Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Contrary to popular belief, Damian Wayne was keenly aware of all of his flaws. His entire life had been about improving, about becoming the best version of himself possible, and how could he possibly do that without meticulously recording, indexing, and attempting to correct every single one of his weaknesses? When Damian was five and needed to work on his stealth, he snuck up on people until he could follow his combat tutor around without being noticed. When he was seven and struggling in thermodynamics, he spent hours boiling and freezing water until he understood the theoretical models on a bone-deep level, and his hands were half-covered in burns. When he was eleven and casually mentioned what he thought was a factual story to Drake (only for him to laugh for a frankly inappropriate amount of time), he spent the next week familiarizing himself with every single "creepypasta" to assure he never made a fool of himself like that again. 

Not all flaws, however, were so easy to fix. Frankly, he wasn't even sure if they  could  be fixed. 

Like the flaws that led him here, to the lounge in Titans Tower, and Wallace West II, aka Kid Flash, glaring at him from across the table. Naturally, Robin matched the glare, refusing to break eye contact first. In a perfect world, West would be his ally. Hell, the boy's namesake was Richard's longtime best friend, and Kid Flash had always been a core part of the Teen Titans, just as much as Robin was. This was part of Damian's role, his duties, leading a team full of people who didn't absolutely hate him. 

Yeah, that was going well. 

"You two done with your staring contest?" Connor Kent asked, leaning back in his chair. Even though they didn't say anything, Damian could tell Sandsmark, Allen, and Drake were equally fed up with their behavior. 

Robin turned away from West to Kent, offering the perma-teen a thin smile. Kent pursed his lips, and Sandsmark tried, valiantly, to save this meeting. "I'm sure you both have a lot to say to each other." 

"No," West replied as Damian forced his eyes shut to hold back an eye roll. 

Allen ran his hands over his face. "Guys, come  on . You both wanna be on this team, right? You need to trust each other, and you can't trust each other if you hate each other." 

"I don't  hate  him," Robin insisted, playing with the clasps on his gauntlets. The pointedness of his words was almost unintentional, but they didn't go unnoticed. 

"You just think I'm fucking stupid," West replied, and Allen replied, " Hey ." 

" He does!"  

"The goal here," Drake spoke up, and West fell silent. Damian glanced up, sucking at his teeth. "is to create the most functional team possible, right? If we get everything out in the open and stop making assumptions about each other, we can progress. Conflict resolution is an important skill, especially in a high-stakes team like this, and it's a skill you both need to work on." 

At  you both , Drake turned to Robin, and the latter had to bite back a sneer. Damian heard that message loud and clear. 

"Robin, do you want to start?" 

God, this was so belittling. Being treated like he was a preschooler who wouldn't go down for his nap. Damian had prepared for this meeting. He'd even taken his domino mask up to his room to rehearse in front of the mirror, trying to make his contrition as apparent as possible behind his disguise. 

He snapped a gauntlet clasp shut with a sharp  click  before crossing his arms over his chest to stop his fidgeting. "Kid Flash, I'm sorry." West instantly turned to Allen, raising an eyebrow, and Damian ignored the twisting in his gut. "I was a poor leader and didn't consider your needs or opinions. I shot down your ideas and belittled you, and I shouldn't have done that. You're a very competent hero, and my own arrogance got in the way." 

West took in the rest of the people in the room and asked, "Is this for real?" 

"Yes," Damian insisted, but West barely acknowledged him. 

"What is this, the principal's office?" 

"My guy, he's trying to apologize," Allen said. 

" Is  he trying?" West asked. Damian sat a little straighter in his seat, fighting against his instinct to curl into a little ball. "I mean, I'm glad he thinks I'm  competent- ." 

"I  do ," Robin insisted, and Drake glanced at him. He sealed his mouth shut. 

"-but I'm not being on this guy's team again." 

"He won't be leading the new Titans team," Kent drawled. "We're hoping Jon will be willing to do it." 

West furrowed his brow, and Allen explained, "The other Superboy. The one in the future right now." 

Damian had to admit that Jon would be an excellent choice to lead the team. He was already a good leader at eleven; when he returned from the future, he'd be in his late teens and undoubtedly even more brilliant than before. Admittedly, to the Justice League and the four adults in this room, a wind-up toy was probably considered a better leader than Robin. 

"So I don't have to listen to him," West said, like Robin wasn't in the room, "I just have to work with him." 

"Exactly," Sandsmark assured. 

West was quiet for a moment, finally looking back at Robin. Damian glanced up at him, immediately looking back down. Pathetic, but if this meeting didn't go well, he probably wouldn't even be allowed within ten miles of Titans Tower, let alone back on the team. Somewhere in the last thirty seconds, Robin had unfolded his arms and returned to playing with his gauntlet. He snapped the clasp shut again.  Click.

"Okay," West said, and Damian tried not to let the relief show on his face. "I, uh, accept your apology." 

And that was, essentially, the end of the meeting. Sandsmark relayed the plans to restart the Teen Titans under the elder Titans' tutelage.  To ensure nothing like Robin's disaster team ever happened again , Damian knew they meant, even if they didn't say it. He was sure West knew it, too. 

By the end of the meeting, Damian had all but broken the skin of his inner lip with his teeth in an attempt to keep the greatest of his many flaws inside. Lest he ruin everything,  again . 

When he'd first come to Gotham City, he'd been a braggadocious, vindictive brat, sure that there was nothing here that the Great Damian al Ghul, heir to the Demon's Head and the Batman, couldn't handle. He quickly learned, however, that the Great Damian al Ghul was a monster, capable of committing heinous acts, and Damian Wayne tried his best to leave him in the past. However, he was hard to shake, reappearing in unlikely places like some recurrent cancer. The Demon's Son tugged at his flexor tendon, drawing his fists closed; perched on his thoracic spine, reaching a greedy claw forward to squeeze at his heart; lived in his cerebellum, pounding at the back of his head to escape and haunting him from every fold in his brain. 

He was lucky enough to be in remission, sometimes, like right after he'd been resurrected. When he'd awoken in the arms of a father who loved him. Even though Richard had been dead ("dead"), there was something hopeful about those few months. Like his old world was gone, and he was ready to take on the new world. That period felt like a dream now, because once Richard returned, so did the old world, and Damian awoke as the same person he'd always been. 

He was glad Richard was alive, of course. The world needed Richard Grayson, and Damian… well, didn't need him as much as all of humanity did, but he wanted him around. There was no denying how a surprise appearance from the man would brighten Damian up immediately. 

He tried not to immediately jump up from his workout as Richard entered the cave. "Hey, Damibird." 

"Richard," he replied, tamping down a grin. "What are you doing here?" 

"Needed to pick up a few things," he said, dressed in his civilian garb. He was on his way to the armory, and Damian followed behind. "And check up on a certain Robin." 

Damian's smile faltered behind Richard's turned back, and he jumped onto the island in the middle of the armory, tapping his fingers atop the glass counter as he schooled his expression for what he feared would come next. 

"How was the Titans meeting?" 

Fear confirmed. "It was... alright. As soon as West learned I wasn't going to be leading the new team, he was more amenable to working with me." Damian reminded himself to keep his head up but still squeezed the purlicue of his left hand between the thumb and index finger of his right. 

"And you apologized?" 

"Yes,  mom ," Damian shot back. 

"Good," Richard said, turning to face Damian as he packed his bag. "I'm proud of you, buddy." 

His head and throat felt full at those words, and he turned away, squeezing his purlicue even harder. "It's the least I could do to mend our working relationship." Damian sunk his teeth back into his inner lip, still tender from the day before. "And- and the least I could do to repair Robin's reputation." 

Richard looked back up at Damian, eyes searching, and insisted, "You don't need to repair anything, especially not for me." 

Richard John Grayson was a fucking mind reader, and Damian hated it; the only thing he hated more was his inability to acknowledge the truth. Father also disliked acknowledging the truth, but at least he was aware of it. Sometimes Damian wondered if Richard was more duplicitous than the Batman could ever hope to be, or if he really just saw the best in people. Because he'd entrusted Damian with Robin, with the role he'd created himself, that he dedicated to his late parents, that all later Robins had bettered and elevated. And then, Damian had gone and made a mockery of it. Ruined the Teen Titans to the point where a central member hadn't wanted to rejoin. Had let the Demon's Son have too much pull in the situation. There was only so much  best  a person was capable of seeing, especially someone as perceptive as the founding Robin. 

Damian changed the subject. "Are you short on grapple guns?" 

Richard allowed it. "No, I'm, uh… well, Stargirl dropped out of the Guardians of the Universe summit, and Bruce asked if Nightwing could go instead." 

The Guardians of the Universe summit. Off-world.  Very  off-world. Damian's lungs squeezed tight, and he tried to remind himself that it was fine. This was  fine . 

"Steph's covering my patrol, and I wanted to leave my safehouses well-stocked for her, so," he swept his hands over the armory, "I'm raiding Batman's closet." 

Damian tried to take a deep breath as surreptitiously as possible. "How long will you be gone?" 

"Two weeks," Richard said, observing Damian, "I leave tomorrow at noon eastern time." 

Damian looked away, nodding to himself, hoping Richard couldn't see the eddy of whirling thoughts quickly sweeping his consciousness away.  Off-world, no phone, no contact, the vast emptiness of space, a human in a dangerous alien world, who was going with him? Allies? Enemies? No contact, cut off, not again-   

There was a weight on Damian's knee, and he jumped the slightest bit. "I know it's sudden," Richard assured, using that same voice from all those years ago, when Richard was his Batman, and it felt like the world might not be so bad, "And if you don't want me to go, I won't." 

He knew if he told Richard to stay, he'd stay. Damian knew he could ask anything of Richard, this fountain of endless generosity. He could ask him to quit both his day and night jobs and run away to live off the grid in the Appalachian mountains with him, and the man wouldn't immediately say no. He was just that giving. 

But what right had Damian to ask anything of him, this man who had already given him chance after chance? Damian wanted Richard, but all of humanity needed him, too. 

"You should go," Damian insisted, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter. "I'm- just going to miss you." 

"I'm gonna miss you, too," Richard insisted, returning to his packing, "And if I'm gonna be back late, you'll be the first person to know." 

Damian rolled his eyes behind his back.  Liar . The only people who would be notified of any delays of their envoy would be the top brass of the Justice League; Batman would be the first to know, and it would be up to his discretion whether or not to inform Damian. 

Richard continued, chatter turning nervous, "And besides, Jon's coming back next week. By the time I'm back on Earth, you two'll be too busy catching up to spare me any time." 

The thought was both exhilarating and anxiety-inducing: Jonathan Samuel Kent, back after five months in Damian's time and years in his time. Jon Kent's bright smile and childlike energy; Damian hoped he was largely unchanged. 

(Of course, he'd learned it didn't do well to hope.)

"He's going to be older than me," Damian said, "It'll be bizarre." 

"Sure, it'll be weird," Richard allowed, "But you were Jon's first super-friend. You two will be just fine." Damian rolled his eyes again, but more obviously, for Richard to see. "Have you finished that drawing yet?" 

Damian kicked at him. "Shut up." 

Richard laughed, "What, am I not supposed to know?" 

"Dick." The moment snapped shut like a gauntlet clasp, both of them turning to face Bruce in the doorway. "Glad you could make it." Father was half-dressed for whatever public function he had tonight, adjusting his cufflinks with practiced precision. 

"Yeah, of course," Richard replied, taking in his appearance. "Big night?" 

"Just the opening of Cobblepot's new club." Damian raised his eyebrows; he didn't particularly fancy watching his father pretend to get intoxicated to the point of incoherence, but he'd perhaps like to tag along if it was a recon mission. 

" Fun ," Richard drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm as he zipped up his weapons bag. He glanced at Damian, "You rolling solo tonight, then?" 

Damian opened his mouth to answer, but Father cut him off. "Robin is accompanying Red Robin on his last patrol tonight." 

" Right ," Richard said to the both of them. "Red's last night. I should wish him good luck." Father opened his mouth, and Richard added, "After we talk, obviously." 

He slung his bag over his shoulder, and Damian knew that was his cue to leave. Father liked to keep his levels of information strictly separate; in his eyes, anything that Damian didn't need to know, he shouldn't. 

Damian hopped off the island and began to exit, but Richard added, "Hey, don't I get a goodbye?" 

Usually, Damian didn't dole those out, but-  off-world, no contact, not again  - this was a special occasion. So, he turned around and accepted the offer of Richard's open arms. The hug lasted no more than five seconds, because if it lasted any longer, Damian wasn't sure he'd be able to let go. "Be safe." 

"You, too, Dami," Richard said into his hair before pulling away. 

Damian brushed past Father, eyes on the floor, and hurried up the steps to the manor before he could think about what Richard and Father would be discussing. His knowing was up to Father's discretion, after all. 

Chapter Text

Father didn't come to dinner that night, but that wasn't necessarily unusual. What  was  unusual was Drake being there, with his laptop open at the table and grumbling to himself between bites of lasagna. At the sight of it, Damian turned around and returned with his tablet, staring Pennyworth directly in the eye. If one of them was allowed electronics at the table, both of them were. 

Pennyworth sighed, but said nothing of it. 

"Don't you have your own home to permeate, Drake?" Damian asked once he had his physics lab notes on the screen. 

"Sure," Drake said, "I'll just drive there, through rush hour traffic, to eat and then come back for patrol. I've got all the time in the world, after all." He tapped a key, and a string of hissed cusses escaped his mouth. 

"Master Timothy," Pennyworth chided gently from his spot at the wet bar, where he pretended to clean glasses. Damian knew he was actually babysitting them.  

"Sorry," Drake muttered, "This code's due at midnight, and I can't make it work." 

"Oh, no," Damian drawled, not looking up from his own schoolwork. "Perhaps you should skip patrol and take the rest of the night to work on it." 

Drake didn't respond, instead sighed to himself, running his palms over his eyes. Between his Bat-duties, his cybersecurity job at Wayne Enterprises, and starting his first semester of university, he'd been more tired than usual lately. 

The choice to drop the former of those responsibilities was one in which Damian took great joy. As far as he was concerned, Drake had lived a cushy, unchallenging life before becoming Robin, and his leaving vigilantism behind altogether just proved his lack of resiliency. At the same age Drake was stumbling around Gotham, stalking Batman and Robin with his silly little camera, Damian was putting his lifetime of training to use, operating at his peak through hunger and fatigue, biting cold and blistering heat. 

And yet half the Justice League had all but begged Drake to stay, while Damian had had to beg them to remain a member. Timothy Drake, even half-asleep and semi-capable, was more valuable to them than Damian Wayne, trying his best. 

He stabbed at his lasagna instead of stabbing Drake's hand, and took a deep breath. Just one more patrol. 

After a few more minutes, Tim shut his laptop. "There," he said, "It's broken, but it's submitted." He then proceeded to scarf down his lasagna, thank Pennyworth, and add, "I'm gonna nap before patrol. Can you wake me up in two hours, Alfred?" 

"Of course, Master Timothy," Pennyworth assured as he cleared Drake's dishes. 

When Pennyworth turned his back to clean them, Damian hesitated before switching from his notes to Illustrator, huffing to himself. Whenever he opened this piece, he found a new part he hated, be it the shading, the composition, the color scheme, or anything else. This project that Damian had taken on shortly after Jon left for the future was proving cumbersome. 

It was a simple enough concept; he'd found a picture of Titus and a picture of Krypto that were quite complimentary to each other, and he combined them into a single drawing of them napping together. Krypto's head lay across Titus's back, and Titus's own head rested against Krypto's hind legs. Jon had always loved dog pictures of either Krypto or Titus, and Damian figured it would be an acceptable gift. 

The problem was Damian wasn't as familiar with drawing on a tablet as he was with other mediums, like charcoal or acrylics. Yet the thought of giving Jon a physical piece of artwork upon his return seemed… imposing. It was like the difference between a text and a handwritten letter; even if the contents were identical, the medium altered the message. 

He was pondering the fold of the cushions (modeled after the couch in Jon's old home in Smallville) when he was startled by Pennyworth's voice. "Perhaps you should also rest before patrol, Master Damian." 

Damian scowled back down at his work, "I'm fine." 

"You didn't get enough sleep last night," Pennyworth continued, and Damian clenched his jaw. "And you have school tomorrow." 

He'd been as covert as possible the night before, but unfortunately, his actual activities were, by definition, audible. He had an upcoming history presentation, and Jared Whittaker, tenth grader and bane of his academic existence, had developed a liking for mocking Damian's carefully-composed vocal intonations. He knew he spoke in a somewhat antiquated, even Transatlantic manner, but he wasn't aware it was so obvious. In fact, the only thing he seemed to enjoy more was mocking Damian's actual accent, which tended to come out when he was upset. 

As much as he hated to admit it, the older student's ridiculing upset him greatly. And he would be damned if Whittaker snatched his well-deserved "A" right from his grip. 

So, yes, he'd stayed up half the night prior, assuring he mastered the drawling, almost slurred quality of General American English. Knowing his luck, Pennyworth likely heard him stumbling over the word "mirror" for five straight minutes. Wonderful. 

"Fine," Damian allowed, eating the rest of his food as quickly as he could. Pennyworth immediately took his plate away, and added, "I'll wake you before I wake Master Timothy." 

Damian smirked to himself. "Thank you." 

It was a catastrophic situation, every Bat shouting for aid over the comms, voices overlapping until they were incomprehensible. Damian wasn’t in uniform, he was wearing his Gotham Academy blazer, and he could hardly move, lost somewhere in the grey cityscape. Something was halting him, and he looked down to see the hands of bloated corpses rising from the Earth below. No, from the water, and they were pulling him in, frigid and wet and suffocating, and he screamed for half a lifetime, choking and fighting and begging-. 

He awoke, heart beating out of his chest, and ran both hands over his face. Lately, his subconscious seemed to prefer nightmares that were the visual and tactile equivalent of incoherent screaming, anxiety-inducing but nonsensical. And yet Damian forgot he was in a dream every time, too overwhelmed to even consider the possibility. Yet he still felt the vision now, trembling in his arms and legs. 

Pennyworth wasn't supposed to come wake him for another thirty minutes, but Damian got up anyways, risking the butler's disappointed looks if it meant getting himself out of this headspace. By the time Drake joined him in the cave, Robin was suited up, warmed up, and ready to rid himself of his restless energy. 

Unfortunately, patrol that night was achingly slow. A mugging here, a disturbance there, nothing that their mere presence and a well-placed punch couldn't end. 

By midnight, Robin and Red Robin had camped themselves out atop Gotham Public Library. It was one of the better roofs in the city, thanks to its centrality and sheer size, plus the plethora of duct openings and slanted sunroofs that made for good seating. At least, good seating when compared to the rest of the rooftops. 

And while Red Robin was sitting on a sunroof ledge, half dozing off, Robin was pacing the graveled rooftop, practicing his swordwork with his baton. It had taken him a while to get used to this less-lethal alternative for his katana, but Damian had come to accept it. It was lightweight steel, retractable, and made a satisfying  fsh  noise when flicked open (which was definitely not Damian's favorite part). 

"You're really giving that air a beating," Red Robin drawled from his spot. Damian didn't even bother to look at him, let alone reply, and the air between them was silent for a few more minutes. Save for the baton's  fsh ,  fsh ,  fsh . 

"Robin," Red Robin tried again, and Damian tsked, sliding his baton shut and turning to face the other. 

"What?" 

"I'm, uh, I'm really glad yesterday went so well." Robin frowned at him, but Drake continued. "Impulse and KF talked afterward, and I was told KF felt a lot better about being on a team with you." 

Damian wished he could summon the Great Damian Al Ghul, if only for a moment, because the Damian he was now just felt weak in the knees and thick in the throat. He glanced out at the city, chin up. "Impulse is a sentimental idiot, so I'm sure that's what he heard." 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Red Robin sigh. "I'm just saying you made a good impression, okay? And that's great considering that KF knows, well, not everything, but everything since you got to the Justice League." 

Robin turned around, flicking his baton out again.  Fsh . "I figured as much. It's not uncommon for children to engage in petty gossip." 

"He read your fucking file, gremlin. That's what I mean." 

Damian paused, turning back around. "I have a file?" 

"Yeah, everyone in the Justice League does." Red Robin shifted forward, pulling himself off the slanted glass. "I do, KF does, Impulse does, fuck, even  Batman  has a file." 

People talking about  Robin, the Demon Spawn  was one thing, but a whole written file-. "What's in it? Physiological data? Personal history?" 

Robin realized he'd crossed the distance between himself and Red Robin and was less than a foot away from the man. In response, Drake had straightened himself up against the sunroof, hands in front of him. "I mean, basically just… reports from other people. Zero identifying information, obviously. And KF wasn't supposed to see it, but he did." 

"Reports from  which people? " A realization washed over Damian like ice water. "Have you read it?" 

"It's not a big deal, Robin-." 

Damian had to step away and pull himself together because  yes , yes it was a  big deal . All this time, there'd been a collection of information on  him , that  he  didn't know about, that other people had been reading and learning from and  what was in that file . 

"Have you read it?" Damian asked, pacing with his eyes to the floor. 

"Some of it, yeah," Drake admitted, "But like- honestly, if you wanna see it, just ask Batman. It's all about you. I'm sure he'll let you go through it. He let me go through mine." 

He could ask Father, but somehow, he knew it wasn't the same. Drake was the favorite; of course, he was allowed to review reports about himself. Father would let Drake review any report at all, probably, but Damian- 

Damian wasn't allowed to know things. 

He stopped dead in his tracks, thinking to himself. Was that true? Was he not allowed to know things? Surely it couldn't be; it didn't make sense. Father didn't like telling anyone anything, but there was some disconnection between how Father treated him and the others. And Damian... knew what that was, but at the same time, he didn't. It was something buried, shallow, in the corner of his psyche, and the thought of properly unearthing this truth, handling it with his bare hands, made him ill. 

Suddenly, Red Robin was at his side, and Robin tried not to jump at his voice. "Robin, seriously, it's not-." 

" Robin, Red Robin? " Oracle's voice chimed through their comms. 

Robin replied before Red Robin could. "Reporting." 

"There's  an active break-in at the Gotham City Science Centre ," she reported, " Nothing major, but you guys look bored ." 

"We'll take it," Robin said, already pulling out his grappling hook. "North of the Botanical Gardens, right?" 

" Yep ," Oracle confirmed. " Red? " 

Robin was already flying, hearing Red Robin's voice over the comms. "Yeah, I'm on my way." 

Hacking into the Science Center's security cameras was child's play. (Like many organizations in Gotham, they used Wayne Security, through which the Bats naturally had a back door.) When Red Robin began cycling through the feeds, Robin said, "Check the earth sciences wing." 

Red Robin changed to that camera, asking, "Why?" 

"They just got a new collection of extraterrestrial gemstones and minerals," Robin reported like it was obvious, "They're worth a fortune on the black market." 

Robin preened at the sight of three masked and armed men in the earth sciences wing right in front of the new exhibit. Drake asked, "You keep up with the Science Center?" 

Damian was, in fact, on their email list, but he'd never admit that aloud. "It's called paying attention." 

"Sure," Red Robin replied, rifling through the rest of the feeds. 

" There are also two security guards being held hostage in a coat closet off the main hall ," Oracle reported. " Total of five perps, according to the heat sensors ." 

"I'll take the hostages," Red Robin said, "You can save the rocks." 

They were not rocks, they were matter that defied countless scientific preconceptions, but Damian kept his mouth shut. Red Robin was better with the hostages, anyways. "Good. I'm going in." 

The first few parts of the mission went well. Damian slid through the vents and into the earth sciences wing without a hitch. After using their signal jammer to stop them from radioing their allies, he kicked the duct grate directly into a perp's forehead. All it took was a rough hit to the solar plexus to send him to the floor, and Robin could quickly snatch up his semi-automatic rifle and disassemble it. 

He expected the other two to immediately start shooting, but one said, "Take what we have and run. I'll deal with the kid." 

"Or the kid will deal with you," Robin shot back, taking in his opponent. He had an athletic build, but surely nothing he couldn't handle. He just needed to get past him.

Damian's first hit missed, the man's reflexes far better than he anticipated. He stepped back to get out of his range, but the man used Damian's backwards momentum to shove at him with the butt of his rifle. For a split second, Damian lost his balance. As he caught himself and jumped to the other side of the room, his thoughts snagged on the familiarity of that move. Using your opponent's reflexive retreats to your own advantage-. 

That was a League of Assassins trick. 

Damian tried to remain focused on the fight, but the revelation sent him into a tailspin. Because what the fuck was the League of Assassins doing in Gotham City? And where there was one, there were others, so who else was here? 

The perp had him on the defensive, and Damian knew he had to change the tides. This was a small room, low ceilings, good visibility, nowhere to hide or escape to. The vent, maybe, but he had to get back on the offensive. 

There was a shout in the hallway, and the perp turned his attention there for a mere moment, but that's all the Great Damian Al Ghul needed. 

His baton whipped across his face with a sickening crack, the man falling to the thin carpet flooring. Damian took the opportunity to hit him in the kneecap, as well. He hoped he broke it. 

The man screamed but managed to keep his breathing steady as Robin pressed the sole of his boot to his chest. "Who sent you?" 

The man looked at him like he was stupid. "No one." 

"Unfortunately for you," Damian hissed, pressing his other foot against the man's injured knee. "I wasn't born yesterday. Now, who sent you?" 

Behind his ski mask, the man looked up at Robin, really looked at him, and dreaded recognition filled his gaze. He asked, in Arabic, " Princeling? " 

Damian Wayne's early memories were all haze and darkness most of the time, but sometimes a lure dragged them into crystal-clear vision. He was sleeping on the ground, hungry and cold. He was fighting people twice his size and feeling the full force of it. He was sobbing for some comfort, for his mother or his bed or his favorite food, and in response, his fellow trainees mocked him.  Princeling . 

He cracked this man across the face again. And again.

And  again .

He was gearing up for a fourth when someone called out, "Robin!" 

His ears were ringing, but reality slammed back to him, breaths short and arms tired. He turned to see Drake staring at him, halfway approaching with his palms facing forward and his eyes wide. 

Damian dropped his arms, looking back down at the masked man and the blood quickly pooling around his head. 

Chapter Text

"-The Eisenhower Doctrine presumed that the Egyptian government would be more inclined to side with the U.S. than with the Soviet Union. However, this was not-." 

Damian looked away from his slideshow at the sounds of snickering, eyes falling to Whittaker and his crony, Brandon Lane. He wasn't sure what word had done him in; he had enough trouble focusing on the contents of his presentation, let alone his voice's exact tone and pitch. Add in the fact that everything today sounded like it was coming from the other side of a plexiglass pane, and he could be speaking Bengali, for all he knew. 

" Ahem ," Mrs. Matthews tutted before turning to Damian. "Go on." 

He hadn't realized he'd paused for long enough to be noticeable, and he felt a tingling discomfort slide up his spine, tightening in his stomach, his headache only worsening. Still, he forced himself to speak. 

"However, this was not the case, as, after the Crisis, Nasser publicly thanked Khrushchev, not Eisenhower, for all his aid. Khrushchev took this as a victory and believed the use of nuclear blackmail was key-." 

" New-cler ," Whittaker whispered, and Lane dissolved into giggles yet again. 

He heard Mrs. Matthews chide them again, and they seemed to settle down, but Damian couldn't pick out the exact words she said if his life depended on it. He turned back to his Powerpoint slide on the SmartBoard behind him, the words swimming before his eyes, and he swallowed. "... was key to besting the United States and its allies in international relations. This belief very possibly led to the Cuban Missile Crisis and-," his brain blanked out, and he could feel heat creeping up his cheeks, "And other such incidents."

Damian skipped to the last slide. "In the end, the Suez Crisis only strengthened Nasser's grip on Egypt, weakened the authority of the United Nations, and allowed the Soviets to further their influence in the Arab region. If the Suez Crisis is to be considered a proxy war of the Cold War, the United States certainly lost." 

Once his classmates realized the presentation was over, they offered a smattering of applause, including a few slow, sarcastic claps from Whittaker. Damian didn't even wait for Mrs. Matthews to dismiss him, making a beeline for his desk and nearly forgetting to return the clicker to his teacher. 

When he'd rolled over that morning and realized it was already five am and he'd yet to sleep at all, Damian had considered feigning illness, if only to postpone this presentation. However, if he did that, he'd likely have to add 'why I played sick to skip school' to the list of explanations he owed his Father this afternoon. 

He glanced up at the classroom clock; four more hours until school ended, and not much longer before he'd have to have that conversation. 

He'd barely spared Damian a glance last night, too busy assuring that the man his son had nearly beaten to death received prompt medical care, not to mention wiping all evidence of Robin having perpetrated such a crime. His own father was forced to cover for Damian's transgressions yet again, giving him another chance he didn't deserve. 

Another report for the file, he thought to himself, before another wave of guilt hit him. There was a clear victim in this situation, and it was definitely not Damian Wayne. 

The man had a plethora of aliases, but Batman quickly matched him to one Azin Mahajan. He'd been born to Pakistani immigrant parents in Canada, graduated from high school in 2009, and immediately enlisted in the army. He was sent to Afghanistan with the Royal Canadian Regiment, where he went missing in action before being presumed dead. He already had an obituary written for him in the Toronto Star in 2012; at the time, he'd had two living sisters, a nephew, and his parents to mourn him. 

Damian knew this wasn't an uncommon history for League of Assassins recruits; if they weren't bred for the role or career criminals, they were ex-military. However, it seemed he hadn't passed basic training and was left a living ghost with no name or legal documentation, drifting without purpose in the criminal underworld. Mahajan had been an ordinary, perhaps even brave, man before being captivated by the League of Assassins and tossed aside as waste. 

Thankfully, he was still alive, but  barely . According to the doctors at Gotham General, the right side of his face was all but destroyed, and he'd have to undergo multiple cosmetic surgeries to rebuild his bone and cartilage. The brain damage inflicted was severe enough the doctors had opted to put him in a medically-induced coma for the foreseeable future. It would be a long recovery, but a certain anonymous donor had assured that they'd be willing to pay whatever it took to get Mahajan back in peak physical condition. 

And the most shameful part was that Damian didn't even  remember  him. 

The whole night, he'd combed through his newly-unearthed memories of preliminaries as much as he could tolerate, searching for some hint of Mahajan's face in the dozens of other recruits tucked away in the caves under the Himalayas. However, all he got was  blood slick and coppery on his tongue, bones sliding and snapping under his skin, big hands squeezing at his windpipe, the first breath of air after emerging from the pit-.

Once, he'd tried to escape, determined to traverse the frozen terrain to Nanda Parbat, to return to his mother, to her warm embrace, and he'd sobbed so hard upon being caught he forgot to breathe. Although Damian couldn't have been older than five, he was subject to the same punishments as everyone else. For defectors, that meant correction (  copper and snapping and squeezing for eternities  ) to the point of death before being resurrected in the Lazarus Pit and returned to preliminaries. 

Damian wasn't sure who had coined the nickname  Princeling , but it was in regular use when he returned from correction. Belittling, chastising, as if to say  You think you're better than us?  Not even the Demon Son got special treatment. 

And the worst part was how a part of him still preened at the thought of that nickname being spat at him in bitter defeat. A sneer of  Princeling  meant victory, meant proving that he was, in fact,  better.   

"Damian," he jumped, realizing he'd been sitting at his desk, staring out the window, for who knew how long. Mrs. Matthews stood in front of him, eyebrows drawn and lips pursed. "Are you alright?" 

He pulled himself together as quickly as possible, scanning the classroom: empty. The bell had rung; it was lunch. Damian turned his attention to his notebook and pencil, packing them away in his schoolbag. "Yes, I apologize. I'm just not feeling well." 

Mrs. Matthews nodded, humming, and added, "You know, the Academy does have a robust anti-bullying policy, but I'd like your permission before I file a complaint." 

It took Damian an embarrassingly long moment to piece together what she was saying, and when he did, he stared at her slack-jawed. Because- Whittaker wasn't- this wasn't- he was a child engaging in childish behavior, and Damian was above that. Or, supposed to be above that. 

He shook his head, "No, no, you don't have to worry. It's not- I mean it's-," fuck, Damian couldn't even string two thoughts together, "I don't want to get my-  everyone  involved. It's fine." 

When he glanced up at his teacher, she didn't seem convinced. "Are you sure, Damian?" 

"I'm sure," Damian insisted, trying to keep eye contact. "It's not worth the trouble." 

After a moment of consideration, head cocked, Mrs. Matthews relented. "Alright. If you're feeling unwell, however, you should head home for the rest of the day. Or at the very least visit the nurse. Here, I'll write you a note." 

Damian would protest, but leaving school early sounded  heavenly . Besides, Mrs. Matthews didn't seem like she would let his condition go. "Thank you." 

Damian hadn't been aware of how bad he looked; the school nurse took one look at him and tried to give him a full checkup. However, when she told him to untuck his shirt so that she could use the stethoscope against his skin, he snapped out of his stupor to insist, once again, that he was fine. There were many rules about what Damian could not do at school, and near the top was let anyone, under any circumstances, see the true extent of his scarring. For now, he could pass it off as being self-conscious, and she let it go.

In the end, she called his emergency contact (Pennyworth, obviously) and sent him home with a recommendation for rest, plenty of fluids, and perhaps an appointment with his GP. Thankfully, the closest thing Damian had to a GP was, in fact, Pennyworth. 

As always, Pennyworth was timely, picking Damian up before lunch was over. Besides their usual niceties, he was quiet, which Damian was incredibly thankful for. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in the backseat of the car and rest, except for curling up in his bed and sleeping the rest of the day away. 

