Archive of Our Own ^beta

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They buried their dead with the flowers in the field
With wounds so deep they never healed

 _{Search and Destroy  - Sanders Bohlke}

It crept up on him, this ugly thing.

Damian had moved from a world where everything was simple, one understood completely, where he had orders to follow, duties, loyalties—to one where he couldn’t seem to make a correct move. Everything seemed to contradict.

The first time he learned of his father’s distaste for murder was seeing the disgust etched into his face at what Damian had done. So Damian tried to change, but everything else seemed to rise against him—don’t fight your brothers, don’t break bone, don’t turn your comms off, don’t be so aggressive. To Damian, his father’s voice was always tinged with irritation, anger, or, worst, resentment.

Grayson was more tactful, but even he seemed routinely disappointed by him. Grayson would introduce him to his work friends or team-mates, and Damian would act how he thought he was supposed to, but after, when they had left, Grayson would look at him with a twinge of pain in his eyes—Did you have to be so rude? They’re good people.

And Damian’s stomach would flip. He would frown at Grayson and say nothing, but it lingered in his mind long afterwards. Damian knew he wasn’t nice. He knew he wasn’t personable, he wasn’t social and he wasn’t particularly loveable. There was nothing he could do to change that.

The dark thing in him grew. It was like a parasite he had breathed in unknowingly, and had taken root in his lungs. It was heavy and grim. It was a deep, clawing distress.

It felt like he was being pinned in on all sides. There was no winning.

Every time he tried and failed to make what he thought was a friendly gesture, it was met with confusion and derision. And the thing in him bit at his insides, pain in the dull thudding of his heart. It felt like his nerves had been ripped open, humiliation tore at him.

Eventually, he stopped making overtures. He thought the dark thing was feeding on his embarrassment, but it only grew. He became jittery, nervous like he had never been before. He became ruder and snappier—although he doubted anyone noticed.

Damian felt it as a terrible pressure in him. It felt like a wave that never crested, only rose and rose and rose inside him.

He pushed himself harder on patrols—to run faster, dodge quicker, punch harder—but it barely helped. His insides were curdling, like this dark thing was rotting him from the inside out. Batman watched him, through the sightless whites of the cowl, but never mentioned anything.

At night, when he couldn’t sleep, he would press into the bruises and grazes, fingers small and sharp. The pain was good. It felt like he was releasing a tiny fraction of the pain that was stored up in him.

But it quickly wasn’t enough. He bit his bruised knuckles, easing them out of his mouth when he realised his peers at school would be able to see them. He dug his teeth into his forearm. The itching, desperate need felt like bees buzzing in his brain.

He drew out the thin dagger he kept with him from under his pillow.

It was a stupid thing to do.

He knew that. It was wrong. It was damaging, childish, immature. God only knew what his mother would say, if she found out.

But when the blood was running sluggishly down his upper arm, he didn’t condemn himself. He dabbed up the blood with towels and bandaged the wounds. He was filled to the brim with a shaky kind of nothingness.

*

This was what was strangest—nobody seemed to notice.

For Damian, it felt like the world had been rocked. He had succumbed to something he thought he never would. The dark thing that pupated inside him had won a decisive victory. It was a moment of weakness that would have gotten him killed—in his previous life.

He thought they might smell it on him, the sourness of defeat. But he was treated normally. Teachers thanked his class contributions tiredly and absently. Classmates he sat next to talked to each other but not to him. He walked the halls alone and distracted by his own thoughts.

Jon snapped him out of his daze, “Can I come with you on your patrol, next time?”

Damian stabbed at his lunch absently. Patrol rotas was the furthest thing from his mind at that moment.

“I know your dad doesn’t like metas,” Jon said, between bites of his sandwich, “But what if I didn’t fly or use my heat vision—if I just punch hard nobody will know, right?”

“It’s not that he doesn’t like metas, it’s just his rule,” Damian said, although he wasn’t sure if that was true.

“Even better,” Jon said, “It’s only once in a while, so I’m sure he’ll be fine, right?”

“Why do you even want to patrol Gotham?” Damian said, “Metropolis has plenty of crime, doesn’t it?”

“My dad’s always listening in Metropolis, so it’s not the same,” Jon said, “Besides… I like Gotham.”

“What’s there to like about Gotham?” Damian asked, taking a bite of his pasta.

Jon flushed. He scratched the back of his neck, “I just think it’s cool.”

Damian had a few more fork-fulls of his pasta. He hadn’t slept well. His mind felt sluggish and slow. “My father won’t allow it. No metas, ever. That’s his rule.”

“Oh...” Jon said, sinking into his seat.

Damian watched the disappointment grow across Jon’s face. His stomach squirmed. He liked Jon, maybe more than he should.

“But,” Damian said, and hesitated, “He’s got a few charity galas to attend in the coming weeks. I’ll be patrolling alone and you’d be welcome.”

“Really?” Jon said, perking up, “Your dad would be okay with that?”

“I don’t mind what he thinks,” Damian said, heart thumping, “I said you could come. I’ll back you up.”

Jon beamed at him. It was like a searchlight being turned full-beam, directed solely at him. If Damian had been the weak, ingrown thing he felt like, he would have shrivelled up. But instead he felt, in his chest, a fragile bubble of warmth.

*

It didn’t happen that night.

Damian didn’t sleep much, but it wasn’t his main goal. His main goal was not succumbing. So when daylight glowed pale and delicate through his curtains, rousing him from his fifth bout of fragile sleep, he felt a thrill of victory.

It had been a fluke. A moment of weakness, which he would never repeat. The marks under his left armpit were his secret.

*

Damian wasn’t sleeping much. He had been trained to run on polyphasic sleep patterns, but those relied on the sleep sessions being deep, but Damian could hardly keep himself under for a handful of minutes. It felt like electricity was being run through him constantly, leaving him wide-eyed and exhausted.

One moonless night, Damian was on patrol with his father. Damian lost track of a crook who reappeared behind him. The criminal almost brained him with a baseball, but a batarang embedded into the wood, knocking it off course. Batman snatched the man by the throat and threw him against the wall.

Damian watched him warily.

But Batman said nothing, only gesturing to the Batmobile and for him to get in. The drive back to the manor was silent, as it usually was. Damian felt a tightness in his chest.

He thought he was safe when they arrived back at the Manor and his father still hadn’t mentioned it. They parked in the cool darkness of the cave, and, after a brief glance at the monitors, Bruce pushed his cowl back. His sweaty hair stuck up in untidy curls.

Damian climbed out of the Batmobile, hoping to slip away—

“Damian,” Bruce said, voice sharp.

It cut through the fog of his mind. Damian froze, like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Are you alright?” Bruce asked.

“I’m fine,” Damian said. He managed to keep his voice even and normal.

“You got overwhelmed by those criminals,” Bruce said, “That wouldn’t have happened a few weeks ago.”

You’re getting worse, Damian heard, “I said I’m fine.”

“Really?” A few notes of irritation entered Bruce’s voice, “If you keep letting this go on, I’m going to have to take you off the patrol. You’d be a liability.”

Damian swallowed thickly. He managed to keep a straight face, but inside his mind it was like a firecracker had gone off. He saw white.

You’d be a liability. He would, wouldn’t he? Robin had to be fast and agile, had to flit around the rooftops but right now he was sluggish and stupid. He felt then how tenuous his combat ability was, how fragile and weak his mind. He had grown up knowing what happened to league members when they reached the end of their usefulness.

Damian turned on his heel and stalked out. He knew his father would see the stiffness in his spine as anger, rather than fear.

His mind was fried and buzzing. He couldn’t think. He could hardly see straight, stalking through the manor on muscle memory. His jaw moved constantly, teeth squeaking together. The sound was sickening, but he couldn’t control his mouth.

He locked the door to his bedroom. By then his body was shaking, shaking so badly he could hardly stand. He pulled the curtains closed. With quivering hands he turned off all the lights and pulled the plugs from the sockets so they wouldn’t turn back on accidentally.

Damian didn’t know what happened after that.

*

He woke up in the early morning, cold and weak as a newborn. Pale light filtered through the long crack in the curtains. His windows were still open and he smelled clean air, freshly cut grass. A bird called, very distantly. It was so dim he could hardly see straight.

When he shifted, something metal clattered to the floor. His long dagger, the blade dark and wet. Damian reached for it—and every nerve in his arm woke up. Ferocious pain burst through his skin and he curled around his wounded arms, wheezing.

*

After that, Damian realised he was dangerously outmatched. This ugly thing had crept up on him, but it had rooted deeper than he had first assumed. He couldn’t trust his mind any more, his brain an enemy to him. If Damian was a kingdom then the ugly thing infested the capitol, the ugly thing was whispering in the ears of his advisors, slinking in his shadow.

After that, Damian realised he was in a war of attrition—he wasn’t sure if he could win, but he was determined to lose slowly. He tried to keep aware on patrols, he tried to keep up with school work, he tried to keep up with conversations—but it was like trying to hold a dozen slippery fish, they kept jumping away from him. He walked away in the middle of conversations, he let robbers escape. His grades began to slip for the first time in his life.

He hid his long knives and drove himself crazy with the need until he broke into his own hiding places and retrieved them. He tried to use rubber bands but ended up twisting them and twisting them until his hands started to go blue and prickly.

After that, Damian moved on to his thighs.

*

“You’re acting different,” Jon observed, a look in his eyes that was painfully close to pity, “Are you alright?”

Damian flinched. Jon, of all people? Of course, others had noticed. His father had threatened
to take him off patrol, again, the night before. Grayson had shot him worried looks when he saw the deep bags under his eyes that morning. But nobody, yet, had been brave enough to actually ask.

“It’s none of your concern, Kent,” Damian said, aiming for annoyed, but it came out very tired.

“I’m your partner,” Jon reminded him, as if that meant anything.

Damian stabbed at his sandwiches with his butter knife. His appetite had vanished too. He’d lost weight, but had managed to let that symptom escape notice by wearing three under shirts and disposing of food discretely. That, at least, he could manage.

“I’m serious,” Jon fixed Damian with a hard look, “You… Damian you smell like blood.”

That last bit he whispered. Damian glanced around the lunch hall, wondering who Jon thought was going to overhear.

“I always smell of blood,” Damian muttered, “Or have you forgotten that I go on patrol most nights?”

“It’s more than that,” Jon insisted, “You usually smell like antiseptic, mostly, even if you’re badly injured. This—this is way more than that. Way more than it should be.”

Damian pierced his sandwich. He stitched up most of his wounds, but lately he’d developed a bad habit of pulling the thread out. A bad habit on top of a bad habit.

“Nice to know you’re spending so much time smelling me,” Damian drawled, “But I think I’d know if something was wrong. And nothing is.”

“Still...” Jon bit his lip, “You should talk to your dad if something’s, like… wrong.”

Damian snorted. The idea of talking to his father was beyond ludicrous.

“I’m serious,” Jon said, “I’m worried about you!”

“It’s misplaced,” Damian snapped.

Jon frowned, but said nothing. He ate more of his pasta salad, sulkily. After a while, the frown faded from the boy’s face, “Are we still on for patrol tonight?”

“Sure,” Damian said, grateful for the change in subject.

*

That night, Damian had a bad feeling before he even met Jon.

Walking along the rooftops of Gotham was usually a calming experience. The city was calmest from high up, the sharp concrete and the blinking lights of cars crawling below. The night air was cold and oily, whipping over the rooftops at high speed.

Damian felt wrong. He’d felt wrong for months, but now it came with an edgy dizziness. Even Bruce had mentioned it, before leaving for the Gala. He told Damian to be careful, and to call it a night early if he didn’t feel well.

Damian had ignored him. He wasn’t about to let the first solo patrol he’d been allowed to have in months get swept up. He needed to prove he could do it.

In the muggy, dark sky, a flash of colour approached him. Damian raised his head as Jon landed, cloak sweeping around him.

“Gotham is so cool,” Jon caught the edges of his cloak and pulled it around him, “I love all of the gargoyles.”

“Perhaps I should point out landmarks, if you’re going to be such a tourist,” Damian leaped off the tall building, landing on the roof of a smaller one with a roll.

