Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was the easiest decision he ever made.

The sky had grown dark and crackled with streaks of red. The Justice League had all converged, in their base, surrounding a table holding a sharp, pointed rock. The windows around them broadcasting galaxies and planets and millions of lives, twinkling like lights. 

Superman's voice was grave. "Chasm has agreed to let our planet live. And even protect it from future evils. But it comes at a cost."

A cost. A cost. There was always a cost. Always a price to be paid. Always a head to make its way to a spike. Always a consequence.

The rock on the table rumbled. A voice emerging from within it. Chasm's voice. Chasm, the demon that made its way to the world. Whose claws gripped the earth. Who could have killed them all. So easily. Too easily. But had somehow decided to make a deal instead "A single person's memories."

"Memories," Batman– Damian's father, mentor, idol– responded. "An adequate trade-off. There are many people here who would be willing to forget their past life. Start anew."

A life where his father wasn't burdened with pain. Where Richard never had to give everything up. Where Jason didn't meet the Joker. Where Timothy hadn't lost it all. Where Damian could be kind.

Every person in that room had memories they would be willing to give up- such is the life of a hero. But even with all those possibilities, something clawed at Damian's stomach. He knew there wouldn’t be a clamor of volunteers. They were all too selfless for that. Too willing to keep fighting. And most of them had found their place as a hero. Made a family they wouldn't want to leave behind.

"No," Superman said. "Everyone will lose their memories of whoever volunteers."

And when those words left Superman's mouth, Damian knew it had to be him.

Not because he was righteous. Not because he wanted to sacrifice himself to save the world. Although, many in that room would have done what he did just for that reason. But no. Damian was selfish. He didn't want to forget anyone. He wanted to keep their memories, even if it meant they forgot him in the process.

Besides, it was better that they would forget him anyway. He was bratty and painful. The youngest member and the most disliked too. No one loved him, and maybe they would miss their memories of him a bit. But out of all the family members to disappear, he was the best option. If they could remember, they would be grateful he made the terrible decision for them.

"Everyone will lose their memories of them? They'll be forgotten?" Wonder Woman asked.

"By the whole world," Superman answered. 

"I require memories," Chasm's voice hissed out from the rock. "You have one hour."

Damian didn't need an hour. He needed a single second. 

He still remembered arriving on his father's doorstep, staring up at the people who would become his family with such disdain. He remembered all the hateful words he spat. The people he killed. He could still feel the blood on his hands. Remember the hatred in their eyes.

Maybe it was to keep his family from sacrificing their memories… but it was also to start fresh. To clean his slate. To become a brother his family would find worthy of loving. And re-introduce himself to them. 

He snatched the rock with unexpected speed. Clutching it in his hand. It was blood red and freezing to the touch. 

"Memories of me," he whispered before anyone could stop him. Pushing the words out as fast as he could. "Take them. Now."

"What noble sacrifice." Chasm's voice dripped with sarcasm. The rock glowed and shook. And the edge of Damian's vision grew a bright white. There was no going back.

But that didn't stop Richard, who knew what was going on before it happened. Who rushed over the moment the rock was in Damian's hands. Who was, despite it all, too late. 

And by the way Richard's arms tightened, Damian could tell he knew that. Knew he couldn't save Damian from the self-inflicted fate. And yet, he begged anyway and tears still streamed down his face. "Dami… Dami, no. No please."

And behind Richard, Damian glimpsed the faces of his family. Jason and Timothy and Father. Stephanie and Cassandra and Duke. All devastated. Horrified. Heartbroken. They reached for him, mouths open, but words unheard.

Oh, Damian thought as the world around him turned a rushing, stark white. Maybe someone did love me after all. 

- 

Hindsight isn't a pretty thing. It is mauled and ragged and coarse along its edges. And it haunts. Like a ghost to its killer. 

Damian woke up afterward, on the streets, in civilian clothing. Stuck in some back alleyway near the edge of Gotham. 