When they arrived home, however, he spoke. "Master Damian?" 

Damian blinked his eyes open. "Yes, Pennyworth?" 

"I'd just like to remind you that anything you say to me in confidence will be kept between us." The man glanced at Damian over his shoulder. "If there's anything amiss." 

Words unsaid welled up in his throat, but he had to look away; where could he even begin to explain troubles he barely understood himself? All he had were a meticulous catalog of personal failings and a sick, desperate feeling in his stomach. 

He settled on, "I nearly killed a man last night, Pennyworth. That's what's amiss." Before he could hear the reply, he opened the car door and saw himself out. 

Pennyworth didn't continue the conversation, thankfully, but he did fuss over Damian an almost inappropriate amount. He made sure the boy had a bowl of vegetable soup and two full glasses of water, and he even let Titus curl up at Damian's feet under the table while he ate, even though the animals were rarely, if ever, allowed in the dining room. 

When Damian was deemed adequately hydrated, he plodded up the stairs with Titus at his heels. Upon entering his bedroom to change out of his uniform, however, he realized he wouldn't be able to rest here. Not in the same spot he'd just spent hours tracing constellations of mottled bruises and pooling blood on his ceiling. 

After a moment's deliberation, he snuck into Richard's old room, which Pennyworth still kept in perfect condition for whenever the man wished to spend the night, which was less and less as the years went on. His bed was still perfectly made, framed photographs and old CDs kept free of dust, and the twenty-year-old  Flying Graysons  poster hung above his bed. 

In the months following Damian's resurrection, this was a place of comfort to him. A haven for him to rest, grieve, and explore the legacy left by his predecessor. He'd never tell Richard, but he'd poked through nearly every item in this bedroom. He'd thought the man dead, after all, and wanted to absorb each and every bit of him there was remaining. Yearbooks filled with well-wishes from his old classmates, notebooks filled with equal parts homework and battle plans, a desk drawer filled with old pictures of Richard and his Titans, his old gaming consoles with disks in mismatched boxes, and an orange RC helicopter occupying a place of prominence atop his bookshelf. Damian had even looked inside a shoebox of letters in his closet, all addressed to Richard's parents, but he couldn't bear to read them all the way through. 

He'd always understood the gaping wound that Richard's death had left in the superhero community, how he was beloved by nearly everyone he met. But he'd never known the Richard who inhabited this room. The one who awkwardly flirted via passed notes in class, who preferred loud and angry music, who wished he could join the gymnastics team at school, who hoped his parents would have been proud of him. Who got embarrassed and jealous and overwhelmed and  lonely . Who wanted so much to do right by Batman, his Titans, and the rest of the Justice League. 

Who was, maybe, a little like Damian, too. 

He picked up the old fleece blanket he knew Pennyworth kept folded in the bottom drawer of Richard's dresser and wrapped it around his shoulders before climbing onto the bed, above the covers. Titus settled next to him, and even though Damian knew he wasn't allowed on any bed save his own, he let him. 

Sleep pulled him in within moments, and nearly four hours had passed by the time he awoke to Titus's insistent nudging. When Damian sat up, still half-asleep, Titus hopped off the bed, making his way to the bedroom door and waiting. 

Climbing out of bed was a Herculean task, but Damian managed, Titus' nose all but nudging his hand into motion as he turned the doorknob and freed him, scampering off towards the main floor. He turned around, deciding to fold the blanket up and put it back in its place, but another furry figure made himself known as Damian headed back to the bed. 

"Alfred-." The cat hopped gracefully onto Richard's bed. " Tt . You're not allowed up there." 

Perhaps it was unfair for Damian to enforce a rule he'd just let Titus break for a few hours, but Alfred had a mischievous look in his eyes that he didn't at all like. He made to scoop Alfred up, but the cat jumped off the bed, making his way onto Richard's swivel chair and atop his desk. 

Alright, so that's how they were going to do this. "Alfred, off." 

Alfred simply took a few steps across the desk, unbothered, towards the nearby shelf. He extended a paw towards a picture frame there, just slightly too close to the edge for comfort. 

Damian's eyes widened, closing the distance between them. "Don't you dare-." 

As cats were wont to do, he dared. Thankfully, Damian managed to catch the frame with one hand and scoop up Alfred with the other, scolding, "You know you're not meant to break anything, especially something that isn't mine." 

He placed Alfred on the floor outside the room, shutting the door before he could re-enter. However, when he went to put the frame back on the shelf, he realized what picture it was. Richard, nine years old, with Father, bent over a train set he'd received for his first Christmas at the manor. It was a candid shot, with Richard engrossed in his work and Father looking on fondly. 

The first time he'd seen this picture was also the first time Father had caught him loitering in this very room, less than a week after his resurrection. As an apology formed in the back of Damian's throat, Father assured him,  It's alright. I miss him, too. 

They'd sat, side by side on Richard's bed, as Father told Damian about the picture, how Richard had been dreading the first Christmas away from his parents, how Father had given him the train, and how Richard had spent the whole day assembling it, and playing with it. How setting up the train for Christmas became a little tradition between the two of them. And how sharing memories of one's dearly departed could help the both of them heal, so Damian had shared his memories, too. 

Damian had planned to search the manor high and low for that train, to set it up as part of Father's Christmas gift, but Richard had returned from his mission before then. 

But, here and now, Damian realized that Father had known Richard was alive the entire time. 

He couldn't have told me,  he thought to himself.  He had to lie.  But if Damian was forced to lie to someone about the death of their loved one, and found that person reminiscing about them in private, he couldn't imagine the weight of the ensuing guilt. 

Father could have apologized for intruding and left. He could have said it was still too painful to be in this room. There were so many alternatives besides sitting next to Damian, his  child,  and pretending they were grieving together. 

Damian put the framed picture back on the shelf, made quick work of folding up the blanket and fixing the mussed sheets, and slipped out the door just in time for Pennyworth to come up the stairs. 

"Master Damian," he said, "Your father would like to speak to you in his study." 

Chapter Text

Oftentimes, like the foolish child he was, Damian found himself yearning for the attention of his father. There were periods of days or weeks, when the Batman was particularly preoccupied, within which Damian wouldn’t even catch his father’s eyes, and he’d develop this crawling-out-of-his-skin need to be acknowledged by him. A smile, a nod, a comment said aloud for no other reason than to connect with his son; he didn’t think he was asking for much. 

Then again, perhaps it was. Father was a brilliant and talented man who bore the weight of the world on his shoulders, so who was Damian to act indignant when he acted like it? How could he be like any other parent when he had an entire city, or an entire planet, to care for, as well? Damian was already a burden, bringing Father more grief than joy. What right had he to demand any more of him when he was already spread so thin? 

And then there were moments like these, when Damian stood outside of Father’s study, swallowing down the miasma of hot and cold shaking and stiff pulling tight and pushing apart that whirled behind his ribcage, like he was a sweater with a loose thread about to be tugged and unraveled fully. Like he knew he’d return to this very spot a tangle of yarn and not much else. This was Father, who deserved the utmost respect, and shouldn’t have to deal with his son pathetically dissolving before his very eyes. 

So, Damian breathed, and took inventory of all the parts of him that felt like they were going to fall apart, and held on tight as he knocked on the door. 

“Come in,” Father’s voice rang out, and Damian obeyed. 

Yes, Damian was a foolish child, because he wished endlessly for his father’s undivided attention until it was finally on him, and then he wished to never be looked upon ever again. It took all the willpower Damian had remaining to approach Father’s desk and sit across from him without cowering. 

After he entered, Father quickly returned his attention to whatever was on his computer screen, typing something up. Perhaps it was a business email, or a report for the Justice League- and then Damian remembered the file , and he went lightheaded. He squeezed the meat of one hand with the other as tightly as he could, praying he wouldn’t pass out. 

“Are you feeling alright?” Father asked. Damian looked up to see that he’d yet to look away from the screen. He added, “Alfred says you were sent home early.” 

Damian swallowed, looking back down at his lap. “I didn’t sleep much last night, that’s all.” 

Father sighed, and Damian had to fight the urge to rock in his seat, to soothe himself in any way possible. He squeezed his hand tighter. Father muttered, almost to himself, “Neither did I.” 

He finished up whatever he was writing, before turning to fully face his son, though Damian still didn’t look up. “Is there anything you’d like to say for yourself?” 

Damian knew he should speak, but what could he possibly say? What possible excuse was there? 

“I… I recognized Mahajan’s fighting style from the League of Assassins,” he said, because that’s where it started. But how could he explain- there was nothing there, his own overreaction to hearing a dumb nickname for the first time in years. 

“And?” Father prodded. 

And he called me Princeling . Yeah, right. “And I… panicked.” 

Another sigh, accompanied by the creak of Father’s chair as he leaned back. Damian felt warm all over, an unwelcome thick sensation crawling up his throat. He swallowed it down as surreptitiously as possible. “You know that panic is not an excuse for anything but retreating. If you cannot handle a situation, you retreat and call for backup. You know this, Damian, we’ve been over this a million times.” 

A shock of something went through Damian, white-hot and vivid, and he couldn’t help but say, “I tried to-.” 

“I went over the communicator recordings,” Father insisted, “You didn’t call for backup.” 

Damian bit down on the inside of his lip, unable to look up. Of course Father had reviewed all of the recordings already, of course he knew precisely what had occurred. So what was the point of letting Damian speak? 

Father continued, “I thought we were past this Damian. You’ve told me, time and time again, that you were done with killing-.” 

Another shock. “I didn’t kill him-.” 

“ Don’t interrupt me .” Damian pressed his mouth into a thin line, and he realized, in horror, that tears were welling up behind his eyes. He shut those, too, willing them to stop. To just- stop . “I trusted you, Damian. If the League of Assassins was, in fact, in Gotham, I trusted that you would retreat and report back to me. But you were unfocused, you were sloppy, and you nearly cracked his skull open .” 

At some point, Damian pressed his hands to his face, anything to keep himself inside and quiet. A moment of silence that hung over the pair. 

When he dared look up again, Father's gaze was focused somewhere to his right. “You’re benched,” he announced, and one last numb throb went through Damian’s system. “Two weeks. At least. Until you cool your head.” 

And Damian knew those were the final words on the matter. After a long moment, assuring each part of his mouth and throat were in pitch-perfect shape so no hint of emotion could be heard, he managed. “Yes, Father. Am I dismissed?” 

Father seemed to pull himself together, too, offering Damian one last glance before he returned his attention to his computer screen. “Yes. Alfred will come get you for dinner.” 

If there was any victory here, it was that Damian was able to return to his bedroom without collapsing under his own weight. 

Father wasn’t going to be at dinner, so when Pennyworth gave him the option to eat in his bedroom, Damian took it. He was thankful he was in private, because the vegetable pot pie he was provided was either purposefully bland or just tasted like ash in his mouth. Either way, it would have been a chore to finish, and he was happy to let it cool on his desk. Even if it meant swatting Titus away from it every five minutes. (“Pennyworth makes my pot pies with almond milk, you’ll make yourself sick.”) 

Instead, he focused on his post-benching tradition. It had been a while since Damian had been banned from patrol, but he fell into the routine quite easily; list all the failures that led him to be benched, and then come up with a plan to rectify those failures by the time he returned to patrol. The issue was, however, that it was a list of old failures that stared up at him.  Did not retreat, did not call for backup, succumbed to violent impulses . Damian thought he’d come up with the solutions to those years ago, and yet, here he was. 

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, an unhelpful voice in his head chimed in, and Damian chucked his pen across the room in frustration, hitting the wall and falling uselessly to the floor. He had to suppress the urge to throw his pencil cup across the room with it, just to feel the satisfaction that came with breaking something, and instead pushed away from his desk. He marched himself to his bed, upon which he tossed himself. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed his pillow and screamed into it. 

He did it again, louder, and he had to admit that felt pretty good. Until you cool your head , Father had said. Perhaps his plan could just be to scream bloody murder into his cushions for the next two weeks; he certainly felt calmer after just a few seconds. 

Damian rolled over onto his back, sighing; as easy as it would be, this was just a temporary relief. It didn’t make anything tangibly better. 

The file popped back into his mind, because- these reports were written by more experienced heroes, more likely than not. What if they had insights Damian couldn’t have thought of himself? Even hints as to what could be done about his lack of control. 

Father wasn’t likely to allow him access to anything right now, though. Besides, what would that conversation even look like? Hello, Father. May I please see this alleged file Drake told me about? Why? Because I’m too stupid to figure out how to solve my own problems. 

He grabbed his pillow, used both arms to secure it over his face, and screamed once again. 

When Damian finally unearthed himself and took a deep breath, he thought, What would Richard say? God, what he wouldn’t give to speak with the man; he always made an effort to reach out to Damian whenever he sensed something was wrong, to offer him some form of comfort. The word of his benching typically got around quickly, and Richard would typically visit within a few days, if only to take him somewhere and distract him for an hour or two. 

In his early days as Robin, Richard had told him about the hierarchy of needs. Before you can do great things, you have to take care of yourself. Sure, it had been part of a conversation on why Damian had to do mundane things like sleep ten hours a night and eat his vegetables and talk about his feelings, but it was a place to start. 

Because Pennyworth had a point; he hadn’t been sleeping properly, and hadn’t really been eating, either. He’d fallen out of his good habits, but he could get back into them. 

A place to start. Build a schedule to assure he got all the nutrition and rest and exercise he needed, and work from there. He could do that.

And he supposed step one was finishing that stupid fucking pot pie. 

When he finally sat up, however, it was to the sight of his Great Dane standing, front paws on his desk, with his snout hidden in the tin. “Titus, no! ” 

Damian knew he shouldn’t overexert himself; it was the quickest way to injure himself, for starters, and the resulting fatigue would undo all the effort he’d put into maintaining himself over the last few days. He’d been good, sleeping and eating when he should, completing all his schoolwork in a timely fashion, he’d even found time to play with Titus and Alfred. 

And yet this restlessness still remained. He tried to fill it with a more intensive nighttime workout, an hour in the combat simulator when he would have otherwise been on patrol, but he found himself in there on Thursday after school. There was just nothing to do.  

Damian had tried meditation multiple times in the past, had occasionally even made a habit of it, but any moment where his mind wasn’t otherwise occupied left him anxious, lately. Like if he didn’t keep busy, this shadowy fog would envelop his mind and he’d continue to revert into who he was. To the point that he found himself falling back into a habit of mindless media consumption, music or movies or, God forbid, Youtube videos, that were all thoroughly unproductive. 

So, combat simulator it was. Until he was panting and dripping with sweat, until he couldn’t feel his arms anymore. Until he could be sure he’d enter the shower without worrying about that shadowy fog rearing its ugly head. 

By the time he was clean and fully aching in every muscle he had, he checked his phone for the first time in two hours; Pennyworth texted to let him know he was grabbing some last minute ingredients for dinner, and if Damian wanted anything. He didn’t, so he replied with that and then threw on his clothes. 

It wasn’t until Damian exited into the cave proper when he realized; Pennyworth was at the grocery store, and Father was at a Wayne Enterprises board meeting for at least another hour. 

He was home alone. 

He glanced up at the Batcomputer, the file weighing heavy on his mind. He shouldn’t, but if he- 

If he cleared the log, and looped the security footage, how could Father even tell? He hadn’t done it on the Batcomputer before, but he’d done it dozens of times on information gathering missions. His father’s computer was, of course, extremely secure, but if there wasn’t anything to tip him off, he probably wouldn’t check. And while Father checked the security footage religiously, he didn’t tend to comb his computer history. 

Besides, Damian was just going to look at the file about him. It wouldn’t be anything he didn’t already know, it just might have some insights he could use. 

Some insights he desperately needed. 

He checked his phone; at least an hour until his Father returned, and Pennyworth had only texted him twenty minutes ago, so he had some time before he returned, too. And he’d only been standing here for a moment or two, so if he looped the footage and put it on a timer to return to the present, he could run back to the showers and pretend like he’d never left. All the footage would show was Damian going from the simulator to the showers, and then from the showers to the exit. 

But the time would have to be now. 

He logged in with his own information, but knew from Drake he could delete all his activity form the computer log, which he immediately pulled up. He pulled up the security footage, too, looping a minute-long segment of all the Batcave cameras from just before he exited the showers. After assuring there was no tell-tale movements, he transposed it over the present recording. He’d have to re-transpose it every minute, but that was doable. 

After a moment’s thought, he pulled up all the other security readings, as well. If Pennyworth or Father were to drive onto the property, there’d be an alert, so he’d be notified the moment anyone entered the property. After a quick sweep of all of the cameras to assure they were both still gone, Damian got to work. 

The Batcomputer connected directly to the Justice Leagues databases, so a quick search of his cape name quickly brought up a massive file simply titled Robin V.  

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting from these reports, perhaps a “recommendations” section anywhere at all, but it was mostly detailed accounts of his few successes and many failures. A step-by-step analysis of how he ruined the Teen Titans, a list of all his known murder victims, even a report from his one and only therapy session years ago, which ended when he bit the therapist in question . (He’d completely forgotten about that; Damian had thought her reflexes would be better than they were, that her fingers would move away before he managed to get them between his teeth. He’d been sorely mistaken.) 

Damian relooped the footage and checked all the security details for the sixth time; what a waste of time this had been. Four years of being a constant pain in the Justice League’s ass, and they couldn’t even offer him a helpful hint? Something besides multiple recommendations to remove him from the field? Typical. 

With a shaky sigh, Damian finally closed the folder, before his eyes drifted to another result. Contingency - Robin V. From Father’s personal records. 

He knew Father had contingency plans for every ally he’d ever had, in case they ever turned on him, but the idea that Father had considered, in detail, what Damian’s betrayal of him would look like and how he would be neutralized made him sick to his stomach. 

And yet, he clicked. 

The first thing he read, at the top of the table of contents, was Transfer of Consciousness: Moderate-to-High Risk . 

As per Talia, Ra’s intends to transfer his own consciousness into Damian’s body once he reaches eighteen, though he may attempt transfer earlier. Circumstances of such a transfer are unknown…

Damian didn’t read much further than that. As per Talia. Into Damian’s body. May attempt earlier. Moderate-to-high risk . It sounded fake, but Father had a healthy skepticism about him. There had to be evidence for this, but what kind of evidence? What could Father possibly know? 

What did his mother know? 

There was movement in the security feed; Pennyworth’s car had entered the property. Damian cussed under his breath, assuring the footage was properly looped, closing everything down before clearing the logs and logging off, brain whirring a million miles an hour. Did I get everything? Did I forget to loop, is it showing something? As per Talia, may attempt earlier, moderate-to-high.  

Once he was ready, he sprinted into the showers, slamming the door behind him shut. As Damian leaned against the door, he caught sight of himself in a mirror across the way; face pale, chest heaving, hands trembling. Weak .

He looked like a target. 

Chapter Text

If Damian couldn’t be alone with his thoughts on Thursday afternoon, the situation had only gotten worse by Friday morning. First, he tried to piece together if this transfer of consciousness was even possible. He’d heard from others, back in the League, that the Lazarus Pit had abilities beyond healing and restoring the youth of all those who entered it, but he’d been fucking eight at the time. It could just be the creepypastas all over again: some fairy tale his mother and wardens spun for him that, if brought up in semi-intelligent company, would result in Damian being laughed out of the room. 

As per Talia . It could very well have been a lie, something to manipulate the Batman, make him paranoid about this child that he could have otherwise grown fond of. What torture for him, if that were true: seeing his own son every single day and not knowing if it was really him or not. Never knowing if or when his child and ally would turn on him. 

As he was brushing his teeth, however, Damian finally considered, What if it was true?  

Because if it was, then Ra’s finally had a foolproof means to eradicate at least half of the Batfamily. Damian knew what Ra’s was capable of, how it would only take a single mission, a few sentences convincing everyone that yes, this was Robin, before taking all of them out one by one. 

Murdering the people Damian loved with his own hands. 

His sleep that night was fitful and marred by half-formed visions of Damian’s reflection strangling, stabbing, and disemboweling his family, all ending with whatever entity his own consciousness inhabited looking down to find his body slick with their blood. The next morning, he avoided looking at any and all mirrors. 

Moderate-to-high risk . While his father may be paranoid, he was not easily fooled; there had to be some form of evidence, something he would have seen to convince him this was a serious threat. 

But Ra’s and Talia were equally as cunning. Evidence could easily be faked. 

But Father knew that, yet he still believed this was a possibility. 

Or did he? It was in his personal notes, but they were notes that Damian himself had been able to access. Via hacking, yes, but they were fucking Bats . Hacking was commonplace. 

Was this a test of some kind? Some kind of obscure psychological punishment for daring to cross into the Batman’s personal files? It was improbable, but since when did the Batman ever do anything probable?  

By the time he arrived at school, Damian had a migraine, a stomachache, and was very close to giving up on whatever game of five-dimensional chess his parents were playing around him. So the last thing he wanted to see was Jared goddamned motherfucking Whittaker and his stupid sidekick torturing some poor lab rat in a corner of the courtyard. 

Damian knew lab rats were used in some Gotham Academy science classes, but how Whittaker and Lane got a hold of one in it’s cage was beyond him. He walked up as they were poking it with sticks through the bars. Sticks . 

“Why’s it freaking out so much?” Damian heard Lane ask as he stomped over. 

“I dunno, he’s afraid of sticks or something,” Whittaker offered, trying to get a good poking angle. 

“Stickphobic,” Lane said, and they both chuckled. Damian wished he could throw them both into the sun. 

“Stop it.” 

Whittaker and Lane turned to face Damian simultaneously, the former immediately returning his attention to the caged creature. “Stop what?” 

“Tormenting that poor animal.” 

“ Tormenting ,” Whittaker mocked, rolling his eyes. “We’re just playing with him.” 

Damian looked around the courtyard; no teachers visible, but plenty of students milling about before class: a table of pretty eleventh grade girls chatting, a few senior drama students rehearsing, a study group going over notes together. None of whom were looking in their direction. 

He could change that. “This is your final warning.” 

Lane laughed, and Whittaker glanced back at him, amused. “Or what?” 

Damian took two steps back, and cleared his throat, preparing his Robin hey, look over here voice. “Whittaker, leave that lab rat alone. You shouldn’t pick on it just because it has a bigger dick than you.” 

Whittaker’s jaw dropped, and there was a small uproar behind him as his peers processed what he’d said. Never let it be said Damian Wayne didn’t know his audience. 

Lane stood up, red in the face. “You think about his dick a lot or something?” 

“Not more than you, I bet,” one of the seniors piped up, and Damian turned to watch as the chorus of laughter and oohs only got louder. Particularly from the table of girls. Check and mate . 

When he turned back around, however, it was to Whittaker towering over him, glowering down, and Damian realized he may have just made a mistake. “You’re dead,” Whittaker threatened, before he stomped away. Lane offered a very unthreatening glare, as well, leaving Damian and the rat alone in the corner of the courtyard. 

Damian had watched enough coming-of-age movies to know what a teenage boy meant when he said You’re dead . Not only was physically fighting a student the fastest way to get another month or so added to his patrol suspension, and not only did such a fight threaten to reveal his secret identity, but he also remembered, vividly, what had occurred the last time someone had ambushed him while he was exhausted and distressed. 

He sighed down at the rat. I don’t even need Ra’s; I can screw up my own life . 

He picked up the lab rat’s cage, the rat in question skittering through whatever wood chips remained to cover the cold, metallic floor. “You’re safe now,” Damian tried to soothe, but his words meant nothing to the rat. 

He only calmed when Damian returned him to the only open biology lab, and he had a cage full of food, water, and woodchips once again. 

By first period, Damian had classmates asking about the impending fight. Between the first and the second, he had one of Whittaker’s other stupid friends try to trip him in the hallway. And then before assembly, he had a girl from his physics class show him an old Snapchat video she’d saved of the last fight Whittaker had been in, informing him that the victim in question had been caught trying to leave through a side door after school. “Jared wanted to make sure he didn’t run away,” she claimed. 

Between third and fourth period, Damian made the executive decision to leave school halfway through the day for the second time that week, rehearsing his excuses in his mind. This imbecile seems determined to physically fight me, and I’ve yet to properly “cool my head”, ergo I’m avoiding him at all costs. Perfectly rational. 

Right? 

Once he was out, however, striding a familiar path towards Gotham Library, still in his uniform with his backpack on, he realized that now he had nothing to occupy himself but his moderate-to-high risk . 

He wondered if it was too late to go back to school and punch Whittaker in the face. 

No, he couldn’t, but- but this transfer of consciousness business was going to kill him, he was sure. Perhaps he could do some research on the Lazarus Pit; he knew what names it went by in myth, maybe the library would have some tomes and old tales to reference, though those were definitely not the most reliable-. 

As an old, decrepit phone booth came into view, however, he realized he did know the number of someone he could talk to. 

No , he told himself, shutting his eyes. Call Pennyworth, get him to pick you up, and- and maybe he’ll answer your questions-  

But Pennyworth would ask where he got the information from, and if he was concerned enough, he might tell Father. He knew Pennyworth said he’d keep their discussions confidential, but what if this was too serious a topic? This wasn’t petty illness or school troubles, this was Batman-adjacent business. 

And. And if Pennyworth knew, would he see Damian as Father did? 

He opened his eyes again, training his sights on the phone booth. Damian couldn’t call from his cell phone, Father would recognize the foreign area code. He opened the front pocket of his bag, feeling around for any change he had in there. 

His hand resurfaced with ten quarters. That would more than do. 

Damian had memorized this number years ago, when he’d been ordered to. If you’re ever in trouble, call. You’ll reach me and me alone. At the time, he’d turned his nose up at the mere implication that he may, at any point, need help, but he found himself clinging to it like a lifeline, nonetheless. 

He had to shove the door both open and closed, putting his backpack down on the seat and carefully avoiding the mysterious glistening mess at one end of it. The phone box had a dent in it and the seam of the receiver’s plastic shell was separating, but, upon putting it to his ear, there was still a dial tone.

Two fifty in quarters and the last working phone booth in New Jersey; he hoped those were good omens. Still, he had to force himself to press every single button. 

She picked up on the third ring. “ Hello? ” The voice came through tinny, almost surreal. 

“ Mother, ” Damian replied in Arabic. “ Are you alone? ” 

There was a long moment of silence on the phone, before she allowed. “ Yes. What is it, my beloved? ” 

How dare she call him that. How dare she-. Damian gripped the receiver tighter, placing his other hand in the dent on the phone box. “ What are the full capabilities of the Lazarus Pit? ” 

“ Why do you need to know? ” 

Damian was not in the mood for verbal sparring; he could feel his face growing hot. “ Consider it compensation for the sword you drove through my chest .” 

There was another pause, so long that Damian half-expected Talia to hang up. “ Alone, all it can do is heal wounds and reverse aging. However, it’s also a source of vast magical energy; it can be used to conduct a wide variety of spells .” 

His head went heavy, his stomach dropping out. “ Like transferring the consciousness of one body to another? ” 

“ Yes .” The response was near inaudible, but he still heard the regret. She knew. She knew . 

“ So it’s true, then? ” 

“ Your father told you .” 

“ But is it true? ” Damian felt himself drift further and further from his body, his own voice sounding like it was coming through a tinny speaker. “ You knew this whole time? ” 

“ No, ” she insisted, “ Your grandfather only told me after you were born .” 

The realization washed over him like ice water, his mother’s words falling on deaf ears. After you were born . 

“ But I didn’t want that for you, my beloved, I never did. That’s why I warned your Father, that’s why I left you with him- .” 

“ He… ” Damian’s words cut Talia off, and she fell silent. The silence rang in his ears. “ He knew he’d do it before I was born? Ra’s did? ” 

“ Yes .” So all along, all along- . “ But, my beloved- .” 

“ Don’t call me that! ” he snapped, words boiling out of his chest without his permission. “ Don’t you dare call me that! You’re a liar! You’re a fucking liar! ” 

Talia was still speaking, but he slammed down the receiver, nearly tripping over his own two feet on his way out of the booth. 

Richard would often joke that, while he was in Gotham, he never truly left the circus; their rogues gallery were all theatrical in many ways. They put on shows for their rivals, build deadly weapons that looked like toys and props, and had a penchant for trapping people in what Damian could only describe as decommissioned carnival rides. 

Unlike normal children, then, every time Damian Wayne had seen a funhouse mirror was on a mission. Perhaps that’s why he never saw the fun in them. The whole point of mirrors was to show you what something looked like, so what was the point of one that distorted everything? 

As the full magnitude of this discovery, of his intended purpose , washed over him, it was like looking in a funhouse mirror and everything finally making sense.

Of course Ra’s al Ghul would never accept someone else as his heir; he’d kept an iron grip on the League of Shadows for centuries, not even the laws of nature could bind him. Yes, only the best for the Demon’s Head, a perfect body obsessively bioengineered from a mixture of his own DNA and that of his greatest rival, the person he respected more than any other. Why else would he invest all this money and time and research into creating Damian, if it weren’t for him in the end? 

All overseen by his diligent, obedient daughter, Damian’s own mother . Both mere extensions of Ra’s al Ghul, mere pawns in his grand game. 

Damian didn’t remember how he got here, but he sat under an oak tree, in a park he didn’t recognize. A nice one, which made him think this may be a dream. It looked vaguely familiar. He felt further from his body than he ever had, which was fitting.  

There was a playground nearby, young children playing while their parents watched on. It was a display Damian could hardly stand to look at on the best of days, but now he stared, enraptured. A young boy, no older than four, stumbled in his running, fell to the ground, and promptly burst into tears. His mother approached, leaning down towards him, and Damian knew what she was saying even if he couldn’t hear her. It’s okay, honey, where does it hurt? It looked fake, to him, because that never happened in his reality. That never happened to him . 

Damian always knew he was different; no matter how hard he tried, people treated him differently than others. Perhaps they could tell he wasn’t a- a normal child, or even a human at all. He was not worthy of their attention or care. Did everyone at the League of Assassins know it, only fearing what this empty child could do, playing along with his false ego? Could everyone in the Justice League tell that this being inhabiting Robin’s suit wasn’t made to lead anything, was instead born only to facilitate the continued proliferation of evil incarnate, another weapon in Ra’s al Ghul’s arsenal? 

Perhaps that’s why Father stopped loving him, because that's what he’d done, wasn’t it? For months after his resurrection, Father was affectionate and loving. They played chess together, or walked Titus together, or drank Pennyworth’s hot chocolate in his office until Damian had to go to bed. And then, it all stopped, because Father must have seen that he wasn’t worth trying for. 

Because he kept tripping back into bad habits. Because he was all violence and anger and blood. Because he was only the demon spawn . 

It made no sense, and yet, it made everything wrong in Damian’s life slide right into place. It was him, it was always him . 

“Damian?” 

He turned his head slightly to see Drake, looking like he had only a few days prior, after watching Damian bash a man’s head in. 

Like he was a bomb about to go off. 

“Damian, are you okay?” 

Damian wanted to burst into tears. He wanted to burst out laughing. He wanted to scream and throw up and hold Drake tight and rip him to shreds. He wanted a father who smiled at him and a mother who held him when he cried, he wanted to go back in time and see a funhouse mirror for the first time at a carnival. He wanted to live . 

“Damian, you’re scaring me.” 

But he was a replacement body with an inconvenient consciousness, never meant to live in the first place. 

Chapter Text

It took hours for Damian to finally return to himself, and once he did, he took stock of everything he knew to be true. 

He’d left school just after ten thirty. When he didn’t arrive for fourth period, the school reported his unexcused absence to Pennyworth, who traced his phone. By eleven thirty he’d abandoned his cell phone in his schoolbag, and his schoolbag in the phone booth, with himself nowhere to be found. 

Drake found him in Grant Park just before four o’clock, which meant Damian Wayne had gone dark for over five hours . 

He could imagine the pandemonium he’d caused; it would have been an all-hands affair, Drake, Thomas, and Brown all being pulled out of class to search all his usual haunts, Gordon stopping whatever work she was doing for the JLA to comb through CCTV footage for any sign of him, Father stepping out of work, mind no doubt concocting worst case scenario after worst case scenario for what Damian could possibly be up to. 

He had no clue how they finally found him, if Gordon managed to access a new surveillance camera or if Drake had simply stumbled upon him, but he was put through the ringer as soon as he was returned to the cave. 

No, the auxiliary cave, the one fully-stocked but half-abandoned under the penthouse. Father tested him for all forms of toxins or poisons, any sign of mind control or hypnosis, giving him a full physical for any signs of injury. According to Drake, he’d been “full Manchurian Candidate ”, sitting in that park and staring at nothing, so Damian could see where the concern came from. 

In the end, he was sent up to the penthouse, and didn’t fully re-enter reality until he was in his old shower, unchanged in the three years since he’d lived here, save for the generic products his father kept stocked in every one of their safehouses. 

Damian stared at the bright orange two-in-one shampoo perched in the corner of his shower and realized he’d wasted the Bats’ precious time and resources by… what? Throwing a tantrum? Letting his irresponsible urge to spiral overtake him for hours on end? What was wrong with him? 

Because truly, truly , what did this revelation change? Mother never had him because she loved him, she had him because she wanted her own Alexander, she’d said, a conqueror of realms. 

So she’d lied to him. Damian was used to being lied to. It was a necessity of his existence; Damian’s secret identities had secret identities, Robin and Damian al Ghul and Damian Wayne largely kept separate from one another. He had to lie to almost everyone all the time, as did nearly everyone in his family. That’s what Bats did: lie . 