“I’d love that,” Jon darted around him like a hummingbird, almost tripping Damian up as he landed.

Damian shot him a look, “I was being sarcastic. Now, be quiet. Where’s the disturbance?”

Jon straightened up, standing very still, ears pricked. His blue eyes fixed on the middle distance. After a second of silence, a smile broke over his features and he pointed, “Two alleyways over.”

“Yes, obviously,” Damian cleared the gap between buildings in one long bound and began to run.

“So that was a test?” Jon asked, tailing him mid-air, “Or, was that like—”

A scream broke the air.

Damian dropped into the alleyway.

He managed to land on one of the attackers, toppling him over. There were more attackers than he expected, a whole wolf pack of them. Jon swooped over his head, but Damian was focused on the victim, pulling her to her feet and pushing her behind the garbage bins.

Damian’s head span. He was worse than he’d thought. His body felt like it was strung out, pulled tighter and tighter and tighter until he was coming apart, thread from thread. His bones ached.

An attacker snatched a fistful of Damian’s cloak and he punched him in the mouth. He still had enough strength for the man to stumble back, clutching his bleeding face. Jon moved in the corner of his eye, launching one of the attackers into a cluster of the others, knocking them all over.

The victim shrieked and Damian threw a batarang into one of the men who had slunk behind him, out of sight. The man dropped, clutching his bloody arm. Damian’s vision swam for a moment and he screwed his eyes shut, willing the world to right itself. His stomach rolled.

Police lights bathed the alleyway. The victim was shuffled past him, but Damian couldn’t open his eyes longer than a moment to see her. Someone touched his arm.

“You alright, kid?” A policeman asked, voice surprisingly gentle.

“Fine,” Damian gritted out, eyes open only a sliver, “I must have inhaled something.”

“Inhaled something?” The policeman frowned, “Joker gas?”

“No,” Damian gagged and the queasiness finally abated, “Something else.”

“‘Something else’,” The policeman echoed, face awash with disgust, “Honestly, if the batman didn’t wear a mask, we’d slap him with a CPS warrant.”

“I’m fine, officer,” Damian pushed past him and raised his grappling hook. It took longer than he’d like to admit to aim, but when he shot it, it caught true. He let the mechanism burst into life, wrenching him upwards. His line shot taut and Damian took his whole weight in his shoulder—pain lanced through his ribs.

Something tore in his shoulder. He bore it as long as he could, releasing his grip early and crashing onto the rooftop. Damian picked himself up, arms shaking. His entire side burned, as if it had been doused in spitting oil.

“Robin!” Jon landed a few steps from him, “Are you alright? Did they get you?”

“Shut up,” Damian hissed, clutching his ribs. He gritted his teeth, enamel squeaking. He knew without having to check that he’d tore his stitches. It was a very bad sign. He knew he was healing slower, and had been for the past few weeks.

Jon circled him, worry etched deep in his features. He bunched his hands in his scarlet cape.

Damian pushed himself into a sitting position. His body protested.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked, for what must have been the hundredth time, “I’m really worried about you, Damian.”

Damian let out a sigh, hand still resting on his ribs. His thighs burned too, the healed or half-healed injuries scratching against his clothing.

For a moment, Damian considered not telling him. It had been easy enough to stop him prying, to change the subject or snap something mean enough to throw him off. Jon was tentative, he didn’t want to push. He might tell his parents—but all Jon would say was I think he’s hurt, or He’s in a bad mood. Clark wouldn’t consider it unusual, wouldn’t understand what was triggering Jon’s worry. Even if he did pass it back to Bruce, it would be diluted further—Jon’s worried about Damian. And Jon worried about passing tests, he worried about mud getting on his shoes, about fitting in with friends.

Damian could tell him not to bother, and Jon would stop, because he was young enough to follow Damian’s orders over his own instincts. And Damian would crawl home, back to his life, to hidden knives in his pillow and bloody sheets.

And really, the ugly thing said, can you see this ever stopping?

Damian felt a catch of guilt. He swallowed.

“I’m...” Damian searched for the right words, but nothing turned up. His mind felt dull and empty. He stared at the floor, “I’m not… I’m injured. I’m—bleeding.”

“Bleeding?” Jon said, and touched his nose, “I can smell it. Did one of the muggers catch you? I didn’t hear a shot.”

Damian opened his mouth, but for a long moment, all he could do was breathe thickly. He pressed a glove to his mouth, as if to stop the word coming out, “I did.”

“What?” Jon echoed.

“I did it,” Damian said, “It was me. It’s always been—me.”

Jon stared down at him, baby blue eyes wide and frightened, “I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t,” Damian still couldn’t look at him, “I know you wouldn’t.”

“What?” Jon crouched down next to him, “Damian—What’s wrong? I still don’t get it, you’re hurt? What happened?”

Damian’s mood changed on a dime and he suddenly hated him. The concerned look in Jon’s eyes was like sandpaper on his skin. He rolled to his feet.

“Forget it,” Damian growled.

“What?” Jon asked, startled.

Damian glared at him, “I said forget it. Don’t tell anyone. It’s all useless.”

“Damian?” Jon followed him, “I don’t think I—”

“It’s Robin,” Damian snapped, “and get the hell out of my city.” He dropped from the rooftop, into the waiting batmobile.

***

The unease followed him home.

Damian actually managed to eat half of the dinner Alfred had prepared for him, choking down fried salmon and pared lettuce. He dumped the rest in the trash.

When he reached his room, he peeled off his armour. As he’d suspected, he’d bled through his bandages and removing his uniform was a prickly, uncomfortable business. Every shift of the fabric pulled at his skin. Eventually he managed to discard the whole set.

He crawled into bed, too tired to think. He felt like he was being crushed under a great weight.

*

Damian woke up to someone thumping on his window.

It was very dark, still. Night. It occurred to him that he’d done just as his father advised—retreating home when he felt too unwell—despite how he’d scoffed at it earlier. He groaned and crawled out of bed.

His body woke up before his mind did, right back to complaining. His face screwed up as he reached the heavy curtain and pulled them aside.

Jon floated outside his window, banging on the glass. He wasn’t wearing his uniform any more, in fact it looked like he had pulled on jeans and a jacket over his pyjamas. Damian unlatched the window and pushed it open.

“What are you doing?” Damian asked, stepping out of the half-kryptonian’s way.

“Damian,” Jon swooped in. His voice was scratchy and frightened, “Damian, I’m so—I’m sorry.”

“What?” Damian stared at him, blearily.

“I-I told my parents,” Jon landed, hanging his head, “I’m so sorry. I know you said not to, but they asked what was wrong and my dad knew I was lying and then my mum got suspicious and I was already upset and I’d already told them something was bothering you—”

Damian sunk onto the bed, mind blank.

Jon trailed off, squeezing his hands and chewing his lip. Damian didn’t know what to think. Jon knew, and now Clark knew. Did Bruce know? If he didn’t, he would soon. What would he do? Ra’s would have killed him and replaced him. Talia would sedate him, naybe—what else, he didn’t know. Bruce would take him off patrol, confiscate his possessions, probably send him to an asylum. Somewhere with white walls and padded cells. Maybe even Arkham.

“Are you angry?” Jon asked, hovering around him.

As Damian rubbed his face, his sleeve dropped to his elbow and Jon’s eyes went wide to see the scratchy red lines etched into his dark skin. Damian caught that look. He was grateful, at least, that he’d managed to pull his pyjamas on so Jon wouldn’t have to see the fresher wounds. Although from the way his shirt was sticking to his shoulder, they were probably bleeding through.

“I have to leave,” Damian stood and began to pace.

Jon looked up, “Where are you going?”

“To find my mother,” Damian said, digging through his clothes, “She might—she’ll protect me.”

“Your mother?!” Jon yelped, “The same mother that killed you?”

“She’s different now,” Damian said, but it sounded hollow even do his ears.

Jon followed him around the room, “Why, though? Why are you leaving?”

“I can’t be here when my father returns,” Damian pulled on his jacket and zipped it up to his chin, “I don’t know what he’ll do.”

“He’ll help you,” Jon said, “Right?”

Damian climbed out of the window and crouched on the windowsill. His room wasn’t too far up—he chose a room he could escape from. Jon followed him out, landing next to him. He hovered closer, like he wanted to pick him up. Damian wanted to bite him.

The air was shockingly cold and he didn’t know what time it was. He dropped into the black grass, body burning. It felt as though his skin was sizzling, popping with heat.

Damian began to run.

Jon swooped over him like an anxious owl, dipping to skim the wet grass with the tips of his toes. In another mood, Damian might have marvelled at it. Jon had only been flying a handful of years and for a long time it had been only when the situation called for it, like he was apologetic about it. For a long time, he had seemed to prefer being grounded.

Damian curled a hand around the fingerprint recognition pad and the garage door shivered into life. The metal parted and the door rolled up.

“What’s this?” Jon hovered over his shoulder.

He shifted aside to let Jon see. Damian picked up a fire extinguisher, balancing its weight between his knees. Jon ogled over his shoulder. Light flickered on from the fluorescent strips above their heads.

Dozens of glossy, sleek cars were parked in rows along each wall. They looked like gigantic beetles, every hard corner and edge pared away, so light flowed silky over their carbon fibre sides. Even the windscreen had no seam, the dark sides flowing transparent and then dark again, when they crested the side.

Damian threw a fire extinguisher through the window of the nearest one.

Jon flinched as the glass imploded, scattering tiny diamonds across the plush velvet seats. Damian had already tossed the extinguisher aside and reached through the broken window, fingers searching the leather interior.

“Don’t you have the keys?” Jon asked.

Damian’s fingers found the latch he was looking for and yanked it upwards. The door unlocked with a satisfying click and he threw it open, scrambling inside.

“Watch for the glass!” Jon snapped, diving forward.

“Shut up,” Damian arranged himself in the driving seat, pulling a short-bladed knife from under the cushion where he knew it was hidden, “Do you really have to have a comment for everything?”

Jon watched the knife blade, the razor edge glimmering in the light, as Damian sunk it to the hilt into the roof of the foot well, just a few inches behind the steering wheel. He dug around for a moment, shedding plastic chips, until he retracted it with web of wires caught by the flat side of the knife.

With the knife clamped his teeth, Damian sorted through the wires. Usually, they were colour-coded, but in this car they were all the same shade of grey-black, so he had to strain his eyes to read the names embossed on the plastic.

In the passenger seat, Jon was pecking at the glass grains tossing them out. He had already cracked the broken shards from the window frame and dropped them onto the garage floor, leaving a clean metal wound.

Finally, Damian yanked two of the wires closer and sawed them open. He pressed the severed end of one onto the severed end of the other. After a little coaxing, they caught, and the car hummed to life.

“Close the damn door,” Damian ordered around the knife still between his teeth.

*

Wind pounded through the hole where the window had been. It was icy cold and felt like razors across Damian’s skin. He had to fight to keep his eyes open, his clothes whipped around and his hair was tore in every direction.

They sped out of Gotham, down dark roads that were surprisingly deserted. Damian’s grip on the wheel was white knuckle. The sky was empty of stars, the moon a delicate sliver, like a mark left by a coffee cup.

“Where are we going?” Jon asked, his question almost lost to the pounding wind.

Damian wasn’t sure what the answer was. He pretended he hadn’t heard it.

Half a dozen problems itched at his mind. The car had a tracker—of course it did, but Damian was in no mode to pick over the engine with his stunted knife. Even if it didn’t, Bruce had satellites, a helicopter, a hover plane, to follow them. Or, god knows, enough cars and bikes and engines.

Damian was hardly breathing. These problems gnawed at him and along with them—the knowledge of his own state. His mind was a spitting, hissing mess, he could hardly think straight. It was a surprise he could string words together.

A corner reared up ahead of them and Damian took it without slowing, the car swinging around sickeningly until it straightened out. Jon nearly slammed into him, gripping tight to the ceiling. Glass pellets, dislodged from the door-frame, pattered over them like hail.

“Damian!” Jon yelled, “Damian, slow down!”

The speedometer slowly ticked upwards. It was a sportscar, and a high end one at that—great in theory and frightening in reality. The short knife flashed around in the foot well, leaping like a fish in the bottom of a boat.