A deep, sinking feeling curdled in his heart. Somewhere between regret and grief. And he lay there for a while, staring up at the sky. Waiting for someone to come to him. To notice him.

No one did. Or, no one that mattered did. 

A kid had wandered by him, peeking over and kicking his leg. "You okay, sir?" He had asked.

Damian had grunted. And the kid's mom had hurried over, ushering her child away. "Let's just let the boy be, honey."

Damian had felt a snarl build in his throat. He was no boy. He was... He was... Damian ignored how his vision grew blurry. He was not a Wayne. Not an Al Ghul. He was… No one. Nobody. 

Damian was, for the first time in his entire life, utterly alone. 

- 

Eventually, once his stomach began screeching, he pulled himself up, brushing the trash off his clothing. A sunset casting the town in a soft orange hue. If he had been a person to admire beauty, he might have paused a moment to take it in. But he wasn't. All his beauty was stored in a sketchbook that- Damian felt a soft choked noise escape his throat. His sketchbook. It was gone. Erased with all other evidence of him.

He shook himself. Now wasn't the time to get sentimental. He had to... He had to… He paused. What did he have to do? He was entirely free of all responsibility. Sure, making new memories with his family was definitely on the list. But other than that?

His stomach hissed again. Maybe he should start with getting food.

He wandered the streets, heading for his favorite diner. And for once, no one noticed him. No one whispered to their friend and said, 'Damian Wayne! That's Damian Wayne!'

He picked up a tabloid from a newspaper stall and blinked at the title. He had seen the same one just yesterday. But what was once written on the cover in bold lettering: "Robin Disobeys Batman's Orders Again! Can He Still Be Trusted With The Safety Of Gotham?" Became: "The Hunt For The Elusive Robin! Will Batman Ever Find Himself A New Sidekick?" 

He skimmed through it, absorbing as much information as he could. Everything else seemed mostly the same. Timothy still became Red Robin. The Wayne Family still had an absurd amount of animals. No one had inexplicably died. The universe appeared to have remained the same, except Damian had been carefully cropped out of it. 

He kept reading, slowly beginning to walk again. Trusting his feet to know where to take him. But while he walked, a guy bumped into him. "Sorry, dude!" The man called. 

Damian glared, looking up from an article. "Get a life,” he hissed. The article he was reading talked of Gotham High’s fight-free school year. The day before, it spoke of how he was Gotham’s ‘problem child’ and had gotten himself into another brawl at school.

His shoulders hunched and he scowled at Damian. "Mean much?"

A friend walking next to him, gave a soft snicker before nudging the man. "We have to go." The man nodded and two hurried off.

Damian watched them leave, something weird bubbling inside his chest.

Damian hadn't even realized he was walking towards Wayne Manor until he arrived at the front door. His feet, despite his hunger, had taken him home. Not to the diner. 

Damian paused for a moment, swallowing down his apprehension. No better time to re-introduce himself, he supposed.  And then he knocked. Once. Twice.

A moment later, the door opened. Richard's face popping out. "Um. Hi." He looked around. As if he was expecting to see someone else.

Damian stared at him for a long, excruciating moment. The complete and utter lack of recognition in Richard's eyes shocked him. They were the same eyes that used to look at him with such love. Such care. They were the same eyes that brightened up whenever they noticed him. The same eyes that Damian always looked forward to seeing. 

And now, those eyes didn't recognize him at all. 

Richard coughed, and Damian realized just how long the silence had stretched. "Uhh… Can I help you?"

The words clogged Damian's throat. And he stuttered for a moment longer. Frozen. Paused. He thought of cruel words. And the man on the street. He thought of opportunities. And tabloid articles. And then, something happened that had never happened before.

"No." He choked the words out. "Not at all. Sorry for uh… interrupting. I’ll be– I’ll be going now.”

Damian Wayne was utterly, incomprehensibly, unfathomably terrified.

Chapter Text

The front door to Wayne Manor was a soft rustic red. Something he used to find both homey and intimidating, but, as it was shut in his face, all he found it was drab. And frankly, a miserable color. Anyone who thought such a color was fit for their home was a buffoon. 