And yet. It would have been nice, to have some part of his life that felt true. He’d spent years thinking that he’d be the one to bring the al Ghul dynasty into the new world, he’d achieve triumphs heretofore unheard of in human history. It was why he was the youngest recruit in League history to complete preliminary training, why he’d taken on the Year of Blood and slaughtered untold numbers of innocents, why he’d endured fatigue and illness and hunger and discomfort and bone-deep loneliness. 

All of it, a bold-faced lie . 

Damian shook himself out of his thoughts. No, now was not the time to continue moping; he’d just spent hours doing that. Although he was pretty sure he hadn’t cleaned any part of himself since entering the shower, he left it all the same, needing to focus on tasks to continue forward. Dry off, brush his teeth, wash his face, find some clothes that still fit, go into the kitchen and find something to eat; he always functioned best when he had a direction. 

Being in the penthouse again was strange in itself: it was frozen in time, and he half-expected to see Pennyworth ironing clothes in the laundry room, or Richard sitting on the couch, coaxing Damian over to watch some movie with him. The silence and stillness felt wrong in this place that had once brought him so much warmth and comfort. It was alright, though, like this was a corner of the universe that existed for Damian alone. He even indulged himself by sneaking in Richards old room and digging out an old hoodie and pair of sweatpants to put on over the black, stretchy base layers left in his bedroom; made for wearing underneath his Robin uniform, they were the only items in there that fit. 

When he finally padded over to the kitchen to take stock of the food situation, however, any comfort he had flew out the window. Father stood behind the counter, looking pale and haggard in the quickly-settling darkness. His glance towards Damian, however, was icy and unimpressed. 

“Are you awake?” he asked, which Damia took to mean are you feeling more responsive now . 

“Yes,” Damian said, “I apologize, I didn’t mean to worry everyone-.” 

Father turned on the kitchen light. “Did you forget your homework?” 

Two loops thrown at Damian back to back, so it took him a few seconds for him to remember their code phrase. “No, but I lost my copy of King Lear .” 

He nodded, seeming to recalibrate the situation. He was in his base layers, too; probably preparing for patrol or just returning. “Care to tell me what happened today?” 

Damian cursed himself for not rehearsing his explanation in the shower. He crossed his arms over his chest and made his slow way towards the kitchen counter, starting with the easy stuff. “This boy at school I’ve been having trouble with seemed determined to have a physical altercation with me, so I… left school before my class with him-.” 

“You didn’t go to a teacher?” 

Damian shut his eyes, anger already curling up his throat. He wasn’t sure if it was directed at Father or himself. “Do you really believe that would have helped?” A glance up revealed Father’s expression unchanged, and he added, “And I feared- after the incident with Mahajan, I feared what I would do. If attacked again.” 

Father nodded again, and prompted, “What about the phone call you made?” 

Damian wondered if it was at all possible for the Batman or anyone in his vicinity to retrieve a recording from that phone call. What if there was a bug in there? “It- I-.” 

“Damian.” His blood ran ice cold, and he held himself ever tighter. “That phone call preempted your… episode . I need to know what was said.” 

He knew he ought to tell the truth, about the hacking and the transfer of consciousness and his true purpose, but. What if Father didn’t already know all of it? There was such a difference between knowing your enemy wished to use your ally against you, and knowing that your enemy had created your own child specifically to be used against you, specifically to prolong his reign beyond what you could control. 

Father got especially paranoid about things he couldn’t control. And when Father was paranoid… 

Seconds mattered, they meant the difference between stalling the truth and concocting a lie, so Damian broke the silence before he could cross that threshold. “I- I was wondering about Mahajan, so I… called my mother. To see if she knew anything.” 

How disgusting to use a half-dead man to hide his own mistakes, but Father seemed to buy it, if his immediate reaction was anything to go by: he looked away, staring up at the ceiling as if trying to reign in his own temper. “Why would she tell you if she had anything to do with it?” 

That was an excellent question. “It wasn’t about- the present.” Lying was truly what Bats did best, for the words spilled from Damian’s mouth without hesitation. Because he wasn’t worried about the League of Assassins in Gotham; he was scared of what he remembered. “We were in training together, but I don’t… remember him. So I asked if she knew anything about him, his time with the League, but it was just…” He squeezed his hands together tightly. “All it did was remind me why I don’t talk to my mother.” 

“You ran out of the phone booth,” Father stated. 

So he had. “The conversation brought up some… rather unpleasant memories. Ones I’d forgotten about until… just today.” Another glance up at his father. “It was like I got… lost in them.” He’d had post-traumatic episodes in the past, but they were few and far between, never lasting for more than a half hour. 

Father met his eyes again, and finally pushed off the counter, approaching him. “Maybe we should get you to see a League therapist again; I’ll see about finding someone for you. I didn’t… I didn’t know Mahajan was affecting you this much.” 

Another burst of white-hot anger. Damian looked down, hands tightening around his biceps. “I’m not a monster .” 

There was a pause. “I didn’t say you were.” 

So he hadn’t. 

Father continued, “You’re to stay in the penthouse for the whole weekend, just to be safe.” Damian frowned up at him, but he paid him no mind, already on his way out the door. It wasn’t as if his tone left much room for argument, anyways. “I’ll bring up your school stuff tomorrow morning, as well as some meals from Alfred. There’s enough food here to feed you for the night.” He paused in the doorway, turning to face Damian, “One more week for skipping school without answering our calls. And do not, for any reason , contact your mother.” 

And like that, the Batman left Damian alone in his tower.

Chapter Text

A month or so after Damian became Father’s Robin, he opened his sketchbook to find half the pages torn out. Pennyworth, sensing his panic, said to him, “I’m sorry, Master Damian. Master Bruce found the content of your work… distasteful.” He’d been better about not showing his disappointment on his face at the time, although he was devastated. He could barely remember what it was he had drawn, let alone what could possibly make it distasteful. 

(Looking back, most of his sketches during that time had featured intense gore, but as that was subject matter he’d been familiar with his whole life, he didn’t quite piece it together.) 

As a result, Damian began to keep his art work tucked away, where his father would, hopefully, never find it. Drawing was one of the few ways Damian had to genuinely calm himself. Some reveries seemed so incomprehensible when they existed only in his own psyche, but when brought into reality, were suddenly a whole lot easier to handle. It was a coping mechanism he couldn’t go without. So, if he couldn’t figure out what kind of drawing was “distasteful”, he’d just hide it all from Father. 

A few months later, he’d tried his hand at sketching a bird’s nest, tucked into an eave of the manor. Damian wasn’t sure how he’d come to leave his sketchbook out, but the next day, he came down for breakfast to see his drawing stuck onto the refrigerator. 

Drake was there, too, that morning, and was the one who answered Damian’s, “What’s that doing there?” 

“Oh,” he’d said, glancing at it. “Bruce must have put it there.” 

That was the only feedback Damian got on the matter. All he knew was that Father disapproved of his drawings, and as soon as he’d left one out, it appeared on the refrigerator, in the only room every manor resident entered every day. In the League of Assassins, this would have been closer to a shaming technique. 

He didn’t dare bring the fridge picture up to his father, and he never left his sketchbook out in the manor again. 

It wasn’t until Richard made an offhand comment about something he was doodling being “fridgeworthy”, nearly a year later, that Damian finally took it upon himself to look it up. How was he to know that, in American households, the refrigerator was considered a place of privilege for a child’s artwork? 

Damian hoped this whole situation was something like that. 

Of course, he didn’t think being locked up in the penthouse was some sort of privilege, but it didn’t make sense for it to be a punishment, either. This had to be a case of miscommunication, something otherwise obvious that Damian was missing. And until he found that out, all he had to cope was the nearest pillow to scream into. 

When Pennyworth called later Friday evening, he asked as soon as he could. “Do you know why Father insists I remain in the penthouse?” 

Pennyworth gave one of his deeper, ever-suffering sighs. He was already audibly upset about this whole predicament, and Damian hoped he wasn’t making it worse. “Master Bruce seems to believe you’ve been compromised, subconsciously. This is an apparent precaution until he can assure you’re of fully sound mind.” 

Subconsciously compromised? Damian ran over the events of the day for the nth time, and his jaw dropped when he realized, “Father thinks I’m a sleeper agent? ” A covert conversation with an enemy leading to a semi-conscious state; Damian could see how, in the unpredictable world they occupied, the conclusion could seem plausible to Father. 

“ Indeed .” That was the single most contemptuous word Damian had ever heard come out of Alfred Pennyworth’s mouth. “I offered to spend the weekend with you, but he insisted it would be too dangerous .” Nevermind, those last two words carried far more contempt than Damian had even thought possible, especially in regards to his longtime charge. “I’m presuming he didn’t tell you that, Master Damian?” 

“Of course not.” So Father hadn’t taken all those samples from him out of concern he’d been a victim, but on the suspicion that he was some sort of unwilling perpetrator. The hasty search hadn’t been for his own protection, but for the protection of everyone else. Four years of trying to prove to Father he could be trusted, only to land him back at square one. He was the danger. 

Damian was gonna need the pillow again if he kept on that train of thought. 

“Oh, my dear boy.” Perhaps not, because Pennyworth had shifted into that tone that always made Damian choke up. “I’m sorry this is happening to you.” 

Damian leaned against the wall, staring up at the crown moulding. It was never the harsh jabs or screaming that made Damian cry; it was only when kindness was offered that it became difficult to shut down. “I’ll be alright, I’ve endured worse.” 

“I should hope you never come close to that worse while under our care, Master Damian.” 

When he turned his head to the side and caught sight of the laundry room, he was met with another memory: his first month in the penthouse, he’d wet the bed. It had been his secret shame for many years, at that point, and the family staff at Nanda Parbat had always handled it without a word to him or anyone else. But they weren’t here, so when he woke up in the middle of the night, he’d changed his clothes, stripped the sheets, and resolved to deal with it himself. 

Pennyworth had caught him trying to use the washing machine, and when he appeared at his side, Damian expected to be questioned. Whenever he was up late before, Pennyworth was quick to shoo him back to bed, insisting he very much needed his sleep. This time, though, Pennyworth calmly showed him how the machine worked, which buttons to press and where to put the detergent, before escorting him to the linen closet and helping him remake his bed with a fresh set of sheets. 

The next morning, his soiled sheets were cleaned, dried, and neatly folded in a laundry basket outside of Damian’s room, and Pennyworth never brought the topic up again. He was confused, but thankful nonetheless. Now, though, he was sure Pennyworth had known, just like he knew, without asking, what Damian had gone through. What the ‘worse’ was he was referring to. 

The sentiment made his throat close up, and he forced himself to take a deep breath. “I just wish Father would tell me the truth.” 

Pennyworth huffed out something that remotely resembled a laugh. “You and I both.” 

He was back in the phone booth again; it was dark outside, though, the only light available above him, yellow and weak. It could very well be raining outside, since in here was wet and dreary. Dread pooled in his stomach as he stared at the payphone that seemed to be cracking apart before his very eyes, before he’d blink and it’d be back together again. 

It rang. He picked up. “Hello?” 

“Dami.” It was Richard. It felt like eons since Damian had last spoken to him, and he felt emotion well in his chest. 

“Richard-.” 

“Damian, why didn’t you tell me?” 

Whatever fluttering hope there was fell from the air, heavy into the pit of Damian’s stomach. “Tell you?” 

“You knew all along,” Richard accused, “I wouldn’t have wasted my time on you if I knew you were just a flesh suit.” 

The air went cold, all of a sudden, frost blooming across the plexiglass like a plague. “Richard, you have to believe me, I didn’t know-.” 

“Don’t lie to me!” Damian’s lungs were going tight; he could see his breath in front of his face. 

“I’m not, I swear-.”

“I should’ve figured; normal kids don’t fucking kill people, Damian. They don’t even think about it.” Damian squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing back the sobs welling at the hollow of his throat. It was so cold . “Everybody knows, Damian. Everybody.” 

Unlike most other nightmares, this didn’t cause Damian to wake with a start; he opened his eyes and drew his comforter around himself, still trying to block out the cold. 

Once he ascertained that his food had already been delivered, (with reheating instructions written in Pennyworth’s handwriting) Damian figured there was no point in getting properly dressed today. He wasn’t going to be seeing anyone, and he couldn’t even go down to the cave to do his morning workout. So, he threw on whatever felt soft and warm, and continued about his day. 

That’s how he ended up face-to-face with Martian Manhunter, in too-large sweatpants rolled up to his knees and an ancient orange T-shirt featuring clip art of a cocktail glass and the barely-legible slogan ‘It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere’. (In his defense, it was the first shirt he found that fit him.) 

Damian eyed the alien warily over his oatmeal. “Do we need to up the security here, J'onzz?” 

“I was invited by your father.” Ah, that’s what he was doing here. Of course Father chose the mindreader to make absolutely sure that his son was safe to be around. 

He looked back down at his bowl, using his spoon to painstakingly scrape up every last bit of food, if only for something to do besides look at J’onzz. “How long is this going to take?” 

“Not long,” J’onzz assured, taking in the penthouse. “I’m simply searching your memory from yesterday.” 

Well, shit . “And then report everything back to my father?” 

J’onzz’s attention returned to Damian; he swore he could feel the Martian’s telepathy poking into his mind. “Only what he needs to know.” 

Damian rolled his eyes; what a useless response, since Father believed he ought to know everything. “Whatever. Let me clean up.” With that, he finally stopped playing with the oats stuck to the side of his bowl, and went to the sink to wash it. 

He knew he had no choice in the matter; he submitted to J’onzz’s search or he’d probably never be allowed out of here, let alone returned to his rightful place as Robin. 

And if he couldn’t be Robin, well, then what was this all for? 

Damian fastidiously washed and dried the bowl, spoon, and saucepan he used before finally turning back to J’onzz. “Should I lie down?” 

“Whatever is most comfortable,” J’onzz replied. Just to be difficult, Damian sat on the nice armchair and took his time finding a comfortable position, moving his legs and back this way and that. 

He’d forgotten that J’onzz, however, was equally difficult, in that his patience seemed endless; when he finally found a ‘comfortable position’, sitting upside down with his legs along the back of the seat and his head hanging off the front, J’onzz simply said, “I highly doubt you find that comfortable.” 

He was right, so Damian moved his neck to one arm rest, bracing his feet against the other, knees up and hands to his chest. “There. Happy?” 

“Yes,” J’onzz assured, unflappable as ever. “I’m presuming you want this to be over sooner rather than later.” 

Damn him for being so perceptive and reasonable. Damian kept his mouth sealed shut, glaring at J’onzz to begin. 

He did, placing a large hand on Damian’s forehead. It had been a while since J’onzz had sifted through the contents of his mind, but the sensation was just as unsettling as he remembered. Moments flashed through his consciousness without his permission: Like transferring the consciousness of one body to another? He knew he’d do it before I was born? It’s okay, honey, where does it hurt? Everybody knows, Damian. Everybody.

By the time J’onzz pulled his hand away, Damian was holding his breath, hands clutching at each other so hard his fingers were beginning to numb. He tried his best not to gasp for air, surreptitiously separating his hands and rubbing the feeling back into them. 

J’onzz sighed. “I saw no sudden shift in consciousness indicative of hypnosis or another form of controlled psychological blackout.” Damian glanced at J’onzz, meeting his eye. “And that’s all I’ll tell your father.” 

Damian looked away; the only thing worse than a mindreader was a kind mindreader. Still, he managed a small, “Thank you.” 

J’onzz nodded, but didn’t leave right away. “Robin, would you be upset if I said something?” 

Damian frowned down at his knees, hands clasping back together on his chest. “Depends on what you say.” 

“Fair enough. Your father is… Your father loves you.” His lungs went tight. “However, he is a man ruled by fear, and has so far conquered it with control and control alone.” 

Damian narrowed his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. J’onzz continued, “Unlike all other Robins, you did not learn all you knew from him. He never had control over your capabilities.” 

His stomach sank. “He fears me.” 

There was a long pause, and Damian dared not turn to look at J’onzz. “Yes,” the Martian allowed, “Irrationally, he fears you. Fearing what you cannot control is like fearing the passage of time, or the movements of all of humanity. It’s irrational because you cannot possibly control everything.” 

Damian shook his head a minute amount, trying to make sense of what J’onzz was trying to say, or, more importantly, why? “So my father is scared of me and there’s nothing I can do to change that. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” 

“I’m trying to tell you that fear blinds him to what he is truly doing,” J’onzz reiterated, “And if… if he knew how he was making you suffer alone, I’m sure he’d reconsider his actions.” 

Finally, Damian turned to face J’onzz, he hadn’t moved from his prior position. “I’m also trying to say that I am… sorry, you are in this predicament.” 

When he realized J’onzz was waiting for him to reply, Damian managed another, “Thank you.” 

With a nod, he made his way to the balcony from whence he came, but before he left, he paused to add, “I’m told Superboy is returning on Wednesday. I hope you two will find some comfort with one another.” After that, he turned invisible, opening and closing the patio door to fly off, undetected, into the skyline. 

He stretched his legs out over the arm of his chair with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest. The mindreader should be correct, should know the capabilities and limitations of the man he’d been working with for decades, at this point, but somehow Damian doubted his suffering would make Father reconsider. 

Who cared for the suffering of a vessel, after all?

Chapter Text

A few hours after J’onzz’s departure, and after Damian had managed to find himself some less embarrassing clothes, there was a knock at the penthouse door. 

Damian glanced over at the foyer, brows furrowed; in order to get to the front door without being buzzed in, one would need to have entrance clearance via the Batcomputer. And every single person who had clearance to enter the penthouse also had a fucking key . 

So why, precisely, did they knock? 

He’d fallen out of the habit of hiding weapons in every room, so he was brainstorming ways to get himself into a defensive position, but then the person on the other side of the door spoke up. 

“Damian? It’s me.” 

Okay, an intruder getting past their security systems was one thing, but Father? Knocking on the door of an apartment he owned? That was just bizarre. 

There was another set of knocks, and Damian slumped back on the couch, unpausing the episode of New Girl he was watching. (Cassandra and Brown seemed obsessed with this program, so sue him for trying to figure out what all the fuss was about.) 

And then his phone screen lit up. Father.  

He took his sweet time picking it up. “Did you forget your key or something? Because it seems awfully cruel to lock your son up in a cage and then lose the key.” 

“Damian,” Father said on the other end, “I just want to talk to you. About… all of this.” 

Damian picked up the remote with his free hand to turn the volume up on the TV, hoping the phone speaker picked it up. “Right, I’m sure.” 

“And to apologize,” Father continued, and that actually gave Damian pause. “I didn’t… I spoke with Alfred, and I should have told you what I thought was going on. That I was doing this for your safety and the safety of everyone else.” Damian’s gaze fell from the screen to the rug. “I know you don’t want to hurt anyone, and I- I know you don’t forgive yourself when you do hurt people, even by accident. Mahajan was proof of that.” 

The mention of Mahajan made Damian’s stomach turn in guilt, over the initial act and the lie he used to cover up his own indiscretions. Even then, the sentiment still touched him; Father didn’t want Damian to do anything he’d regret. An act of love, perhaps, in his own, Bruce “The Batman” Wayne way. 

Maybe not, but Damian wanted it to be love so bad. 

“You still there?” Father asked. 

“Yes,” Damian replied, idly picking lint off his socked foot. 

“Alright. I’m gonna come in now, okay?” 

So he did have a key. Damian hated the irritation that crawled up his cheeks; what right had he to be angry with him? Father was here to make things right, after all. 

Still, he refused to move from his spot or pause his program as he heard Father unlock the door, enter, and approach his perch. Without realizing it, he’d pulled both his feet up to the couch, crossing his legs in front of him. Father was in his full Bruce Wayne attire (i.e. a black turtleneck and gray khakis) with plastic takeout bags in one hand. 

“You’ve probably already eaten,” Father qualified, as he set out the familiar takeout boxes on the coffee table. “But I figured a peace offering wouldn’t hurt.” 

Damian read the scrawl on top of each container, noting the vegan soup dumplings. Fuck, those were his favorite, and he hadn’t eaten since his oatmeal that morning. All he could do was glare at his father before snatching the container up, and the chopsticks, as well. Father offered him a small smile, before placing the final gift on the table with a flourish: a large sour plum fruit tea with grass jelly. 

If Damian hadn’t already crumbled, he would have by now: he hadn’t had bubble tea in months . 

As he sipped his tea and ate his soup dumplings, Father just sat next to him, watching TV with him and eating his own food. It was… nice, almost domestic. Damian could almost forget the last forty-eight hours had even happened. They were just a father, and a son, reunited after a fight, and everything would be okay, just like it was at the end of every episode of New Girl . If only life were more like TV. 

At the end of their second episode, though, Father picked up the remote, taking them back to the main menu instead of starting the next episode. “Damian, there is something I want to talk to you about, though.” 

Damian froze; fuck, he figured out about the risk assessment file. Or was it about Whittaker; the school might have called him. Or had Talia told him something? It would be unlike her but Father might have reached out-. 

Father settled in front of him, kneeling on the floor so Damian was looking down at him. “The reason I thought you might be under someone else’s control was because your… your behavior was very out of the ordinary.” Damian furrowed his brow, trying to force himself to breathe. This probably wasn’t about anything he’d done wrong, but this was still… not good. This still felt bad . 

“So, learning that it was just… you ,” Father was looking right at him, right at his face and eyes and scanning every bit of his reaction, and it was hard to stay composed with such attention on him. “I’m… I’m really concerned. And I know you’ve been through way more than any kid your age, or even any other Robin at your age.” 

Damian’s next inhale was hitched, and he realized he was getting close to tears again. 

Father placed a hand on his knee, and kept speaking. “Dissociating that intensely for that long is a sign of severe mental illness, and I should have been able to see the signs before it got this bad.” 

He had to squeeze his eyes shut, because somehow, that hurt more than anything else. Father thought he was just sick , like this was something that would pass. He didn’t know that this was a monster that stalked him wherever he went, that it was inseparable from the experience of being Damian.  

“Damian, look at me.” After a beat, he did, meeting Father’s eyes again. “I love you, alright? And it hurts me to see you suffer like this.” 

Father straightened up a little bit, saying, “I’m looking into getting you a psychologist and a therapist, ones that we can trust with every part of your life. And until then, if you need to talk to somebody, please talk to me or Alfred. Right now, I want your number one priority to be taking care of yourself. Okay?” 

Damian nodded, trying to keep a stiff upper lip. “Okay.” 

Father nodded right back, and asked, “Can I have a hug?” 

He didn’t reply, but simply lunged into a hug, burying his face in his father’s shoulder, trying not to cry when he rubbed a hand up and down his spine, soothingly, comfortingly. “I’m sorry, kiddo, really am.” 

After a few moments, Father finally pulled back, smiling up at Damian. “Are you done eating? Because if so, we should head on home.” 

“Yeah,” Damian allowed, smiling in turn. Together, they cleaned off the coffee table and packed up their leftovers. 

As they made their way down to the garage in the elevator, though, Damian couldn’t help but ask, “Am I… am I still benched, then?” 

Father’s eyes widened at that, and he glanced down at Damian, calculating. “ I think… at least, for now, while you’re ill, it’s best to keep you out of all combat situations.” 

For a split second, Damian swore that the elevator’s cord had snapped and they were descending at terminal velocity. But no, that was just his stomach. 

“For your safety and everyone else’s,” Father continued, as Damian stared at the wall. “What if you have another episode while on a mission? You could put yourself in serious danger-.” 

“No, I-.” Damian shook his head, trying to ignore the waves of ice cold and white hot that flooded his system. “I get it. I do.” 

He saw Father nod out of the corner of his eye, facing forward once again. “Just until you get better.” 

Get better . As if the monster was not a part of him. 

Chapter Text

On paper, Sunday was a perfect day. He awoke back at the manor, went on a run around the estate with Titus, spent the morning doing homework in the library, and in the afternoon, worked with Father on replacing the torpedoes in the Batplane. 

But the night before, even though he was greeted with a hug from Pennyworth and more food than he could ever possibly eat, Damian found himself staring at his reflection. As a child, he looked at himself and saw the future Demon’s Head, the rightful heir to a sprawling empire. And then, when he joined the Bats, he was his father’s son, the future Batman. 

And now, he was neither. He wasn’t even Robin anymore, and he very likely wouldn’t be again. 

The worst part was that he understood why Father made his decision: now, Damian was a liability in the field. He knew as much as anyone how a single miscalculation or split-second error could lead to disastrous consequences. Before he got back, he needed to get better, but. 

But. 

But he looked at himself in the mirror and saw someone he didn't recognize. Not the Demon Son, not the heir, not Robin, not anyone. All he saw was a stupid boy who knew how to kill and never learned how to stop, who had to render himself useless just to protect those around him. 

Fighting was what he did; birds flew, fish swam, and Damian fought. He'd been a warrior his whole life, and being Robin was the only way, the only way , he could take this lifetime of training and suffering and lies and turn it into something good, something worthwhile. 

But he wasn't strong enough, he supposed. He wasn't sure what had caused it, but perhaps the cracks had been there all along. 

Or perhaps Damian had always been a broken thing. 

On Sunday night, he dreamt of his reflection, distorted and sinuous, with Lazarus green eyes that glinted like Ra's' own. 

Returning to Gotham Academy Monday morning was presented to Damian as a choice, but he decided to do so, nonetheless. If only to prove he wasn’t totally useless, even if he’d developed a persistent migraine half an hour into the day, even if simply existing among the other students made him feel like a fraud, a ticking time bomb, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Because he could deal with it. Or, he had to deal with it. He had to prove he could still do something , especially something that every other moron his age managed to do. 

However, with everything that had occurred over the weekend, Damian had forgotten about Jared goddamned, motherfucking, shitheaded, rat-penised Whittaker.

And, as seemed to be representative of the absolute nightmare his brain had become, he realized there’d been a lot of movement in the larger washroom outside Damian’s stall, and Whittaker’s stupid voice echoed throughout the room, “We know you’re in there, Wayne. Stop running like a little bitch.” 

There were snickers following his comment, and Damian realized there were other people in the room, too. The absolute coward had brought backup , even though he had one year, six inches, and thirty pounds on his opponent. Not to mention Damian was in the fucking bathroom . 

He’d point all this out, but, one, he was presently trying not to hyperventilate, and two, he had a feeling that whatever he said would only escalate the situation. All I need to do is make Whittaker think he’s won, Damian reminded himself, willing his heart to stop beating so loudly, Just, just take whatever he dishes out and don’t hit back. Like every correction you’ve ever been given. Just take it.  

And yet he swore he saw his Lazarus eyes reflected in the stainless steel of the stall doors. Fuck, fuck, fuck.  

Whittaker had the absolute audacity to slip one loafer underneath the stall door, displaying how easily he could enter Damian’s pitifully protected space. “You’ve got sixty fucking seconds to come out or we’re forcing our way in.” 

With as much dignity as Damian could muster (given both the external situation and how his hands shook), he stood up, flushed the toilet, and stood on the opposite side of the stall door, mapping out his possible escape. The bathroom was relatively slim, and it sounded like at least three other people were in there with Whittaker. They could easily grab Damian if he made a run for it. So he needed to create some space, something to stun them just enough to get out of there. 

He took a step back, and challenged, “Do it. Kick the door down.” 

There was a moment of hesitation, and Damian jumped on it. “Oh, you’re such a tough guy but you’re gonna crawl under the stall door to get me? No, kick the fucking door down.” 

Another quiet moment, before one of the accomplices (Lane, if Damian had to guess), said, “It’s reverse psychology, dude. Do it.” 

He was pretty sure Lane had no clue what he was talking about. Whittaker, however, finally stepped away from the door. Damian, in turn, took another step back, bracing himself against the walls with both hands, and checking above him to make sure no one was going to try to sneak in from up there. 

The first kick shook the whole stall, and Damian kept his eyes on the hinge lock, which remained unaffected by Whittaker’s force. It was loud, too; hopefully it would draw some attention, anything to stop this. “Is that the best you’ve got?” Damian goaded, voice shaking just slightly. 

The second kick was stronger, actually bending the latch just slightly. He heard Whittaker take a few steps back, and Damian took his chance, reaching forward to shove the latch as open as he could. The door didn’t swing open, however, and he heard Whittaker’s first heavy step-. 

He pulled back just in time for Whittaker to kick the door open with, evidently, far more force than was now necessary; as Damian used his grip on the walls to jump up onto the toilet seat, Whittaker’s own force threw him into the stall, barely catching himself on the floor. 

Readjusting his grip to the top of the walls, Damian hoisted himself over Whittaker’s prone form, landing a good couple feet from every other assailant (four in total, it seemed) and sprinting towards the exit. One of them shouted after him, but he just needed to get through the doors and then he’d be free, he’d be fine, he’d remember not to make another stupid mistake like going to the bathroom during free period, you absolute idiot . 

Admittedly, Damian had underestimated Whittaker’s cunning; as soon as he opened the bathroom door, he saw another boy, standing guard. He was big, too, and it took him all of two seconds to shove Damian back into the room, where the other four were quick to grab him. 

Damian struggled as best he could, ripping out of grip after grip, telling himself Stay calm, stay calm , until he heard a tell-tale rip.  

It wasn’t until he was essentially detained that he realized someone had ripped the front placket of his dress shirt, leaving all the buttons hanging off one side. He didn’t have much time to think about it, though, before Whittaker punched him in the face. It was a shitty punch, but it did the trick, and Whittaker tugging on his hair, forcing him to look up, only added insult to injury. 

Whittaker looked like he was about to say something, but his eyes caught sight of Damian’s chest. “Goddamn, who put you through a shredder?” 

Unable to look down, Damian could only imagine what Whittaker was seeing, but anything that elicited that comment had to be- fuck, he’d forgotten, why couldn’t he keep it together-  

“Do you play Batman in your spare time?” Damian’s blood ran cold at Whittaker’s words. “Or does Daddy Wayne just use you as his punching bag?” 

Damian was like an outsider in his own body, could only observe as his breath heaved, as his vision began to swim, and as words tumbled from his dry mouth, “Please, don’t do this.” 

Whittaker grinned. “He does, doesn’t he? Aw, then I bet he’ll appreciate this.” 

Damian could only observe as Whittaker pulled back for another mediocre hit, as he ducked and kicked at one of his captors’ legs. Suddenly everything was a scramble, his body striking toes, noses, throats, any and every weak point it could glean, and Whittaker was lunging at it with his arm outstretched, and he grabbed it, and-. 

There was a sickening crunch, a stomach-turning wail, and Damian returned to himself to see Whittaker cradling his unnaturally crooked arm. “What the fuck! What the fuck, you fucking psycho! ” 

He didn’t wait to hear what the rest of them had to say; he bolted out of the room, and out of the school, and as far away as he could. 

Richard had three safehouses in Gotham City: the two that Batman knew about, and the one he didn’t. To think that, at one time, Damian had been uncomfortable about keeping this secret from Father, even though Richard had offered the information as a gift, as a “just in case”. Now, however, he was more thankful than ever for the existence of 130 Tomlinson Avenue, Unit 8E, even if he didn’t deserve it. 

“Fucking up” didn’t even begin to cover the vastness of Damian’s failure. Not only had he let civilians see his tell-tale scars, he’d fought off five of them and broken one of their arms . Three major rules Damian had managed to follow for four years, broken in the span of a few minutes. Thanks to his own unacceptably sloppy miscalculations. He didn’t even know how many cameras in the school had caught him running with his shirt half open, how many people had seen him , if Oracle and Father would even be capable of erasing this impropriety from the public record. 

As far as he was concerned, the world had seen him, and someone would put the pieces together. He’d put not only himself, but his entire family’s safety in jeopardy. 

And even if Oracle and Father were able to wipe this incident away, it would only be a matter of time until there was another, and another. Because Damian Wayne wasn’t only a liability in the field, he realized as he rifled through the dresser of the master bedroom, looking for something to change into that wasn’t his tattered uniform. He was a liability, period . He was violence, he was bloodshed, he was the picture perfect product of the most evil being on the planet, unleashed on the rest of humanity to wreck havoc. 

Sometimes, he wondered why Ra’s had let him out of his sight in the first place. Why give him the chance to escape, to turn against him and everything he stood for? But if he knew that this is what Damian would eventually become, a wrench in his greatest enemy’s meticulous operations and a danger to every person he came across, why not? 

He knew it was the funhouse logic again, but it rang so true it was hard to deny. How long before he ruined everything he touched? How long before Father deemed him too much of a burden, and either locked him away forever or banished him from Gotham entirely? Batman didn't allow metas because they were too unpredictable, so what did that mean for Damian? 

Giving up on the master bedroom, it was in the second that he found clothes in his size. Damian ran his hand over the soft, forest green cable-knit sweater folded lovingly in the second drawer, and couldn’t help how his throat went thick with guilt. Richard had thought to stock this safehouse with clothes for him , not only that fit him but ones he’d actually like . 

The laugh that escaped his mouth surprised him, and he clamped a hand over his lips; only Richard would be so kind as to care for a powder keg of a person. And Damian had repaid that kindness by being a burden at best. Frankly, the world would be better off without him in it. 

The thought gave him pause: A world without Damian . Father would certainly appreciate it, no longer having to worry about what his vicious offspring would do next. He’d no longer worry anyone. 

But was surprising was the relief, the way he suddenly felt everywhere in him that ached. His stomach, his shoulders, his jaw, his head, his chest, where the sweater fibers touched his fingers; Damian was so tired . He wanted to curl up into a ball, to rest , to not have to deal with the fear and anger and disappointment he seemed to inspire in all of his loved ones. 

Carefully, he unfolded the sweater and placed it on the bed opposite, stripping himself of his ruined clothes. It was weakness to rest, when he’d done so much wrong, when there was still so much to be righted . Perhaps, however, it could be a final favor to his family. A world without Damian in it, without his moderate-to-high risk. 