“Dami!” Jon screamed over the pound of the wind, “We’re gonna crash! Please!”

“What the hell do you care?!” Damian snarled, “You’re invulnerable!”

Jon yanked out their seatbelts by the socket—and god, people forgot he was strong until he was tearing a car apart like it was cardboard—and bundled Damian into his arms. He crouched over the driving seat and flew straight up, his back snapping the roof of the car like the shell of an egg.

Suspended in the night air, Damian caught a glimpse of the car speeding down the lonely road. It hit the corner and kept going, juddering over the barrier and slamming into a tree. The sound of the crash was terrible. It racketed around the dark landscape like a bomb going off.

Jon pulled him close. Damian could feel him shaking.

“Damian,” Jon murmured, voice thick, “You’re really scaring me. Really really.”

Damian was still and quiet. He watched the wreckage smoke, the metal twisted around the trunk of the tree.

“I won’t—I won’t take you back to the manor,” Jon drifted upwards, as if shrinking back from the crash, “Please let me take you to my parents. Please, they’ll help. Please.”

Damian let out a gust of air as Jon’s arms tightened around him.

“Please,” Jon was so close, Damian felt the vibration of the words forming in his throat, “Please, please, please.”

*

When they touched down outside the Kent family farm, Jon didn’t let him go until his feet were settled on the ground. Even then, Jon gripped a corner of his shirt like he was afraid Damian was going to bolt.

The door burst open, and Lois stumbled onto the porch, “You two! We were so worried. Come in.”

She held the door open and the pair of them padded inside. Lois disappeared for a moment, presumably to call Clark. The fizzing wildness had left Damian’s brain and he felt exhausted. Jon directed him into the kitchen and pulled out a chair for him.

“Damian, your foot!” Lois said, voice strained, “Jon—could you get the medicine box?”

Blood streaked across the white tiles of the kitchen. Damian stared blearily at a laceration on his ankle—caused by the glass or the short knife? He didn’t remember when he got it.

“Sit,” Lois ordered, and Damian sat, “Give me your foot.”

Lois’ hands were cold, her nails scratching his numb skin. She pushed up his cuff to inspect his foot closer, and was treated to more spiderweb lines, some beaded with blood.

“Your wounds,” Lois said, “Did you treat them?”

Damian stared down at her, blankly.

“We can check them all,” Lois said, accepting the medicine box from Jon. She pulled a pair of glasses from her shirt pocket and slipped them onto her nose.

Damian’s hands landed on his upper thigh, “You’ll have to cut my jeans.”

“That’s fine,” Lois said, warmly, pulling on purple plastic gloves, “I’m sure Jon can lend you something to wear.”

Damian managed to relax, just a fraction. Lois had that affect on people. A proper reporter had to coax as much as pester. And it was comforting that she had undoubtedly seen people in worse state. She tweezed glass from his foot and he barely felt it. The shards tinkled into the metal pot.

“I only have animal antiseptic,” Lois said, “It’s the same stuff, it just looks strange. Unless you want to go to a hospital?”

Damian shook his head.

“Didn’t think so,” Lois aimed the chunky bottle at his foot and sprayed a thin line over the wound. It can out a lurid purple, and stung like a press of barbed wire.

“It’s purple so you can tell where you’ve sprayed wounds on a chicken,” Jon informed him, “I think it looks quite nice. I don’t think they can see purple, anyway.”

“They can,” Damian said, wearily, while Lois wrapped his foot in fresh white bandages, “They have better colour vision than we do. They can see in ultraviolet.”

“Done,” Lois said, patting his foot.

Damian pulled his foot away, “That’s enough.”

“We can move upstairs,” Lois suggested, “If you want to be more private.”

“I’ll do the rest,” Damian said.

“Sorry, Damian,” Lois’ brow furrowed, “I can’t let you do that.”

Damian opened his mouth, but he couldn’t think of a retort. After a moment of silence, he closed his mouth and reached for his jacket zip. Every shift of the heavy fabric tugged on his cuts. He was sick of being hurt. He dropped his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, dropping it on the kitchen floor.

Jon shifted back, but Lois didn’t even flinch, clinking bottles together in her medicine box, “We might run out of bandages, so I’ll be conservative.”

“Fine,” Damian said.

Lois poured out some saline solution onto the cleaning wipe, “Jon, can you close the front door? And turn the heating on.”

Jon slunk from the corner of Damian’s eye. He moved around like a startled deer, stopping and starting suddenly. He was clearly deeply unsettled, sneaking glances over his shoulder at Damian’s weakened form. Damian was aware he had lost weight. He was aware that his injuries thatched over older scars, he was aware of the sick pallor of his skin. But for a moment he could see it through Jon’s eyes and shivered.

Lois washed his chest, padding his skin delicately. Saline solution beaded his skin, icy cold.

The front door opened, and Clark darted into the kitchen. “Damian,” He said, “I was worried about you. How are you feeling?”

Damian raised his eyes to look at him, tiredly. Clark was dressed in uniform, the big S vivid in the gloom. The ruby cloak was much lighter than Batman’s and took a moment to settle. Clark’s gaze scoured his body and then he closed his eyes briefly, as if he regretted doing it.

“Your father’s on his way.”

Damian jumped to his feet, so suddenly he knocked Lois’ hands. Pain lanced through his leg from his bandaged foot, “I have to go, I’m sorry, I have—”

“Damian?” Lois asked, startled.

“I have to go,” Damian snatched his dirty pyjama shirt from the floor, “I need to go, I can’t—I have to go!”

“Damian!” Clark caught his shoulders and steadied him with just a touch of his strength, “What’s wrong?

“My father—I can’t,” Damian snarled, trying to pry Clark’s fingers from his shoulders, “I can’t see him, I can’t, I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” Lois took Damian’s elbow, “He won’t come here. You don’t have to see him.”

Damian allowed himself to be ushered back, head spinning. His heart was beating loudly, blood thundering in his ears. Whatever fragile peace he’d approached was shattered. He wanted to leave—he wanted to be out from under the harsh lights, somewhere away from prying eyes where he could curl up in the dark and rest.

“Of course,” Clark said, “Of course you don’t have to see him if you don’t want to, Damian. But you know Bruce would never do anything to hurt you, you know?”

Damian swallowed thickly, only dimly aware of the prickle of saline solution under his shoulder. A voice echoed sharply through his mind, like a stone dropped down a deep ravine: your father would not approve. He couldn’t tell whose—Ra’s, or Talia’s? Or his own? He felt the cool press of gauze over his broken skin. His father had never raised a hand against him, but Bruce had nearly broken Todd’s jaw for shooting Penguin, and Damian had done far worse than that. Cobblepot was still limping around, for example.

Too late, Damian realised Clark was actually waiting for an answer. The Kent family watched him expectantly.

It took another moment for Damian to gather himself enough to respond, “I’m aware.”

Clark looked pained, but nodded, “I’ll call him.” He disappeared from the room.

Lois fixed the bandages, and brought out a long pair of fabric scissors. “I’m just gonna cut through your jeans, alright?”

Damian nodded, vaguely.

Lois started at his cuff, cutting through both his pyjama bottoms and the jeans he’d pulled over them. The scissors were sharp and made short work of cutting through. The legs she revealed were knobbly and thin, a sickly pallor to the usually warm.

Jon hovered behind her, tugging at his own shirt worriedly. Damian could feel his eyes on his body, but couldn’t bring himself to mind. Jon looked almost as shaken up as Damian imagined himself looking, his bright eyes wide and shoulders tight.

“Jon, baby, can you make something for him to eat?” Lois asked, sensing her son’s anxiety without having to look up.

“Right,” Jon said, and began to clang around in the fridge. He retrieved tuna and mayo and poured a chunk of each into a small bowl, adding a bit of salt and pepper.

“I’m vegetarian,” Damian reminded him, sharply.

“Oh,” Jon grimaced, “Right. Cheese?”

“Fine,” Damian said, as Lois lifted his knee to pass the roll of bandages under his thigh.

Jon fetched a big block of plasticky yellow cheese and cut a few chunky slices and lay them onto buttered bread. He added a few leaves of lettuce, another slice of bread, and cut the sandwich in two.

“And we’re done,” Lois said, brightly, fixing the last bit of bandage to his calf. His legs were a patchwork of white gauze and bandages, his knees bruised yellow-purple, his right thigh streaked with grazes from where he had collided hip-first with a rooftop.

Jon pressed the plate of sandwiches into his hands, “I’ll get you my spare pyjamas, okay? And you can sleep in my room.”

Damian stared down at the sandwiches. Before he had a chance to respond, Jon shot up the stairs like a loosed arrow. He returned barely a second later with pale blue pyjamas and set them in Damian’s lap.

“You have to eat,” Jon insisted. Damian put the corner of his sandwich into his mouth—if only because he was convinced Jon would put into mouth for him otherwise, like an anxious bird with their baby.

*

It was far too hot to be sleeping in the same bed as another, but Damian didn’t mind. Jon’s room was homey and cute, his walls sported pictures of elephants and giraffes, a stuffed bear watched from a small, untidy bookshelf. Jon was wrapped around him tightly—far too tense to be asleep, but with his eyes were shut stubbornly.

Damian stared at the back of his eyelids and thought about being dead. He had never seen his own corpse, but he had seen photos of him wrapped up in bandages, like an Egyptian mummy, swaddled in his coffin’s plush sides. He thought of the Lazarus pit, reviving Todd but leaving him stiff and rotten.

He thought about the manor, its long corridors and tall, solemn portraits. He thought of its locked doors, the ice which formed on both sides of the windows in the winter. He thought of Al Ghul island, the open waters and shifting green foliage. Starched robes and a knife that was so familiar in his hands he felt diminished without it. Damian had never had a home, never had a family. Never, never.

*

They had forgotten to draw the curtains, and dawn streamed straight through the glass into Jon’s bedroom. Orange glowed over Jon’s crayon drawings, gleaming sharply off his computer monitor.

It didn’t really bother Damian—he simply opened his eyes and stared at the wall and continued to ruminate on dull, confusing thoughts. Jon had fallen asleep for real at some point, although his grip on the other boy had only relaxed a fraction. Damian knew if he moved much he would wake him, so he lay uncomfortable and stiff.

A few hours after the sun had reached full strength, Jon’s cellphone burst into life. It was startlingly loud.

Jon raised his head, groggy and dark-eyed, “Sorry, that’s my alarm.”

Damian snagged the phone from the bedside table and shut it off. His eyes felt dry, his throat rough.

Jon let out a heavy sigh, body shifting minutely. Then he finally uncoiled, releasing him and sitting up. He scrubbed his face, scratching his scalp and massaging his eye-sockets. Another unhappy groan.

“Do you want breakfast?” Jon said, “I think my mom’ll let me stay home from school so we can sleep in if you want.”

Damian hadn’t even thought of school. He doubted he’d be going back any time soon, but he found that he didn’t mind. It had always felt like he’d been playing parts anyway, as if it had been an undercover operation that had been drawn out into years.

“Perhaps,” Damian said, levering himself out of bed. His body twinged and burned but he ignored it, slinking downstairs.

Lois sat at the kitchen table, laptop in front of her. The white tiles had been washed, but Damian could see a dark red sheen under one of the chairs.

“Do you want some coffee?” Lois asked, glancing up at the two of them, “There’s some in the pot.”

Damian watched her silently and shook his head. Jon took out two bowls from the cupboard and poured them both out some cereal. It was the sugary, glazed kind of cereal Jon was always eating. Jon poured too much milk into both bowls.

Jon took Damian’s hand and curled Damian’s fingers around a spoon. Approximately twenty hours earlier, Damian would have snapped at him for treating him like an invalid. But Damian only pushed the spoon into the bowl and ate his soggy cereal obediently.

Something in the sugary cereal rekindled him, just a little. Damian felt more human. It was like he was coming back to himself after a very long sleep.

Outside, there was the crunch of tires on the gravel, and Damian shot up like a startled rabbit. He bounded out of the kitchen and threw the front door open.

Cassandra Cain stepped out of a small cheap-looking black car. She was built like a greyhound, long legs and lithe, powerful muscles. It had been months since he’d seen her last, and she had grown her black hair out a little, pulling it into a high tail. She leaned on the car door and inclined her head in greeting.