And yet, Damian struggled to tear his eyes away from it. It was a thick door, built for keeping things out. Always acting as a protection. But in that moment it became a separation. The space between him and home. Between a beginning and an end. 

Why couldn’t Damian just introduce himself? It wasn’t even that difficult. He should be able to interact with his family members.

A sharp bolt of pain clawed at his stomach. He needed food. Actual food. He could figure that out after. He turned away and slunk down the stairs, each step echoing until the monotony of it was burned into his head. 

Damian made his way to his favorite restaurant in the whole city. Located just a block away from the manor. It was an overly fanciful place that served purely vegetarian food. And every year, his family would order it for his birthday. 

He entered and the hostess showed him to a table. He collapsed against his seat, shooing away the first waiter who arrived. 

Plans. He needed plans. He couldn’t just randomly walk up to Wayne Manor and expect them to accept him with open arms. He needed to be methodical.

He could stake his claim as his father’s genetic son. And the DNA tests would surely prove him right. But… then his father would call his mother. And when his mother claimed she had no idea who he was, they would accuse him of faking the DNA test, and then he would– No, it was already falling apart. 

Nothing like that could happen. It needed to be perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

A glass of water was placed on the table. “Excuse me, would you like something to eat?” 

Damian glanced up at the waiter standing in front of him. Not even looking at the menu, he recited his order from memory. “I’d like the Veggie Wrap Delicious Supreme.”

The man nodded and scribbled it down. “With or without pickles?” His eyes flickered around the room and his smile was sheepish despite being wide.

Damian rolled his eyes at the man’s obvious nerves. “Without.”

“Okay. It’ll be right up!” The man turned away, nearly knocking into Damian’s drink as he went. 

Damian watched him go. God, he wanted to go home.

But he couldn’t. Not until he became someone worthy of going home. He had been given the chance to become someone better. To become perfect. 

Then, he would find a way to introduce himself to them. Once he was the least amount of work possible. Stable and in no need for care or love or attention. That way, they wouldn’t need to waste their time with him. 

Because if Damian could make himself small enough. Make himself as welcoming and as unlike himself as possible, he could be easier to love. 

The plate with his vegetable wraps was clunkily placed in front of him. The waiter apologizing when one of them tumbled onto its side. Damian tsked and motioned for him to leave, picking one up and biting into it.

It was odd how something as simple as flavor could become so visceral. One bite in and he was back at Wayne Manor. Surrounded by his family as they sang that cheesy, American birthday song. 

If Damian closed his eyes and pretended hard enough, he could feel a body brushing shoulders with him. A hand in his hair. The distant sounds of laughter and conversation. For a moment, he could convince himself that nothing bad had ever happened. 

But then he opened his eyes and there was nothing except a table and an empty plate in front of him. 

You can dream, Damian Wayne, he thought bitterly, but this is your reality now. 

“Um, excuse me. Would you like the bill?” The waiter had returned, hands fiddling with his button-up shirt.

“Yes, of course. Just put the money on my father’s–” Damian paused, the words freezing in his mouth. He had no father anymore. No account to his name. No money to use. “Um… I seemed to have left my cash in my car.”

“You don’t have any money?” The waiter asked as if the situation was just as embarrassing for him as it was for Damian. 

Damian’s face burned in shame. “No. No. I just… need to retrieve it from my car. Now.”

The man looked, frankly, quite sympathetic. “I’m sorry but I don’t think I can let you leave.”

Damian almost laughed at the man's audacity "If you think you can keep me here, you are sorely mistaken."

- 

Damian stared at his hands, covered in soap as warm water cascaded upon them. He was in the back of the kitchen, hand washing dishes, monitored by a cruel-looking woman with a familiar sort of misery in her gaze. Her face was stretched thin from the years of life and her hair was stiff and gray.

“Hurry up,” she snapped and Damian glared at her. If he wanted to, he could fight every cook in the kitchen and win. He was Damian Wayne. Powerful and feared. How dare she?