He slipped the sweater on, warm and heavy around his torso, and, like the coward he was, he crawled on top of the covers, and he rested, safe in a room no one would think to look for him, and where he couldn’t hurt anyone. 

Chapter Text

As Damian slept, he dreamt of death. 

Death was peaceful, he remembered. It was his body lying atop the earth, dewy grass tickling his skin, the rustling of the leaves in the tree above. He was nestled in its cool shade, sunlight providing miniscule bursts of warmth through the foliage. It was grief weighing down his stomach and loneliness clouding his thoughts, and his chest cracked open with longing for some sort of resolution, for someone to hold him close and tell him “You did the best you could.” 

It never came. 

In his dream, Damian knew this, that he’d be alone in this moment that stretched into eternity. Just him and the grass and the leaves and the fleeting sunshine and the beguiling stillness of his non-existence. 

Death wasn’t so bad.

When Damian awoke, it was to a sudden burst of energy. Perhaps it was the late hour, and the light of the full moon trickling in through the curtains. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that Damian had a goal again. He always functioned best when he had an end game.  He started with a note, written on printer paper with a black Sharpie pen. 

I was created for the sole purpose of extending Ra’s al Ghul’s reign. The trials the League put me through have assured I will never be a hero, my killer instinct is far too engrained. I know many hope I can still recover, but I know in my heart it’s impossible. I am the Demon Son, I’ve been him for as long as I can remember, and no matter how much I try to leave him in the past, he returns, again and again and again. 

I’ve maimed two people in as many weeks, one of whom I nearly killed, the other a student and civilian. If I am unable to control my own anger or reactions, then I am a threat. And even when I’m not a threat, I’m a burden. I’ve caused my loved ones nothing but grief. You’ve all sacrificed so much for me, put so much faith in me and I know that I can’t become what you want me to be. I’m sorry, I’ve failed you all. 

And it was never more clear to him than now, cloaked in his own guilt and writing a note that felt more like letting blood, what his best course of action was. A threat, or a burden. A prisoner, or a weapon. If those were his choices in life, then he’d choose death.

I’m selfish enough to ask two more favors of you: 1. Don’t let Ra’s anywhere near my body. 2. Don’t bring me back. Please let me rest. 

It felt right, like- his last mission, the last thing he needed to do before he could be rid of himself forever. God, Damian was so sick of being himself, this tragedy with pointless trauma and no real use. Someone who could only be loved by people who were too good to see the darkness lurking within himself. 

He rode this eleventh hour spirit as far as it would take him, leaving the safehouse a mess like the demon, brat, villain he was as he planned. Methods, Damian was more than familiar with those, but it would have to be something… total. The extent of the Lazarus Pits’ capabilities were still unknown to him, but he knew enough about what made resurrection all the more difficult. It was far more labor-intensive to resurrect incomplete remains, ashes or bones or whatever carnage may remain. 

Self-immolation would best assure he remained dead, but it was an unfortunate mixture of being too time-consuming and too eye-catching. He had a better chance of being extinguished by some Good Samaritan and winding up in a hospital than actually dead. Not to mention it was dangerous to everyone around him; this whole city block could come to the ground because of him.  He could also hide away, somewhere, use a more unobtrusive means like pills or poison (there were enough of either available in this very safehouse) and be found weeks or months later, too decomposed to be of use to anyone. But he had nowhere to do it, especially not in this safehouse, because if and when Richard returned to find him-. 

No, Richard couldn’t find him. Damian couldn’t do that to him. 

There was one method, however, that required no special tools, and, while eye-catching, would be over as quickly as it began. His family wouldn’t have to search, the harm to others would be minimal, and he already had access to the perfect location, the tallest skyscraper in Gotham City.  It was just a matter of getting in before anyone was alerted of his presence, and suddenly Damian was hacking into the Wayne Enterprises security systems on autopilot. This was easy, this all felt so easy, like a sign from the universe. Fate laying out his red carpet. He printed out the blueprint, scattered it across the floor, mapping out the path with his trusty pen and marking each and every security mechanism that would need to be deactivated. It reminded him of a training exercise, the requirements laid out for him to check off, one by one. 

The sun had risen by the time his plan was done, and he realized that his time probably wouldn’t come until the next early morning, when security was thin and the streets were empty. He had to keep moving, though, because if he stopped for any reason, he might not get back up. He couldn’t just stay here and rot to be discovered, to be dragged back, to only wreck more havoc and hurt more innocent people.  He cleaned the safehouse. He left the note on the kitchen counter. He showered and changed his clothes and remembered his animal companions; they’d need to be taken care of. Sure, perhaps Pennyworth would be willing to look after them, but they were Damian’s responsibility. 

In researching rehoming shelters and animal sanctuaries for Pennyworth to use, he realized he should add more to this message, as well. There were not enough words to describe how grateful Damian was for Pennyworth’s help, his willingness to lend an ear at all times, any time, to help in all the ways he could.  So, he added an addendum to the rehoming email. 

Pennyworth, 

I’m sorry for the upset this may cause. Please know you’ve done everything right and you’re a better man than I could ever be. If you wish to rehome Alfred, Titus, and Batcow, please follow contact the organizations listed below. They will take good care of them. 

And if Pennyworth got an additional note, he figured Richard ought to, as well, and Father.  Richard’s was easy. 

Richard, 

This isn’t your fault. You’ve tried as hard as you can with me, I know that, and you were always there to support me.

Thank you for giving me Robin, and thank you for giving me another shot at life. I’m sorry I let you down.

I love you dearly, and I want you to know that I’ll be okay. 

Father’s was less so, a matter of starts and stops. There was so much he wanted to say, both hurtful and comforting, and nothing came out right. Even though all of Father’s actions were perfectly logical, even though Father had put up with him for four years and was still trying, even though Father had brought him back from the dead , Damian realized he was angry with him. He thought of Richard’s bedroom and that picture frame, how he’d pretended to mourn with his son. He thought of how small he felt under Father’s castigation, how he felt like he had to scream to be heard. He thought of what J’onzz said, about Father and fear and control, and realized that, perhaps, that was the only reason Father had kept him around when he returned: if he didn’t accept Damian as Robin, then he wouldn’t have any control over him, and he’d be a fear, a concern, a moderate-to-high risk for the rest of his life. 

He settled on a single sentence: 

Father, 

I’m sorry I couldn’t be the son you wanted . 

And that was all the thought he could bear to give it. 

He kept moving until the sun set and began to rise again, gathering all of the equipment he’d need from the safehouse’s storage. He kept a list next to his note, so, when Richard inevitably returned to this location, he’d know precisely what was missing. He kept an eye on the clock. He’d placed a new program within the Wayne Enterprises system, covertly, with a timer that would begin looping the security footage from five am to five thirty. It was a piece of code that was, actually, pretty impressive; Damian found himself calm as he made these arrangements, so he worked better. Similarly, all his emails were scheduled to be sent at exactly five thirty, once it was all over.  At four in the morning, mere moments before he intended to leave the safehouse, he remembered his drawing of Titus and Krypto. He opened it, still unfinished, before saving it and emailing it to Jon, anyways. Something to remember him by, perhaps, to know Damian still thought of him. There was no addendum attached; the drawing said enough. 

When he did finally exit the safehouse, it felt like waking up from a dream. Like Damian was finally aware of his body, from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He pulled down his hat, a dumb beanie he wouldn’t otherwise be caught dead wearing, and made his way out into the world.  By this time, Batman would be winding down his patrol, Oracle would soon be turning in for the night. As long as he kept his head down and stuck to the main streets, he wouldn’t be viewed with any suspicion. He calmed his sudden nerves by walking slowly, forcing himself to alter his gait so Oracle’s software, no doubt scanning as much CCTV footage as it could manage in search of him, wouldn’t pick him up. 

The walk to the Wayne Enterprises building was long and tedious, but he never paused. He couldn’t pause. If he stopped he’d be paralyzed forever, he was sure. He’d fall into that same hole he fell into in Grant Park, staring at nothing and wasting time, wasting oxygen . The only worthy purpose he had now was making sure he never hurt someone ever again.  So he kept walking. 

And when he arrived at the tower at four fifty-one, he walked around the block for nine minutes before he finally made his way in through a service door, quickly jimmied open with the safehouse’s lockpicking kit, and he made his way to a service elevator. It stopped short of the penthouse, however; the only elevators to the residence were strictly monitored, and Damian didn’t dare touch them. Besides, he didn’t think he could stand to see anything remotely resembling the penthouse right now.  He exited at the seventy-fifth floor, and made his quiet way to the nearest trash chute. This was a Wayne Enterprises executive floor, elegantly appointed with massive windows and walls of glass and stainless steel. 

It was in the reflection of one of these walls that Damian watched a security camera turn back on, and he tried not to cuss up a storm. He was nearly there, either way; the only overnight security people were on the first and fortieth floors, so he just had to be quick.  He pulled out his other piece of equipment, a trusty grappling gun, and made his way to the trash chute he knew to be in the southeast corner of the building. There was a motion sensor inside of it which was originally turned off as per his program, but now that the cameras were back up, who knew. Damian just had to be fast, instead. 

Poked his right arm and his head into the chute, shooting the grapple gun up to the first slant and releasing the hooks there. After giving it a firm tug, he pulled his whole body into the chute (a tight fit, maybe he wasn’t as small as he once was), before hitting the retractor trigger and going up. He stuck hoisted himself into the slant, sticking using his boots to grip the sides of the chute, before shooting the grapple gun up to the next slant.  Again and again and again, he scrambled until he finally reached the caterer’s kitchen off the rooftop garden, pulling himself out of the chute once and for all. He checked the time: he had eight minutes before his program would deactivate, and probably less before someone made their way up here. It only took him two minutes to get to the ledge. 

The street below was abandoned, free of both pedestrians and cars. The air was cool as death, the wind insistent, his heart warm as blood in his chest, and Damian had the sudden urge to step away, to get to safety. He shook the thought away; no organism wanted to die. Even single-celled amoeba would dodge when attacked. And Damian knew what came next, what came after, so he had nothing to fear. In a matter of moments, he’d be nothing but a smear on the pavement. The thought was both soothing and nauseating. 

Damian Wayne looked out at the sun rising over Gotham City’s harbor, and thought that maybe the world wasn’t so bad, after all. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the air, and gravity’s greedy hands tugged him down, and he had his first lucid thought in forty-eight hours: 

Ah, fuck . 

This was like a too-real dream, the world screaming past him, the wind whipping like throwing knives, and he begged, Please make it stop . 

When it did, it was a lot sooner than he’d planned. 

A lot less painful, too. 

When he opened his eyes, he saw a head of black hair, a familiar pair of eyes. 

It had been two sunsets and two sunrises since Monday, which meant- 

Jonathan Samuel Kent beamed down at him. 

It was Wednesday. 

Damian was too busy piecing together this new reality he existed in for him to immediately process what Jon was saying to him. “Hey, Damian. Weird circumstances. Were you fighting someone on the roof?” 

They were going up, up, up. Jon’s face had changed, features stronger, but his eyes and smile were the exact same. 

His expression shifted to a frown, however. “I don’t hear anyone up there.” 

When he did manage to respond, he sputtered, “ How are you here? ” 

“I got back a few hours ago,” Jon explained, finally slowing his ascent. “I was in Metropolis, and I heard your heartbeat spike, and you screamed,” he’d screamed? “And… I mean, now I’m here.” 

Jon had saved him, thinking nothing of it. 

As his heartbeat calmed, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to thank Jon or punch him directly in the face. Fuck him for being early, and fuck him for coming to his rescue without needing to be asked, and fuck him for the dawning realization that crossed his features as he no doubt used his stupid super hearing to ascertain the positions of every single living being in the building. “Where did they go?” 

“Who?” Damian asked, still lightheaded despite them being on the rooftop. It seemed like he’d only jumped a split second ago. 

“The guy who pushed you over the ledge, obviously.” He still wasn’t letting Damian go, but it wasn’t like he was exactly struggling, either. Jon frowned, "Did Tim come with you?” 

Tim? As if on cue, Drake burst out of the main rooftop entrance, looking as though he’d run a half-marathon. As soon as he spotted the pair of them, he sagged with relief, collapsing with his hands braced against his knees. “Jon, thank God .” 

Damian could feel reality retreating again, only hearing what the two said to each other. 

“Tim, hi, um. Did you see who pushed Damian off the roof? It’s like they vanished.” 

There was a pause filled with Drake’s panting, before the man managed, “He- He jumped. I- on the cameras, I saw-.” 

Both sets of eyes were on him, their gazes eliciting a physical sensation, and the only thing Damian could think to say was, 

“Please don’t tell Father.” 

Chapter Text

As soon as Tim realized there’d been a security breach at WE, he knew it was gonna be a weird couple of days. First of all, he knew exactly who did it; the program installed within the WE network was Damian’s handiwork, because it looked like Tim’s handiwork from a few years ago. The closest thing to a compliment Tim had ever received from the brat was watching him study a piece of code he’d been particularly proud of, trying to reverse engineer Tim’s programming tricks. To this day, a lot of his code was like Tim’s own. 

But it was, also, very unlike Damian, in that it was insanely lazy. With a timer written into the program and a full list of security features to be deactivated for the duration, it basically gave Tim a road map of when and where whatever was going to occur would occur. Typically, Damian would try a little harder, throw in a few red herrings or obfuscate parts of his program in different places. Tim spent half of Tuesday going over the entirety of the security system, scanning for any new pieces Damian had hidden in there, but only found the singular program. 

It was weird. It was very weird. 

Then again, Damian had been acting more than weird, lately. Between skipping school, his outburst on patrol, breaking a kid’s arm, and his terrifying thousand yard stare, there was clearly something going on that was not the usual Damian I am the blood son bullshit. 

So, Tim decided to camp out in his office for the night, so he’d be here at five in the morning for… whatever the fuck Damian was going to pull. He considered calling Bruce a half-dozen times, but he knew that, as soon as Bruce caught sight of Damian, he was going to drag the kid home again. He couldn’t just accept that maybe the kid needed a little bit of space. 

That was Bruce’s fatal flaw, truly; he always thought he knew what was best for everyone else. Hell, he hadn’t taken Tim’s requests to phase him out of the team seriously until the third time Bruce caught him pouring an entire can of Red Bull into his large coffee. Not the first time, the third time . And by then, Tim was already at the end of his rope. 

When Tim neutralized the program and finally managed to get a visual on Damian, it was minutes before he climbed onto the ledge. And then Tim was running. 

He had a feed going on his phone, in hand, just to make sure that Damian was still there, still there, and then when he wasn’t, it didn’t feel real. It wasn’t until he burst onto the rooftop to see Jon Kent, a miracle in human form, holding Damian Superman-style that he realized what had nearly happened. What Jon Kent returning from the future mere hours earlier had just prevented from happening. 

And, as he watched the two boys argue, he realized, to his horror, that he was the adult in this situation. 

“Damian, is that true? Did- did you just-.” 

“Put me down, Kent, I swear to God-.” 

“No, Damian, answer my question-.” 

Tim took a deep breath, “Both of you, shut up.” Surprisingly, they both did. “Jon, put Damian down, but if he tries anything, grab him again.” 

Jon was way older than he’d been when he left, but the lost expression on his face made him look eleven all over again. Carefully, he put Damian down on his feet, and the other was quick to distance himself from him. Damian, meanwhile, just looked like a deer in the headlights, like he’d spook at any unexpected movement. 

Tim was extremely aware, in that moment, that there was only one person on the planet who he trusted to deal with Damian in this situation. Unfortunately, that individual wasn’t currently on the planet. 

The half-Kryptonian equivalent of a golden retriever would have to do for now. “We’re going into the elevator, down to the garage, and into my car, alright?” 

Jon looked to Damian, and Damian looked at the ground. Tim had to urge them, “Come on, guys.” 

Tim did his best to ignore what was, easily, the most awkward elevator ride of his entire life, by planning out what he was going to do. He’d need help, people who could look after Damian when he wasn’t there. He had an extra bedroom in his apartment, so Damian could stay with him while he mediated the situation. Fuck, he’d have to go grocery shopping; he didn’t have anything vegan in his fridge, just coffee creamer and leftover butter chicken. 

Damian, meanwhile, didn’t argue when Tim opened the passenger side door for him, went in easily before slumping over in his seat and hiding his face. When Jon reached for a door, too, Tim said, “Hold on. Who knows you’re here?” 

Jon furrowed his brow. “What do you- Does it matter?” 

“Yes,” Tim insisted, “Does your dad know you’re here?” 

“He knows I’m with Damian,” Jon insisted, “I told him before I flew off. You don’t have to worry about it.” 

Tim locked the car before Jon could open the door. “Jon, listen to me. Damian doesn’t want Bruce to know about this yet, so you can’t tell your dad.” 

Jon gaped at him, “So, what, you’re just never gonna tell Bruce?” 

Tim really wished he’d get with the program here. “Last weekend, Bruce locked Damian up in the penthouse because he thought Damian was a sleeper agent, okay? If Bruce finds out what just happened, he is going to grab Damian and lock him away somewhere where he can’t hurt himself or others, and then Damian’s gonna do something stupid and stubborn like going on a hunger strike or whatever.” 

Now Jon was just looking at Tim like he was insane, and Tim had to take a step back, had to pick his words more carefully. Fuck, he picked the wrong week to cut down to two cups of coffee a day. “Listen. You have to trust me, okay? Neither Damian nor Bruce are doing okay, and they’re only going to hurt each other right now. Once they both have time to cool off, then we’ll tell Bruce. Until then, you can’t tell your dad.” 

Jon bit his lip, and Tim, truly, felt bad for the kid. The first thing he saw upon returning to his time was his best friend trying to off himself, and now he couldn’t even tell his parents about it. “Fine.” 

“I’m sorry to put this on you, I really am.” Tim had an idea, glancing down at his phone. “Listen, you can talk to Connor about it if you need to, okay?” 

Jon shook his head, “I haven’t even seen Connor yet.” 

Tim was already typing out his text to Connor. 1. Jon’s back. 2. Jon might tell you some fucked up Damian-related info. 3. If you tell said info to any other person I will take the biggest piece of K we have and use it to break your kneecaps. And send. “Well, you can tell anyone who doesn’t have a direct line to Bruce and who you trust to keep this secret, alright? Just remember that the goal is to not tell Bruce too early.” 

Jon just nodded, looking lost as ever, and if they were closer, physically and/or emotionally, Tim would give him a hug. He just asked, “Can I talk to Damian?” 

Tim nodded, unlocking the door, and while he tried his best to give them some privacy, turning his back and everything, Jon still kept the car door open. And he still had to keep an ear out, in case anything happened. 

“Damian, do you want me here?” There wasn’t an audible reply, but Jon sounded disappointed when he continued. “Okay. That’s fine. I just… I want you to know that I missed you a lot, and I’m really happy you’re okay.”  

With that, Tim heard the car door shut, and turned back around to see Jon waving goodbye. “Thanks, Tim. Um, keep me updated, okay?” 

“Of course,” Tim insisted, trying to sound as unemotional as possible. “And Jon? I’m really glad you’re back.” 

Jon nodded, “I am, too.” 

The thing that shocked Tim whenever he caught a glimpse of Damian was how fucking tired he looked. Damian was like the Energizer bunny from hell, aggressively independent and as cunning as they come. If he wasn’t blabbing your ear off, he was purposefully dismissive of your presence, like just you being there was annoying. 

Yes, Tim knew Damian was far from okay , but he at least expected Damian to reply when he asked him what he wanted to eat. So, they left the drive-thru with an extra-large coffee for Tim, and a whole wheat bagel with peanut butter and a medium green tea for Damian, who may or may not decide to eat it. 

Thankfully, once Tim parked the car in the fast food parking lot and started texting Steph, Duke, and Jason ( Lmk your schedules for the next 5 days. CB. ), Damian did take a few bites. Little victories, he supposed. 

Or not, because as soon as Damian swallowed them down, he asked, “Why are we even here?” 

He knew that was intended to start an argument, so Tim didn’t bite. “I wanted coffee.” 

“Just take me home already.” 

Tim looked up at Damian, who was staring moodily down at the bagel in his lap. “Do you… want to go home?” 

Damian tutted, and somehow, that was the most reassuring sign Tim had seen so far. “You’re taking me to the Manor, aren’t you?” 

Tim turned forward, leaning against the steering wheel. “I was going to take you to my place, actually. Just until you decide you want to tell your dad.” 

His phone vibrated, and he leaned back to read it. A text from Duke with his availability, and the question, What’s the CB about? Helpful as ever, truly. 

And Damian, the slippery little fuck, caught sight of it. “What’s a CB?” 

Tim sighed, “A Code Bruce. It’s any operation we don’t want Bruce knowing about.” 

When he turned back to Damian, the kid was staring up at him, confused, and Tim realized the entire time he’d been in this car, he’d expected to be returned to his dad against his wishes. 

And he just… didn’t fight it. That was the weirdest part of it all.

Tim leaned back in the driver’s seat, staring at the ceiling. “I know what Bruce is like, okay? I’ve known him longer than you have. I totally get why you don’t want to tell him you just…” And his phone started ringing. Mother fucker . “…what you just did.” 

Of course it was Steph. Tim had half a mind to decline, but he picked up, anyways. “I thought you were asleep.” 

“Yeah, I was,” Steph replied. “What’s the CB about?” 

“You know, Duke just texted me that. You could have just texted me.” 

“And have you replied to Duke yet?” No, he hadn’t. “No, you have not. And I want answers. What’s the CB? ” 

Tim glanced at Damian, who was looking at Tim with what he could only describe as suspicion. He sighed, “Well, I found Damian, and it’s not good.” 

“Is he hurt?” 

“No, he’s- fine, physically.” Damian scowled at Tim, before returning his attention to his lap. “It’s just… you know, a china shop of a situation.” 

“And Bruce is a bull, got it,” Steph replied. See, she was with the program. 

“I’ll tell you more when I see you, I promise.” 

“Okay. I’ll text you when I’m free.” With that, she hung up, and Tim thumped back against his seat. 

“Why are Thomas and Brown involved in this?” 

And now Tim was back to just hoping Damian would shut up . “Because I’ve got, like, labs and meetings and shit, I can’t watch you for the next five days alone.” 

“I don’t need a babysitter , Drake.” 

Oh my God . “Damian, that’s like, rule number one, okay? You can’t leave a suicidal person alone.” 

Something in the atmosphere changed, now that he’d said the s-word. Tim didn’t even want to look at Damian, frankly, because he realized: Damian’s suicidal. He’s not okay, he tried to kill himself less than an hour ago, he should be in a hospital, he should be with people who love him, he should be getting the help he needs . 

And for now, all he had was Tim. 

Dick, if you can hear me from lightyears away, I need you to bend space and time and come home, like, now.  

Damian repeated himself, quieter. “Why are you even here?” 

“Because believe it or not,” Tim said, starting the car again, “I don’t want you dead.”

“Why not?” Damian asked as Tim started to pull out. “Your life would be easier if I wasn’t in it.” 

Fuck, Tim really picked the wrong time to leave the parking lot. “Damian, stop it.” 

“No, it’s true,” Damian argued, “You’d have Robin for as long as you wanted-.” 

“That was four years ago , Damian,” Tim argued, trying to pull into the road. “You’re in my life now . You killing yourself-.” 

“You wouldn’t be here carting me around if I was dead,” Damian shot back, body fully turned to Tim now. “Just admit it, Drake, you don’t care if I live or die.” 

Tim pulled out in front of a fucking pick-up truck, who layed on their horn immediately. Tim swatted at the air to signal go around me, idiot . “I do care-.” 

And then suddenly the open door light was on. “I’m done with this-.” 

Tim’s heart rate spiked, and he reached out to grab Damian by his hood. “ Damian, stop!”  

Damian twisted around, tugging his hood out of Tim’s hands. “No! I’m sick and tired of all this lying! ” 

Tim grabbed onto his hands, more horns blaring as his Mercedes obstructed the road. “I’m not lying!” 

Damian fought him off as best he could. “ You’re full of shit! ” 

“ Fine! ” Tim shouted, tugging Damian back into the car. “You want the truth? You’re a constant pain in my ass and I have no fucking clue why Dick likes you so much!” 

That seemed to cause Damian pause, and Tim used that opportunity to lunge across him and close the passenger door, locking it. Not like that would stop Damian, but still. 

“And the truth is that, if you fucking kill yourself, then Dick’s gonna come back and blame himself! You know him! You know that’s what he does!” When Tim pulled away, it was to see Damian frozen again, hunched over and staring at his lap. 

And yet Tim couldn’t stop talking. “Because I saw him when you died the first time, okay, and he was- he was a wreck . So if you kill yourself, it’s- it’s gonna be over. He’s gonna be done . So maybe in this alternate fucking universe where none of us ever met you, maybe we all lead better lives, but you are in our lives now . And if you die, Dick’s fucking gone, and Bruce is gonna have a meltdown, and then everything caves in on itself, do you understand? Everything .” 

Because Tim could see it in his mind’s eye; both Bruce and Dick inconsolable in their grief and self-loathing, him and Bruce having blowout argument after blowout argument, Tim had seen the two of them barely bite their tongues in heated arguments about Damian, he couldn’t imagine how bad it would get with all bets off, blaming each other for Damian’s fucking suicide , and then without Nightwing and the Batman, or worse, with Nightwing and the Batman at odds , the whole fucking Justice League would crumble. 

But… but more viscerally than that, as Tim looked over at this dejected teenager, too small for his age, too tired, too broken , Tim knew that if Damian took his own life, he’d never forgive himself, either. 

He looked away, shaking his head and taking a deep breath, before finally pulling into the street. “My job is to keep you alive until Dick gets back, okay? Because if- if I-.” Tim took another deep breath. “Because that’s my job. Because that’s what I’m going to do. Duke and Steph and all of us, that’s what we’re going to do. Our job is to keep you alive, and your job is to stay alive, you got that?” 

Damian didn’t immediately reply, so Tim asked, “ Do you got that? ” 

“Yes.” And Damian’s voice sounded so small , Tim had to swallow back tears. 

“Okay,” Tim replied, forcing his voice steady. “We’re gonna go back to my place, now, okay? No more stops.” 

Damian nodded out of the corner of Tim’s eye, and Tim suppressed the urge to just collapse over the steering wheel and scream. 

He couldn’t do this, not alone. He didn’t know what to say to Damian, and Damian wouldn’t want to talk to him, and he still needed to do groceries-. 

Yeah, he needed to call Alfred. 

Chapter Text

Drake’s guest room, while not up to Damian’s taste, was certainly comfortable. He was unsure who had assured there were extra pillows and blankets available within it, but Damian would have to thank them. They were all piled onto the bed, him curled up right in the center, comforter pulled over his head. Exhausted, he drifted in and out of sleep, shocked into a waking state more than once by the sensation of falling from a great height and slamming into the ground. Even here, somewhere ostensibly safe, his psyche saw fit to remind him of what had nearly been. 

Otherwise, he dreamt of being trapped, locked away somewhere warm and safe where he couldn’t hurt anybody ever again, so he’d always be where everyone expected him to be. Never causing anyone grief or trouble, and while it wasn’t much of a life, perhaps it was the life he deserved. 

And when he was awake, he thought of what Drake said to him. Unfortunately, the man was rarely wrong, and was completely correct in this case: Damian had almost ruined everything. 

He’d never considered the implications of what would occur after his death, selfish, short-sighted . Both Father and Richard were good men, who carried with them the burdens of all they’d hurt, and Damian’s death would result in a greater hardship than his continuing to live ever could. Especially with Richard, who only ever saw the good in Damian, who’d spent so much of his precious time and energy trying to reform him. Who’d given him a title he held most dear, in the hopes it could fix him. 

If he died, then Father and Richard would believe they’d failed him. And if he lived, surely they’d come to the realization that he could never be fixed in the first place. It would hurt more for Damian, but if it was between them suffering and him suffering, he’d take the pain any day. 

And Jon, who’d returned to this time mere hours earlier, had nearly arrived to watch him die. Frankly, Damian wasn’t sure if he could forgive himself for traumatizing his friend like that. The Jon he knew was terrified of losing those he held dear, and, if he’d been a few seconds too late, Damian would have made that fear a reality. 

He never meant for any of this to happen, and yet it did. Story of his life. 

Eventually, he returned to groggy consciousness with a familiar weight on his bed. He was hallucinating it, surely, but as his awareness grew, Damian realized there was no way he could hallucinate the puddle of spittle that had accumulated on his back. 

When he unearthed himself to a room full of sunlight, it was to Titus perking up next to him, and immediately lapping at his face. 

Damian cracked a smile before he realized he was doing it, and scratched between Titus’s ears, just where he liked. “I missed you, too, boy.” 

Perhaps it was selfish of him, but there was something about the love of an animal that brought him comfort. An animal didn’t care who you were or what you’d done, they just cared about how you treated them, and if you treated them well, you had a friend for life. So, although Damian had almost ruined everything, he let himself indulge in this affection. 

“Master Damian.” 

The love of a human, however, was more complicated, just like humans themselves. No matter how hard Damian tried to earn it, it was like he could lose it in the blink of an eye, without meaning to. That’s what he’d been expecting this whole time. 

It took him some effort to finally look up at Pennyworth, and guilt twisted in Damian’s gut almost immediately upon doing so. It was as if he’d aged ten years since they last saw one another, the bags under his eyes more pronounced, shoulders drooping inwards. His shirt, usually ironed to perfection, was wrinkled, and his expression was pulled inwards, eyebrows creased and lips pressed tight. 

“Master Tim told me what happened. How are you feeling?” he asked from his spot in the doorway, and what a question that was. Damian opened his mouth, trying to reply, but the words died on his tongue, and his chin dropped to his chest. He could feel warmth blossoming in his throat, behind his eyes. Damn it.  

“Oh, my dear boy.” It was almost said to himself, barely loud enough for Damian to hear. He felt Titus settle across his lap as Pennyworth crossed the room, and kneeled at his bedside. “I fear there aren’t enough words in the world to express how sorry I am.” 

Damian looked at Pennyworth once again, because- because Damian was the one who caused this whole mess. 

But Pennyworth continued, “I can’t imagine what you must have been going through, right under my nose, and I didn’t do anything to stop it.” 

He sounded so vulnerable, so ashamed , and Damian couldn’t bear to hear another second of it. Although his voice shook, he insisted, “No, Pennyworth, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I was- selfish, and I didn’t think about what my- doing this, would do to everyone else.” 

Pennyworth pulled back at those words, expression going slack as he appraised Damian, before reaching forward for his hands, holding them in his grip. “Master Damian, you don’t-.” Pennyworth swallowed, taking a moment to reign himself in. “You should never apologize for being denied the support you so clearly needed. I’ve known all along you were unwell, but I didn’t know it was so dire. In retrospect, I should have seen it. I should have been more upfront with my concerns, and I’m sorry I failed you.” 

Unwell. As if he could get better, like this was some illness that had gone undiagnosed until now. “No, Pennyworth, I-,” he shook his head, unable to look him in the eye. Pennyworth was such a kind man, and he deserved the truth, even if Damian could hardly bear to admit it to him. “I was created to be a- a replacement body for Ra’s. Designed and assembled in a vat for that specific purpose. I was built to kill, Pennyworth. I’m not- I’m not a regular person , there’s no cure for what the League’s made me. I was made to be like this, to hurt people.” His voice was already trembling, and he swallowed before adding, “I was made to be broken.” 

There was silence for a moment, punctuated only by Damian’s own sniffles, his attempts at regulating his breathing. Pennyworth’s hands moved from Damian’s own, to his shoulders, grip steady and firm. “Damian, look at me.” 

After a deep breath, he did, met with a fierceness he’d only seen in the eyes of heroes, in Richard or Father or Drake. “You’re an extraordinary child, yes,” Pennyworth allowed, “but you’re as human as the rest of us. You bear the burden of the most difficult upbringing imaginable, and that’s something no human can bear on their own. Yet you’ve borne it for your entire life, with a strength I cannot comprehend. I’ve seen grown men brought to their knees from a fraction of what you’ve experienced, Master Damian. I knew all along the caliber of help you needed, and I put the limitations of my duty before your health and safety, and for that, I will never forgive myself.

“It doesn’t matter the exact specifications and circumstances of your upbringing, because I’ve seen your humanity blossom despite all of it. You’re curious and persistent. You’re compassionate to every living creature and you’re generous with all those you love. Sometimes you’re so alive it’s easy to forget what you’ve been through.”

Damian had long since given up trying to suppress his tears; at this point, he was just trying to remember how to breathe . Because this funhouse mirror world he’d constructed for himself was cracking, and while the familiarity hurt to let go of, he wanted so badly for Pennyworth’s words to be true. He had to ask, taking all the breath he could from his spasming lungs, “Then why- why can’t I stop hur- hurting people? I don’t want to hurt anyone but I keep-.” His own traitorous body cut him off, unable to speak and breathe at the same time. 

Pennyworth paid it no mind, though, replying, “The patterns of our upbringings are difficult to shake, Master Damian, especially those we’ve instilled to protect ourselves. But these patterns can be altered, with the support of others and a great effort I know you can muster. It’s my duty, and the duty of all those who care about you, to make sure you feel safe enough to unlearn these patterns. Do you understand?” 

Damian wasn’t sure if he did understand, because, “And what if I can’t unlearn them?”

“You’ve already begun,” Pennyworth insisted, “Caring for your animal companions, for instance, is antithetical to what you’ve learned in the League.” In Damian’s silent contemplation, Pennyworth added, “And you will make mistakes, you will feel like you’re undoing the progress you’ve made, but that’s just a part of healing. Those who love you, who truly love you, understand that. All you can do is apologize, make amends, and move forward.” 