Damian inclined his head back. He didn’t know her well enough to form a full opinion, but being out of the batman line of succession and not being nosy was enough to give her points already. Besides, her past was comfortably like his own, and he could expect her to have normal reactions.

“Who’s this?” Lois asked, stepping out of the front door.

“Cain,” Damian supplied. Cassandra waved.

Jon poked his head around the door, “Kane, like your cousin?”

“No,” Damian pushed past him. Cassandra followed him, smiling warmly. There was an easy grace to her movements, an athlete at her peak.

“Oh, Cain, the deaf one?” Jack asked.

Mute, Cassandra signed, not missing a beat, It’s nice to meet you.

Jon shot a puzzled look at Damian, who rolled his eyes, “She can hear you. She says hello.”

“Thank you for coming,” Lois said, “You’re here to pick up Damian, right?”

Cassandra nodded, do you know ASL?

“A little,” Lois said, “I’m a little rusty, but I should know enough.”

“Are you taking me to my father?” Damian asked.

Cassandra shook her head, Me and Barbara have an apartment in Blüdhaven.

“No Bats?” Lois asked.

None apart from me, Cassandra said, Even Dick is away. Does Oracle count?

“No,” Damian said, “Gordon is fine.”

Come, then, Cassandra beckoned.

Lois raised a hand, lingering in the doorway. Damian glanced at her. She motioned him close, “Are you sure?”

“Sure?” Damian raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure they will take great care of you,” Lois said, “But I don’t want you to do things just because you think that’s what we want. I want you to do what you feel is best.”

Damian frowned, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that we can find something else, if it doesn’t seem like a fit,” Lois said, “You can stay here for a while, I’m sure Jon wouldn’t mind.”

Damian stared at her. He couldn’t stay here, in the Kent farmhouse. Besides the manor, this was the only option he had—which wasn’t a choice at all. But Lois looked sincere, her dark eyes warm and strong. She touched his hand, lightly.

“I mean it, Damian,” Lois said, “You’re welcome here, for as long as you need to stay.”

Damian looked quickly away. His throat felt tight. Words escaped him for a long moment, “Don’t worry. I don’t mind.”

Lois nodded, “I’ll get your jacket. It’s the only part of your clothing I could save, I’m afraid.”

Damian watched her go. Staying with Gordon and Cain would be no worse than staying with any other strangers. And besides, he’d rather not stay with the Kents for long—he didn’t like the countryside, he didn’t like superman and he especially didn’t like the way Jon looked at him, the fear and worry he etched into Jon’s features.

“You’re really going?” Jon asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

“Of course. It’s not like I can stay here.”

“Where?” Jon asked, “I don’t understand sign.”

“You should learn,” Damian said, “I’m going to Blüdhaven, to stay with Gordon and Cain.”

“You’re going to be alright?”

“One can hope, yes,” Damian said, tiredly.

Jon fidgeted for a moment, raising his arms like he wanted to touch Damian, but thought better of it. “Do you want some of my clothes?” Jon asked instead, “You’re still in your PJs.”

“I’ll be fine,” Damian said, “No doubt Gordon will have my father mail them some clothes.”

Jon frowned, “Your dad… is he, did he.. I mean, last night, when you said—”

“Don’t pry,” Damian snapped, “My father is a good man.”

“Right,” Jon said, fiddling with his cuff, “I mean, sure. He’s a Justice League member, right? So he can’t be...”

Damian felt unbearably awkward. He wanted Lois to return with his jacket already. Cain lounged next to the front door, her jacket gleaming with sun. When he glanced over, she raised her eyes and smiled at him, just a little.

“Are you going to be alright?” Jon asked, “I mean, really-really alright.”

“You keep asking me that,” Damian said, flatly, “My answer isn’t going to change. What do you want me to say?”

Jon frowned, still fidgeting with his cuff, “I want you to be alright. Like, a lot.”

Damian didn’t know what to say to that. Jon was like that sometimes—incredibly straightforward, earnest to the point where he threw you off balance. His face was open and vulnerable, his blue eyes wide and guileless. It was hard to look at.

“Here,” Lois appeared, with his jacket folded in her arms. It had been machine washed and smelled of lavender. She dropped it into his outstretched arms.

Cassandra padded towards them, moving silently despite her steel-toed boots. She glanced around the group expectantly. She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her leather jacket and passed it to Jon.

“What’s this?” Jon asked, unfolding it.

“Contact details,” Damian supplied, straightening up, “I think it’s my cue to leave.”

“Have a safe journey,” Lois said.

“I appreciate your hospitality,” Damian gave a shallow bow, and inclination of his head.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Lois said, “And I really meant what I said, you can come back any time. Any time that you need to.”

“I might,” Damian said, although privately he doubted that.

“Thank you for coming, Damian,” Jon said, “I’m really—… I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’m sure Grayson will be happy to continue your training when he returns,” Damian said.

Jon laughed, and lunged forwards, engulfing Damian in a tight hug. He pressed his face into the crook of Damian’s neck. After a moment of indecision, Damian wrapped his arms around him in return.

“I wasn’t kidding,” Jon murmured, “I’m gonna miss you loads.”

“I never doubted it,” Damian said. When Jon finally released him, Damian unfolded his jacket and pulled it on.

Shoes? Cassandra gestured to his bare feet.

Damian shook his head.

Cassandra raised one shoulder in a half shrug as she walked into the sun again, What size?

“Five,” Damian said, opening the car door.

Same as Babs, Cassandra beamed. Instead of finger-spelling, this time Cassandra used Barbara’s sign-name, a B-sign that she twirled to represent the woman’s long, curly red hair.

Cassandra closed the door. She glanced across the whole of the landscape in front of her out of habit—looking for signs of an ambush, or a hidden soldier. Damian glanced behind them. Jon stood on the porch, waving.

The car rumbled into life and she drove off, swinging onto the country road. Jon vanished from sight, but Damian took a long time to turn around. The car bumped over the uneven cement, shaking like a rocket taking off. The heavy smell of pollen dampened the air.

Damian curled into the passenger seat. His father must have called Cassandra, at some point. He was surprised he had managed this long without the man darkening his doorstep. He was surprised he hadn’t ignored Damian’s wished and forced his way into the house. Talia would have.

The drive from Hamilton county to Blüdhaven would have taken over nine hours. Cassandra must have set off before Jon even landed at the farm.

Damian leaned on his arm, staring dully at the landscape that stretched ahead of them, the empty roads, the tall hedges. The scene repeated every five minutes, green hedges and potholes. He was still very tired.

*

Damian stirred in the city, the jostle of the car waking him up.

Cassandra turned the steering wheel silently, watching the road as she left the roundabout. She drove smoothly, in a way that reminded him more of Alfred’s driving than Grayson’s.

Damian shifted, sitting up properly. His neck twinged, and the patch of arm where he’d rested his head bristled uncomfortably. He forgot he had a wound there, about the size of a fist. It was about three weeks old. He massaged the tender flesh.

Cassandra flipped on the turn signal and pulled into a side road, weaving around parked cars and stumbling pedestrians. The area they drove through could be anywhere—half-central half-suburb, overflowing garbage skips, illegible graffiti.

In many ways, Cassandra was like him. Or, like he hoped to be. Cassandra had been born and raised in the league, for a purpose. She had killed. She had worked on retainer, followed orders, patched her own wounds. She had never been young. But alone, she had cast that off, and now she had an air of peace about her, a clarity to her gaze.

“Cain,” Damian started, but stopped. He swallowed thickly.

Cassandra tapped the steering wheel in answer.

“Cain,” Damian said, stronger that time, “Do you think I will ever be... alright? As I was before.”

Cassandra made a slight motion with her head to indicate she’d heard him, but she didn’t look at him. It gave him a chance to arrange his clothes, to gather himself and wait for an answer.

She considered his question for a long time. Damian was tense, but he was grateful for the thought she put into it. Others—Grayson, Jon, even his father—would answer without thinking, would simply tell him what he wanted to hear. They’d say yes on instinct, when they really meant I want you to be, or I hope so. He knew his skin would never been smooth again, he knew he wasn’t ever going to heal properly—but he wanted an objective answer, he wanted one based on experience and, above all, he wanted honesty.

Cassandra flipped on the windscreen wipers. A few moments later, rain dropped suddenly onto the car—as it did often in Gotham, a sudden muffled downpour began to roll over the metal roof.

Damian met her eye in the dashboard and Cassandra gave him a short, sharp nod. Just once.

*

The building was a greying brown and all brick, empty but too dull even for a graffiti artist to deface. Whitish squares plastered over the telephone poll they passed, which used to be paper signs advertising bands or wanted posters, but rain and wear had made them unreadable. They alleyway smelled of sour piss, but nothing worse than that. Damian noticed the year-old remains of a wooden chair were slumped against the bins.

The apartment that Cassandra and Barbara shared opened onto the back of that alleyway, and the door was tucked behind a pillar so that it wasn’t even visible from the street. Even approaching the entrance, people rarely guess that it lead to lodgings, since it didn’t even look like a door that would actually open. This was all, of course, intentional.

Passed the ugly door the building looked a lot nicer. The second door they came to was heavy, and Cassandra leaned forward to stare into the iris scanner. She made a mental note to key in Damian’s eye pattern later. The lift up to the living space was smooth and utterly silent.

The apartment had two bedrooms—but Cassandra had moved in Barbara’s room about two years ago, so Damian was put in the one by the chimney. As he’d suspected, it was already filled with clothes in his size, but seemed to be new ones rather than from the manor.

Barbara had already put foam pads over the sharp parts of the apartment, ‘baby-proofing’ she called it. Most of the blades—batterangs, scissors, letter knives—were locked away, using an eye scanner and a complex passcode that Barbara could rattle off at a moment’s notice, but even Damian struggled to recall. The kitchen knives were stored above the fridge, accessible only through fingerprint recognition. The only sharp objects not under lock and key were a long dagger Barbara kept concealed in the frame of her wheelchair, and an inch-long knife overlooked, hidden in the heel of one of Cassandra’s boots.

Damian blinked quickly. The fact that he took immediate catalogue of all that was probably a bad sign.

*

The traits Damian originally admired in Cassandra quickly became wearing when he had an episode. For a few days since arriving, Damian had hoped that the ugly thing had been left in Gotham, but he would never have been that lucky. And when he started to take a turn for the worst, Cassandra flipped from being aloof and distant to hounding him relentlessly.

Cassandra knew, somehow, when he was having a bad moment. She could sense the twisting in his guts, the crawling energy in his skin and she became near overbearing. She pulled glasses from his hands in the moment before he smashed them, snatched him by the wrist before he shoved his fingers in a toaster.

Spar with me, She’d sign, when she had her hands free, spar with me.

If Damian tried to shake out of her grip, Cassandra would simply change her hold, when he had one hand free she caught the other, if he managed to get both free she somehow already had a grip on his shirt, on his collar, on his ankle. She was impossible.

Damian’s skin prickled and prickled, but his temper was short and he always gave in, throwing a sloppy punch for her ear or trying to trip her up.

This, of course, never worked.

There were stronger heroes. There were faster ones, ones which flew or shot beams or phased through matter. But beat for beat, blow for blow—nobody had the technique of Cassandra Cain.

Fighting Cassandra was like trying to fight a machine, or a natural disaster. She was almost unnaturally good, always two steps ahead of you, always moving to block before you’d even realised what you were going to do. So much of fighting was instinct, and Cassandra had instinct to spare. She could be half as good and still wipe the floor with him.

The most annoying part was that none of Cassandra’s blows hurt that much. She rarely did much more than block and misdirect, but even when she did there was no power behind her strikes. Damian’s knees hurt more from falling over than any blow she landed—and she landed all of them.

Damian got angry. He threw himself into trying to land a hit—any hit—and overruled the prickling which told him to find the nearest edge and bash himself with it. He tried every technique, even though he tired fast, because he needed to land just one hit. He screamed and threatened. He threw things which she smacked harmlessly out of the air. He sobbed.

Eventually, Damian collapsed. His hands were slick with sweat, his vision blurry. He felt feverish. Incoherent.