“Do you even know who I am?” His words came out venomous, but the moment he spat them out, he regretted it. Because he knew her answer.

“No. So shut your trap and get back to work.”

“Oh, Helen, be nice to the poor kid,” one of the cooks laughed, nudging Helen’s shoulder. “He probably just forgot his money at home.”

“I will be ‘ nice,’ Jerry, once I get a single Veggie Wrap Delicious Supreme's worth of dish washing out of him.”

Damian focused on dragging the washcloth in a circular motion around the plate, seething.

“Quit it,” a sous chef said, rubbing his eyes. “I am running on a lot of caffeine right now. So if Helen cannot be quiet for more than one second, so help me–”

Helen turned. “Oh you shut up you worthless, godforsaken mole rat.”

“Both of you!” Jerry held a hand up. “Enough. Focus on your work. We should be done for the night sometime soon, okay?”

Damian couldn’t help snorting at the man's ridiculous optimism. No way those cooks would be done anytime soon.

A bark of laughter came from the front of the kitchen. A cook looked up from chopping vegetables, a wicked grin on his face. “The kid thinks you idiots are funny.”

“Well, ‘the kid’ should take his opinions to a place that gives him food for free. I’m sure they’d love to hear it,” Helen said. 

They continued bickering and Damian repeated the conversation in the back of his mind, clutching onto every word said. He couldn’t help but find their pattern a little comforting and their words recognizable. His hand was shaking as he grabbed another plate.

A waitress popped her head in. Her voice was mellow and soft. “Two Caesar Salads for table five.”

“Got it,” Jerry said. 

A second waitress came up from behind the first one. Her voice was much louder and brasher. “And can you tell Helen to shut the fuck up? Customers can hear her.”

The sous chef laughed. “Yeah, Helen. Shut the fuck up.”

Helen hunched her shoulders, scowling. She turned away, focusing her attention on Damian. “Hey!” She clapped her hands. “Get back to work.”

Damian’s grip on the plate tightened, biting his tongue to keep his words in his mouth.

It was humiliating . Being ordered around by some random old lady. And Damian swore internally that such a thing should never happen again. But for that to happen, he needed money. Which meant he needed a job. And most jobs needed identification. Which is hard to get your hands on when you legally never existed.

So he needed a place that didn’t ask him questions and didn’t require him to kill anyone. And in Gotham that was more difficult than not. 

“Okay, guys. It’s almost morning. Let’s let the poor guy go.” A voice pierced through the haze of thoughts polluting Damian’s mind. “That’s enough dish washing, right?”

Damian turned toward Helen, hoping he could hide the distaste in his gaze underneath expectation. 

She gave him a side glance but sighed. “Fine.”

Damian stopped the water flow and wiped his hands off. Ready to make it to the back door before they changed their mind. But as he grabbed the door knob, a hand blocked his way.

“Hey kid,” Jerry said, looking at him with kind, pity filled eyes. The same shade of blue as Richard’s. Damian felt himself lean toward the man. “Where’s, uh, your parents?”

“Away.” They were technically ‘away.’ And also unaware of his existence. 

“And you don’t have any money?”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Not now, obviously. But I will acquire some shortly.” He narrowed his eyes. “I just performed dish washing for almost double the price of my original meal. So have no expectations for me to reimburse you for the food.”

Jerry had the gall to give a soft laugh. “No, no, I was just wondering, if you have the chance, would you want to work part-time here? You could be a waiter if you don't want to work the dishwasher. And we’d pay you, of course. And–”

“No,” Damian said, stopping the man before he could finish. Damian couldn't even entertain the thought. “I have much more prestigious job opportunities to focus on. Unlike something as trivial as waiting upon others.”

“Okay, okay,” Jerry put his hands up. “That’s okay. I was just asking.”

Damian stared into the man’s eyes again. There were flecks of ocean and glacier blue inside the iris. He opened his mouth to give a curt goodbye. “Will you check identification?”