Nothing momentous had changed, not really, but when Damian glanced back at his funhouse view of reality, it just looked warped. With a sniffle, he said, “I should have spoken to you earlier, huh?” 

Pennyworth smiled, face brightening right up, “Yes, you should have, but I’m glad we’re speaking now.” As he pulled his hands away from Damian, he added, “I’d rather have you imperfect and alive than dead, any day. And I’m so happy you’re still with us.” 

Titus’s head shifted in Damian’s lap, and he reached down to scratch between his ears. “I’m… I’m happy I’m still here, too.”

Chapter Text

Truthfully, it took Damian until Pennyworth returned to the guest room with his lunch for him to remember about the emails. "Father knows," was the first thing he said as Pennyworth placed the tray of food at the foot of the bed. Damian had forced himself to make it, but he couldn't bring himself to leave it quite yet. The bed was the only seating available in this room, and Damian was, admittedly,  exhausted . So, he sat at the head of it, atop a makeshift chair of pillows, with a plush blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Titus busied himself with his bowl of food beside the bed, unwilling to leave Damian's side. 

It was the early afternoon; Father was definitely awake by now, and was likely in a panic. Nobody liked the Batman in a panic. 

"I'm aware," Pennyworth said, "He phoned me as soon as he woke up." 

Damian blinked at him, before glancing down at his tomato soup and chickpea salad sandwich. "... What did he say?" 

"Well, Master Bruce said he got a distressing message from you," Damian felt guilt weighing heavy on his chest; he was getting sick of that particular sensation, "And that everyone needed to find you, immediately. This was after Master Timothy rang me, so while I did not inform him of the details, I assured him that you were safe, and you were with us, and you simply needed some time alone." 

Damian sighed, picking up his spoon and stirring the soup aimlessly. Titus perked up, placing his head atop the bed. "So, he doesn't know that I…?" 

"Attempted suicide? No," Pennyworth replied, "Though I do believe he ought to be informed at some point. He is your father, after all." 

He stopped his ministrations, holding the spoon in place.  He is your father, after all.  So why did the very thought of Father knowing the true extent of his disturbance make him want to run as fast and as far away as he could? 

With a huff, he finally filled his spoon. "What do you think he'll do when he finds out?" He sipped at the soup to hide his doubts, before realizing that, not only was this delicious, but he was  hungry.  

He took another spoonful as Pennyworth spoke. "I'm… not entirely sure, admittedly. I do know, however, that it often takes a massive consequence such as this for Master Bruce to see the error of his ways. He's stubborn, but he's still intelligent and self-aware. He knows that great care is required to see someone through a crisis such as this and that he often has trouble providing such care." 

Damian paused, frowning to himself; what was this about  consequences? Sure, perhaps Father had gone overboard by locking him up in the penthouse, but that was far from the only reason Damian decided to end his life. In fact, it wasn't even on the list. And sure, Damian was upset with his father, but those were just… emotions. Irrational emotions. Father always did the right thing. 

"You could say that again." Both Damian and Pennyworth looked up at those words to see Jason Todd leaning against the door frame. "At least he  knows  he has the emotional intelligence of a paper plate." 

Pennyworth tutted, but was smiling nonetheless. "Master Jason, it's so good to see you." 

Titus also greeted Todd, plodding up to him and being granted a scratch between the ears for his efforts. "Good to see you, too, Alf. As always." 

Damian, however, simply pulled his tray closer to himself. What was this, a family reunion? "What are you doing here?" 

"Babysitting duty," he replied, indicating outside the room with a nod. "Tim said he and Alfred might go up to the manor to get your stuff, and he wanted me to look after you while they did." 

Damian frowned, turning to Pennyworth. "So I'm not to go to the manor with you?" 

Before Pennyworth could answer, Todd interjected, "Do you  want  to go?" 

The answer to that question, at least from a spot deep in Damian's gut, was  no.  The mere thought of being in the same vicinity as his father right now was… It was like standing outside the study doors again. He knew his subsequent encounter with his father would end with him in pieces. 

"You may come if you'd like to," Pennyworth offered, tentative. 

Damian knew he had no logical reason to fear him, but he was  exhausted , and thought to himself,  maybe I could just stay where I'm safe, for now . "No, I'll stay with Todd." 

Todd turned his palms up on either side of him, as if to say  Now that that's settled . "Perfect." With that, he left the doorway, heading back into the main room. 

Pennyworth, in turn, offered a hand to a returning Titus, smoothing his palm over his head. "I should also add that Master Titus won't be able to stay with you. Unfortunately, Master Timothy's apartment building does not allow pets." Damian wrinkled his nose in displeasure; he'd suggest the penthouse as his temporary residence just to keep Titus with him, but the thought of returning to the WE building made his stomach churn. "However, the doorman assured us he was welcome to visit." 

Damian nodded, leaning forward to scratch under Titus's chin. "Is he going with you now, then?" 

"No, no," Pennyworth assured, "I'll return to make you dinner, and then I'll leave with Master Titus in the evening." As Titus hauled himself onto the bed, nearly disrupting Damian's lunch tray, Pennyworth added, "Besides, Master Titus has been beside himself in your absence, Master Damian. I doubt he'll go easily." 

Damian moved the tray to the bedside table so he could give Titus all the affection he desired, and the Great Dane quickly laid himself across Damian's lap, peering up at him with those big, wet eyes. For the nth time in the last hour, he realized that, had it not been for Jon, he'd be gone. Titus would never see him again, nor would he understand why Damian vanished and never returned. "Thank you, Pennyworth." 

"You're very welcome, Master Damian," he assured, "And I'll be sure to bring Master Alfred next time. He's just been testy lately." 

It was Drake's turn to appear in the doorway, poking his head in. "Hey, if Bruce already knows, should we call Jon and tell him he can tell his dad?" 

"To be specific, Master Bruce doesn't know the extent," Pennyworth repeated, rearranging Damian's lunch on the nightstand so he wouldn't need the tray anymore. 

"You can tell him," Damian allowed, because- because he deserved to know, even if Damian was too cowardly to tell him. "If you'd like." 

"Yeah, totally," Drake agreed, "I mean, we're going to his place, anyways. And if he's not there, we can call him." 

It was bizarre how everyone seemed aware of Father's pending reaction, and how easily Pennyworth and Drake accepted their roles as messengers. As if this wasn't Damian's own fault and, thus, his own responsibility. He wondered if it was out of love or pity. 

Titus lapped at his face, snapping him out of his thoughts, and Damian couldn't help but smile. Maybe it didn't matter for now. All that mattered was that they were willing to bear the brunt of whatever Father would inflict upon them. Unless, of course, Father saved it specifically for the offender themselves. 

Damian pressed his face against Titus's fur and tried to stop thinking. 

Once Drake and Pennyworth had left, Todd asked, "So, do you got Jon's phone number? Or some other way to talk to him?" 

They were sitting in the main room on opposite sides of Drake's couch; Damian curled up in one corner with his eyes on the TV, Todd at the other, legs stretched out and feet propped up on Drake's coffee table. 

Damian worried his lip, "I could just… call out. For him." 

Honestly, Damian almost didn't want to, because the extent of what he'd done to Jon had immediately hit him like a bullet train. 

Jon would have come upon hearing his screams, no matter what, and if he'd been just a few thousand miles further away, if he'd been at the Hall of Justice or the Fortress of Solitude, he'd have arrived just in time to see Damian hit the pavement. 

Welcomed back home by watching his friend die. Drake said Richard would blame himself, which he would, but so would Jon. Damian had nearly inflicted the burden of his death on the last person he wanted to bear it. And he'd refused to even  look  at him afterward. 

He didn't know if he could look at him now. 

"You don't have to." Damian turned to look at Todd, who was studying him carefully. "I mean, it's…" Todd looked away, gaze lost in thought. "It's a lot, what you're going through, and I can't imagine…" He shook his head. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm sure I could find his number if you don't wanna talk to him." 

So many people were willing to carry out the natural consequences of his actions for him. He'd been expecting that kindness from Pennyworth, sure, but  Todd?  It didn't make  sense . "Why are you being so nice to me?" 

Todd turned back to him, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. "You tried to  kill yourself  this morning. That makes people pretty nice to you." When Damian tutted in reply, Todd continued, "And, I've… listen, I've never tried to kill myself, but I've… been in the headspace where I've thought about it, y'know?" 

Admittedly, Damian did not see that coming. He knew Todd was… a loose cannon, perhaps. An angry man with a vendetta and not much holding him back. He never thought Todd would have considered  suicide . 

Todd kept going. "It's this… overwhelming thought. Like a huge wave crashing over you, and suddenly you don't know what's up or what's down or-. Whatever, this isn't about that. I'm just saying, even if we aren't, like…  close , I know how bad this kind of stuff can get, how hard it can be to even get out of bed, let alone have tough conversations with people, but," Todd shrugged, "I- I care about you, kid. We all do. I want you to be okay." 

Evidently, Damian was staring at Todd like he'd grown a second head. The man rolled his eyes. "Stop looking at me like that." 

He took his feet off the coffee table, reaching for his cell phone, but Damian beat him to the punch. "I'll talk to him." 

Without waiting for a reply, Damian got off the couch and strode towards the nearest window, pushing the curtains aside and opening the sash lock. As he hauled it open, however, he did a double-take. 

There, sitting on the rooftop opposite with his eyes on his phone, was Jon Kent in his civvies. In fact, it was the exact same outfit he'd worn that morning. 

The young man startled as soon as he heard the window open. "Jon?" 

He offered a tentative hand in greeting, smile strained. "Hi. Sorry, I-." 

Damian shook his head, pushing the window open further. "Would you like to come in?" 

After a moment's hesitation, Jon grinned up at him, relief flooding his features. "Absolutely." 

Chapter Text

It was Todd who suggested they take Titus for a walk. “Go out and stretch your legs,” he insisted, “I’ll be right here.” Damian wasn’t necessarily keen on going outside, given how cloudy and grim of a day it was proving to be, but at the mere mention of a walk, Titus’s ears perked up. The poor beast needed some time outside. 

Plus, it gave Jon and Damian some privacy to talk. 

It was hard to see the young man who stood before him as the same grinning child who Damian had called his best friend, only a few months prior, but his mannerisms, his syntax, and his smile were still the same. The longer he spent next to him, the less uncanny and more familiar he felt. 

A few steps from the apartment complex, Jon offered, “I, um, I got your drawing.” Damian turned to him as the young man cleared his throat, noting the tightness in his voice. “It’s really nice. Like, the best drawing of yours I’ve ever seen.” 

Well, yes, because it’s my latest piece. That’s how skills work; they improve the more you use them. Although that was his first thought, Damian decided against voicing it; Jon was clearly upset right now, no thanks to him. Patronizing him wouldn't help. “Thank you. I wanted you to have it.” 

Drake’s apartment was close to Gotham University’s campus, and with the buildings inside clearly abuzz with life, they seemed technicolor when compared to the empty grayness of a Gotham fall. However, it allowed Damian and Jon to find some chairs near the courtyard, allowing Titus to explore the paltry greenspace the campus had to offer within view of them. 

“How was the future?” he asked before Jon could begin his own inevitable questioning. 

Jon, thankfully, played along with it. “Um, it was… weird. Or, I guess I should say, uh. I spent a long while trapped in a volcano. It’s a long story.” 

“We have time.” 

Jon sighed. “I wanna talk about you, Damian.” 

Of course he did. “And I want to talk about you.” 

After a short standoff, Jon relented. “It was… my grandpa and I got sucked into a black hole, and I ended up in this universe where the Justice League and everyone in it were evil. And then I was caught by Ultraman, who’s basically my dad’s evil twin brother, and, um…” He shrugged, looking out over the courtyard. “He threw me into a volcano and kept me in there.” 

“Out of the sun?” Damian asked. Jon nodded. “For how long?” 

Jon sighed again. “A long time.” 

And the very thought made Damian’s blood boil, because he could picture it so clearly; Jon trapped in inky blackness, cold and alone, sleeping on the rock floor, copper and snapping and squeezing- Damian shook the mental image from his mind, clinging to the cold metal arms of his seat. “That’s horrible. That’s really horrible, Jon.” 

“I know,” Jon admitted, “I haven’t even told my parents yet.” 

Guilt roiled in Damian’s stomach; here was Jon offering him companionship when his parents hadn’t seen the boy in months. “You should.” 

“I will,” Jon assured. “I mean, of course I will.” Damian watched Jon worry his lips, clearly lost in thought, and before Damian could hypothesize on the subject, he added, “It’s… can I tell you something?” 

“Of course.” 

“Ultraman had this… this weird idea in his head that I was going to be his protégé.” White hot rage coursed through Damian’s veins, and he clenched his fists. “Like, he was going to break me into submitting to him, and the whole time I was trapped, I just held onto the fact that I couldn’t let that happen.” 

Jon turned to Damian, the latter trying to school his expression so the former wouldn’t catch how absolutely livid he was. (Jon, trapped in the dark, telling himself over and over again, I can’t break, I can’t break. ) 

“And I didn’t,” Jon continued, “Not when I was trapped, anyways, but then, afterwards, it was like…” He gesticulated with his hands, motioning to some imaginary item in front of him. “Like I’d lost a part of myself in there. I didn’t feel like myself, I couldn’t- I had these horrible panic attacks, and nightmares like I’ve never had before, and I was just… I was fucking exhausted.” He dropped his hands to his lap, gaze on the ground. “And all I could think about, the whole time I was struggling, was you.” 

Any anger Damian felt lessened at those words, expression dropping and stomach churning. “I knew you’d… been through horrible things,” Jon continued, “Like, I’ve known that for a while. And while I was gone, I was able to research the League of Assassins, or what little information there was. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d gone through all that awful stuff as a little kid, and you were still standing. You’ve always known exactly who you were and what you wanted, and I just felt like I was… lost.” 

Jon’s voice shook, and he took a moment to breathe, during which Damian’s head was spinning. “For a long time, I honestly thought you were just… built different. Like you deserved to be the one born with superpowers, because how could I be a hero if I didn’t even know who I was? But now, coming back, and- and knowing you tried to…” Jon swallowed, finally glancing up at Damian. “Was that how you were actually feeling? All along?” 

Damian hated everything about this moment. He hated how Jon had been through something so horrible, he hated how his situation felt so fucking familiar, he hated how upset he was for Jon, and, most of all, he hated how much sense all of those realizations made together. 

“Damian, talk to me.” 

“That shouldn’t have happened to you,” he blurted out, squeezing his eyes shut. “You didn’t deserve that.” 

“You didn’t, either.” 

“ You didn’t break .” Damian’s eyes snapped open, the incandescence of the moment making this seem so real it felt unreal. “You didn’t, and I did, okay? I killed people, Jon. Happily.  I was built for it. And no matter how much I try, I can’t stop hurting people.” 

That warmth was building behind his face, again, tears and snot and sobs, and he tried desperately to pull it back. 

Jon wasn’t helping. “I’m sorry, Damian, that I didn’t see that sooner. All day, all I’ve been thinking about is just… how you were hurting for so long, and I can’t even imagine how it must have- I mean, you were so little, and your mom wanted you to-.” 

Damian shook his head, squeezing his hands together without realizing it. “My mom- I was only created to be a replacement body for Ra’s. I could have been fucking brain dead and I’d still be able to serve my purpose. That’s all I am, Jon. I’m a vessel, a fucking- a meat suit.” 

There was a moment of silence, punctuated only by Damian’s heavy breaths. When he finally managed to regain some control, Jon asked, “A replacement body?” 

Damian sighed, “The Lazarus Pit is only so powerful; over the years, Ra’s has had to use it more and more just to maintain himself. I was created to be a vessel for Ra’s’ soul to eventually transfer in to, so he could continue to lead the League of Assassins.” 

That seemed to shut Jon up, and a bitter part of Damian thought, Good. He understood the difference between them: people like Jon got parents who loved him unconditionally, got sunny days and loving friends and a kind world, while people like Damian only had a body made to kill and loneliness carving a chasm in his chest. 

And then Jon chuckled . “Damian, that’s… so, okay, the first ten years of your life, everyone around you was doing their best to turn you into this… obedient, pliant thing, and you didn’t break.” 

Damian couldn't believe him. “Did you miss the whole killing machine part?” 

“No, I mean-, sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed, it’s just-.” He shook his head. “Damian, you’re the most pig-headed person I’ve ever met, even now. You’re, like, the least obedient kid on the planet. Your mom and your grandpa spent most of your childhood trying to make you a puppet, and they couldn’t do it.” 

Damian thought of the corrections, the endless trials, the long days and nights spent perfecting skills again and again and again. “But I did obey them, all the time.” 

“I mean, when you were with them, sure, but you didn’t go back to them,” Jon said, “As soon as you were with your dad, you cut off all contact. Even when your dad went missing, you decided to work against them.” 

Damian looked back out to the courtyard, only to find Titus had returned to his side. When Damian reached out a hand, Titus was quick to settle his head in Damian’s lap, letting him scratch behind his ears. “I… suppose you're right.” 

“Well, I know I’m right.” 

A crowd of students began pouring from a building, and both of them fell silent, watching the horde crisscross the courtyard. Jon was right, and Damian couldn’t deny that, but… but why did Damian feel so powerless now? Why did he feel so trapped if he was so strong? 

Why did something still feel wrong? 

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” Jon said once the crowd had passed. “Like, I- I don’t know what I’d do if you were gone.” 

Damian glanced over at him. “I’m glad you’re okay, too.” He added, looking down at Titus. “I missed you a lot.” 

Jon nodded to himself. “I missed you, too. And I’m… I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” 

“ Tt . Don’t be. It was an incredible opportunity, even if your father’s evil twin held you captive.” 

“It sounds stupid when you put it like that,” Jon replied. “But, I mean… I dunno, if I could go back in time, maybe I wouldn’t do it. And if I knew you were doing so bad, I definitely wouldn’t have.” 

Damian snorted. “It’s just been a bad couple of weeks.” Really, it was an impressively short amount of time to push him to the brink of suicide. 

Jon furrowed his brow. “I mean… my dad told me a bit about it. After I, um, left you with Tim, I went back to my parents and told them that- basically that you didn’t want to see me.” The fact that Jon had lied to his parents for him only made Damian feel even guiltier. “He basically said that you were benched and your dad was worried about you, and that Dick was off-world.” 

Worried about me . That was one way to put it. “He thought I was a sleeper agent.” Damian took Jon’s shock in stride. “J’onn J’onzz told me that he’s afraid of me.” 

“Why would he tell you that?” 

Damian sighed, “I think it was meant to be… validating, I suppose. He said my father was afraid of me but that it was an irrational fear. That he feared what I was capable of.” 

Jon was silent for a long moment. “... Is that why you don’t wanna tell him about this morning?” 

“He knows, anyways,” Damian admitted, “At the same time I sent you the drawing, an email was sent to him. I’d just… forgotten about it.” Truly, it felt like weeks since he’d penned that message, when it hadn’t even been thirty-six hours. 

“Oh.” Jon sounded surprised. “Can I… I mean, can I tell my parents what happened, then?” 

“Of course,” Damian insisted, “You don’t have to lie for me.” 

Jon slumped back in his seat. “Okay. Tim just- told me that he didn’t want it to get back to your dad.” 

It was Damian’s turn to be surprised; yet again, Drake had gone out of his way to protect Damian, to respect his wishes. No matter how unrealistic or nonsensical. “Everyone’s being so nice to me, it’s unnerving.” 

Jon smiled to himself. “That’s the most you thing you’ve said so far. It’s kind of a relief.”

Damian couldn’t help but smile, too. “It won’t be a relief for long, trust me.” 

Jon shook his head. “No, it will be.” His tone left no room for argument. 

Jon insisted he walk Damian home; he admitted that he’d been not only listening to Damian’s heartbeat from across the street, but also, consequentially, eavesdropping on everything said in Drake’s apartment. They don’t want you alone, Damian, so I’m not gonna give them reason to worry. Once he was safely back in Todd’s care, then Jon was off to his parents, with the promise that he’d be back. 

“Text Tim about it,” Todd said, “He’s got us on a rotating schedule, I’m pretty sure, and he’d love to add you to the roster.” 

Shortly after Jon left, Brown and Thomas arrived at the apartment with an old Wii and a bunch of games. Although Damian disliked the concept of having to be monitored at all times, it was the first time in a long time he’d felt like his company was wanted. 

If only he didn’t have to nearly die for that to happen, but he did his best to ignore that. 

By the time Pennyworth and Drake returned, the sun was setting, and the four of them were on their third round of Mario Kart. Damian, however, happily abandoned the game to speak with them. 

Before he could speak, however, Drake said, “Can you call Bruce tomorrow, Damian?” 

The very thought made his stomach drop. “Is he upset?” 

“Only with himself,” Pennyworth assured, before giving Damian a small stack of items: his cell phone, his tablet, his noise-cancelling headphones, his sketchbook, and a brand new set of charcoal pencils. “I hope we didn’t forget anything.” 

“We also got your laptop, your chargers, basically every toiletry from your bathroom and a suitcase full of clothes,” Drake added, placing a few bags by the guest room door. “And your schoolwork, but that’s less exciting.” 

Damian was just trying to hold back a smile; it was so nice to have his things again. “I’m surprised I’m not expelled.” 

“Close, you’re suspended,” Drake said. Great.  

Damian turned to Pennyworth, the man quickly making his way to the kitchen, before finally deciding on Drake, stepping close to him and lowering his voice. “Is Father upset with me?” When Drake met his question with a frown, Damian added, “Just tell me.” 

“No,” Drake insisted, lowering his voice. “I don’t know why you think he’d be mad at you.” 

When Damian didn’t respond, Drake just sighed. “Just… call him sometime tomorrow, okay? He wanted to come back with us, but Alfred told him you needed some space.” 

Damian wanted to argue that point, but he knew Pennyworth was right. As always. “Understood.” 

He made to return to the couch, but Drake said, “And Damian?” and he stopped in his tracks. 

Drake cleared his throat. “I’m… I’m sorry, for what I said this morning. You’re a good kid, and I care about you a lot, and it’s… I shouldn’t have brought Dick into this. You don’t have to live for me or him or any of us. I want you to live for yourself.” 

Damian turned to catch Pennyworth’s eye, and the man’s gaze quickly returned to his meal preparation. He remembered Drake's own gaze on him, that day an eternity- no, no, less than two weeks- ago, across the lounge in Titans Tower. 

“Thank you,” he managed. “But please don’t lie to me, Drake. You’re the only one who doesn’t.” 

Without waiting for Drake’s response, he turned and made his way back to the couch.

Chapter Text

As soon as Damian turned on his phone, he was met with a wall of notifications that filled his gut with cold dread. He hadn’t touched his phone since Monday morning, and he was not in the mood to read what everyone had to say to him since then. So, he left it on the dresser in the guest room, and refused to think about it until the next morning, after he’d showered and brushed his teeth and was already eating breakfast. 

Todd was, annoyingly, already at the apartment, but he was making blueberry pancakes so Damian didn’t complain too much about his presence. Drake, meanwhile, seemed to have an early lecture, so shortly after Damian began to eat, he was heading out the door, assuring Todd he’d be back by noon. To relieve him of his charge , Damian thought to himself. 

Once Drake was out the door, Damian pulled his headphones on, and began going through his messages. There were the ones he got after going missing: Pennyworth reminding him to stay safe, Brown asking where he was, et cetera. There was an email from the school about his disciplinary hearing, which he’d missed, and several text messages from classmates asking about Whittaker’s broken arm. There was almost a congratulatory tone to those ones, but that didn’t make him feel better about it. 

There were also eight missed calls from Father. Five on Monday in quick succession, and three from yesterday: one at three o’clock, one at six thirty, and one at eight. And a message, which Father rarely bothered to leave. Damian sat at the table, food half-finished, staring down at his call log and telling himself to just listen to the damn thing. 

Pathetically, it took him a few minutes to summon the courage. 

The message was short. “ Hey, kid. I’m… I’m really glad you’re safe. I understand that you’re probably upset with me, and you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I just wanted to tell you that… that you are the son I wanted. ” Damian jaw clenched. “ And I’m sorry that I ever made you feel that you weren’t. I love you, Damian, even if I’m not always good at showing it. Please call me back whenever you can. ” 

As soon as the beep sounded, Damian took his headphones off, running his hands over his face as this familiar, conflicted feeling washed over him. 

Instinctually, he distrusted what his father told him. Just like everybody else, Father must be placating him with white lies. But how could he ever think his own father, who took him in, who cared for him and trained him, didn’t love him? How could he have ever told Father he thought he was unwanted? And his tone had sounded so defeated, so desperate . Damian knew as well as anyone that this was his worst fear: losing someone he loved. His parents, Todd, and then Damian, again . 

And Damian had put him through that. On purpose . 

And still, a part of him was appalled at this sympathy, producing an intermittent chorus of I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. 

This disgust and guilt, ire and compassion, warred within him, and he remembered what his father had said to him. A sign of severe mental illness . And he was right, which just made him more upset, because he was sick and unwell and everything he was feeling was irrational but that didn’t make it any less real.

“You good?” Damian had nearly forgotten Todd was, also, in the room, doing the dishes a few feet away from him. 

“I’m great ,” Damian snarled, sitting up straight. 

“Sure.” Damian didn’t like Todd’s pointed tone one bit. He picked up his fork, stabbing at his quickly-cooling stack of pancakes, but the thought of putting a piece into his mouth made his stomach churn. Great, now he’d lost his appetite. He dropped the fork, pushing the plate away and leaning back in his seat. 

After a few more minutes, Todd came up to him to take his plate, asking, “You wanna tell me what’s wrong?” At the searing look Damian sent his way, Todd raised his free hand in surrender. “Alright, then how about a distraction?” 

Damian glared down at his phone; that actually sounded pretty nice. “Whatever.” 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Todd replied, dumping Damian’s leftovers into the compost. When he turned back around to see Damian glaring at him, yet again, he offered an infuriating smirk. “Don’t worry, gremlin, it’ll be fun.” 

Somehow, Todd’s definition of ‘fun’ involved going to Ikea. 

Not even to the showroom, which, at least as far as Damian and the rest of the planet was concerned, was the actual ‘fun’ part of this store. No, Todd side-stepped it and made his way to the store space, between the showroom and the warehouse. Damian followed, hood pulled over his face and head down, because somehow, despite the fact that it was ten am on a Thursday, Ikea was still packed. 

“Four ninety-nine per plate?” Todd said to himself, picking up a white dish. “This is bullshit, we should’ve gone to Walmart. Damn Swedes.” 

Damian looked at Todd, and then at the plate, and back at Todd. “Is this seriously the Red Hood’s idea of fun? Shopping for tableware? ” 

Todd turned to Damian, and smirked, tapping his temple. “This is only phase one of my master plan, gremlin. Here,” Todd handed Damian the dish, “Do you like the weight of this one?” 

Damian took the plate, but continued to stare at Todd, baffled. “You tell me what it is you’re planning or I’m going to start screaming.” 

Todd tsked, turning back to the display. “Someone hates surprises.” 

“ Todd- .” 

“We’re going to take these babies and smash them,” Todd explained, “Figured Timmy would be a little upset if we used the ones already at his apartment.” 

Really, it shouldn’t surprise Damian that destruction of property was Todd’s idea of ‘fun’. “So that’s your master plan? Phase one, buy plates, phase two, smash them?” 

“Just trust me,” Todd insisted. “Now, find one you like the weight of, we’ll buy twenty, and we can get a move on.” 

Rolling his eyes, Damian acquiesced. He picked the ones that were six ninety-nine a piece, just to annoy Todd. 

As they were waiting in the checkout, however, Damian found himself looking at his phone again. Can you call Bruce tomorrow? Call me whenever you can. It was nearing eleven am, Father was definitely awake, and Damian couldn’t help the pit growing in his stomach. He owed his father an explanation, certainly, not to mention he was in emotional distress. Damian ought to try and alleviate it. 

“Hey,” Todd said. Damian looked up to see he already had his receipt, and his cardboard box full of plates. “This is heavy, let’s go.” 

Frankly, Damian didn’t want to know where they were. It was an old warehouse in Gotham, which meant, historically, bad news. But Todd had the keys, so it was presumably some sort of safehouse of his, or at the very least a former base of operations. Todd set them up a few feet away from a massive, blank brick wall, crouching next to the box. 

At Todd’s offer of a white plate in his outstretched hand, Damian insisted, “This is stupid.” 

“Just do it, shrimpy.” 

With a great sigh, Damian took the plate. There wasn’t even a target to aim it at or anything; this was possibly the most pointless exercise Damian had ever partaken in. 

He threw it at the wall, and it shattered into thick pieces. 

After a moment of consideration, Damian extended his hand to Todd, who gladly gave him another. He threw this plate harder, just to hear it crack harder against the brick. 

“Fun, right?” Todd asked. 

Damian extended his hand again. “Shut up.” 

This was like screaming into his pillow, but better. Like training to the point of exhaustion, but without the attention to form. He could just throw, and throw, and throw, and every time he got the same satisfying feeling, the same burn in his arm and the same psychosomatic sensation of causing the dish to shatter that was as tactile as it was auditory and visual. 

He knew which was the last one as soon as he threw it, and as it landed against the brick, Damian found himself standing in the silence, feeling the exhaustion seeping into every cell in his body. 

“How’re you feeling?” Todd asked him, and it took Damian a moment to find the words. 

“Better.” His voice came out tear-stricken, and he sniffled. “I mean, bad, but better.” 

“Good.” Todd’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “I’m glad.” 

Damian felt resentment curl, ugly and sharp, in his chest. “Why are you glad? You never gave a shit about me before.” Todd was silent for a moment, and Damian reached down for another plate, spinning it in his hands. There was a clarity in this fatigue, like all of his mental fog had cleared. “You said that people are just being nice to me because I tried to kill myself, and I hate that. I hate that you’re all lying to me just to placate me.” 

“It’s not like that,” Todd insisted, and Damian scoffed. “It’s complicated, Dami.” 

The nickname made his throat well up, and he refused to look away from the dish in his hands. “We have time.” 

There was a moment of silence, within which Damian tried to steady his breathing, so he didn’t do something totally embarrassing like sob. Then, Todd said, “We all knew you weren’t doing good, alright? We all saw the warning signs, but we didn’t…” 

Damian glanced over at Todd, who had shifted to sitting on the ground, staring at the pile of cheap ceramic shards at the base of the wall. “Honestly, I think most of us thought you’d just… run off one day to fight your demons and come back with Ra’s’ head on a platter. None of us thought you were suicidal, and then as soon as we all heard,” he shrugged, “We just felt awful . Or, I guess I shouldn’t speak for everyone, but I definitely feel awful.” 

Todd turned to Damian. “So if it feels like we’re lying, it’s ‘cause we’re trying not to be fucking guilty all the time, okay? Sue us for trying to stay positive.” 

Damian furrowed his brow. “Todd, you don’t…” He looked back down at the plate in his hands, tracing the scalloped edge. “I mean, you weren’t exactly around when this all started, so how could you have known?” 

“What are you talking about? I was around.” Damian rolled his eyes, and Todd continued. “Kid, I’ve been with the League, okay? I know what they’re like, and the thought of a kid being raised there is a fucking nightmare.”

Damian snapped his attention back to Todd, frown only deepening. His gaze was averted, so he kept talking. “And I’ve been… through my own shit, so I should’ve been the first person to- I mean, I talked to Dick about it all the time, to be honest-.” 

“What are you talking about?” Damian asked, voice low. Todd’s gaze returned to him. “Richard’s been off-world this whole time.” 

Todd blinked at him, and the realization blooming across his features made something wither in the boy. “Damian, we’ve- we’ve been talking about this for years .” 

That just- that just didn’t compute. Sure, he had a few episodes, but they were few and far between. And sure, he’d always been lonely, and angry, and somewhat broken, but he’d always been functional . 

But they’d still been able to tell something was wrong with him. 

And Todd was still talking . “And we’ve- it’s not your fault, but we knew you wouldn’t be willing to get help until you decided to. Dick and Alfred were pretty clear about making sure you had the space you needed, and they know you better than I do, so I trusted them on that. And you were making progress, so we thought-.” 

“I was making progress,” Damian echoed, words tumbling, meaningless, from his mouth. Richard and Pennyworth and Todd. I knew all along the caliber of help you needed.

Todd swallowed. “But it was stupid of us to think you could do this on your own, and Bruce didn’t-.” 

Damian cut him off with a humorless laugh. “It was stupid, huh?” 

“That’s not-.” Todd huffed, and when Damian heard him stand up, he made a point of turning away. “Look, the only reason I’m still standing today is because I got help , alright? Roy and Kori and Donna and Dick- I wouldn’t be here without them. And you’ve been through so much worse, and you’re so much younger -.” 

I’ve seen grown men brought to their knees from a fraction of what you’ve experienced, Master Damian. He whirled around to face Todd, pointing at him with the plate. “So you’re telling me, all along, that everyone knew how awful I was feeling, and nobody did anything about it?” 

Todd opened his mouth, before shutting it, and only managed, “I’m sorry, kid.” 

He wanted to punch him. Damian wanted to beat his face in with his stupid fucking plates, but- 

You were making progress.  

He stepped back, dropping the plate to the floor, where it, limply, cracked in half. 

Pennyworth had tried. Richard had tried. Damian just hadn’t been receptive . He’d been too- too stubborn, too prideful , to tell them what he was feeling. Or to even acknowledge what he was feeling. 

He’d been lying to himself all along. And now he was here, in an empty warehouse with a wanted criminal and about a hundred dollars worth of cheap plates laying in pieces on the ground. 