Cassandra would bundle him under the covers and sit by his bedside, loyal like a watchdog, a guardian angel he hadn’t needed to ask for.

*

The room was canary yellow, except for the wall behind the therapist’s desk, which was painted a washed out blue. Damian remembered a study about blue being linked to memory, but he can’t feel it trigger anything except boredom in him. He regarded the line of plush toys sitting beside him on the couch, all smelling strongly of fabric softner.

“Do you ever feel like crying?” The therapist asked. She had a kindly face, and hanging bracelets which brushed along the desk whenever she moved.

Damian watched the sky through the sliver of windows. Blüdhaven looked so much like Gotham he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to tell the difference in a blind test. Perhaps they had even been the same city once, before they swollen and split like dividing cells.

“Do you ever want to cry, but you’re unable?” The therapist prompted, “Do you think it would feel better, if you did? Do you ever worry what would happen, if you did?”

The desk was neat, bearing plastic Lego bricks, a thick stack of paper, a box of crayons and a plastic doll in ordered spaces. The bookcase was neat too, lines of book spines like the filaments in a mushroom cap.

The therapist tried again, tirelessly, “Do you ever feel very sad?”

Only when I see the time, Damian thought to himself. He watched the hands of the colourful clock flick forwards, rhythmic as a metronome.

*

“Two hours,” Barbara said when their car pulled out of the parking lot, “Two hours and he didn’t say a single word to the woman. I can barely believe it. You sure he’s not more than just half Bruce?”

The car turned onto the main road, the grey sides of the rich district of Blüdhaven swept by their window. The air smelled of old oil. Cassandra had to wait until they stopped at a red light before she could respond.

I told you, Cassandra signed, He’s been trained to withstand torture. You can’t make him do something he doesn’t want to do.

In the back seat, Damian smiled to himself. He had a feeling he shouldn’t, but he was perversely proud of himself. Despite everything he still had that.

“Well, shit,” Barbara stared out of the window, “I would be impressed if I wasn’t thinking about the better things I could’ve spent $400 on.”

*

The summer ended gradually, the leaves on the trees ripened from green to yellow to red. The billboards visible from the kitchen window changed, and changed again. A cold snap frosted the side of the building, but Damian hadn’t left the apartment for over two months, despite Barbara's attempts.

Barbara and Cassandra worked intermittently, sometimes for nights at a time. Cassandra was gone several days of the week, and Barbara was usually tapping on her laptop or the larger computer, doing everything from Batman’s reconnaissance to writing fill-in articles reviewing hand cream, but they somehow were always aligned to keep at least one eye on Damian.

Damian slipped between exhausted and irrational. It felt like he was walking across ice and slipping more often than he took a step. Cassandra shadowed almost every waking moment.

One agitated afternoon, Damian cursed her out—she was delusional, driven mad by hope. Couldn’t she see he was never going to improve? Why did she put so much effort into delaying the inevitable?

Cassandra had wrestled him to the ground, finally prying the sharpened fork from his hands and dropped it into the waste chute. She’d pinned him with her knees, her eyes hard and stern, a dark expression that reminded him almost painfully of his father.

Because you’re trying to quit, Cassandra signed, so close that her fingers brushed his chest, and I’m not going to let you.

*

Barbara taught him computer code.

Damian could already hack basic interfaces—but computers had never been more than a low-level part of his training. He thought he had a good grasp of most of it, but after completing one of Barbara’s tests, he found he had a lot to learn.

It was very difficult. Before, Damian had absorbed knowledge with ease, picking up every lesson his tutors afforded him. But now he felt slower, more inaccurate. Things just seemed to fall out of his head between thoughts.

“These things take time,” Barbara had said, correcting lines in his his garbled strings of code, “You’re still learning, even if you don’t think you are. You need to let yourself have bad times, you need to trust that they’ll pass if you’re patient.”

*

Cassandra tried to teach him to sew—but he was impatient, wrinkling the fabric when he tugged too hard. The thread knotted and yanked the needle out of his hand. He found the template he was using dull, he had no interest in making his own.

Next was a guitar Cassandra had apparently mastered. In Damian’s hands, the music was scratchy and clumsy. It took him far too long to learn hand positions, and Cassandra was always correcting his grip. He had the distinct impression that, had he been in his usual mood, he would have been able to learn it with ease. It should be right in his speciality—he had perfect pitch, he was very coordinated, he had an ear for music and could already read notes. But he couldn’t.

Teaching him to cook was the worst. Cassandra started, but realised she couldn’t use anything sharp. Butter knives, meat skewers, bladed blenders—these also had to go. Even so, within half an hour Cassandra was carrying him by the wrists out of the kitchen, his fingers scalded on the hot stove-top. At that point even her usually placidity was fractured, a tightening of her jaw and a wrinkle in her brow that betrayed deep annoyance.

*

Damian’s eyes peeled open.

He felt like utter shit. A pain throbbed in his cranium, like someone was pressing a hot iron between his eyes. He didn’t want to shift, in case he woke up the wound. He peered around the dark room as much as he could without rolling over. Damian’s whole body felt pressed down, his bones leaden. He breathed shallowly, his throat tight, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Are you thirsty?”

“Gordon?” Damian twitched, eyes cracking open again. He started to rise—but a band of pressure over his chest halted the movement. He peered down. He was restrained, his wrists and ankles strapped to the bed frame, a band over his chest. He settled back into bed.

“I can call a nurse if you’d rather,” Barbara rolled into the corner of his vision. Her fiery hair was scraped back into a messy, high ponytail and her dress shirt was rumpled.

“What did I do?”

“You nearly brained yourself on the kitchen cabinet,” Barbara said, picking a jug of water from the bedside table and poured a glass, dropping a straw into it, “It was quite scary—there was blood and hair everywhere. I think you even dented it.”

Damian winced and gritted his teeth.

“Open wide,” Barbara said. Damian opened his mouth and she put the end of the straw between his teeth.

He drained the whole glass and she set it aside. She brushed her hair back and turned, wheeling herself towards the window and drawing the blinds open. Light pierced Damian’s eyes and the pain in his cranium doubled. He pressed back into his pillows, eyes screwed shut.

“I’m sorry,” Damian muttered into his chest.

“Sorry?” Barbara blinked at him, “What for?”

“I’m not...” Damian opened his eyes, just a little, “I’m not getting any better. All the efforts of you and your partner put in are being wasted.”

“Oh, Dames...” Barbara gave him a soft look.

Barbara lowered the blinds until the morning outside was a glowing rectangle. She went to his bedside and pressed a hand to his chest, over the thick covers.

“Listen, we can’t be thinking like that,” Barbara said, “I’ve worked in trauma recovery before, and you know what my supervisor told me, the first shift I did? She said: Assume everyone is doing their best. It might not be what you think is their best, and it might not be what your best looks like—but it’s their best, for that day, at that point in their life.”

Damian watched her from under the pounding in his skull.

“You’ve always put your all into everything, Dames,” Barbara said, “When me and Cass took you in, we didn’t think you’d recover in a long weekend. But nobody can ever accuse you of being unmotivated.”

Damian squeezed his eyes shut. He breathed thinly, barely opening his mouth. His nose had been taped up and glowed with pain. There was a second pressure in his skull, a hot pressure behind his eyes. He wanted to cry.

*

Cassandra drove him back home two days later.

By then his head and nose had been bandaged in thick gauze and Damian felt top-heavy, like he might topple over. The throbbing in his tender skull drowned out most of his thoughts. Luckily, Cassandra didn’t mind slipping into companionable silence.

They parked close to the apartment and she opened the door for him to stumble out. Cold air prickled over his skin. Cassandra hearded him towards the apartment.

Unlocking the door, Cassandra checked her phone and perked up. She slipped it back into her pocket before Damian could investigate.

“What are you so happy about?” Damian asked, sourly. But Cassandra shook her head.

In the lift, Cassandra kept looking looking at him and smiling secretively. Damian ignored her pointedly, scratching his nose where he could reach it under the thick padding. The lift slid to a stop and the doors opened.

An old friend stood on the landing, his tail wagging excitedly. He barked.

“Titus!” Damian yelped, jumping forward. The Great Dane leapt at him. His huge block of a head shoved into Damian’s hip and the boy doubled over, wrapping his arms around the dog’s long body. Titus’ tail was wagging so hard his whole rear end shook and he barked excitedly.

Barbara appeared around the corner. Alfred the cat sat in her lap, triangular ears swivelling around. “Sorry, we couldn’t bring Batcow with us.”

Titus lapped at Damian’s face, the huge tongue pulling at the boy’s dressings. Damian pushed his huge, soft muzzle away, laughing.

*

The house was a tight fit for two new furry room-mates. Originally, of course, the apartment was supposed to only house two occupants, not five.

Titus got the brunt of the squeeze. Damian and Barbara took him for walks every morning and evening, so he slept most of the day, but when he was awake he was always in the way, his coffee-cup sized paws in perfect position to be run over by Barbara’s chair. Though well behaved, the poor huge hound was tall enough to smack things off the counter by his wagging tail alone.

The bathroom was small enough that Titus had to walk in and out of it like a stall. When out on walks he drew everyone’s attention. Kids escaped their parents to pat him, full of questions: How much does he weight? How tall is he? How much does he eat? Can I ride him? One time a parent came around to retrieve their kid and sneered at them: Keeping a dog like that, cooped up in a Blüdhaven apartment? You should be ashamed of yourself, it’s disgusting.

Barbara had been too startled to respond. Damian hadn’t been—and had said something equally rude in response, stepping around Titus protectively.

Alfred the Cat had acclimatised the quickest. He was only a slip of a thing, and light enough to walk along the messy walls of books and files, and he systematically examined every inch of the apartment. Damian had already taught him how to jump onto doorhandles to open closed doors. He moved silently, so you only noticed him in the corner of your eye.

After deeming the apartment safe, Barbara had a near constant lap warmer—Alfred didn’t mind her wheeling around, or even when she rested files on his silky black back. He sniffed the bottom of her coffee cup when he wanted a pet. Quickly, he picked up a bad habit of licking her wrists with his small, scratchy tongue when he wanted more food. At least he didn’t knead, Barbara thought as he poured him some more cat food.

*

Damian woke up to voices in the kitchen. Titus took up most of the best, his shoebox-sized head occupying two-thirds of the pillow. Damian pushed the dog away and sat up. He only realised Alfred the cat was sleeping curled up by his feet when he accidentally kicked him. Alfred sent him a reproachful look and arranged his long black tail around his paws.

Once he’d extracted himself from the bed, he crept along the hallway. He was thankful for the new flooring in the building—the manor was a maze of creaky floorboards and secondary light sources which cast incriminating shadows, all of which had to be memorised if he wanted to creep around. The apartment, however, was all unyielding stone and wood panelling which never let out a peep.

“—and now this fucker’s here in ’haven,” A rough male voice said, which Damian recognised after a moment as Jason Todd’s, “I mean, I’ve already chased him halfway across America, but still.”

“He can’t run much longer,” Barbara said, “He’s running out of favours.”

“It’ll be just my luck if the bastard ends up in Gotham and I have to deal with Bruce’s macho bullshit,” There was a metallic sound, which was probably Jason uncapping a beer.

“I doubt he’ll track through Gotham, at least,” Barbara said, “I looked into his accounts. He owes Carmine Falcone the better part of five grand.”

Damian settled against the wall. He was comfortably out of sight no matter where they moved in the kitchen, and he could still hear everything the pair said.

“Damn,” Jason said, sloshing the beer around his glass bottle, “Maybe I can get a bounty from the Falcones to do this job for a little money? I’m doing this anyway.”

“I don’t know if it would be good for your reputation,” Barbara said, “You might want to avoid Hood being associated with any of the families.”

“I already took a job from Black Mask,” Jason said, “I don’t think I have much of a reputation anyways. But the Falcones would want this guy’s head, not just a life behind bars.”

“He won’t survive a life sentence, knowing the Falcones,” Barbara said, “Being in Black Gate won’t save the guy, whatever happens.”

“That’s pessimistic. But you’re probably right.”

A creak of wheels on stone as Barbara moved around the kitchen, “Do you want something to eat?”