“I’m sorry?” Jerry sounded just as surprised as Damian.

The words tasted terrifying. But he pushed them out of his mouth anyway, despite every rational bone in him begging him not to. “Do my parents need to sign anything? Or can you do it off book?”

“Uh… I suppose we could do it off book.” He gave Damian a quizzical look. “Are you a runaway?”

As far as guesses go, he wasn’t wrong. “Maybe.”

Jerry smiled. “Yeah, we could work something out. Just show up here sometime tomorrow, okay?”

Damian turned toward the door. “Sure.”

He stepped outside the back of the restaurant, closing the door behind him. The summer air licked his skin as he began walking through the city, the sunrise casting the city in an ethereal light.

Jason had always told him that Gotham sang instead of sleeping. And to hear it, all you had to do was listen.

Damian had never heard the city sing before. But staring at it then, awash in bright lights and covered with tangerine hues, he could see it glow. 

- 

Damian searched around the city, finding an empty alleyway to sleep in. He curled in on himself, pressing his legs to his chest. He didn’t want a stupid job as a waiter, supplementing his family for copycat versions of themselves. He didn’t want to sit in an alleyway, forgotten by everyone that mattered.

He wanted to go home.

Damian Wayne does not cry. But Damian wasn’t a Wayne. Not anymore.

Chapter Text

Damian returned to the restaurant the next evening, hunger licking at his stomach. When he arrived, Jerry directed him toward one of the hostesses, a woman with sunset-colored hair that did everything but flow. She stared at him, eyes rimmed with weariness, and plopped a set of clothing into his hands. 

“Jerry vouched for you, so any mess-ups you make are gonna reflect on him. Go get changed and I’ll run you through the basics.”

Damian stared down the folded clothing. “Is there a dress code?” He asked dryly.

“Yes. And this is the only pair we have. You’re small enough that it should fit you.”

“I’m not small,” Damian hissed, but he took the clothing and changed in the restroom. It was a ridiculously constraining attire- a stiff button-up shirt tucked into a pair of sticky, charcoal slacks- but it would do.

When he arrived back, the restaurant had already opened its doors, people pouring in at a steady pace. The hostess was waiting for him, but it was obvious she was itching to get back to her station, her eyes flickering to the reception desk as they talked. 

She listed off an absurd amount of things he had to keep track of. The order from which to get drinks, when to check on the table, where to give the cooks the orders, and how to provide the dessert menu. Damian listened and committed each to memory. He fought Gotham City's crime. He could do something as easy as being someone's waiter.

“...And remember," she said, finishing. "The customer is always right.”

“But that’s statistically impossible,” Damian said. “They have to be wrong sometimes.”

“Well–” she paused. “Yes. But even when they’re wrong you have to pretend they’re right.”

“But that’s idiotic. Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s nice,” she said, her smile strained. “No matter what they say, you keep a pleasant expression and act as if they are being completely reasonable.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Fine. That sounds easy enough.”

The hostess spared a worried glance at Jerry. “Well, I think that’s it. Just try your best. Do you remember everything?”

“Yes,” Damian confirmed, wrinkling his nose when she brought out a tiny, plastic notepad and offered it to him. 

“Take this notepad to write down their orders.”

Damian stared at it before pushing her hand away. “No need. I have an impeccable memory.”

She worked her jaw. “Okay. Sure. Let’s set you up with someone easy, just try not to mess it up.’

Damian scoffed. He didn’t need training wheels. But he let her give him the menus and direct him toward a table near the back. Sitting in the booth was two couples, giggling at each other. When they noticed him, one of the women glanced up. “Oh, hello there!”

Damian stretched his mouth into the most sincere smile he could muster. “Hello. What can I get for you all today?”

One by one, each person listed off their order, the item names blurring together as Damian struggled to keep them all straight. His smile had already dropped. 

“Could you all repeat that one more time?” Damian asked, trying not to let shame brand his face.

They did again, and Damian listened more intently, replicating it to memory as best he could. He nodded his head and turned around, heading toward the kitchen. Once he arrived he wrote down their orders for the cooks and sent it in, waiting for the meal to be ready.