He nudged the ceramic shards at his feet. Make that about one hundred and six dollars and ninety-nine cents worth of cheap plates. 

“You wanna keep going?” Todd asked, indicating the box. “Or do you wanna save these puppies for another day?” 

“I’m done,” Damian replied, taking a couple steps back. 

“‘Kay,” Todd said, nodding towards the exit. “Then let’s go home. Alfred and your pets are probably waiting for you.” 

They weren’t, at least by the time Todd and Damian arrived back at Drake’s apartment. According to Damian’s texts, it was thanks to traffic, so he took the opportunity to barricade himself in his room and, finally, call Father. 

Damian called him, from the floor, his back pressed against the bed and his feet pressed against the dresser, his knees bent between them. Bracing himself, maybe. 

Father picked up halfway through the second ring. “Damian?” 

And there it was, that concern. “Hello, Father.” 

Father exhaled, “Damian, you have no idea how relieved I am to hear your voice. How are you?” 

Damian tried not to scoff. “I think that’s pretty obvious.” 

“You’re right,” Father acquiesced, “You’re right… Damian, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have treated you like I did, and…” There was a moment of pause. “And I should have told you the truth from the beginning.” 

He froze, and Father kept speaking. “After- after Alfred and Tim told me, I went over all the security footage to just, see if there were any signs that I missed, and I-.” He sighed, and Damian’s stomach tied itself up in knots. “I know you saw my risk assessment file for you, and you read about… Ra’s, and the transfer of consciousness. And although you broke the rules, I’m not upset.” 

Damian exhaled, head falling to his kneecaps. 

He continued, “Because that was… you have the right to know, Damian. I should have told you sooner, but it was just… never the right time.” Damian gnawed at his inner lip, trying not to let the tears flow. Again . God, he was getting sick of crying. “I’m sorry.” 

When he realized Father was waiting for a response, Damian said, “It’s alright. I… I kind of understand. It’s just… a lot.” 

“I know,” Father assured, “It’s a scary thought. And I- I didn’t want to tell you because I was afraid you would do something reckless, but I never expected you to try and end your own life.” Damian furrowed his brows. “I just… I wanted to tell you there’s no reason to be afraid. I’d never let Ra’s do anything to hurt you, Damian, never.” 

He pulled back, staring at his knees and pressing his spine against the backboard. “Father, that’s… I didn’t jump because I was scared .” 

Perhaps Father was just lost in thought, lost in his own reassurances, had skipped a step along the way. But his reply was, “Oh… then, what was it, son?” 

And he found himself at a loss for words because… Pennyworth understood. Jon understood. Todd understood. Of all the people in his life, why didn’t Father seem to understand? 

Why did that make his heart so heavy? 

“Tell me,” Father begged on the other line, “Damian, I want to help you.” 

“I’m not okay,” was all he could think to say, voice achingly quiet. “And I don’t think I’ve ever been okay.” 

Father sighed, and, for just a split second, Damian felt two inches tall. “You should have told me. Why didn’t you?” 

Damian inhaled, and something within him sparked. He much he ached for Father’s approval, how much his criticism hurt , and how his condition had been so obvious to everyone else-. “I wonder why.” 

The words were laced with far more venom than Damian intended, but he didn’t care. 

“Damian, I know you’re-.” 

“No,” Damian snapped, words ripped from somewhere raw and fiery within him, “It’s because I didn’t want you to think I was a failure .” 

“I don’t think you’re a failure-.” 

“Then act like it!” 

Father kept speaking, but Damian was done, he was done , and he couldn’t-. 

He threw his phone at the wall, and it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he wanted it to be.

Chapter Text

It took all of three seconds for Damian to realize that throwing his cell phone had done nothing to end the call, and had only succeeded in denting the drywall. He still heard his father’s tinny voice coming through the speakers. “Damian? Damian, are you there?”  

But Damian didn’t let himself out of this position, with his feet braced against the dresser and his forehead braced against his knees, because it was something like holding himself together. Because if he wasn’t pushing his spine into the leg of the bed, he’d certainly fly apart. 

There was a knock at the door. “You alright in there, gremlin?” 

“I’m fine,” Damian replied, voice surprisingly steady. After a deep breath, he extracted himself from that position, and finally went to pick up the phone. Father was still speaking, but his words were washing over him. 

He gave a simple, “Goodbye, Father,” before he hung up, looking up to inspect the hole in the drywall with a sigh. 

When he did finally open the door, Todd was still loitering in the hallway, along with Titus. As soon as the Great Dane caught sight of Damian, he padded over to him. “Hey.” 

“Hi,” Damian replied, leaning down to pat Titus. “Uh, I put a hole in the wall.” 

Todd nodded, turning to call into the apartment, “You feel like a trip to Lowe’s, Alfred?” Of course, Pennyworth had arrived, with Titus and Alfred in tow. 

However, before Damian could re-insert himself into this situation, a familiar head peeked around the corner, perking up as soon as she saw him. 

“Cassandra?” Damian asked, and a smile spread across the woman’s face. 

“Dami,” she replied, and it only took a few long steps for her to be there, pulling Damian into a hug. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Damian returned the hug, asking, “What are you doing here?” Last he knew, she’d been on the other side of the planet, doing work for Father. The flight to Gotham would have been at least sixteen hours. 

Cassandra held him tighter, muttering into his hair, “Had to make sure my baby brother was okay.” 

My baby brother . Damian couldn’t recall ever being called that, by anyone. Unconsciously, he sagged against her, burying his face into her shoulder; she was so solid against him, and warm, and she smelled like cucumber melon lotion and hand-me-down clothes. He wondered who had told her, or what she’d heard, because it had only been about thirty-six hours since he’d tried to take his own life so she must have booked tickets immediately- . 

But more importantly, Cassandra had never hugged him before. He wondered what she’d seen in his posture to make her so sure he needed the affection. 

As she ran a hand through Damian’s hair, he realized he did need this. He really, really did. 

Evidently, Pennyworth had been late due to picking Cassandra up at the airport as a surprise for Damian, and he had to admit, it was a very nice surprise. 

Cassandra herself was making up for lost time, because she continued to be physically affectionate with Damian for the rest of the day. They hugged in the hallway for an unreasonable amount of time, and then once they decided they’d accompany Todd to Home Depot while Pennyworth made them lunch at the apartment, Cassandra held his hand, his elbow, ruffled his hair, sat next to him in the backseat, offered every little affection she could. 

They visited a game store while Todd went to purchase spackle and paint, and Cassandra made a beeline for a display of sickeningly cute plushes near the front of the store. And, when Damian made the mistake of staring at an, admittedly, delightful elephant on that display, Cassandra met his eye and immediately picked it up, heading to the counter to pay. 

Obviously, Damian’s first instinct was to refuse the gift, but… but he could tell it came from a genuine place. All this affection from Cassandra was executed without a hint of pity; she just loved him. And that was worth the humiliation of catching Todd’s eye as he came to retrieve them, staring pointedly down at the elephant ( Mila, the tag called her) and back up at Damian. 

“Shut up,” Damian ordered. 

“Didn’t say a thing,” Todd replied. 

They went home, and they ate, and Damian insisted on helping fix the dent in the wall he caused. Cassandra and Mila sat on the bed while he and Pennyworth spackled over the hole, and it was all this kind of domesticity that Damian wasn’t at all used to. 

That he felt, deep in his gut, that perhaps he didn’t deserve. 

It almost made him a little ill, as he sat back down on his bed to wait for the spackle to dry, as Cassandra sidled up next to him and put Mila in his lap, with Alfred the cat purring happily against his thigh. This felt wrong for a kid like him. 

He caught sight, however, of a scar on Cassandra’s forearm. An ugly, jagged thing from a blade, that must have bled a lot and hurt even more. Damian glanced up at her face, her own head tilting to the side as they made eye contact. 

Damian turned away, staring at the drying white spot on the wall. “Cassandra, I… or, is this- forgive me if this is a personal question, but I was wondering if you ever… Were you ever afraid of yourself?” 

Cassandra didn’t immediately reply. “Yes. Sometimes, I’m still afraid of what I can do.” 

Damian nodded, looking down at the plush in his lap, at the cat purring at his side. He managed, “I am, too.” Cassandra placed a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly Damian was confessing, “My mother told me- told me I was only born to be a replacement body for Ra’s. Just… another vessel for him to inhabit. That’s all I was made for, to harm people.” 

There was another, longer pause, before his sister reached for his closest hand, squeezing it tight. “I used to think I was made to hurt. That all I could do was hurt.” Damian pulled Mila to his chest with his free arm. “But we aren’t swords or guns, we’re people. We’re made for anything we want to do.”

We’re people. Somehow, those words were like the last piece of a circuit, making it spark to life. Damian al Ghul had spent his whole life thinking he was above other people. Damian Wayne spent his life think that he was separate from other people, if not worse. 

He’d never considered he could just be a person. 

After a moment’s hesitation, he leaned against Cassandra’s shoulder, and she immediately wrapped her arms around him. “Why don’t we talk more?” he asked, half to himself and half to his sister. 

“You were… uncomfortable, with me,” Cassandra allowed, running her fingers over his hair. 

Uncomfortable . It had been petty disdain and jealousy; the greatest warrior in the family and Father’s favorite? Damian couldn’t compete. 

“I’m sorry if I was ever rude to you,” Damian allowed. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t talk more,” Cassandra replied. “I… I knew you were lonely.” That word was like a stone falling down an abyss, clacks echoing throughout Damian’s entire being. Lonely. “But you never seemed to want to spend time with me, or anyone. Except Dick. Or Jon.” Cassandra paused, adding, “Or Dad.” 

Damian huffed out a laugh. “I don’t really want to spend time with him right now, so.” 

Cassandra nodded against his hair. “That’s okay. He can be… he can be really mean to you.” 

God, he wished he could live in Cassandra’s head for a day, where everything made sense. “He’s afraid of me.” 

“He shouldn’t be,” she replied without hesitation, before pulling him in closer, squishing him against her shoulder. “You’re just a teddy bear.” 

Damian snorted, going along with her manhandling. “Sure, a teddy bear.” 

Once Cassandra had him in a proper hug, she amended, “Steph said once you were like Scissorhands.” 

He furrowed his brow, pulling back a little to look at her. “Who?” 

“We watched the movie, after,” Cassandra explained, “About this boy with knives for fingers, who is the sweetest but he hurts people without meaning to. He was called Scissorhands.” 

Well, that was new. “I thought Brown hated me.” He’d called her Fatgirl for a year straight, after all. 

“No, no,” Cassandra insisted, “She says you’re prickly, like a cactus, but that you’re good, like an egg. Or, she calls you a good egg.” However, her expression dropped for a moment, “But I don’t think she wants you to know that.” 

Damian should ask why she wouldn’t want him to know that, why she didn’t want him to know that she thought he was good , but at the same time, perhaps his continued hostility wasn’t reciprocated. 

Everyone secretly liking him was far better than everyone secretly hating him. 

So, he just hugged Cassandra again, just as tightly as she held him, because maybe there was love in this family for him. Maybe he hadn’t ruined everything, after all.

Chapter Text

As the afternoon gave way to evening, Damian found the apartment filling with more and more bodies. Cassandra and Pennyworth, Todd and Drake, Thomas and Brown arriving once again, not to mention Titus and Alfred. When Jon climbed in through the window, a Catan box tucked underneath one arm, Todd greeted him with a dry “Welcome to the party.” 

“Jon Kent,” Brown piped up, “Back from the future, I see.” 

Damian smirked, “How long have you been holding that one in?” 

Brown paused at Damian’s interjection, but quickly smiled right back, pressing a finger to her temple. “Three seconds, Boy Wonder. Courtesy of my big, beautiful brain.” 

And that had been the tone for the night so far: Damian making careful attempts to join in everyone’s conversations, and them rolling with it. Welcoming Damian into the fold easily. 

He hid a genuine smile behind his mug of lukewarm tea, stomach light and bubbly as he scooted closer to Cassandra, offering Jon a place next to him on the couch. When his best friend sat down next to him, he pulled Damian into a quick hug. 

“Ah, Jonathan,” Pennyworth said as he placed a plate of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies on the table. “It’s nice to see you again. I should hope you remember me.” 

“Of course I do,” Jon insisted, beaming bright as always. 

“I’m flattered,” Pennyworth replied, before glancing around the room. “Unfortunately, I must leave shortly, but you’re always welcome around the manor.” 

Thomas, who’d already consumed half a cookie, frowned. “You’re not staying for dinner?” 

“No,” Pennyworth sighed, “There’s a handful of errands I ought to run before the week’s end, and tasks at the manor I’ve neglected until now.” From his jacket pocket, he produced a leash, leaning down to affix it to Titus’s collar. To Damian, he said, “I’m returning with the animals tomorrow, of course.” 

Damian nodded, because he knew, before leaning down to scratch Titus’s head in farewell. 

Meanwhile, Alfred, who seemed to be picking up on the fact that he was to return to his carrier shortly, hopped off of Cassandra’s lap where he’d been happily perched for the last hour and ran towards the bedrooms, no doubt looking for a place to hide. 

Drake, however, intercepted him, the cat meowing loudly in response. “Thank you, Master Timothy,” Pennyworth said, taking the grumpy feline from his grasp. “Oh, I know, spending a whole hour in the carrier is the worst imaginable punishment.” 

Brown leaned forward in her seat. “What’s for dinner, then?” 

“I’ve placed a handful of dishes in the refrigerator,” Pennyworth insisted, “For breakfasts, lunches, and dinners.” He somehow managed to stare pointedly at Drake while wrangling an unruly cat through his cage door. “I expect them all to be gone by next week.” 

Drake’s hand flew to the nape of his neck. “Got it.” 

Damian had to bite back a smile; Pennyworth had, evidently, been aghast at the state of Drake’s fridge upon first arriving. He kind of wished he’d been awake to see that. 

Once Alfred was finally stowed away, still grumbling, Pennyworth straightened up. “I hope you lot have a good night,” he said, met with a chorus of “Bye, Alfred”s. 

As soon as he left, however, Todd whirled around. “So, takeout for dinner, right?” 

“Yes,” Cassandra insisted, grinning conspiratorially. 

As Jon and Damian set up the Catan board, there was friendly bickering about where to order from: Brown insisting they get the greasiest, most unhealthy fare possible, Thomas leaning more towards something spicy and filling, Todd begging them to just pick something before he got ‘hangry’, and Drake, from his perch at the dining table, bent over his laptop, saying, “Guys, can you quiet down? I’m doing a quiz.” 

“Boohoo,” Todd drawled, “We’re making serious decisions over here.” 

“Do you want me to fail this quiz?” Drake shot back. 

“If it’s a quiz, what could it be worth?” Damian asked. 

“Yeah, is it worth more than quality time with your family?” Thomas continued, placing a facetious hand over his heart. 

“Or you could just cheat,” Cassandra suggested, and Brown pointed her finger at her. 

“Cass is always right,” she said in a hurry, before pointing to Drake. “You heard her, cheat!” 

Quickly, a chant of cheat, cheat, cheat, picked up, and continued until Drake picked his laptop up and moved back to his bedroom, and Damian found himself grinning. He was barely willing to admit to himself how long he’d been fantasizing about something like this; about that easy camaraderie he always saw between others, between these very individuals, and how he yearned to be a part of it.

As soon as he realized that, however, his smile fell; Damian had learned it didn’t do well to hope, and, even in the middle of such an event, he still feared it ending. 

Jon nudged him, speaking in a low tone of voice, “Hey, you good?” 

Damian nodded, conjuring up a smile for him. “Yeah, just thinking.” Given Jon’s expression, he didn’t believe him, but he dropped it, nonetheless. 

They settled on Indian food, eventually, with the ordering being another cacophonic mess that was easy to get lost in. Afterwards, Drake returned sans laptop, sitting himself on the floor across the coffee table from Damian and Jon. And that’s when the arguments about who would be on whose team began. Damian, meanwhile, was just trying to convince himself this could last forever. 

It could. 

Right? 

By the time they settled on three teams (Drake, Thomas, and Brown; Cassandra and Todd; and Jon and Damian), there was a knock on the door. Todd whistled, standing up to get it. “Goddamn, Tina, you’re wicked fast.” 

Drake’s brows furrowed in confusion, however, and he asked, “Did you give them the door code?” 

However, before Drake finished talking, Damian heard Todd open the door, and then shut it just as quickly. He climbed up onto the couch, peeking over to get a good look at the front door and Todd’s form. “Who was it?” he asked. 

Todd rolled his eyes. “Guess.” 

The knocking continued, followed by a familiar voice. “Jason, could you let me in?” 

Cassandra immediately reached for Damian’s arm, and he could hear Jon perking up next to him. 

Drake, also, stood up, but Todd had already re-opened the door, his frame blocking the view outside. “What do you want, Bruce?” 

“I’m here to speak to Damian,” his voice was significantly quieter than Todd’s, “I don’t like how we left things.” 

“Oh, you don’t?” Todd said, not a hint of mercy in his voice. “That’s a shame.” 

Drake nudged Todd to the side, and he went, begrudgingly. “Damian, do you wanna talk to your dad?” 

At the same time, Damian finally caught sight of his father, and he’d think the last time he saw him was a lifetime ago. He looked horrible, like he did during particularly rough cases, when he didn’t sleep and barely ate, when you could see the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders. 

Father blinked in shock for a moment. “Cass? I didn’t know you were stateside.” 

Cassandra offered a smile to her father. “I am.” 

But then Father’s attention turned to him, and Damian was immediately compelled to say, “Yes, let’s- we can talk.” 

Father’s shoulders sagged in relief, and he took a careful step into the apartment. “Could we go somewhere private?” 

Todd and Drake shared a look that Damian couldn’t interpret, and Drake piped up, “The kitchen’s free.” 

Father turned to the small corridor that made up Drake’s kitchen, looking uncertain for a moment, before nodding. “That’ll do fine. Damian?” 

Damian glanced around at everyone, all their eyes on him, cautious, waiting. He realized, in that moment, that everyone here was on his side. 

It was with that strength he stood up, giving his father a nod before marching himself to the kitchen. 

However, as soon as he reached the airconditioning unit sticking out of the window and turned around, he realized he may have made an error. Cabinets and countertops closed in on both sides, barely three feet wide, with his father looming large at the entrance. Damian tried to shake the feeling, though, because- because this wasn’t combat, this was his dad. He wasn’t waiting at the study doors anymore, this was on his own terms, with his best friend and family waiting just outside. 

He’d be fine. 

His gaze still fell to the kitchen tiles, though. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Father started. “I… didn’t really let you… talk a whole lot this morning. And I’m sorry.” In the small space, the shift in Father’s posture and the creak of his weight against the counter was evident. “So if you would… would like to say anything to me, I want to hear it.” When Damian didn’t begin immediately, he added, almost nervously, “This is about you, and making sure you’re alright.” 

He dared a glance up to his father, still looking uncertain, one hand tapping an anxious rhythm against his thigh. He looked back down, trying to find any order to his thoughts in the depths of the floor’s grouting. “I did phone my mother, in the phone booth, but I didn’t ask about… about Mahajan.” He pressed his back against the A/C unit. “It was about… what I read in my file. About the transfer of consciousness.”

He inhaled, squeezing his eyes shut, “She told me that the only reason I was ever born was… for that purpose. To replace Ra’s.” 

When he looked up again, he found Father’s brows furrowed in confusion, “Are you-.” He shook his head, cutting himself off, looking down himself. “I wish I could say I was surprised, but, given Ra’s’ track record…” He trailed off, looking back up, “But that’s… that’s horrible, Damian, it really is.” 

Damian shrugged, gaze returning to the floor. “It’s… it kind of made everything fall into place? Because no one…” He worried his lip, reminding himself to be honest, that Father wanted to hear what he had to say. “No one really treated me like a person. And those that did, I thought did it out of… pity, maybe, or just… generosity. That they saw what I was but they just… lied.” 

Father shifted again, taking a moment before replying. “I’m… I’m sorry you had to go through that. I should’ve- I should’ve reached out more, gotten you the help you need.” There was a pause. “And- and just so you know, I never lied to you about what I thought of you.” Damian bit the inside of his lip. “You’re- brilliant, and courageous, and stronger than I could ever be.” 

Damian could feel the heat rising again, whatever remained of the Demon Son pulling his knuckles closed. Liar, liar, liar. 

Father continued. “But I know I’ve been… cold, with you, I just didn’t think you were feeling so bad about yourself. I’m just…” 

He seemed to be searching for the right word, so Damian helped him. “Afraid of me?” 

When he looked back up, it was to see Father frozen, a deer in the headlights. “I… yes.” 

Damian felt his anger dissipate momentarily; he hadn’t expected an honest response. Father, meanwhile, rubbed his hands over his face before he started talking again. “Yes, I am. Because you’re so much like me at your age, Damian, except you’ve been through so much worse and you’re so much more capable. And I knew the kinds of… thoughts I had, at thirteen or fourteen. I knew what I wanted to do. And I’m terrified, of you trying to do those things, or getting yourself in over your head.” He exhaled, shakily. “I love you, Damian, and I don’t ever want you to get hurt.” He added, almost to himself, “I’ve lost you already.” 

Damian felt bad at that last statement for a moment, before he inhaled, providing oxygen to his burning rage. I don’t ever want you to get hurt, he says of the son he threw into battle on a regular basis. “But you don’t act like you love me.” 

“I know,” Father began, but Damian wasn’t done. 

“You only acted like you loved me when Richard was gone.” 

The silence in the kitchen, the whole apartment, was suddenly overwhelming. Damian could hear someone shifting in their seat in the living room, and he remembered there were witnesses. People who knew what Father could be like, that he could be mean and dishonest. 

He looked Father in the eye. “Do you remember when you told me the story of Richard and his train track? Do you remember how you told me you missed him, too?” Damian could see the panic flashing across Father’s face, gaze jumping to the wall opposite the rest of the apartment. 

“I did miss him,” Father said, voice still low, stepping ever closer to Damian. “I know I lied to you, but I- I did, I missed him.” 

Damian, however, refused to stay silent, “You’re the reason he was gone. It’s your fault.” This felt like smashing the plates again, hearing and seeing and feeling himself speak up separately from one another. “And then, when he came back, it was like you had no more interest in bonding with me. Is it because you felt bad? Is guilt the only thing that makes you act like a father?” 

“Damian.” His voice had taken on a warning tone. Damian, in turn, stepped forward, planting himself in his spot, staring up at Father. “You know that’s not true.” 

“It is true,” Damian spat back, and it felt like he was flying, facing the fear he’d held for so long. “You had the gall to fake Richard’s death and send him off on some- some stupid mission, and then you mourned with me. In fact,” Damian’s voice only rose in pitch, “Were he to actually die on this mission, it would have been your fault!” 

The Batman’s growl curled at the edges of his Father’s voice, “I did everything in my power to protect him-.” 

“By sending him halfway across the world?!” 

“Dad.” 

Father whipped around immediately, both he and Damian suddenly facing Cassandra, who stood at the kitchen entrance. She spared Damian an assessing glance, before returning her gaze to Father. “You should go.” 

The man looked between his two children, looking weighed down again, ashamed. “Cassandra-.” 

“You’re both hurting each other,” she interrupted, before stepping forward and grabbing onto Father’s hand. “Let’s go.” 

Father spared one last look back to Damian, before he went with her, leaving him in the kitchen, still shaking with potential energy, with words left unsaid. 

Jon appeared at the entrance, asking, “Are you okay?” 

“Yes,” Damian insisted, before stating, “You heard all of that, didn’t you.” Jon nodded. “Good.” He added, when Jon wouldn’t stop lingering, “I need a minute.” 

“Totally,” Jon allowed, already stepping away. 

Damian turned around, pressing his hands to his face in an attempt to block out the situation he was in. And still, he heard Bruce and Cassandra leaving without a word, the door shutting quietly. 

But he wasn’t done. 

“Damian?” This time, it was Thomas who peeked his head around the doorframe. “You still in a Catan mood? The food’s here.” 

Damian scoffed, feeling his energy releasing. “Don’t patronize me, Thomas.” 

Thomas frowned. “I’m not-.” 

“Yes, you are.” Damian insisted. “Because you never gave a shit about me or what I wanted until I tried to kill myself. None of you did!” The last sentence was shouted, intended for the whole building to hear. “None of you wanted to spend time with me, or go on patrol with me, or talk to me. You all knew I needed help, and none of you ever did anything!” 

Drake joined Thomas at the entrance to the kitchen, hands out with his palms facing forward. “Damian-.” 

“Shut up!” With that, he blew past the pair of them, shoving them aside as he made a beeline for his room, slamming the door for good measure.  

As he caught his breath in his room, however, that feeling of flying quickly turned to one of falling. Father had been kind because he felt guilty before, and now everyone was kind because they felt guilty. How could he have ever thought it was anything different? He’d even ruined the illusion of it with his outburst. 

“Damian?” And then there was Jon, from the other side of the door, and Damian’s heart broke all over again. 

“I didn’t mean you.” His voice came out teary, and he banged his head against the door. 

“I know,” Jon replied. “Can I come in?” 

After a moment’s hesitation, Damian turned the knob and pushed away from the door, opening it as he went. It was mere seconds before Jon hugged him. Damian hugged him back, feeling more like a tangle of thread than ever before. 

Chapter Text

Jon insisted on staying with Damian until he fell asleep, which, while wholly unnecessary, was a gesture Damian appreciated more than he dared admit. It was one he remembered when he woke up from his dreamless sleep, heavy in body but clear in mind. He looked back on the evening, and realized, perhaps, he’d needed that. Screaming into pillows and smashing plates was enough to tide one over, but actually airing his grievances, now that felt incredible.

The only problem was that, now, he had to deal with it.

He fumbled for his phone and checked the time: two forty-eight in the morning. So, he didn’t have to deal with it immediately, but. Eventually.

First, however, he’d have to deal with his tacky mouth and empty stomach. He’d ordered some vegetable dhansak for dinner, and he hoped someone had the good grace to save it for him and stick it in the fridge. If they hadn’t, he might start breaking stuff. Or crying. Or both.

As he untangled himself from his blankets, Damian mused how hard it was to hold his emotions in once he’d started expressing them. He had a backlog, he supposed, and perhaps it would be a while before he’d get a rein on that again.

Wrapping a fleece blanket around his shoulders, Damian padded into the main part of the apartment, too groggy to notice he had company before it was staring him right in the face: Drake, sitting at the small dining table, only illuminated by his laptop.

“Hi,” he said, voice low, eyes taking Damian in.

He’d have to deal with it eventually, Damian knew, but as he looked away and made his way towards the kitchen without a word, he decided it wouldn’t be now.

The dhansak was in the fridge, unopened, and Damian puttered around the kitchen as quietly as possible, fixing a bowl of leftovers and slipping it into the microwave, licking the cold curry sauce off the spoon and pouring himself a glass of water as he waited for it to warm up. He and Drake had had late night moments like this before, though usually it was Damian in the breakfast nook, drawing, and Drake brewing more coffee and eating whatever odds and ends could be found in the refrigerator. Both of them pretending the other didn’t exist.

He glanced at Drake’s fridge, and, even though the microwave beeped, he took his glass of water and headed back to Drake’s perch.

“Do you…” Damian’s voice came out scratchy, and he cleared his throat as Drake turned to him. “Do you remember when… when Father put my drawing on the fridge?”

Drake furrowed his eyebrows, and for a split second, Damian regretted ever starting this conversation. Still, he said, “Yeah.”

Damian tugged the blanket tighter around himself, taking a step back. “Okay. It just feels like a dream, sometimes.” When he looked back up at Drake, his expression was so open. The Bats had a certain way of looking at others, keeping themselves closed off as they sized others up, but right now, Drake was letting Damian see him as much as he was seeing Damian.

“I didn’t,” Damian shifted his weight, “I didn’t know, at the time, that that was a good thing. I thought Father hated my drawings.”

Drake didn’t laugh at him, just took him in for a moment longer, before looking away, back at his laptop. He didn’t know what to say, and Damian didn’t know what he expected in response, so he took the opportunity to step away.

“Damian?” He only got a few steps away before pausing, turning back around. “I’m sorry we’re not very good at this… communicating, thing.”

“That’s okay,” Damian assured, “Neither am I.”

Drake still shook his head, gaze fixed forward. “But you’re… you were just a little kid, Damian. And you came from such a fucked up home and…” Drake trailed off, finally turning back to him. “I’m sorry none of us got better at it. For you.”

And now Damian had no clue how to respond, so he went and got his dhansak instead, and, when returning, indicated the spot across from Drake and asked, “Do you mind?”

Drake shook his head. “No.”

Damian settled across from Drake and his laptop, in the darkness, and ate and drank as fervently as he could without making too much noise in the quiet apartment.

After a moment, Drake asked, “Can I say something?”

You just did. Damian shot him a raised eyebrow instead of retorting. “Sure.”

Drake shut his laptop, leaving the both of them only illuminated by the streetlights outside and the ambient running lights of domestic appliances and electronics. “What you said, after Bruce left.” Drake swallowed, and Damian had to bow his head. “You’re right. We didn’t… we didn’t care, about you. We, or, I should say I, thought you had a pretty high opinion of yourself, and that just… leaving you alone would be fine. And not only was that cruel, and shortsighted, it was also just stupid of me.

“I’ve been a lonely kid in a big house before.” Damian made eye contact with him, spoon idle in his bowl. “And I, y’know, I lived with you for two years. I should’ve seen it, or maybe I just… didn’t want to see it.”

Damian returned his focus to his food, stirring the dhansak idly. “You were scared of me,” he allowed, “And- and rightfully so.”

“It’s not just that,” Drake insisted, “I mean, Jason tried to kill me and we’re… kind of friends, now?” He huffed out a laugh, “I think I was jealous of you, which is so infantile I can’t-.”

Damian froze, staring at him in disbelief as he interrupted. “Hold on, you were jealous of me?”

“... yeah,” Drake said, taking in his shock before looking away himself, crossing his arms over his chest. “I mean, Dick gave you Robin, and he was so… so good with you. He was good with me, too, but with you it felt so different. And I- I justified that anger by deciding you didn’t deserve Robin, but you did.” He met Damian’s eye. “You needed way less training than me. Do you know how long it took me to learn how to fight? It was months before Bruce even let me on the field. And you didn’t… you didn’t need all that prep, I guess.”

Drake leaned forward in his seat, propping himself up on the table with his elbows.. “And it wasn’t just the combat, it was the- the mental toll of being Robin that I always struggled with, you did it so easily-.”

Damian snorted, dropping his spoon and leaning back, pulling his blanket around himself. “Yeah, I’m not at all struggling right now.”

Drake paused at that, and Damian took the opportunity to continue. “Father likes you more, anyways. He only,” now he himself had to gulp, “he only let me keep Robin because, he was scared of what I’d do if he took it away.”

After a long moment, Drake muttered, “Did he tell you that?”

Damian shook his head. “No, but I can put the pieces together.” He continued, “Besides, I’m not- you and Richard always used to wax poetic about how Robin was Batman’s light, was supposed to keep him up when crimefighting knocked him down, but I could never, I couldn’t do that. And you’re so much smarter than me, and- and much more personable, you saw the mess I made of the Teen Titans.” Damian shrugged, somehow able to keep his breathing even while his chest grew tighter and tighter. “I’m… I’m not a good Robin.”

That silence sat, draped over their heads for a few long moments, only interrupted by Damian’s idle stirring of his quickly-cooling meal.

“I want to make this right,” Drake murmured, “This- how I- I know I hurt you, Damian. Directly and indirectly and-.” He let out a long breath, and Damian took no joy in the tears he heard within it. “I’m sorry you were lonely, and I’m sorry I didn’t do anything to fix it. I even, God- I talked shit about you, to my friends, when I was an adult and you were in middle school. Like I just- I went out and made it worse. All because I was jealous and angry.” He sniffled, and Damian didn’t dare look up. “And I- I didn’t tell you, after you tried to jump, that I cared about you, and it wasn’t Alfred who made me apologize, I needed to say that because I owe you that much, and- and if Jon hadn’t caught you, that day, I don’t think I would have ever forgiven myself.”

Damian didn’t know when tears starting building behind his eyes, as well, but they were certainly there now.

“And it’s not because of Dick, but it’s because- I think I knew all along that you were a good kid, but I just didn’t want to acknowledge it, because that would mean acknowledging that I’ve done shitty things to you that you didn’t deserve, and that I let you down-.”

“I tried to kill you,” Damian interrupted.

“Yeah, when you were ten,” Drake argued, “And- and fresh out of a fucking cult, a goddamned murder cult, and- and the only reason you weren’t the best Robin of any of us is because we all dropped the ball on making sure you got the help you needed. The training you needed. I know what kind of regimens Bruce had me follow, and I know he didn’t do anything like that for you, because he thought-.”

Drake cut himself off, clearly trying to get a hold of himself before he started outright sobbing.

Damian took the opportunity to say, “I’m sorry, by the way. For trying to kill you.” When Drake didn’t respond, he added, “You’re a great man, Drake, and all of us, the Bats, the Titans, the entire Justice League, would be in shambles without you.”

When Drake still didn’t respond, Damian looked up to see the man smiling down at the table. “What?”

Drake shook his head, “It’s just… I know you’re sorry.”

Damian shifted in his seat, frowning. “I didn’t apologize before.”

“I know,” Drake repeated. “Thank you.” After a pause, he added, “I wanted to… to say that I think, and this is entirely conjecture, but… every other time Bruce trained a Robin, it was about inviting us into his world. Combat, investigative skills, and- and getting used to the darkness that comes with it. I know he had you working on investigative stuff, in the beginning, but everything else, he figured you had a handle on.