“No, ta. But I could do with another one of these.”

“Sure, in the fridge.”

There was the sound of the fridge opening, and Jason paused, “That’s a lot of food. Veggie burgers?”

“They’re Damian’s.”

“Damian? Bruce’s brat?” A clink of glass as Jason retrieved a beer, “He visit a lot, these days?”

“You’re quite out of the loop, aren’t you?”

“Downside of being the prodigal son. Plus I’ve been off-world for the past few months,” He uncapped the beer.

“He lives here now,” Barbara said, a rush of water reaching Damian’s ears as she filled the pot.

“Not with Dick?”

“You have any idea where Dick actually is right now?” Barbara asked.

“Ok, good point. I heard Damian stopped being Robin,” Jason said, “but I don’t know why. Is it something B did?”

Barbara let out a deep sigh. She set the pot on the stove top, “I don’t know if it’s possible, but I think Bruce might have actually gotten worse at parenting.”

Jason whistled through his teeth in sympathy, “Poor little fucker.”

*

The phone buzzed and Damian stared at it like he hadn’t seen one before. He picked it up between finger and thumb and pressed answer before he’d even registered who was calling.

“Hey, uh can I—” The young, slightly squeaky voice burst through the phone, “It’s Jon—er, Jonathan Kent, can I talk to Damian?”

Damian frowned, staring into space, “Kent?”

“Dami?” Jon started to say something, but changed his mind, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Damian said, “What do you need?”

“Oh, nothing,” Jon said, “I mean, there are some things but I’d like to—I mean I wanted to see how you were doing, if you were, well, alright...”

Damian’s face tightened in annoyance. Had Jon always been this socially awkward? “How are the Titans?”

“You heard about that?” Jon asked, “I thought you were, like, out of the, er, life now?”

“I don’t live on the moon, Kent,” Damian said, “Or have you forgotten that everything Superboy does is reported on?”

“Oh!” Jon appeared to have actually forgotten, “Right, of course.”

“I’m not surprised the Titans accepted your application,” Damian said, “You’re more than capable.”

“Sure,” Jon said, “I mean, they had an opening. Oh, not like, because you left! But—well—”

“Are you keeping up with your training?” Damian cut through the embarrassed babble. It was a strange day when he was the one with the bigger helping of social graces in a conversation.

“Yes! There’s not much in Hamilton, but I’ve been using the books you lent me. I’m thinking of going to school in Metropolis when I graduate next year. But that’s if I can convince my dad.”

Damian blinked. He had forgotten that Jon was still in school. He’d graduate out of Hamilton middle fall of next year. The world was moving on without him.

“I know you’re living with your sister and her friend—”

“Partner,” Damian correct absently, “And Cassandra’s not really my sister.”

“Oh, right. Wait, isn’t Barbara like a sister, though?”

“She dated my older brother,” Damian said, “So no, she isn’t.”

“Sure, okay.” Jon took a moment to regain his thoughts, “I was gonna ask—is it fun to live in Blüdhaven? Are they nice?”

Damian thought for a moment, “It’s… passable. Sufficient.”

“Wow,” Jon said, “That’s Damian-ese for amazing, right?”

“No,” Damian said, but Jon wasn’t really listening.

“That’s so good,” Jon said, “I was really worried about calling you because I was worried you’d be all different—but you’re still you, if that makes any sense, you aren’t different.”

Damian opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He felt a twisting, deep in his gut.

“Dami?” Jon said, “Are you alright?”

“-tt-,” Damian’s frown deepened, “I have to go.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Jon asked, “I only meant—”

Damian hung up.

*

Cassandra taught him ballet.

She didn’t talk him through it, simply allowing him to mimic her movements, the placement of her feet, the lifting of her chest. They were in some empty studio in the outer districts, the muffled thumping of street construction punctuating the long silences.

Cassandra taught him the Plie, back ruler-straight and legs bowed, the Releve with her heels raised and arms encircling the air. Imitation came easily to Damian, and he found his shoulders shifting back, his chest opening.

Damian had never considered how his moves looked, and it was an added challenge to keep every move smooth and poised. Cassandra never commented—no criticism or complement—instead Damian could tell how he was doing from the cant of her head, the warmth in her look. She would tilt her head and glance at his stance when his footwork was slightly awkward, and when he corrected it, she offered him a small smile. If he was having trouble correcting something, he would get her to repeat the move and she would, as many time as he asked.

Arms outstretched, back tilted, Cassandra skimmed across the studio floor. Her movements were so gliding, they reminded Damian of flight. She slipped into a leap, legs kicking out, and landed lightly, to spin on her toes.

Damian copied her, and was annoyed when his movements felt heavy and slow and stupid. Cassandra didn’t react, watching him placidly. Instead of the usual swallowed-coal burning irritation, Damian felt a swell of competitive enthusiasm. He repeated the sequence again, and again.

In the corner, Titus let out a jaw-cracking yawn and began to lick his paws loudly.

*

Damian broke through the first layer of Barbara’s computer firewalls one afternoon. It had been so difficult to achieve that when the computer finally flickered and showed the successful screen it was a shock. He glanced around at Barbara, beaming.

“I’m impressed,” Barbara glanced up from her work, a genuine smile lighting her face, “that should have taken you another week.”

“I’ve been studying on my own,” Damian pointed to a notebook overflowing with biro diagrams and scribbled-over code phrases, “It’s really not that difficult when you put some thought into it.”

Barbara smirked, despite the haughtiness in his tone, “I’m glad you see it that way. You’re a smart kid, you could do whatever you wanted.”

“Naturally,” Damian said, returning to typing.

*

Titus’ walks were usually at least half an hour long, although some days the schedule was more constrained and Barbara had to take shorter routes. Titus was a very affable animal and didn’t seem to mind when they cut his walk short—although his master complained enough for both of them. Still, Damian was less hellish after walks as well.

Barbara still exercised, but city walks had fallen to the wayside. It had always been easier to lift weights while reading computer readouts. Dick called her a shut-in, but to be honest it always felt like there was far too much work to do to leave the house.

Now she was forced to, she appreciated Blüdhaven in a different light. The ugly grey buildings took on a pale blue hue in the long afternoons. Winter was in full swing now, and the bite of frost was a welcome sharpness, refreshing after hours in the stuffy office.

Titus stayed on the lead most of the time, and remained at Damian’s heel most of the time. He didn’t react to the other dogs—although they all reacted to him, bouncing up to him or cowering and barking. One notable poodle, barely bigger from nose to tail as Titus’ head alone, howled and screamed at him. Titus regarded it boredly until the animal’s owner snatched the little angry thing from the pavement and apologised profusely to Barbara.

Most of the time, Damian was happy to walk in companionable silence. When he did talk, Damian talked about his opinions on the news to discussion on ballet techniques. Once in a while he asked for Barbara’s opinion and considered the answer she gave with great care. It was surprising, a clear show of respect from a kid who treated her like she was irrelevant not even a year ago. Barbara smiled to herself. She knew better than to point it out to him, but smiled to herself.

*

Damian didn’t even realise how long he’d been washing his hands for until Cassandra loomed over him, snatching him by his wrists. In her haste, she lifted him almost off the floor, pulling him backwards.

“Oh,” Damian came to his senses sluggishly as Cassandra set him down at the table and shut the faucet off. She disappeared into the other room for a moment.

Damian stared at his hands as if they were foreign things. Every inch of them was red and swollen. His skin was splintered around the nails, blood beading the meat of his palm. They felt very hot, and the joints stung sharply.

Cassandra returned with the medicine box. She pulled his hands onto the table and began to wrap them in cool white bandages. Her touch was professional, and her expression held no hostility, but Damian still felt a sharp stab of guilt.

“Sorry,” Damian said, stomach squirming.

Cassandra glanced at him briefly. She finished wrapping one hand and started on the other. When she was finished she pushed his sleeves up to check for other injures. Satisfied that there was none, she set his hands back into his lap.

Thank You, not Sorry, She signed.

Damian frowned, but said, “Thank you.”

Cassandra smiled. She gestured to ask if he wanted some dinner. Damian nodded, still puzzled.

*

Damian stepped onto the scales. He stepped back off, and stepped on again. He repeated the motion and Barbara looked up, catching a puzzled look on his face.

“You alright, champ?” Barbara asked.

Damian scowled, and Barbara wasn’t sure if it was because of the nickname or whatever was bothering him about the scales. He beckoned her closer. Barbara watched the dial as Damian stepped on and off the bathroom scales. She watched him do it twice before she realised she needed some context.

“What’s wrong with it?” Barbara asked.

“I’ve lost weight,” Damian said.

“Okay?” Barbara said, frowning, “Is that an issue?”

“I’ve been eating the same,” Damian said, “I’ve grown a few centimetres.”

“It’s probably just that you’re living a more sedentary life now,” Barbara said, “You’re the same shape, but muscle weighs more than fat. The same thing happened to me when I got the chair.”

Damian looked horrified.

Barbara startled, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m unfit,” Damian said, “Of course I am. I hadn’t realised how much time had passed.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Barbara said, raising both hands in a placating gesture, “I didn’t say that. It’s fine if you’re not in top shape—you’re not Robin at the moment. You can put the muscle back on whenever you need to.”

Damian gave her a wary look.

“I promise it’ll all come back,” Barbara said, “Probably even better than before, since you’re sleeping properly now. It’ll probably take only a month or so.”

“What if I need it before then?” Damian protested.

“Cassandra will protect you,” Barbara said, “And so will I.”

“I don’t need to be protected,” Damian scoffed.

“Exactly.”

Damian wavered, clearly still a little unhappy. He stared down at the read out on the scale. “I was trained by the best,” Damian said, “I can’t lose that.”

“You won’t,” Barbara said.

Damian scowled at her.

“I mean it, kid,” Barbara said, “The stuff you learn that early on, that’s in your instincts forever. It’s set in stone now—you won’t ever forget it.”

Damian still looked harrowed, but relaxed, just a fraction.

“Is there a reason you’re so worried about this?” Barbara asked, gently.

It was a mark of how far he’d come that he didn’t just snap at her and actually considered the question. He tensed and untensed his fists, nails digging into his palm. The silence stretched on so long that Barbara wondered if she was actually going to get an answer.

“I have to be good at this,” Damian said, “I have to be good. I have to be good or I can’t… I can’t protect myself.”

“Sure,” Barbara said, “that makes sense.”

Damian’s shoulders lowered. He breathed out deeply. Barbara could tell he was still braced to attack, but on the surface he looked calm, his stance loose.

“Do you want to walk Titus now?” Barbara offered. Damian nodded, and stepped off the scales.

*

Damian’s phone rang while he was typing on Barbara’s computer. He stared at it suspiciously, before snagging it and pressing it to his ear, still typing with his spare hand. Alfred the cat brushed past his ankle, tail rising in greeting.

“Yes?” Damian answered.

“Hi, Damian,” Jon said, “Can we talk?”

“We’re talking right now,” Damian said, hitting enter. The code ran smoothly for a moment before another error box flashed up. He frowned to himself and made a note of the error number, before closing the running software and glancing over the tight lines of code.

“Right. So,” There was a crinkle of paper on the other line, “We’re investigating this criminal, and we’ve run out of leads. I was wondering if you had any suggestions?”

Damian waited, but when it became clear Jon wasn’t going to add to that, he cleared his throat, “I’m going to need a little more than that.”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah,” Jon said, and Damian could almost see the boy’s flush, “He’s a robber. He’s been targetting small businesses in the city, places like perfume shops and stuff. They always strike right before a supervillain attacks, so we can’t deal with them, and the police are usually occupied or pulled away. We think he’s coordinating with the villains, but we can’t see what’s in it for the villains, except that he’s some kind of psychic meta. I’ll text you a list of the places he’s hit.”

“Do you have any idea what they look like?” Damian asked. His phone buzzed as he received a long string of small shops and boutiques all over Jump City.

“No,” Jon said, “He’s avoiding cameras. We think he’s a psychic meta because nobody can remember what he looks like or anything.”

“It’s probably not a guy,” Damian said, changing the brackets in the middle of his code. He chewed his lip and changed them back, adding a little clause inside, “Or at least they don’t look like one.”