Once the food was prepared, he brought it back to the table. He balanced the three giant platters elegantly on his arms as he walked through the restaurant, shooting the hostess a smug grin. Damian hadn’t been trained in coordination and strength for no reason.

“Here’s your food,” he told them, placing the plates down one by one. Most of the people began eating, but the woman’s eyes narrowed as she peaked in her vegetarian burger. “I thought I asked for no mayonnaise.”

He forced down a sneer. "Your memory must be mistaken. You didn't ask for any modifications to your meal."

"Yes, I did." It must be amazing to say something so wrong so confidently. 

“No, you didn’t.”

The woman’s face twisted into something outraged. “I did. And you ignored my order.”

The hostess must have sensed something wrong, because she appeared behind Damian in a flash, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, my goodness. Damian is so sorry for the mix-up. It was really all our fault. Don’t worry though, we will–”

"But I’m not sorry,” Damian said. "And it wasn’t my fault, it was hers.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened. And the hostess prodded Damian's leg with one of her heels. “Damian. Tell them you’re sorry.”

He looked at her, glaring.

“Damian,” she said again, more than just annoyance heavy in her voice. “Tell them you’re sorry.”

Damian didn’t want to give in. But he also didn’t want to lose this job on his first day. He turned back to the woman. “I’m so sorry you forgot–” He paused, ‘correcting’ himself, his scowl deepening. “I forgot to include the lack of mayonnaise in your dish.”

“Well, I want a second one.”

“Fine,” Damian spat. “Whatever.” 

He turned sharply and stalked toward the kitchen, ignoring the hostess’s own smug look. A parody of his earlier one.

The rest of the day followed a similar structure. He would go up to the table and put on a pained smile that never lasted long, gritting out questions from between his teeth. He got three orders wrong before he started writing them down on his notepad. 

His face turned a burning red when he did, hiding it from the view of the hostess, just so he wouldn’t have to face the mortification that came from her knowing. 

The customers were surprisingly hostile to mixed-up orders, and it took every bone in Damian’s body not to bite back. He was so used to lashing out that letting the punches roll scratched at his skin in a deeply uncomfortable way. 

He ended his first day with zero tips. And his paycheck wouldn’t amount to anything until the next Sunday. Which left him just as cashless as when he arrived.

He hated himself for it, but, after waiting until everyone left, with no one but the janitors there, he snuck into the kitchen pantry, avoiding the cameras. When he was inside, he nibbled on some of the food, before eyeing a small space between a shelf and a wall. Just big enough for Damian to tuck himself into.

Well, it was better than the streets.

- 

Damian spent the rest of the week, working until his legs felt like they would give out, earning little to no tips, and sleeping in the supply closet.

But, at the very end of that week, when he was releasing needless emotion through tear ducts, someone found him. And out of all the people to discover him, lying against a shelf, head resting upon a bag of rice, she was the worst.

Helen peered at him. “So this is where you’ve been sneaking off to after everyone leaves the restaurant.”

Damian stared at her, hoping his muscles didn’t tense too obviously. “Don’t tell Jerry.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“I’ll be fired.”

“I want you fired.” She raised an eyebrow. “You’re a terrible waiter. Never have I gotten more complaints about a person working here.”

Ouch. Okay. “I’m doing better at it now,” Damian insisted. “I just needed a moment to…” Damn it, he was going to use Richard-terminology. “Adjust.”

“Adjust is an understatement.”

“Why do you even want me gone, anyway?” Damian pushed himself even farther into the corner, cradling his knees. He recalled the rules for getting kidnapped by a villain. If you cannot punch your way out, talk your way out.  

“Because you’re insufferable.”

"You're insufferable too," Damian muttered.

“Exactly!” She said it like the most obvious observation in the world. 

“Exactly?”

She didn’t seem inclined to respond. “Now, why don’t you go home and not bother showing up tomorrow, hm?”