“But you didn’t have the- the foundation that the rest of us had. Simple stuff like, like going to school, being kids, having friends and learning how to get along with people. Your dad didn’t think to push you towards all the good things in life, that- that make us want to keep going.”

Damian thought again of Richard’s room, and the photograph, and wondered if, perhaps, that emotional darkness was where his father was most comfortable. “Richard did,” he said, “He always… he always tried to make things better, for me.”

“I know,” Drake said, softly. “I… I wish he were here, I really, really do.”

Damian smiled down at the table, trying to picture what Richard would say if he were here. You’ve seen so much darkness, so it’s my job to bring in a little sunshine, right? “Me, too.”

“And,” Drake’s tone shifted, and Damian dared to look up, to watch him wipe away his tears. “And if, if when he does get back, you never wanna, y’know, talk with me or speak to me again, that’s fine. Whatever makes you most comfortable. I just… wanna say that I’d… Dick was the big brother I always wanted, and, and if you give me a chance, I’d like to be your big brother, too.”

Damian met his gaze, tongue heavy with words unsaid, and he just nodded instead. “Okay.”

Drake smiled at him, and simultaneously, they became aware that they were both sobbing, in the dark, in the middle of the night.

Damian tried to hide his laughter behind his hand, but when Drake started laughing, too, there was no point. The giggle fit didn’t last long, but it was enough that Damian felt leagues lighter than before.

“Bruce is a dick,” Drake insisted, “And I’m sorry we left you alone with him.”

Damian rolled his eyes, mopping at his tear tracks with the end of his fleece blanket. “Stop saying ‘I’m sorry’, Drake. It’s unbecoming.”

“There he is,” Drake muttered, and Damian was surprised at the affection in his voice.

He picked up his spoon again, salvaging his lukewarm meal and eating it as fast as he liked. Damian learned it didn’t do well to hope, but right now, in the dark, sitting across from someone who willingly called him his brother, he might just hope a little bit.

Even if Dick wasn’t technically on terra firma yet, just seeing the Watchtower come into view was a massive relief. The longest twelve days of his life was over.

Sure, there were a handful of intergalactic POIs Bruce had asked him to keep an eye and an ear out for, but otherwise the Guardians of the Universe summit had to be the most boring event he’d ever attended. A quarter lifetime worth of galas, awkward birthday parties, and policing conferences, and somehow, a meeting populated almost entirely by aliens was the worst of them all. In fact, it was eerily similar to the Model UN summit he’d gone to in the ninth grade, except this time he had a translation device in his ear, had to wear his Nightwing suit with domino mask for the duration, and was accosted by a delegate who had heard he was from Gotham and was very upset about some rocks the Science Museum had recently acquired.

So, when Donna (who, by the grace of God, had attended as well) suggested he fake illness so they could both go home, Dick did so in a heartbeat. He was the only person who was trained on terrestrial first-aid, after all; there weren’t exactly Earth doctors up here. All he had to do was sniffle, cough on a few delegates, and puke during a session, and the summit organizers insisted he go home, for his own safety.

With Donna as his escort, of course.

In the end, they were outta there a couple days early, and he high-fived Donna as soon as they boarded their ship. He offered her another as they docked on the Watchtower, and when he finally got inside, he had to resist the urge to fall to his knees and kiss the floor.

Again, this wasn’t quite terra firma yet, so he should hold off.

He re-attached his domino mask to his face, simply for the walk from the bay to the locker room, and already had the solvent in his hand by the time the door closed.

“It’s gotta be bad for your skin, wearing the mask for that long,” Donna commented, opening her own locker and pulling out her own clothes.

“Don’t get me started,” Dick said, not sounding irritated in the slightest. Mentally, he was going over his possible plans for the weekend. Seeing Damian, definitely, the kid seemed pretty down about him going off-world, and maybe a celebratory lunch with Tim to congratulate him on retiring. “Remember that time we got stranded in the Amazon for three days straight, back before you all knew my identity? When I finally took it off?” He turned around for dramatic effect, holding his mask in place as the solvent dissolved. “Cystic acne.”

Donna grimaced. “Oh, God, did you have to put the mask over that?”

“No,” Dick assured, turning around before pulling the mask off. “B had some mercy on me, made sure I saw a dermatologist and got that dealt with before I went back on patrol.” He dug out his trusty pair of sunglasses from the top shelf of the locker, slipping them on before grabbing his phone. Ah, yes, over ninety-nine messages; what he’d missed the least about Earth. His email would probably be more manageable, at least until he had the mental bandwidth to figure out what everyone wanted of him.

“I’m so glad I never went with that whole disguise thing,” Donna sighed, “It’s such a hassle what you have to deal with.”

“Worth my peace of mind, I guess,” Dick replied, quick to archive all of the spam emails that had filled his inbox. He paused, however, on a message from Damian. Richard, this isn’t your fault. You’ve tried as…

No matter how many times Dick went through this, it always hit him the same. He became numb, at first, going through the motions, clicking on the message, the full gravity hitting him slowly, and then all at once. Going from a buzzing in his ears and a tingling in his fingertips to the floor dropping out from under him, falling, falling, falling.

Another shot at life. I’m sorry I let you down. I love you dearly. I’ll be okay.

No specifics, which is what had Dick scrambling around his mind, trying to piece together something, anything Damian could mean, but- but be it returning to the League of Assassins or going on some mission he didn’t expect to return from or-.

No matter the specifics, this was a suicide note.

There were hands on him, Donna, and he turned around and tried to focus on what she was saying but Damian was- not again, not again, and he was already running, was Damian still alive? Did anyone know where he was?

He dialed the only person who would know, and as soon as she picked up, he managed to gasp out, “Babs, Damian-.”

“Dick, he’s alive.” It was like his strings were cut, Dick nearly running into a wall on his way to the zeta tubes, leaning against it and trying to catch his breath. “Damian’s alive, he’s not hurt, he’s at Tim’s place, right now, asleep in his guest bedroom.” Before he could ask, Babs added, “Tim gave me access to his security cameras; I’ve got eyes on him right now.” And then, “Dick, are you okay?”

He turned around, his back pressed to the wall, locking eyes with Donna. Who had his sunglasses in her hand. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he managed, as he accepted the disguise with shaking hands and a mouthed thank you. His entire body had pins and needles and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to stand on his own, but Damian was alive.

Dick needed to get to the zeta tubes, needed to get back down to Earth, to Gotham, had to see Damian with his own two eyes, hold him in his arms and feel his pulse and make sure he was okay. Donna was right next to him, though, gently reminding him to breathe, four in, four out. He did a round, and asked Babs, “What happened?”

There was a pause, before she said, “You’re gonna wanna sit down.”

Chapter Text

Damian's remaining sleep was restless and groggy, a constant ebb and flow between slumber and wakefulness. And, somewhere in between, he heard his door creak open, and before he could blink his bleary eyes open, there was a gentle hand on his pulse point, a familiar voice from above. "Dami?"

His heart rose in his throat. "Richard?"

Richard's expression unwound as soon as he spoke, eyes shining and a slow smile spreading across his face. The next thing he knew, Richard was reaching for him, fumbling with the layers of blankets to wrap around Damian's form, to hold him close, and Damian gladly returned the gesture, grasping onto Richard's hoodie and burying his face into his collarbone, his shoulder, wherever he could reach. Honest to God, this still felt like a dream.

And then he felt Richard press a kiss to the crown of his head, voice hitching as he muttered, "I'm so glad you're okay."

Suddenly, Damian was back in his body, feeling thick, heavy emotion trudging through his system, hot and constricting and so much. "I'm sorry," he started, but Richard shook his head, pulling back, cradling Damian's face in his hands.

"Don't be sorry," Richard insisted, face blotchy and eyes red-rimmed, voice firm. "Don't you ever be sorry for this, okay?"

And that emotion pushed up into Damian's head, almost dizzy with it. "I hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Richard pulled him back into his embrace, threading a hand through his hair. "I know, sweetheart, I know. But I know," a sob cut him off momentarily, "I know you were hurting more than I ever could."

He wasn't sure what it was, but a switch finally flipped in Damian's psyche. He thought he'd run out of tears; he was sorely mistaken. He wailed, disintegrating, all tears and snot and spittle, and unafraid of falling apart; Richard was here, holding him together.

Damian awoke in a puddle of his own making, saturated into Richard's hoodie. He slowly realized that he had, in fact, cried himself to sleep draped over his eldest brother's form like some oversized toddler.

When he pulled away, Richard immediately stirred, stretching out his back as Damian slid off of him. He hoped he hadn't slept too long; Richard must have been uncomfortable.

Before Damian could speak, however, he noticed a tell-tale blue stripe peeking out from under Richard's hoodie. "You're still in uniform."

"Hm?" Richard asked, glancing down at himself. "Oh, yeah." He didn't elaborate, but Damian knew how seriously the whole family took the separation of their day life and their night life. He didn't know how long it took Richard to get here, but he must have traveled through Gotham with his uniform on underneath, without pausing to change, only to cover, potentially revealing his identity.

The thought made Damian feel as loved as he felt guilty.

"Who's this?" Richard had reached over to his bedside table to grab Mila, examining her with a knowing smile.

Damian tutted. "Cassandra bought her for me."

"Her?"

Damian took her from Richard, who gladly let him. "She came with the name 'Mila', so yes, she's a her." Richard just smiled wider, and Damian's heart sunk at that. Still smiling even now, even knowing what Damian had done in his absence.

His gaze fell to his lap, "So, what did they tell you?"

He didn't have to look up to know Richard's smile had fallen, and the man shifted in his spot again. "Well, basically just… what Barbara told me. That you've been having problems all week, and then you… tried to kill yourself two days ago." Even pushing those words out seemed to hurt Richard, and he added, "I'm sorry I wasn't here."

When he finally looked back up, the guilt was so evident on Richard's face that it made him ache. After a moment's hesitation, he made his way back to the man, leaning back against his chest. Thankfully, Richard wrapped his arms around him immediately, pressing his cheek to the side of Damian's scalp. Meanwhile, Damian tightened his hold around Mila, knowing what conversation was coming.

"Do you wanna tell me?" Richard asked before immediately qualifying, "I know it's hard, so you don't have to if you don't want to."

"No, I-" Damian cleared his throat, "I do." Because if anyone would be willing and able to take on the weight of what had happened over the last two weeks, it was Richard.

The story was told in stops and starts, Damian thankful he could look at the wall or the ceiling or down at Mila, instead of at Richard's face. He didn't think he could bear to see his reactions, because as he recounted the story behind Mahajan, and Princeling, and his benching and the file and the phone call, about the park and the penthouse and Whittaker and the school bathrooms and the safe house, he could feel Richard going tense, hear his breath hitching, see his hands curling into fists.

He felt Richard press his cheek against Damian's shoulder as he described how he got up to the top of Wayne Tower. "And I was just… as soon as I stepped over, I knew I'd made a mistake, but that was more a… a physiological reaction than anything else. Survival instinct, I suppose."

Richard nodded against his shoulder, holding him so tight as if Damian would start falling again if he let go. After a moment, he asked, voice tight, "And then Jon caught you?"

Damian nodded, "And then Jon caught me. And Drake was there, too. I'm guessing he noticed my… sloppy hacking work, and decided to stick around to see… what I'd do." He added, hastily, "And I understand that no one thought I would try to end my own life. It hadn't occurred to me until- until Monday." Damian worried his lip, running his fingers over Mila's ear, "But I think I've… been looking for a way out for a long time."

Richard pressed his eyes to Damian's shoulder, saying, "I'm so sorry you went through that, Damibird."

"It's not your fault," Damian assured, and Richard shook his head, smiling against his shoulder blade.

"I know, but I'm supposed to be here for you." He sniffled, shifting around beneath Damian. "And you're not supposed to be consoling me right now."

Damian pressed his lips together, putting his hands over Richard's arms and squeezing minutely. "I just hate to see you upset. I didn't- I didn't want to see your reaction. I tried not to think about it."

Richard seemed to need a moment after that, taking deep breaths. "That's why I'm behind you right now," he managed, voice wet.

He leaned further back against Richard, who pulled his head off Damian's shoulder, pressing his cheek to the side of his head. "Everyone else was here for me, though," Damian added, if only to alleviate Richard's guilt, "Drake, and Jon, and Todd and Pennyworth and everyone. Cassandra came back from Hong Kong, just to see me."

"I'm glad," Richard said, pressing another kiss to the side of his head. "I'm really glad you weren't alone."

Damian thought of death, the dewy grass, the rustling leaves, and the aching abyss of loneliness in his chest. That cold peace didn't come close to this moment, cozy and warm and secure in the knowledge that he had someone here with him, someone who ran to be with him at all costs, someone who held him close as he fell apart and saw every awful inch of him and still wanted him in his life.

Death couldn't compare to this.

"Richard, can I tell you something?"

"Always."

He swallowed. "I… when I came back, and I was told you were dead," Richard froze, but only momentarily, "I used to… to go through your things, in your bedroom. Your notebooks and, and all your pictures, and I- I read some of those letters in that box at the top of your closet, but not all of them, and not all the way through. Just to… to get some more time with you, I guess."

He took a deep breath before admitting, "And you… you seemed like you could be like me, and I knew what a hole you left in- in the family, and in the community, and I thought, maybe, one day…" And it was so stupid, so infantile, so far-fetched, but, "That I could be like you one day. A brother to everyone, kind and understanding, and dependable. To- to fill the space you left. And I think I held onto that, even after you came back, but I couldn't- every time I'd get benched, every time I'd fail the Teen Titans, or I'd fail Jon or the Justice League in general, it was another reason I could never do that."

Damian cleared his throat, "And when I learned that… that I wasn't even made to be a human being, that was the final nail in the coffin. Because I'd never be someone like you, I would never… never learn those things. How to be a good friend, or how to be reliable, someone people turned to. Because that wasn't what I was meant for."

Barely above a whisper, he admitted, "And I still… still don't think I could ever be that, so."

Richard was silent for a long, long moment. "You don't have to be me, Dami."

"But I want to be," he replied without hesitation. "Everyone-," however, he hesitated here, "Everyone likes you, Richard, and- and I don't even like myself."

"I like you."

"You like everyone," Damian muttered, even if he knew it wasn't true.

Richard smiled against his scalp. "Trust me, I really, really don't." He continued, "But even when I first met you, I liked you. Sure, you were rough around the edges," Damian rolled his eyes, "But I liked that you didn't… you didn't feel the need to make yourself convenient for anyone."

Damian rubbed at Mila's fur, frowning. "You liked that I was difficult?"

Richard actually chuckled at that. "Well, yeah, kinda. I mean, it was frustrating, but…" Damian could feel a shift in the air, "But Alfred reminded me that- that I was lucky enough to have a healthy upbringing, that I had parents who loved me and loved each other. Even if they were taken away from me, I still had them. And you never did."

Something acidic swirled in Damian's chest, and he pressed his lips together. "So- yeah, you were difficult, but the more I thought about-," he cleared his throat, "about how you must have been treated before you came to Gotham. How you probably had to fend for yourself, for your right to be alive. And I can't- I can't imagine having to do that when you were so young, and for so long.

"And I- I mean, I read up on child psychology, you know? The effects of long-term abuse on young kids, and it's horrific. But the more I read up, the more I realized how hard you were trying to be good, anyways." Damian had to shut his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through the tightness in his chest. "And you still try so hard, every hour of every day, and you're doing so well, but I-."

And now Richard was trying to breathe, and fuck, Damian was so over crying, he didn't want to start again. "And right now, I just want you to know that you don't need to try that hard. You're allowed to make mistakes, you're allowed to fail, because I know that you always do your very best. You're Damian, and you're brilliant and creative and tenacious and generous, and difficult, and I wouldn't have you any other way."

Yes, there was a frog in Damian's throat, but that didn't stop him from saying, "I love you, Richard."

"I love you, too, Dami." After a moment, he hauled Damian up against his chest, leaning back, "And you're never gonna get rid of me, got that? Never."

"My cross to bear," Damian responded, tone flat and dry, and Richard laughed. The sound had Damian smiling and unable to stop.

Chapter Text

Friday afternoon passed lazily by, and Damian appreciated the calm. Not only did he have schoolwork to catch up on, but Richard hadn’t slept in the past twenty-four hours. To be honest, the latter was more important to Damian. So, Friday was spent with Damian on his laptop at the coffee table, Richard asleep on the sofa with a lazy Titus, and Pennyworth doing busy work. As this was Drake’s apartment, and the man in question had left to spend the day on campus, Pennyworth had no shortage of chores to take care of, but even Damian could tell he was just present to… be present, really.

Not that he was complaining.

And when he did submit all his schoolwork, he sat down near Richard’s curled-up form only to be immediately pulled into a hug. He was pretty sure Richard didn’t even open his eyes, but Damian could tell he was awake by his smile. He fell asleep quickly thereafter, though, leaving Damian to his new role as a teddy bear. Even with Titus laying himself against his back, he didn’t mind too much.

Except when he had to pee, then he required Pennyworth’s aid just to untangle himself from this quagmire of his own making.

Soon after that, Richard woke up and declared they should take Titus for a walk before the sun went down. Damian was half-expecting Richard to be grabbing onto him at every turn, but outside, he was more restrained; brushing arms while walking, or the occasional nudge.

By now, he was thoroughly aware that physical affection was Richard’s preferred method of comfort, so he wondered if this was for Damian’s own comfort. And as they fell into a familiar pattern, of Richard chattering away about the summit and Damian only occasionally interjecting, he considered what Richard had told him that morning. About how Damian wasn’t convenient.

It was possible Damian was reading too much into this, but there was something about how Richard said that word. Something about Dick Grayson, founding Robin and Nightwing, brother to all, a man the whole world needed, summing that all up to convenience. Some sort of code he hadn’t quite cracked.

Before he could bring it up, however, Richard asked, “Did you leave anything at the safehouse?”

Damian hadn’t realized he’d reached a lull in the conversation, and quickly snapped himself back to reality, to Titus leisurely strolling down the street in front of them. He’d napped too much today, probably; Damian would have to get out of the house tomorrow, keep him active. “I don’t think so-.”

And then he remembered the note. “Wait, I did. I can go on my own, though.”

“Don’t be silly,” Richard insisted, “I mean, it’s my place, anyways. And since I’m guessing you don’t wanna stay there for… obvious reasons, I got some clothes and stuff for you there we should pack up.”

Damian furrowed his brows, “Are you planning on selling it?”

Richard cocked his head to the side, “Maybe, but it’s… I don’t know, it sounds like you don’t want to go back to the manor, and you can’t stay with Tim forever-.”

It clicked. “You want me to stay with you in Bludhaven.”

Richard shrugged, expression schooled. “I mean, I was thinking we could just camp out at one of my other safehouses until we find a permanent place in Gotham.”

Damian stopped in his tracks, turning to face Richard. “But you’re based in Bludhaven. You have a job there.”

At that, Richard just looked puzzled. “I mean, it’s just a job. And yeah, I’ll have some other business to tie up, but that’s-.” He shook his head, dismissing the thought entirely, “That’s not important.”

His grip tightened on the leash, throat closing up. You don’t make yourself convenient. “I’d… you don’t have to do any of that for my sake.”

Something in Richard’s expression unfurled again, and he said, “I’m doing this because I want to, okay? I want to be there for you.”

Damian felt his stomach go tight, tight, tight. “You can be there for me in Bludhaven.”

Richard shook his head, “We’ve tried that for the last two years, remember?” He sighed to himself, “Look, I- if you don’t want to stay with me-.”

And that was even worse. “No! No, I do.”

“Then what’s the problem?” And Richard was looking at him like this was a no-brainer, to drop his job and all of his responsibilities for Damian.

He looked away, refocusing his attention on Titus, who was looking around the area but not being as troublesome as he normally was. Dammit, Damian could use the distraction.

“Dami.” And there came that tone, the one that always made Damian emotional. He forced himself to meet Richard’s gaze, nonetheless. “I know what I’m doing, alright? I’m an adult, and you’re a kid, and- and you’re my responsibility.”

And Damian had nothing to rebut that, because it was… true. Sensible. A rule from the world Damian wished he grew up in.

Taking a breath to steady himself, he tilted his chin up just so to say, “Fine. I have one condition, however.”

Richard’s expression relaxed, morphing into a big, easy grin. “Shoot.”

“You can’t lie to me anymore.” When Richard’s smile faltered, Damian added, “I know you don’t do it maliciously, but it’s still- like before you left, you said I’d be the first to know if you were late. But that’s not true; Father would be the first to know.”

“Okay,” Richard allowed, knot between his brows. “I’m… That’s-.”

“I know it was a white lie,” Damian continued, “I know you meant to make me feel better, maybe…” he glanced over at the street, at the cars passing by. “Maybe to make me feel like I had some control over the situation, but I don’t- I want you to be honest with me.”

When he looked back at Richard, the man’s brow was still furrowed, but it was more in sympathy than anything else. “Okay,” he repeated, “I think I get where you’re coming from, so I-,” he glanced down at the ground, and, for a moment, Damian wondered if he felt chastised, “I’ll stop. Doing that.”

And Damian didn’t know what to do with this information, that maybe this was one way Richard tried to give him comfort, but the man, mercifully, changed the subject before he felt the need to speak. “So, safehouse tomorrow?”

Damian nodded, “Yes. That will do.”

Once Pennyworth had left for the day (after rebutting Drake and Richard’s many insistences that he stay to eat with them), Richard suggested they go out to celebrate Drake’s retirement. They hurriedly organized as evening bled into night, and only those who didn’t have patrol were able to come with them. Namely, Cassandra and Todd.

It wasn’t until they arrived at the restaurant that Damian realized this was also, perhaps, a night in Richard’s honor: Drake had chosen the eldest’s favorite place in the city, a bistro housed within a former townhouse, with indoor seating spanning four floors, all old hardwood floors and dusty chandeliers and mismatched water glasses. They snagged a table on the third floor, a leather chesterfield on one side and a hodgepodge of dining chairs and armchairs on the other.

Of course, Richard snagged a spot on the chesterfield, all but tugging Damian in next to him. Cassandra boxed him in on the other side.

Unlike the other two evenings since Wednesday, there was no attempt to make Damian the center of attention. Instead, he merely existed amongst his family, happy to listen to Richard’s chattering and Drake’s (Tim’s, he should start calling him Tim, maybe) rants, Todd’s sarcastic non-sequiturs and Cassandra’s quiet interjections.

As Damian was doodling a trio of birds on his napkin, he heard Richard ask, “Who are you staying with, Cass?”

After a pause, she said, “Stephanie, but. I was with Dad last night.”

“Oh?” Damian sensed the shift in tone, and he glanced up, taking everyone in. “How’s he doing?” Richard asked.

Todd scoffed at the question, and Cassandra replied, “He’s… troubled. I hope he’s thinking.”

“He thinks too much, if you ask me,” Tim muttered around his ravioli.

“Pot, kettle,” Damian replied, automatically.

“I mean,” Richard continued as if he hadn’t heard, “I’m surprised he hasn’t made an appearance yet, at least since I’m home early.” He said it like Father showing up would be a bad thing.

“He doesn’t know you’re here.” When both Richard and Damian turned to Cassandra in shock, she added, “Tim sent out a CB.”

“Wasn’t he notified?” Damian asked. Typically there was some type of status update when registered heroes went to or came back from an off-world excursion.

“He’d have to check,” Richard explained, “And he doesn’t have a reason to think I’d be back yet.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Tim seconded.

How hadn’t Damian noticed this dread surrounding his own father before? It wasn’t as though he was unfamiliar with the feeling, but-.

He turned back to Cassandra, who had picked up his pen and was busy adding to his doodle. “You keep things from Father?” Because this was especially surprising coming from her.

She glanced up at him. “Sometimes. Or, sometimes it’s best to… wait.” Cassandra slid the napkin back to Damian; she’d added familiar logos to the birds’ chests and domino masks over their eyes. “Richard needs time with you, and Dad is…”

“Troubled?” Todd suggested, only half-sarcastically.

“Yes.” Damian only half-heard Cassandra’s assurance, only thinking about their fight in the kitchen.

“I was… mean to him, last night,” Damian amended, addressing Richard, “That’s why Cassandra went back with him.”

“He had it coming,” Todd insisted, at the same time Tim muttered, “He kinda deserved it.”

Richard shook his head, trying to piece this together. “Wait, Bruce went to your apartment last night, Tim?”

“Unannounced,” Tim confirmed, “He and the gremlin had a screaming match in the kitchen.”

“To be fair,” Damian added, guilt roiling in his gut, “I was the one who rose my voice.” He could feel Richard holding him a little tighter, and he didn’t want- or worse, Nightwing and Batman at each others’ throats.

Not to mention the argument had been about Richard, and that just made every one of Damian’s internal organs convulse.

“I’ll tell him myself, Cass, don’t worry,” Richard assured, rubbing a soothing hand down Damian’s back. “I went out of protocol, anyways. Played sick.”

Tim looked at him in disbelief, “They let you leave because you were sick?”

“They didn’t exactly have the right medical equipment to take care of me, or even to diagnose me-.”

Todd tutted, “They were worried you’d sue, I bet.”

Richard rolled his eyes, smiling. “Under what jurisdiction, exactly?”

“Space law,” Cassandra said, somberly.

“Yeah, intergalactic tort suits are a bitch,” Tim added.

And the issue was brushed under the table, if not for now. It felt wrong, but Damian was tired of fighting. Besides, this was Tim and Richard’s moment, not his.

If he pretended to doze off against Richard’s side, no one said anything about it.

The drive to the safehouse Saturday morning was quiet, save for Richard’s anxious attempts at conversation. Damian knew it was silly to be nervous, it was only an apartment, but something about it still loomed over him, more and more as they parked and made their way to the unit. In his mind’s eye, he saw the hardwood floors where he mapped out his route, the window he stared out of as he debated methods, the table where he’d scrawled a note, unthinking and manic.

He went for the note as soon as Richard opened the door, snatching it up and folding it shut, slipping it into his front pocket. Richard kept mercifully quiet on the matter, instead placing the empty duffel bags down and chattering about what they should pack.

As he made for the bedrooms, however, Damian remembered, “My, um… my uniform shirt is still in there. The one that got ripped open.” After Richard hesitated, Damian grabbed a duffel bag and said, “I can pack what’s in there, don’t worry.”

Richard gave him his space, just told him where everything was before moving along to the other bedrooms. Damian always appreciated that about him, that he knew when to step forward and to step back. Or perhaps he didn’t want to see the evidence of Damian’s breakdown, either.

Maybe he could see it, too, in the floorboards and the window sill and the coffee table. Richard only interrupted him to step into the room and give him a long hug, and it wasn’t until after that Damian realized he’d found the last remnants of his WE building schematics. It was soothing, or maybe affirming, to have Richard be as anxious in this place as Damian was, to be equally as disturbed by what happened here, if not moreso.

They packed all the clothes and sundries they could find quickly, in and out within the hour. Once they were in the elevator, though, Richard said, “I was gonna go to the manor, too, just in case there’s anything Alfred forgot. Do you wanna come with, or do you just want to tell me what to get?”

“I’ll go,” Damian insisted, not just because he feared Richard was as delicate right now as he felt, but also because he had a plethora of hidey-holes in the manor, some of them booby-trapped, that he’d really like to get the contents of.

“‘Kay.” The elevator dinged, and Richard added, “Oh, I should, uh, probably check the mail, too.”

Damian loaded up the car while Richard did just that, glad that he’d never have to see this building and it’s haunted corners ever again. When Richard rushed out of the building, however, Damian realized he might not be so lucky.

He didn’t say a thing, just offered Damian the thick legal envelope in his hand. No address, no postage, just his name, Damian.

“It’s just papers,” Richard assured, “I checked, but-.”

“I know.” Explosive devices were bad, but papers could be plenty worse.

They followed the protocol for something like this, getting into the car and driving to a nearly-empty parking lot, away from any prying eyes, security cameras or easy hiding spots. Still, Richard kept watch.

Inside was a cardboard file tied shut with string and full to bursting, and a smaller envelope shut with Talia’s personal seal. Damian forced himself to take a deep breath before opening the latter, mentally preparing himself for whatever threats lie within.

My dearest son,

After our conversation, I’m compelled to explain myself, but in truth, none can suffice. I didn’t know what your grandfather meant to do with you until after you were brought into this world, but what excuse is that? Worse than a heartless schemer, he played me for a sentimental fool. What excuse is it that my motives, were also, selfish? To have a beating-heart bond with the man I felt destined for.

As such, this is not about excuses, but about you. My darling child, a gift I didn’t deserve. When your grandfather told me he created you for a body and nothing more, I knew he’d fail, because from the moment I met you, you were so alive. You had this radiance about you that I believed was everlasting. As a young child, I can recall looking at myself in the mirror and seeing a corpse, no life in me at all, so I had so much hope that you would overtake your grandfather with this spark in you.

When you returned from preliminary training, so much of that radiance was gone, and from that moment, I knew I would never forgive myself for bringing you into my world. You’re so strong, my heart, but I knew even the strongest people could be destroyed. The thought of you seeing death in your own eyes is more than I can bear, myself.

I never knew how to provide the love a child needs, and to this day, I pray your father and his family are providing that love to you. But for now, I love you from where I can love you best: afar.

“Dami?” Richard’s attention was on him, he was tearing up, and he shook his head, quick to assure, “It’s fine. I’m okay.”

But I do love you, more than I ever thought possible. From the sun to every star, to the edges of the universe, I love you. You maintain that radiance, that life within you, and I hope you recognize it. I hope you feed your soul as best you can, with beautiful art and beautiful moments. And know, if worse comes to worse, that I’ll be there to handle all the dirty work.

- Mama

“Dami.” Richard’s tone was insistent, now, given that Damian was borderline weeping.

“It’s okay,” Damian repeated, “We’re- it’s not a bad cry, it’s okay.” With shaking hands, he still opened up the file folder, flipping through the pages.

He was unfamiliar with the contents, but he recognized enough familiar words, in Arabic and old Persian and Aramaic, to piece together what these were. “This is information on the Lazarus Pit,” Damian murmured, sniffling, “About- soul transfer. Spells.”

Richard’s eyes widened, leaning over to look at the pages, as well. Under his breath, he muttered, “Holy thaumaturgy.” Louder, he added, “Is this from your mom?”

Damian nodded, smiling in disbelief. “Yeah. She…” He trailed off, shaking his head as he organized the sheets and slid them back into the folder, “She did some dirty work for me, I guess.”

Chapter Text

Every night, without fail, Dick Grayson entertained the same fantasy: he’d break into the Hall of Justice, access their time machine, and travel back fourteen years. He’d sneak into Nanda Parbat, snatch an infant Damian away in the dead of night, and hand him over to his younger self and Bruce, with a thorough explanation of who he was and who was after him, and how to keep him safe. It was the same fantasy because every night, (every day, every minute of every hour) without fail, Dick Grayson wished Damian could have had the childhood he deserved.

Of course, Dick loved Damian just the way he was, but the suffering he’d undergone, just as a consequence of being Damian al Ghul, made him want to scream his vocal chords bloody raw and punch his bedroom wall until the plaster lay in pieces on the floor, until his apartment collapsed around him, until every bone in his hands were broken. He never deserved that. No child did, but especially not Damian, kind and compassionate in spite of everything he’d experienced. He deserved parents who loved him well, who held him when he cried and were excited to see him grow. He deserved pictures of him from every phase of his life proudly displayed on the mantle, ticks on the doorframe marking his height year over year, tangible evidence that he’d been loved since the first day he arrived on this earth.

Instead, he got a mom who let him be tortured in the name of “correction”, and a dad who… well.

Dick wanted Bruce to get a chance to be Damian’s dad, and hoped more than anything that he’d do a good job. He’d given the man all the information he’d amassed over his time being Damian’s guardian, from his favorite foods to his suspected triggers to heaps and heaps of studies on the possible impacts of long-term trauma on a child’s brain development, some of which Dick had fucking annotated with comments about Damian in particular.

Some days, Dick wondered if Bruce had bothered to read any of it, let alone put it to good use.

The problem was, Dick knew Bruce could be a passable parent; he’d been caring and patient in his own, awkward way when he’d taken Dick in. He should have been able to become that person again, especially for a kid who needed it as much as Damian did. Maybe that assumption was stupid, because the Bruce he knew today was vastly different from the Bruce he’d known nearly twenty years ago. In the gulf between them lay two decades of losing long-time friends and watching as his allies, children, were maimed and killed by his enemies, in his name. Nearly twenty years of looking over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When Damian told him what J’onn had said, about Bruce fearing Damian, it all snapped into place. Dick had his suspicions, that Bruce looked at this child who was so clearly trying his best and couldn’t see past his threat assessment, the likelihood of another betrayal, another risk not to be overlooked lest it lead to the deaths of those he loved. He just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

So, he’d spent the last three years constantly fretting, having Tim and Jason and Babs and Steph and frankly anyone else who interacted with Damian tell him about what they’d seen or heard and wondering if he was alright, treating Dick as the mediator between all of them and Bruce. As if Dick had any better luck talking to Bruce about Damian’s well-being, as if he wasn’t stonewalled and iced out at every turn.

He did what he could without rocking the boat; he tried to be a safe space for Damian, never prodding, making sure the kid was comfortable enough around him to come out of his shell, to say whatever he needed to say. But Dick ought to have known one or two visits a month wasn’t enough. Truly, this was as much Dick’s fault as it was anyone else’s.

But his biggest mistake had been trusting Bruce Wayne, and that’s where a familiarly enraged part of him sat, fuming, as it had for the last three years. He’d tamped it down for that long, so if anyone deserved Dick’s wrath, it was Bruce.