“Why do you think?”

“People would be suspicious about a guy loitering around a perfume shop, but they’d expect it for a women,” Damian said, hitting enter. A different error message popped up and he scowled, “Besides, people find women less threatening. So they make better petty criminals, especially if they’re metas.”

“Oh, that makes sense! Any ideas how she’s contacting the villains?”

“They aren’t,” Damian said, “It’s very unlikely that any supervillain is willing to help bust a few small perfume shops, let alone multiple supervillains. They’re probably using a police scanner, so they get the first notice of a villain attack. Then they time is so they can strike in area with least police presence.”

“Whoa,” Jon’s voice was breathless, “You’re really smart, Dami.”

“You can probably catch them by hanging around similar shops,” Damian said, “Especially if you’re confident enough to split your forces during a supervillain attack. Send Logan or Aqualad, someone who can actually keep their cover.”

“That’s perfect,” Jon said, “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” Damian said. He hit enter and the code ran smoothly for a few pleasant moments before yet another error code flashed up. He glowered at it, before saving the code and closing the program.

“Hey, Damian,” Jon asked, voice soft.

“Yes, Kent?”

“You know you can come back,” Jon said, earnestly, “They’ll always keep a place for you. Whenever you want, whenever you’re ready. Even if you don’t go back to being Robin you’re welcome here.”

There was a long moment of silence.

Damian stopped typing, resting his hands on the desk. He breathed shallowly. A strange feeling was rising in him.

“Jon, I’m—,” Damian’s voice cut out. He took a deep breath, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jon said, “You’re a Titan, Dami. Always will be.”

Damian smiled, “Call again soon, Kent.”

“Sure,” Jon said, “Just be hanging by the phone for me, okay? See ya.” The call shut off.

*

“Damian,” Barbara knocked on his door.

“Enter,” Damian said.

When she opened the door, she took a moment to locate the boy underneath the piles of papers. She blinked at them. Titus surged up from under the sea of cream sheets, tail beating.

“What’s all this?” Barbara asked.

“I’m making a sketchbook,” Damian said, showing her the plastic needle he was using, attached a long tail of black thread.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Barbara beamed at him.

“Did you want something, Gordon?” Damian impaled a large sheet of paper.

“Me and Cass are going somewhere tonight.”

“I’m not interested in your romantic life,” Damian said, pushing the blunt needle through another sheet of paper.

“Well,” Barbara said, “it’s mostly work related, actually. But the point is we’ve arranged for you to stay with Roy.”

“You’re palming me off onto Harper,” Damian said, sourly, “So you can get a night off with your girlfriend.”

“Sure,” Barbara grinned, “It’s just like we’re an actual family.”

Damian stabbed another sheet of paper. “Fine,” He said, “But only if I can bring Titus.”

*

Cassandra parked outside the apartment complex where Harper lived. It wasn’t technically in Blüdhaven, but close enough to the outskirts that it hadn’t been a very long drive. The neighbourhood was quiet and empty. After a few moments, the man himself approached the car.

Damian squinted through the window. Roy Harper had clearly kept some of his muscle from his hero-ing days, but he had developed something of a gut. He was dressed in an unflattering cardigan, rolled up to reveal broad, freckled forearms. His bright red hair was much more washed out than Barbara’s, and threaded with grey at the corners.

“Roy!” Barbara waved from the passenger seat, “Thank you so much for doing this.”

“Anything for you two, Babs,” Roy smiled, “You deserve a night off.”

Damian opened the car door. Titus bounded out after him, tail thumping.

“It’s only half a night off, really,” Barbara said, “But thanks. I’m afraid I can’t stay long.”

“It’s fine,” Roy said, “I don’t want to leave Lian long anyway. But you should come over for dinner sometime, alright?”

“Definitely,” Barbara glanced at Damian, “Try to well behave, alright, Dames?”

“I’m always well behaved,” Damian said, darkly.

“Exactly,” Barbara said, “Love you lots, kid. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, alright?”

“Fine,” Damian said, scratching Titus behind the ear.

“Bye,” Babs waved as Cass pulled away from the parking lot, raising a hand in farewell. Roy waved back.

Damian set off towards the apartment complex. Titus kept up with him, head perked up.

“I don’t think we’ve met, actually,” Roy said, “I’m Roy Harper.”

“I know,” Damian reached the door of the building and held the door open for Titus to bounce inside. The lobby was nice and cool. A small dog which was tied up to the front desk began to bark when he saw Titus.

“Right,” Roy pointed to the lift, “We’re on floor 5.”

The lift was too small for Titus to stand so the door sat, body pulled up tight. Roy arranged himself carefully to avoid stepping on an errant paw or tail. Damian watched the man shift around delicately and tutted. He punched the number into the lift controls.

“So, I don’t actually know much about you,” Roy said, “why’d you stop being Robin?”

Damian stared at him.

He frowned, trying to work out if the man was trying to be funny, or whether he genuinely didn’t know. As the silence stretched on, Roy raised an eyebrow. Damian’s glare eased, though the sour taste in his mouth didn’t leave.

“I went crazy,” Damian said, flatly.

Roy smiled, wryly, and clapped him on the shoulder, “Happens to the best of us, kid.”

Damian rolled his eyes.

The lift dinged, and Titus lurched out, followed by Damian and Roy. Roy lead the two of them to the apartment, unlocking the door.

“I’m back, Lian,” Roy called, “Did you miss me?”

“You were gone two minutes,” Lian said from the kitchen. She was half Damian’s height, with chubby hands and small feet bearing cotton shoes. She was scratching a crayon onto a sheet of waxy paper.

Suddenly, Lian leapt up, “Who’s that?” She charged forwards.

“I told you, baby,” Roy said, “It’s Dam—”

Lian launched her arms around Titus, pressing her face into his silky black neck, “He’s so handsome!”

“He’s called Titus,” Damian supplied, moving past her.

“I love him!” Lian cried, “Titus! Daddy, can we keep him?”

“He’s mine,” Damian said, coldly.

“But I want him?” Lian glowered at him.

Damian glared back.

“You can’t have him, baby,” Roy said, “He’s always owned by someone.”

“But I want him?” Lian repeated.

“Lian,” Roy crouched by his daughter, “Imagine you’re Titus, and someone comes and wants to take you from me. It’s like that. He’s already got a daddy.”

Lian frowned, deeply. She unwound a little from Titus’ neck and glanced between Damian and her father. It took a long while of mental deliberating, but she finally relented, “Fine. But I still want him.”

Damian tutted, but stopped glaring at her.

Roy sighed, with the distinct impression that a storm had just passed very close by. He smiled brightly, the lingering tension in the air making the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

*

Despite the rocky start, Lian and Damian quickly formed a kind of truce when Lian found out that Damian could draw. Lian immediately abused this information, shackling him to the kitchen table and having him draw everything she could thinking of suggesting.

This Damian bore with much better grace that Roy would have expected, from what he’d heard from the rest of the superhero community. Damian was always described as prickly, difficult, arrogant, hard to get along with. But Damian had been out of the game for at least eight months now, and something had obviously eased in him.

It was helped by Lian’s master manipulation skills. As soon as she noticed a hint of irritation in his manner, she switched tactics and took pains to please him, plying him with snacks and juice and complementing him warmly. This worked like a charm. It made Roy glad that she was on their side.

By dinner time, Lian had extracted two dozen sheets of drawings of just about everything from magic unicorns riding motorbikes to superman as a mermaid with big bat wings. She collected them all carefully and set them in her room.

As Roy was laying the table, Titus perked his head up from where he was lying against the cabinet.

“Does Titus need food, Damian?” Roy asked.

“He’s already eaten,” Damian said.

Lian appeared, regarding Titus jealously, “I still want Titus.”

“Lian...” Roy frowned at his daughter.

“But really,” Lian said, “Really really I do want him.”

“Fine,” Damian said.

“Really?” Roy stared. Lian beamed at him.

“I’ll will him to you,” Damian said, “If I become unable to provide for Titus… you can take care of him. I’ll email Pennyworth to put it in my will.”

“Wow,” Lian said, “So if you die I’ll get him.”

Damian nodded.

Roy watched his daughter give Damian a calculating look that he really hoped wasn’t planning a murder. Lian relented, taking a seat at the table and pulling a plate towards herself.

“I still owe you for the drawings,” Lian said, “So you’ll live, for now.”

“You’re too kind,” Damian drawled, sarcastically, but there was no bite to his words.

*

Later, Roy put Lian to bed. She was complaining that Damian was allowed the stay awake, and Roy had to point out that since Damian wasn’t his kid, he didn’t have any authority over him, and also he was much older than her. Lian did not take this well. Eventually Damian had to promise that he would go asleep in at least three hours—a half hour for every year he was older than her, the highest she would go—before she begrudgingly allowed herself to be tucked in.

Damian retreated to the living room, Titus’ nose pressed into the back of his knees. He settled on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest.

“Hey kiddo,” Roy said, sitting opposite him, “Sorry about that. I love her, but she can be a bit of a terror, sometimes.”

Damian watched him. Titus flopped down at the foot of the sofa and let out a sigh. Roy snapped the cap of an apple juice bottle off and took a long swig.

“You’ve got quite an intense look,” Roy said, “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Why did you let me into your house?” Damian asked.

“Because Babs asked,” Roy said, “I figured she wouldn’t ask me to take anyone in that couldn’t be trusted.”

“But you know my past,” Damian said, “Even after I told you about my— my situation. It makes me unpredictable.”

“Your ‘craziness’, right?” Roy asked.

Damian stared at him intensely.

Roy sighed. The kid was dressed in a huge, ratty blue hoodie and jeans, but with that look on him, it was easy to imagine the league’s armour, brandishing a sword. In his day, he’d seen league members around the same size as him, far too slight and small to be fully grown adults—though, he hope, none quite as young as Damian was. Or had been.

“You’re not radioactive, Damian,” Roy said, “Cass said it’d been almost a month since you had an episode that endangered someone else.”

“It could happen again,” Damian said.

“What triggers them?” Roy asked.

Damian shifted uncomfortably, “I don’t know. They just happen.”

Roy nodded. He took a long drink of juice, letting himself relax a little. There was no noise from Lian’s room, which was a good sign. The air that filtered through the window was cool and fresh. Cars rumbled far below them.

“Do you know who Lian’s mother is?” Roy asked.

“No,” Damian said, “It’s been expunged from Oracle’s files.”

Roy nodded, “Her mother’s Jade Nguyen.”

Damian’s eyes widened.

“Yes, that Jade Nguyen,” Roy sighed, “She came by when Lian was just a baby, to drop her off with me. Said she’d be better off with me than with the League. I might not be the perfect father, but I think she’s right, too.”

The sun was setting outside, painting the wall purple and orange. A flash of a shadow across the wall—a bird passing by their window.

“When I see you, it’s like...” Roy shook his head, “You’re what she’d be like, if she stayed with the League. So that’s why I can’t judge you too harshly.”

Damian frowned, “I see.”

Roy nodded. He finished his apple juice and set the bottle down. Despite only knowing the kid for a few hours at most, he felt a strange, protective, mother-hen instinct for him. It was fed partially by knowing Todd as a kid, with his bloody knees and toothy smirk. Damian reminded him so much of Jason.

“I’m going to bed,” Roy said, standing up, “I have to get up early tomorrow. The couch folds out into a bed, so you can go to sleep whenever, or you can just watch television quietly. And, Damian?”

Damian glanced up at him.

“Nobody’s going to force you,” Roy said, “but you might want to consider getting proper help. It’ll help you figure out what’s setting you off, so you can stop it happening.”

Damian froze for a moment, before nodding stiffly.

“Get a good night’s sleep, kid,” Roy said, closing the door softly behind him, “Good night.”

*

When Barbara picked up Damian the next day, she was surprised how quiet he was. Roy had said there hadn’t been any problems, but she sensed some kind of guilt from the boy. He was unusually contemplative, lost in his thoughts.

Barbara pushed back her work and decided to go on a long walk with him. This was the easiest method she could think of that might tempt him to share his thoughts.

