really couldn’t be that easy. The lump in his throat refused to go away. “But—”

“Damian,” Father said, more forcefully this time. “Do you want to stay here? With us?”

Damian looked around. Richard, Hood, and Rob—no. Richard, Jason, andTimothy had taken to standing side-by-side, expressions a storm of emotion and promises of retribution, but once they each caught his eye, they smiled at him, their acceptance clear as day. Pennyworth, for his part, was delicately dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief, motions discrete enough not to be noticed by his brothers or his father.

“Yes,” Damian heard himself say. “It is all I ever wanted.”

“Then nothing else matters,” Father said. “You have a home here now. Always. No matter what. Do you understand?”

The tenderness he saw in Richard’s eyes reflected in his father’s. “I think I’m beginning to,” he admitted.

“We’ll work on it, then.” Father smiled, and with one final squeeze to his shoulder, he stood to his feet and looked over at his other sons. “You are monsters, all three of you,” he said drily. 

“Is this about the Talon thing?” Richard pouted. “Because if so, I’m offended, B.” Jason smacked Richard for that, and he muttered, “What? Too soon?”

“Your monsters, maybe, Bruce,” Timothy corrected pointedly, giving Richard a terrifying glower Damian wasn’t sure he’d want to be on the receiving end of.

Jason smirked, folding his arms. “Yup. Says so on the adoption papers.”

Father’s lips twitched into a smile. He looked between them for a moment, and the humor and light began to recede, something solemn taking its place. “The Court...we can’t let this stand,” Batman said. “We need to know just how far their influence stretches. What they’re planning. How the League of Assassins is connected.”

“Damian and I will debrief with you,” Nightwing said, stepping forward to stand next to Damian. “I saw things, and Damian sat in on the meeting Talia had with the Grandmaster. Between the two of us, we can probably get ourselves a good starting point.”

“It’s true,” Damian said eagerly. “After what I saw, it would be my pleasure to help tear their organization to the ground.”

“Hood and I’ll start digging,” Robin offered. “I’ll need names and locations, ‘Wing, Damian. Any you have.”

“Absolutely not.”

The Bats swung toward Alfred, who glared at each of them. “I am going to cook us dinner,” he said sternly. “And we are going to enjoy each other’s company. Then, each and every one of you is going to get at least eight hours of sleep.”

Father frowned. “Alfred, this is...”

“Not another word from you,” Pennyworth chided, and Damian pursed his lips, uncertain how to respond to this sudden change in power dynamic. Judging from the sheepish expressions of his siblings, Pennyworth was going to win this battle, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to do so. “This Court and the League have both taken too many nights away from us already,” Pennyworth said, eyes flashing between them. “They can keep until tomorrow, wouldn’t you agree?”

Jason was the first to say something. “Can’t argue with that. I could do with a night off.”

“Same,” Timothy agreed readily.

Pennyworth smiled smugly as Father scowled, and as he turned to leave, he said, “Thirty minutes, lads. Don’t be late.”

“C’mon, Tim,” Jason said as Pennyworth exited the Cave, flicking the other boy’s ear. Timothy snarled and swatted his hand away. “We should call the girls to tell them the news and clean up before dinner.”

“Probably a good idea,” Richard said cheerily. “Let’s go with them, Dames. We can help you pick out a room and get you settled in, too!”

“Dick—” Father warned suddenly.

Richard stopped in his tracks, looking put out. He blew out a heavy sigh. “Right. Mind control, subliminal messaging, possible spyware...Let’s get to it. We need to finish before Alfie’s done with dinner. Jay?”

Without any further prompting, Jason took Damian by the shoulder. “Sure, I’ll take the kid up and show him around.”

“I’m not a child,” Damian snapped, rolling his shoulder from Jason’s grip.  

“Sure you’re not,” Jason said, rolling his eyes. Timothy gave Damian a look, one that spoke of complete understanding, and he began to mimic Jason’s posture, flapping a hand and giving a very exaggerated, and amusing, impersonation of Jason from behind his back. Damian took note of the mockery and hid his entertainment.

Timothy, it would seem, was going to be a most important ally in the future.

“I see you, you little shit,” Jason hissed under his breath, turning on Timothy.

“Language,” Father admonished from the Computer, where he and Richard had congregated. “And I don’t care who started it.”

“The hell?” Jason exclaimed, whirling toward Father. “How did you even—?”

Unruffled, Timothy ignored the two and their glaring match, impish light dancing in his eyes. “Let’s get going, Damian,” he said causally. “There’s a lot of ground to cover, and I really do want a shower sometime this century.”

Damian looked to Richard and Father, who had finished lecturing Jason and caught the indecision in his eyes. He nodded and said, “Go with Tim and Jason, Damian. Dick and I will see you at dinner.”

“As you wish, Father,” he said. Feeling a little self-conscious with everyone’s eyes on him and not terribly eager to leave Richard, after all that they’d been through, he added, “You will be alright, Richard?”

“Of course. Go on, li’l D,” Richard prompted softly.

“I still disapprove of that atrocious nickname,” Damian sniffed.

“And I still say ‘too bad.’”

Damian studied him for a moment, fighting a smile, and then turned to follow Jason and Timothy. From behind him he heard Father say, “I owe you, Dick.”

“Hardly,” Richard responded, and he sounded as tired as Damian suddenly felt. “Call it irony, call it karma. Whatever.”

“In any case,” Father said, “thank you. For bringing him home.”

Home. Damian smiled without inhibition now, more broadly than he could ever remember smiling before, and when Timothy called for him, asking what the hold-up was, he had a new spring in his step as he mounted the stairs out of the Cave and entered Wayne Manor for the first time.

And, thanks to Richard, it wouldn't be the last.