On the drive up, however, Dick tried to maintain his facade; it was a reflex at this point, asking Damian about apartment hunting, if Titus and Alfred the cat would be moving in with them (the answer was yes, obviously), and whether or not he’d stay at Gotham Academy. Praying that Damian wouldn’t notice that he was white-knuckling the steering wheel.

As they pulled up to the gates, however, Damian asked, “You’re giving Father your summit report, right?”

Dick nodded; it was a flimsy excuse to go to the manor, but it was the only one he had.

Damian held up the envelope his mom had sent him. “You should give him these, too.”

Dick couldn’t help but glance at Damian, a little shocked, but… but the kid had a point. If anyone could be trusted to put this information to good use, it was the Batman. “Good idea.”

After Dick had parked, he took the envelope from Damian and shot him a smile. “Let’s get going, then.”

Alfred greeted them warmly at the door, but his expression turned suspicious when Dick asked, “Could you help Damian pack up? I just need to give Bruce a couple things.”

After a second’s consideration, Alfred replied, measured, “Of course. He’s in his office.” His tone carried a hint of warning, of You better know what you’re getting into.

Dick offered a small smile back, as if to say I know. “Thanks, Alfred.” He turned to Damian, who was staring at him too knowingly for his liking, “Text me when you’re done, alright?”

Alfred was already heading for the staircase, looking pointedly back at Damian. The kid replied, “Don’t take too long,” before joining him.

Dick spent about five minutes outside of the office doors, breathing deeply in an effort to calm his pounding heartbeat and the tension in his jaw. If he burst in, guns blazing, there was no way Bruce would listen to him; it would only escalate, and then suddenly Dick would be throwing punches like he was sixteen again.

After a final exhale, Dick knocked at the door, barely waiting for Bruce’s bland, “Come in,” before he opened the door. He had to admit he took some schadenfreude in how Bruce’s expression dropped upon seeing it, as if he knew he was in trouble. “Dick.”

Dick put on the fakest fucking smile of his life as he slipped into the room. “Hey, Bruce. I got a stomach bug at the summit, since they didn’t have a doctor for me, they made me go home early. Guess they didn’t want to go through an intergalactic tort suit or whatever. Got you your report, though!” He walked right up to the desk where Bruce was sat, dropping both his barebones report and the hefty envelope onto the surface between them.

Dick made a point of leaning forward, palms against the desk. “The envelope is from Talia.” At that, Bruce’s eyes went wide, immediately snapping to the object in question. “Addressed to Damian. Apparently a whole bunch of stuff about the Lazarus Pit’s magical properties? He wanted you to have it.”

Bruce reached for the envelope, before his hand froze in mid-air, and he looked back at Dick, eyes analyzing. He imagined the supercomputer in Bruce’s head whirring away, beep-booping and listing off results in a smooth robot voice like in Saturday morning cartoons.

He leaned back, jaw set, and Dick’s spiteful head provided: Examination complete: Dick is angry with us. Engage. On cue, Bruce said, “This isn’t what you’re here for.”

Dick couldn’t stop his sarcastic reply. “Another brilliant deduction from the World’s Greatest Detective.” He couldn’t stop his glee at watching Bruce’s eye twitch, either.

Bruce sighed, picking up the envelope and taking his time unwinding the string seal, carefully slipping out the sheets of paper. “Where’s Damian?”

“Upstairs.” Bruce glanced at Dick once again. “Packing the rest of his things.”

Minutely, Bruce’s eyes widened and his lips went tight, in something like hurt or shame, before returning his attention to the documents. “So you’ve come to gloat, then?”

Dick’s jaw dropped open for a moment, nostrils flaring. “To gloat?”

Bruce continued, “I’m very aware you think I’m an incompetent parent.”

He barely gave Bruce a chance to finish, his temper already cracking and igniting, “This isn’t about either of us, Bruce. This is about your son, who tried to throw himself off a fucking building three days ago.”

Bruce didn’t say anything in return, keeping his expression impassive, and Dick never hated him more than he did in these moments. When he tried to pretend he wasn’t effected, that Dick was the one overreacting here.

“The same building you locked him in a week ago.” Bruce’s jaw twitched as Dick continued. “Alone. After going through the worst dissociative episode of his entire fucking life. Just because you were scared.”

The sheets of paper shook in Bruce’s hands for a moment, before he slammed them down, staring back up at Dick. “It was for his protection and everyone else’s.”

“It was for your peace of mind,” Dick shot back, barely hearing his own voice over the blood rushing in his head. “That’s how you keep a situation under control, right? Identify and isolate each individual variable,” Bruce pushed himself to standing with a screech of his chair, but Dick didn’t pause, “forgetting the fact that Damian. Is a fucking. Child!”

“He’s not just a child,” Bruce replied, voice in that familiar, controlled tone, dipping just the slightest bit into the Bat.

“No, he’s your child,” Dick agreed.

“That’s right.”

Dick’s hands curled into fists against the table, and he had to remind himself why sucker-punching Bruce was a bad idea.

Bruce, who obviously didn’t have a self-preservative bone in his dumbfuck body, continued. “He’s my child, so what right do you have to speak on it? You’ve been nothing but a fun uncle for the past three years.”

A resentful grin carved its way across Dick’s face. “You’re right, I have. Because I trusted you to be his dad, and I ignored how your stupid, self-righteous, paranoid ass was getting in the way.”

Bruce shook his head. “You think this is my fault.”

“I know it is,” Dick replied without delay, leaning ever closer into Bruce’s space. “He was your responsibility.”

“There were factors here beyond-.”

“You locked him in the penthouse!” Dick felt more than heard himself shout, “And you should have known he’d take that as a punishment. You’re with him every goddamned day, and somehow you’ve failed to realize that he worships the ground you fucking walk on.” Bruce scoffed, and Dick had to push away from the desk or else it’d be too tempting to lunge at him. “He still thinks he has to earn his place by your side, and maybe the rest of us did, but he shouldn’t have had to because he’s your son. He can’t go anywhere else.”

“He has to earn his place as Robin, yes,” Bruce acquiesced, “But he knows he’s my son.”

“No he doesn’t!” Dick exploded, gesticulating with half-balled up hands, fingers like claws, “He thinks they’re one and the same! He spent the first ten years of his life fighting for his right to be alive, Bruce, let alone his right to be loved. You think he doesn’t hold onto that, even now? You think his self-esteem isn’t on the fucking floor? After learning that every. Last. Thing he’d done, every last achievement he had before he came here, was actually bad? Ten years of building up his sense of self-worth, gone.”

“His sense of self-worth?” Bruce’s voice hiked in volume, but Dick didn’t want to hear it.

“Yes, Bruce, and then he had to be constantly reminded of all the bad shit he’d done, being treated like he’s inherently bad-.”

“I never told him he-.”

“It happened under your watch,” Dick insisted, “You don’t think Tim wasn’t reminding him? Or the Teen Titans or half the goddamned Justice League? And you let that happen.”

“I apologize for not controlling the behavior of every single person Damian comes into contact with.”

“YOU’RE THE FUCKING BATMAN!” Dick felt his throat rubbing itself raw. “If you told any of them to shut the fuck up, they would have shut. The fuck. Up! But you didn’t, because you don’t give a single shit about any of us unless we’re-,” causing trouble, dying, dead, “some fucking- some fucking whip to flagellate yourself with, another sad chapter in the Bruce Wayne Tragedy.” Dick could hear the cruelty in his tone, but he could tell by the small twitches breaking through Bruce’s carefully-composed mask that he was getting through to him, and he didn’t care to stop. “Newsflash, Bruce: doing something shitty and then feeling bad about it doesn’t change the fact that you did something shitty.”

Dick had a moment to catch his breath, to watch Bruce’s expression morph from hurt to anger in its own minute ways. When he finally spoke, his tone was rumbling, “How dare you? Telling me that I don’t care about my own child?”

Dick spread his arms wide, offering himself as Exhibit A. “As long as we’re alive and being good little soldiers, you don’t think twice about us.”

“Us?” Bruce cocked his head to the side, just the slightest bit, and Dick knew from twenty years at this man’s side that he thought he’d just caught some massive clue, that he’d cracked this case wide open. “Oh, I see.”

Dick dropped his arms, exasperated. “What?”

“Damian told you about the train set, right?” It took a moment for those words to sink in, Dick too irritated at Bruce’s crowing. “I’d thought we were past this whole Spyral debacle, Dick, but I guess not.”

The train set? Spyral? Dick took a step back, shaking his head. “What are you talking about?”

And there was that same expression as when Dick had first popped his head into the office, his dumb imagination supplying the robot voice in Bruce’s brain: Miscalculation: prepare for impact.

Dick took a step closer, shoulders hiking up. “What are you talking about?” Because he had no clue what a fucking train set had to do with his time at Spyral, and if Damian mentioned it, and Bruce thought he knew, and what was he missing here?

Bruce, meanwhile, opened and shut his mouth, and then opened and shut it again, like a fucking trout, and he finally looked down.

“Nothing to say?” Dick could feel it, the choking blaze of his anger creeping up his throat, already white-hot from the situation at hand, and the added memory of fucking Spyral making it all the worse. “Because I wanna know what Spyral has to do with any of this. What does you going quiet on me for three fucking months have to do with any of this, huh?” Bruce looked up, and then behind Dick, eyes widening, but he barely saw it through the smoke. “Is it that you didn’t even care to tell me Damian was alive? Or that you didn’t even check if I was still alive?”

There was a moment of pin-drop silence, and Dick watched as Bruce’s eyes snapped back to his face, realizing that he’d been looking at something else. “Dick-.”

Dick turned around, anyways, just in time to see Damian standing beyond the open office door, glaring holes into Bruce’s form. Just in time to watch him say, “You what?”

Chapter Text

Damian had feared his booby traps would hinder his ability to get in and out of the manor as quickly as possible, but they were far more amateur than he remembered. Indeed, if you weren't expecting a mouse trap or a small blade to be beneath the floorboards or behind a wall molding that had begun to fall off, it would take you by surprise, but thankfully, both Pennyworth and Damian himself expected that by now.

In fact, the only surprise was how Damian recalled putting these traps together, how he realized he'd had… fun. He'd thought it serious at the time, necessary to protect his journals and banned paraphernalia, his few al Ghul relics, and even some art supplies and sheet music. Still, he'd taken such glee in finding these hiding spots, in concocting these traps.

The Great Damian al Ghul had been a child once. Perhaps he was still a child.

They were done within ten minutes, thanks to Pennyworth needing barely any help in discerning where these hiding places were; Damian supposed he'd spent the last four years cleaning up after him, and half his lifetime caring for this very estate. In the end, all they had to show for it was a desk covered in disassembled traps and a cardboard box of items on Damian's bed. Pennyworth had already packed the rest of his effects, evidently having been informed of his move by Richard, and all his remaining clothes and personal items in two suitcases near the door. All that remained was an uneasy finality in the air.

Damian was eager to break it, clearing his throat. "Thank you for your help, Pennyworth."

"You're very welcome, Master Damian."

He continued, "Richard and I plan to, um, take in Titus and Alfred once we find a more permanent place to live. If you would be so kind as to look after them until we do-,"

"Of course, Master Damian-."

"Though I fear we won't be able to find space for Batcow, so if- I'm sure you don't want to look at that email again, but I'll resend you the contact information of that livestock sanctuary in Cumberland-."

"Master Damian." He snapped his mouth shut, looking up at Pennyworth, standing a few feet away from him at the center of the room. "There's no need for that. All your animal companions are a part of the family, and are always welcome at the manor." The as are you went unspoken, but Damian heard it, anyways. The sentiment made his throat close up, his chest go tight.

After a deep breath and a moment's consideration, he crossed the space between them, arms outstretched, and pulled him into a hug. Damian's shoulders sagged in relief at it being returned, even if only for a few seconds, before he pulled away. "I'll miss you," he assured, "And I'll visit, but it's…"

He trailed off, because, although this wasn't a goodbye, it sure felt like it.

"I know," Pennyworth allowed, "And if I know Master Dick, I'll be in at least weekly contact with your household." Damian would have smiled at the thought, were it not for the emotion lacing Pennyworth's voice. "I'll miss you, too, Master Damian."

All Damian could do in response was nod, before turning to pick up his box of paraphernalia. "Should we go get Richard? He has the keys to the car."

When he turned around, Pennyworth's expression had gone a tad tighter, and Damian thought he knew why: Richard and Father were arguing, no doubt, and Pennyworth didn't want to disturb them. (Even though, really, Pennyworth should disturb them; both Richard and Father respected him, and if he told them to stop, they'd stop.)

Instead, Pennyworth looked to Damian, then pointedly at the floor, before returning it again. Damian looked down, too. His note, with the black sharpie bleeding through the paper, had fallen from his back pocket to the floor.

He snatched it up quickly, and Pennyworth spoke so Damian didn't have to. "Let's just take your effects to the front door first," he suggested, "and perhaps we can wait in the kitchen. That's where Master Alfred seems to spend time these days, and I know he misses you." That was his own fault; as per Pennyworth's claims, Alfred had taken to hiding whenever he heard the rattle of his carrier, which made it rather difficult to transport him to and from Drake's apartment.

Still, Damian obliged, the two of them taking the box and his suitcases and setting them up near the front door, sure to tuck his note into his front pocket as surreptitiously as possible. However, when Pennyworth headed towards the kitchen, Damian's eyes drifted toward Father's office.

Or worse, Nightwing and Batman at each others' throats. He couldn't hear what was happening from yards away, behind those heavy oak doors and the few twists and turns of hallway that lay between them. He knew Richard wouldn't tell him the worst of it, and Father might not even acknowledge it ever happening. Just another fact Damian was not allowed to know.

Damian cleared his throat, turning to Pennyworth, "I just saw Alfred down there; I'll go grab him." Before Pennyworth could respond, he was off. He only looked behind to ensure he wasn't being followed.

As the doors finally came into view, he could hear Richard's voice, raised but unintelligible, but the closer he got, the conversation seemed to take on a different tone, quieting and slowing. Damian sighed in relief; this was most likely a good thing. If their argument was ending, he should be able to grab Richard and leave before anything got worse. He just needed to get in and get out.

However, as he reached to open the door, he heard Richard's voice. "What are you talking about?"

It was a tone he'd never heard from the man before, cold and sharp, dangerous, sending a wave of trepidation washing down his spine. Damian froze momentarily before finally resting his hand on the doorknob. All he could do was listen.

"Nothing to say? Because I wanna know what Spyral has to do with any of this. What does you going quiet on me for three fucking months have to do with any of this, huh?" Damian's guts felt hollow at that information, eyes widening and brain whirring. Spyral, Richard's mission when he was 'dead,' Father went quiet on him for three months? Father was probably his only contact with the outside world, the only familiar face, and-

Richard, alone. For three months. Without updates. Without contact. Dead to the world. Alone.

Damian wasn't aware he was turning the doorknob; all he was aware of was the heat rising impossibly in his body.

"Is it that you didn't even care to tell me Damian was alive? Or that you didn't even check if I was still alive?"

Father didn't tell- Richard was dead to Damian, and Damian was dead to Richard, and Father was in the middle, the only possible transmitter of this information. Richard, alone, mourning.

Suddenly, both Richard and Father were looking at Damian, where he stood in the doorway, shaking and breathing and gripping the knob something fierce. "You what?"

"Damian-," and suddenly, the danger was gone from Richard's voice, reverting to the man Damian knew, the usual worried tone, perhaps even fearful.

He shoved the door the rest of the way open, making his way toward Richard. "Richard, is this true?"

Richard licked his lower lip. "Damian, go-."

"No." Damian hated Richard's tone now, how he wanted to keep this tucked away. His hurt and his anger; how long had he swallowed it down? Because, just hearing this now, Damian could barely think straight. His thoughts kept getting drawn back to Richard, tucked away, dead to the world, where only Father could find him-.

He turned back to his father, who looked exactly like he'd looked in Drake's kitchen, afraid and shocked, as if he didn't expect this to happen, and Damian didn't know he was moving before Richard grabbed him above his elbow, holding him back.

Damian turned to him. "Richard, is this true?"

"It doesn't matter-."

"Yes, it matters!" Damian swore he could feel the anger bubbling inside of him as he turned to face Father. "Did you leave him alone for three months? Is that true?"

The same three months that had been so perfect for Damian, when Father had insisted I miss him, too. The whole time, Richard had been trapped, locked away, somewhere he couldn't do any damage, where he'd be right where he was placed-

Convenient.

"Yes." To Father's credit, he looked Damian in the eye as he said it.

Damian replied immediately, without mercy. "Why?"

"Because I-" for a moment, Father was lost for words, before turning to Richard, "The more we communicated, the more likely you were to get caught, and-." It sounded like a canned response, even to Damian's ears. "And I knew if I- I couldn't keep lying to you about-"

Father swallowed, shutting his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, Damian saw him not as the Batman, nor as Bruce Wayne, but… imperfect, lost, erring as any human would. "If you knew Damian was alive, you'd… I was scared you would do something rash, just to get home as soon as possible."

At once, Father looked young and old, unsure and exhausted, but Damian couldn't find it in himself to feel sorry for him. He was just a man, ruled by fear. Pathetic.

"That's it?" he asked, Richard's grip tightening on his arm. "That's your rationale for abandoning your-" protégé, ward-, "your son? You separated him from everyone he loved and left him alone-."

Damian's voice cracked, and he pressed his lips shut. Father had an arm crossed over himself, the opposite hand pressed to his mouth, gaze directed at the wall. What right had he to look so ashamed, so astonished, like this had never occurred to him before? Father was no fool; he knew Richard. He had to have known precisely what he was doing.

"Damian." And Richard's voice was so soft, so controlled, and for the first time, Damian wondered how he learned that, how to tuck away the anger that had been there a moment before. "C'mon, we're leaving, okay?"

Richard tugged Damian towards the door, and, for an eternity, he followed. In that stretch, he thought about the boy he knew from Richard's room, the man who'd been his Batman, and all the people in between. All the versions of Richard that must exist, compounded and compressed until he was perfect for everyone.

And how Father had hurt him without a second thought, nonetheless.

When they got to the door, Damian ripped his arm out of Richard's grip, dashing towards Father's desk.

Father took a step back, afraid, and Richard followed close behind, but not close enough to stop Damian from taking the note out of his back pocket and slamming it onto Father's desk.

Richard grabbed Damian's shoulder, but he didn't move any further. He only watched as Father looked between the folded-up paper to Damian and back again.

After a moment, Damian found the words. "Since you need it spelled out for you."

With that, he whirled around, not caring to wait for his father's reaction.

Pennyworth was close by, but said nothing as they loaded up Richard's car with what remained of Damian's belongings. The boy took a moment to bid his animal companions goodbye before, finally, it was just him and Richard alone in the car.

"I'm sorry you… heard all of that," Richard began, and Damian's jaw clenched. "I didn't want you to be involved."

Damian was sick of all of these apologies. "I'm the one who eavesdropped," he said, trying to keep his voice under control, to keep his seams from unraveling.

"I know, but still," Richard insisted.

He wanted to ask Richard why. Why did he defend Father? Why did he even respect him? Why did he still do his bidding after what Father had done to him? The closest thing to a parent he had left had abandoned him, and he kept going like it didn't impact their relationship.

But then again, why had Damian? Was that Father's frustration with him, that he wasn't convenient like Richard? Just the thought made him ill.

No, Damian shouldn't ask Richard why. At least, not now.

Instead, he said, "I… I've been thinking a lot about what you said. About me being difficult." He glanced up to gauge Richard's reaction; despite some alertness, he kept his eyes on the road. "And I… I think maybe you're wrong, because I'm- well, I am difficult, but I didn't want to be." Damian swallowed, "I wanted to be perfect."

They stopped at a red light, and Richard reached over to comfort Damian, pressing his palm to the space between his shoulder blades. But Damian wasn't done. "But that was stupid, because I can't be that. I know I'm not perfect. And even if I was, Father would still…" He felt Richard go tense. "Still hurt me, even if he doesn't mean to. Even if I don't deserve it."

When the light turned green, Richard accelerated a bit too quickly, before pulling into the nearest parking spot on the side of the road. "Damian-."

Damian kept going, eyes on his lap, "And it's- I don't want you to feel like you have to be perfect for me, all the time. You're allowed to be difficult, too. And I'm so sorry Father did that to you. You didn't deserve that-."

"Damian, hey." He snapped his mouth shut, still staring at his lap. "Look at me."

After a moment, he did, world blurry around the edges, but Richard's kind gaze crystal-clear. "It means so much to me that you care about me," he said, his tone so careful, so composed, and Damian was beginning to learn that didn't mean he was lying. It was just a byproduct of being Richard John Grayson, of wanting everyone around him to be comfortable. "I care about you, too."

"Obviously," Damian muttered, and Richard cracked a smile at that.

"But if, if I'm going to be your parent, you shouldn't have to worry about that kind of stuff. Because if you're my kid, my number one responsibility is to make sure you're safe, and that you feel safe, so I don't want you-." Richard shut his eyes, thinking for a moment before opening them again. "Don't want you to feel like you have to work around me. I understand what you're saying, and I know you've got a big heart."

Those words said in such a nonchalant tone made a lump form in Damian's throat. Richard continued nonetheless. "But it's not your job to worry about me. What I want is for you to focus on yourself, on making sure you get better, because I know you have a long road ahead of you. So it's important for you to know that, no matter what's going on, what I'm doing, what time it is, what kind of mood I'm in, whatever it may be, you can still come to me if you need anything."

Damian thought of that little boy in Grant Park, of how he didn't hesitate to cry, for he knew his mother would come if he was in distress. Intrinsic, subconscious, unquestionably, because that's how it was supposed to be. Another piece of the world Damian wanted for himself. He'd never be that small ever again, but maybe he could still learn what that was like: to fall and know he'd be caught, to cry and know he'd be heard, to fail and know that wasn't the end.

Richard gently nudged the bottom of his chin with his knuckle, smiling. "You got it?"

Damian nodded, hoping he still had time to learn to be a child. "Yeah."

Chapter Text

The Batmobile was falling apart.

Damian didn’t know why he was the one driving it, but he was, through increasingly rugged terrain, just barely missing fatal collisions at every turn. He’d look up, and he’d be going the wrong way down the interstate, and within the blink of an eye, he’d be in a tight alleyway, maneuvering and scraping the car along the walls. He had one foot on the gas, the other pressing against the dashboard because his seat was intent on sliding forward and crushing him against the steering wheel. With one hand on the wheel, he used the other to hold the door closed. Every light was blinking, every alarm going off, and all he knew was that he had to get home.

Richard had tried to set something up for Halloween in his usual cheery way. He’d bought the Clue board game, selected a few movies for them to watch, and had decorated the safehouse with silly decorations, like cobwebs and plastic Jack-o-Lanterns with LED eyes and an incredibly inaccurate spider skeleton.

Unfortunately, there had been an Arkham breakout Halloween night, and, as Damian wasn’t allowed on the field, he instead spent the night with a map of Gotham spread out on the coffee table, listening to the family Comms and using tacks to mark the locations of the Bats and the escapees. It was the most control Damian could really have over the situation at the moment, and that control gave him comfort.

(It reminded him of someone, and he hated that thought as soon as it entered his head.)

The next morning, he felt awful about it. In the last week, Richard had put his entire life on hold, moving from Bludhaven and quitting his day job, putting aside his duties as Nightwing, all for Damian. He’d been the one who’d been filing for custody of him, completing the paperwork to homeschool him, and tending to Damian as much as he possibly could.

Yes, Damian felt terrible, but Richard graciously accepted the apology. They spent November 1st watching kitschy Halloween movies and eating their weight in candy.

Damian was watching himself from the outside.

He knew it was him, could feel his clicking throat, his shaking hands, the blood slicking his skin, cold against the air and tacky against his clothes. But he looked so small. He watched himself pant, and scream, and sob, and try so, so hard. The scene seemed to change every time he focused on it; in the caves under Nanda Parbat, in the endless sweltering Sahara, atop the Wayne Enterprises building.

His psychological evaluation began in early November, and he and Richard made the weekly trip to his new psychologist’s office in Boston. It was nearly seven hours by car, but the more they went, the more Damian learned it was worth it.

Doctor Calliope Garrett was at the top of her field, the founder and director of the National Institute for Complex Trauma, an adjunct professor at Harvard University, and being paid double her usual rate in exchange for her silence. She’d also been forced to sign an iron-clad NDA, but Father was sure to have a carrot as well as a stick to keep his family’s secret identities secret.

After all, it had been Richard’s insistence that Damian be able to tell this psychologist everything, from start to finish. Over the course of the month, he did.

Early on, Richard had purchased a whole bunch of workbooks for Damian to work through, on cognitive behavioral therapy, and mindfulness, and all these other things that, no matter how hard Damian tried, he couldn’t convince himself he needed. Doctor Garrett, however, put it together in a way that made sense.

In order for human beings to thrive, they need a solid mental foundation, the development of which is critically supported by one’s primary caregivers. It’s in a human’s early years that they build up their sense of identity, and their understanding of how the world works. It’s upon this foundation that humans can go about building their psyches, and, no matter what disaster occurred, they always have that foundation to fall back on, to rebuild from.

Damian, and other people like him, inherited no such foundation. He built his mental home directly into the dirt, and it washed away every time he encountered a difficult situation. It didn’t help that he was constantly experiencing stress as a young child, leaving his limbic system overly alert, and thus bringing about worse storms more often than most people experienced.

Yes, he was different from the vast majority of people, but it wasn’t because he was inherently bad.

“In fact,” Doctor Garrett had told him, in that placid, soothing tone of hers, “You’ve done very well with the tools you’ve been given.”

It was icy cold in the Cave, Damian barely a presence within it.

He stood in front of the Batcomputer, hands still on the dashboard, numb with the chill in the air. Still, somehow, he was flicking through video feeds. One, in the manor, showed Father and a young boy, Richard, sitting together in the office, sipping Pennyworth’s hot cocoa. The next feed was of Gotham City, of a familiar phone booth, bathed in dim yellow light, all alone. A blink, and Damian was there, in front of the phone booth, watching a grown-up Richard trying to dial a number, over and over again. Somehow, he knew that even if he banged on the plexiglass, Richard wouldn’t notice him.

They didn’t go to the manor for Thanksgiving. Thankfully, Richard hadn’t suggested it, but they had taken up an invitation to spend it with the Kents. It was a delicate affair, all of them trying very hard not to mention Damian’s suicide attempt. At least, not in front of him; Damian caught Richard, Lois and Clark having a hushed conversation in the kitchen after dinner, one that Jon tugged him away from.

It didn’t upset him, though, being spoken about behind his back. If Damian wasn’t allowed to support him, then Richard needed to find that support elsewhere. In fact, one of the benefits of being Richard Grayson, Friend To All, was that he had a steady stream of people who were always willing to help him.

What did upset him was what he saw when Richard thought no one was watching: slumped against the refrigerator half-asleep; sitting at the dining table with one hand on his coffee cup, eyes staring out into space, lost in thought; rubbing his hands over his face and sighing deeply, as if he’d been inhaling and inhaling all day and never letting anything out.

And then, even worse, he’d catch Damian’s eye, and smile, tucking all that suffering back inside.

At age ten, Damian learned he had done reprehensible things, and that his entire view of the world was wrong. He’d suffered a storm he couldn’t come back from on his own. And so, instead of drifting away, he clung to his father. As any child would be expected to do.

You’re so much like me at your age. Perhaps Father had experienced something similar, his innocence shattering before his very eyes, leaving him all alone. And yet Father didn’t offer Damian much compassion. He wasn’t the parent Damian needed. He hadn’t even tried.

Damian watched Richard give up everything for him and he knew, now, that that had been an option. Father could have stepped away from Batman, not all the way, but just enough. Enough to give some of his precious attention to Damian, or to Richard, or to any of the other children he purported to love.

By the time Christmas rolled around, however, Damian was more amenable to returning to the manor. At least, until they were on the way there. He’d keep himself on a short leash, because he didn’t want to ruin the festivities. More and more, Damian learned his volatility wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t change the fact that he was volatile.

Richard, the mindreading asshole, consoled him on the drive over. “Coming back to the manor after I left was really hard for me, too. It can still be hard. You have full permission to hide in your bedroom the entire night.”

“I don’t need your permission,” Damian grumbled, but he got Richard’s point.

“Um, I’m your legal guardian,” Richard shot back, “So, technically, you do.”

Damian threw his glove at Richard’s head, and he laughed, and it became one of those moments that gave Damian strength.

About a half an hour later, he tried to draw upon it. Around them, the manor was far more decked out for the holidays then was usual. After a quick trip back to Hong Kong, Cassandra had returned to Gotham permanently, and her and Th-Duke, had clearly spent a lot of time and effort decorating every single square inch with lights, greenery, and other decorations that were, at best, amusing, and at worst, preposterous.

Case in point, as Damian passed by to sit next to Tim on the den’s sectional, a quartet of plush snowmen on the coffee table began to bounce up and down and play a high-pitched rendition of Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree.

“What’s new, gremlin?” Tim asked without looking up from his phone, as if he hadn’t been at Richard’s apartment two days prior, eating all of their baba ganoush and passing out on their couch instead of in the perfectly good guestroom mere feet away.

Damian swallowed. “I’m quitting.”

Tim perked up at that. “Quitting… what?”

He rolled his eyes, trying to mentally prepare himself. “I’ve decided I’m not, nor will I ever be, Robin again.” When Tim still looked blank, Damian tutted, “And perhaps that is obvious to everyone with a fully-functional frontal lobe-.”

“I mean, it’s-.” Tim cut himself off, before saying, “Good for you.”

“I suppose it’s a given thing, right?” Damian leaned forward in his seat. “That I’ll never be Robin again?” At the motion, the snowmen began their tinny arrangement all over again.

After a beat spent staring at the gadget in disdain, Tim insisted, “I mean, not really. It’s… there’s a difference between being benched indefinitely, and deciding to let go on your own terms.”

After a moment’s consideration, he finally turned to face Tim. “It’s… not just Robin, but… everything. I don’t want…” How could he describe the ways in which violence, battles larger than himself, had always defined him? This continuous, all-encompassing legend he’d made of his own life story?

“I get it,” Tim insisted, and Damian shook his head. “Robin was everything to me, Damian. It was what I’ve worked for my whole life, and like… if I didn’t continue on this path, then what was all that training for? What was all that fighting for? But I- sure, I was forced out of being Robin, but it was… it was important for me to realize that I didn’t want to do this forever.”

… okay, so maybe Tim did understand. Damian just sighed to himself, flopping back against the couch. “I have to tell Father.”

“Maybe,” Tim allowed, “But what’s the worst thing he could say?” At the scowl Damian sent his way, Tim rolled his eyes and added, “Listen, Bruce is kind of a jerk, I get that, but he’s not a jerk on purpose. Especially not to you.”

Damian thought about Richard when he thought no one was watching, and how he transformed into the golden son when he knew someone was. Father may not be a jerk on purpose, but Damian found it difficult to forgive him, nonetheless.

Damian was paralyzed against the wall.

He sat on a shelf like some form of ornamentation, perhaps a spare weapon stowed away, or one of the trophies his father saw fit to collect. So, he watched his family mill about without him, in view of him, averting their eyes if they ever caught his gaze. The only person who never cared to look his way was Father. And why would he? Damian would always be where Father left him.

Father seemed intent on not smothering Damian. Upon seeing him, he offered a careful hug and uncertain pleasantries, but besides that, left him largely alone. He wasn’t sure if this was Father’s own decision or someone else’s suggestion; according to Richard, he’d become far more amenable to the opinions of others. At least, when those opinions concerned Damian.

Once Father entered the den for the nth time, however, to announce that dinner was nearly ready, Damian was quick to sneak off after him, grabbing onto his wrist as he retreated. “Father?”

The man looked back at him, with that same hopeful apprehension he’d had in Tim’s kitchen. “Yes?”

Damian turned back, just to make sure no one was actively staring at them (though someone was no doubt eavesdropping, knowing his family) before he looked his father in the eyes. “I doubt this comes as a surprise to you, but I’m formally resigning my role as Robin, effective immediately.”

When his father didn’t immediately respond, seemingly taking him in, Damian averted his gaze to the wall. “I know I was- I was effectively let go, but I- it’s important that you know I’m letting go of it on my own terms, too. And I don’t want to be on any- any reserve lists, and if there’s anything you’d like me to return, weapons or- or other paraphernalia-.”

“Damian.” When he met his father’s eyes again, a small smile tugged at his lips. “Um, thank you for telling me. You don’t need to return anything; I trust you.” Damian felt something warm wash over him, like the weight of a blanket settling over his shoulders.

He had to look away again, part of him overwhelmed with this validation, another disgusted that he even needed it in the first place.

“And, while I have the opportunity.” Damian didn’t dare look up at his father’s words. “I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t say this sooner, but I’m very proud of you.” Damian clenched his jaw, recognizing the buildup of tears behind his sinuses. “You have far more integrity than I had- really, more than I have now.”

There was a quiet moment of Damian tracing the floor molding to his right, and wondering what twisted deity had gifted him with parents who loved best from afar.

“Thank you,” he replied, unsure if his voice was steady or not, before he absconded into the hallway, towards where everyone was coalescing in the dining room. Where they’d already saved him a seat.

As Damian slept, he dreamt of death.

Or something closely resembling. It was the same dewy grass beneath him, the same tree protecting him in its cool shade. But there was a presence there, too, someone warm and kind, carding their fingers through his hair. They didn’t speak, but with every gentle touch, Damian knew what they meant.

Rest now, you’ve more than earned it.