Spring was coming back to Blüdhaven, albeit reluctantly. A little of the morning frost was already thawing. The sky was a washed out, pale blue, like the colour of Robin’s eggs. School children played basketball and swore loudly.

Titus, at least, seemed in as good a mood as usual, bounding alongside them as they walked. But Damian said nothing, lost to his thoughts.

*

There was a light knock on Barbara’s door. It took a moment for her to break away from the screen she had been reading—a very sobering, dry account of the abduction and murder of several children from Gotham’s wealthier families. She blinked. The sun had gone down without her noticing, and the only source of light was the monitor.

She raised her head, “Yeah?”

Damian opened the door to her office. A locked black box rested in his hands. “Can you cut my hair?” He asked.

“Sure, champ,” Barbara said, “You’re going to need a chair to sit on, though.”

Damian nodded, and reappeared a moment later dragging a kitchen chair behind him. Barbara closed the reports she’d been reading and dislodged Alfred from her lap. Damian handed her the box and arranged the chair so he could sit within reach.

The box unlocked with a press of her finger and she pulled out a long pair of scissors and a comb. Damian’s hair wasn’t as will-full as his father’s. Bruce’s hair stuck up in stubborn tufts unless tamed with half a jar of jell. Instead, Damian’s hair resembled his mother’s, and hung in silky sheets over his ears unless he gelled it back.

“I cut Cass’ hair most of the time, but that’s the only experience I have,” Barbara said, dragging the comb across Damian’s scalp, “She used to have a bit of a bob, but I imagine you want something a little shorter?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Damian said.

“Right,” Barbara plugged in the clippers.

After tying up the top of the boy’s hair, she pushed the buzzing clippers over the scalp above the nape of his neck, leaving the hair short and soft, like cat fur. The top of his hair she cut a little longer.

When she was finished, she passed him the mirror.

“You look a little like Connor,” she mused, and when he didn’t respond she continued, “Connor Kent, you know him?”

Damian stared at his reflection. He brushed a lock of jet black hair over his ear and peered into his own eyes. His forehead wrinkled.

“You don’t like it?” Barbara asked, “You’re been very quiet.”

Damian lowered the mirror. He glanced back at her, and his frown relaxed. He leaned on the back of his chair and took a long time to speak.

“Gordon...” Damian breathed deeply, “I think I want to see my father again.”

*

During the drive to Blüdhaven, Bruce tried not to think, but ended up lost in thought. His head felt slightly fuzzy, his thoughts slippery and uncomfortable. Whatever radio show he’d put on was effectively drowned out by all the thinking.

Bruce lingered outside of Barbara’s apartment for a long time before he worked up the nerve to open the door. She had already coded his biometrics into the system, and all it took was a press of his hand. For any one else, Bruce wouldn’t have allowed his data to be used in such a way, but Barbara wasn’t just anyone.

Titus greeted him when the lift doors opened. The big dog was very happy to see him, yapping and yapping. Despite his austere appearance, ever since he was a puppy Titus’ tail was almost always wagging. Bruce rubbed the dog’s cheeks and gently redirected the muzzle to avoid sloppy dog kisses.

“Father,” Damian stepped into the hallway, inclining his head in greeting. It had been almost a year since he’d seen the boy, and he’d grown a little, but not as much as Bruce had expected. Perhaps he’d always stay short.

“Damian,” Bruce whispered. There was a squirming in his chest.

“I apologise for the delay,” Damian said, expression unreadable, “I should have contacted you some months ago. You’re being updated on my progress?”

“Yes,” Bruce said, eyes flickering shut for a moment, “Yes, I am. Damian, I...”

“Are you unwell?” Damian asked, taking a step forward.

Titus, who had stopped being petted, nosed the back of Bruce’s knees, tail beating the air like a metronome. Bruce scratched the dog’s head absently and gathered himself.

“Come here, son,” Bruce beckoned.

Damian approached, puzzled. He stopped just short of Bruce. Damian’s hair was styled differently, a little longer, and he wore what looked like one of Dick’s leftover band shirts. His scars stood out in puckered red over his arms.

Bruce knelt, so he was eye-level with the boy and put his hands on Damian’s shoulders. He gave them a little squeeze, feeling sharp collar bones under his fingers.

“Damian,” Bruce said, “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

Damian lifted his hands and touched Bruce’s knuckles, very lightly. His eyes were dark, shadowed by his furrowing brows, “Say thank you, not sorry.”

That startled a laugh out of Bruce. He pulled Damian closer and wrapped his arms around him. He had thought about the boy every day since he’d seen him last, worried almost hourly. His son was still so narrow in his arms, so bony—but so warm and so real.

Damian placed his arms around his father, not quite embracing him but not pushing him away, either. The boy rested his head on his father’s, patting him lightly on the back. Bruce hugged him tighter, pressing his face into Damian’s narrow shoulder. He had to stop himself from hugging him so tightly he risked damage. Damian was still so little.

“Thank you,” Bruce said, into his son’s chest, tears pricking his eyes, “Thank you so much. Thank you for—… sticking around. Thank you for seeing me.”

Damian rested his hand on the back of Bruce’s head, “Of course, Father.”

*

Bruce went with Damian and Titus for a long walk, circling most of the city centre. The weather was warm and clear, the air holding only a bite of chill. The city may be dangerous, but that morning it showed only a soft calm, the streets unusually empty and the breeze so faint every leaf was still on the trees they passed. The air smelled of salt.

When the three of them returned, Damian left with Cassandra to practice ballet. For Bruce, it was almost physically painful to let him go out of his sight again. As Cassandra drove off, Barbara appeared behind him, touching him lightly on the shoulder

“Hey,” Barbara said, passing him a steaming cup of tea.

Bruce accepted the tea and took a moment to drink deeply, gathering his thoughts. By the time he swallowed he still didn’t have anything to say. He glanced back out of the window, “Thank you so much for doing this, Barbara.”

“It’s alright,” Barbara said, wheeling back towards the kitchen, “The animals are a bit of work, but I like the cat. I don’t know why I never got one of my own—they’re Cass’ favourite animal, you know?”

Bruce followed her, taking sips of his tea. He set his cup on the counter top and sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. His body felt suddenly very heavy, his mind slow and weak. He held his head in his hands.

“Bruce...” Barbara approached, “I know it’s against brand, but do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know if...” Bruce breathed deeply, “I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself.”

Barbara looked away. She touched his shoulder, expression tight. “We all have regrets,” She said, eventually.

“I have regrets about every one of my children,” Bruce said, “Sometimes I think I’ve failed all of them.”

“Come on, Bruce,” Barbara said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, “You can’t think like that. It’s not like any of them were easy to raise.”

“It’s not their fault.”

“I never said that,” Barbara said, “You’ve tried your best for all of your kids. Sometimes it’s hard to see these issues if you’re too close to the matter. And the kind of life we leave—it’s bound to get a lot of people hurt, including ourselves.”

Bruce sighed, leaning back in his chair. His face had fallen and he looked older, somehow.

“I think Damian always needed more help than any of us could give him,” Barbara said, gently, “the professional kind.”

“Is he getting it?” Bruce asked.

“It’s tough going,” Barbara said, “He’s agreed to start again next week as long as he can bring Titus with him. And honestly, I’d let him bring the damn cow with him if it got him in the therapist’s office.”

“Good,” Bruce said, “That’s good. I’m not sure what I’d do without you two.”

“Damian’s not so much trouble. I can see why Dick likes him, now,” Barbara pushed away from him, “He’s a bit of a little monster, but he’s got his charms.”

Bruce smiled, faintly, “That he does.”

*

Bruce left late that evening.

Damian hung around the alleyway as Bruce was approaching his car. The boy wore a light leather jacket that looked like it had been Cassandra’s, zipped up to his chin. Titus sat at his heel, tongue lolling.

“I’m sorry I can’t come home right now,” Damian said, lowering his head.

“It’s alright,” Bruce said, “You can stay with Barbara and Cassandra for as long as you need to. Don’t worry about me.”

Across the street, a dog caught sight of Titus and started to bark and bark, yanking on its owner’s lead. Titus didn’t even glance over. The evening air was cool and still. Bruce opened his car door and slipped inside, closing it behind him.

“You’ll come back, won’t you, Father?” Damian asked, suddenly.

The question startled Bruce. He blinked at his son, “Of course I will. I’ll come whenever you want me to. You only need to call.”

Damian nodded, stiffly. He tightened his grip on Titus’ lead, “Of course.”

The look on the boy’s face tore at Bruce’s heart. He wanted to pick him into a crushing hug. But the drive back to Gotham was a long one, and he had to patrol, he had appointments to keep, he couldn’t spend all his time doting on his youngest son. Even if that was the only thing he wanted to do.

“Goodbye, Father,” Damian smiled at him.

“Goodbye, Damian,” Bruce said, leaning through the open window, “Stay safe.”

*

Dick sent a postcard and a bundle of letters, which arrived the morning after Bruce had visited. He had resurfaced in Turkey a month earlier, and he had finally been able to break cover enough to contact the family again. His letters were full of unspoken apologies, the pain of separation and the loneliness that came with being so undercover for so long. He included a thick wad of photographs for Damian to draw from—skies cloudless turquoise, ancient ruins at sunset, crystalline blue waters. There was even a few close-up photos of dangerous wildlife, notably one of a hippo, crushingly strong jaws already outstretched. None of his photographs had people in them, presumably so he didn’t ruin anyone’s cover.

Lian and Roy visited the next week. Lian squealed upon seeing Alfred, snatching the black cat from his perch and crushing him against her chest. Alfred did not take kindly to the rough treatment. After Roy had finally calmed Lian down from her shrieking screams and Cassandra had treated her cat scratches with Hello Kitty band-aids, she finally sat down and ate dinner. She commanded the sole attention of Titus, who spent the whole meal with his shoe-box sized head in her lap, while she fed him small bits of spaghetti.

*

Damian was getting more calls than usual.

Barbara wasn’t one to eavesdrop—well, unless it was case-related, or something she ought to know, or it was particularly juicy—but Damian’s voice rebounded across the apartment. She had never heard the boy be so loud.

Jonathan Kent was on the other end, Barbara gathered, and the calls usually started regarding the Teen Titans’ current cases but often devolved into general discussion of every aspect of the heroics community. The calls had started infrequently, but had eventually picked up to almost daily. Damian rarely made them himself, but always answered hurriedly. And, Barbara noticed, even though Damian wasn’t holding back on his insults, they held a warmth that she found very comforting.

*

The new therapist was much more formal, dressed in a bland grey suit and heavy-rimmed glasses. Her nails were unpainted and clipped short, her hair was scraped back into a tight bun. She had a stern expression which held a calculating, but not necessarily cruel, look. She had the air of a strict but considerate school teacher.

“Mister Wayne,” She greeted, with a respectful tilt of her head.

Damian nodded back at her. Titus walked close to him, tail wagging absently. The dog found the smell of the office interesting, but didn’t leave Damian’s side, sitting next to him like a sphinx. The cushions creaked under him.

The therapist regarded the dog with amusement. “What a handsome animal,” She said, “With him next to you on the couch, it’s like you’re in couple’s therapy.”

“Perhaps,” Damian patted Titus’ muscular side, “Except we actually like each other.”

*

That weekend, Damian managed to complete the full routine Cassandra had been teaching him.

Barbara watched the boy spin and turn and twist, his movements as ceaseless and smooth as flowing water. He kicked out one thin willowy leg and it landed soundlessly, his other leg appearing behind it. Damian did not breath heavily, he didn’t huff and puff or break form for anything.

There was no music, but the slap of Damian’s feet on the lacquered wood seemed to have a rhythm of its own, an unsteady heartbeat. Damian span, hands slicing through the air, spine twisting. He ended standing tall, back straight and chest lifted, his arms outstretched.

Cassandra began to clap.

Barbara was startled out of the daze she’d fallen into and began to clap too. Damian had learned the full, professional routine in under two weeks. Not for the first time, she was impressed by just how much potential he had.

Damian’s face broke into a smug grin. He bowed low, keeping his posture tight and controlled.

Repeat to yourself
“I won’t leave you, I won’t leave you”
until you fall asleep and dream of

the place

where nothing is red.

_{- Start Here by Caitlyn Siehl}

_x