“I don’t have a home to go back to.” The words were supposed to make her feel pity, but the moment the words came out of his mouth, he felt like a freezing ocean had descended over him. Because for the first time they felt real. He really didn't have a home to go back to.

“You’re an orphan?”

“A runaway.” Best to keep his stories straight.

And like a discarded doll, her entire posture crumpled. “A runaway?” She asked. “Why’d you leave?”

“Someone needed to go.”

She stared at him, trying to interpret that to fit into a reasonable worldview. “And you chose yourself,” she finished his story.

Damian nodded.

“Can you still go back?” Something twisted in her face. An expression that Damian almost felt a kinship toward– which was absurd. He and the blundering hag were nothing alike. 

“I guess I could .” He could go home but it wouldn’t be home. It would just be a place with rooms that felt haunted and people who looked but didn’t see. 

“So why are you here?”

“Well, why do you care so much?” He snapped, curling in on himself. He eyed her like prey backed into a corner.

Her response was much softer than her previously brittle comments. “I ran away once too,” she said. “Put my things in a bag and left. Never went back.”

Damian stared. “What?” He asked, his voice lowering into a whisper. 

“You heard me. I wish I could go back, but my parents are long dead. And while keep trying to find my sister, I can't find her. I think she changed her last name or something. People are difficult creatures to find. The more you want to see them, the more they tend to disappear.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, that’s all to say I want to make sure you had a good reason for leaving and not going back. Because I would hate it if someone made the same mistake I did.”

“It’s a good reason.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

The silence stretched a long, excruciating time. She studied him and he refused to meet her gaze. Too worried about what he'd find in her eyes and too worried about what she would find in his. Finally, she breathed out four simple words. “You’re scared, aren't you?”

“I’m not scared.” Damian said it too fast. What if Richard doesn't love me when I'm not forced on him? What if Timothy still hates me even when I never tried to kill him? What if Jason remains apathetic to me no matter what I do?

“You are,” she said. What if Cassandra sees right through me and calls me a liar? What if Father refuses to put up with me? What if Stephanie finds me annoying instead of funny? What if Duke–

“I’m not.” Damian could feel the flurry of emotions bloating his ribcage. “I’m not scared. So... go away.”

Helen looked at him for a moment longer. “Okay."

- 

Damian had learned a lot of things both in the league and in his time as Robin. He had learned to be stone cold, to follow orders and bury his emotions in the underbelly of his tongue. He had learned to wield rage like a knife and dance with sadness like a duet. But he hadn’t learned to smile on command.

But Damian was not a failure. At anything. And he wasn’t about to fail at the waiter job either. He practiced in front of the kitchen mirror for hours, stretching his smile over and over until it became something genuine. He went to the local library and studied the art of serving tables. 

He practiced his voice too. Making it sound peppy and kind, even when he wanted to die. He memorized table numbers and repeated apologies until they sounded heartfelt. It didn’t make it any less shameful when he had to actually apologize to customers, but he learned to swallow down his pride and remember who, exactly, he was doing it for. 

He treated it like espionage. A spy mission. 

And after his first terrible week, he began picking up pace. Earning more tips and charming regulars. He had forsaken the facade of part-time and worked from opening to closing. Nothing but the single-minded goal of earning money as fast as possible. 

And then, one month in– one month and seven days, if you were counting– something changed. 

-

“You’re a little grumpy today,” Jerry noted when Damian trudged into the restaurant a few minutes before opening time. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” Damian hissed. “Today is a perfectly normal day. I am fine .”

Damian turned away before they could press him further. It was a normal day and he didn’t need them asking any further idiotic, nosy questions. 

He helped a few tables out, making small talk with them as he did. He found most people at the restaurant either annoying or dull, but he pretended to be fascinated with what they had to say. And, near ten o’clock, the hostess tapped his shoulder as she walked by. “Damian,” she said. “We need a waiter a table six. Play nice.”

“I am nice,” Damian muttered, following her gaze to a table in the back. And when he did, he nearly choked on his own breath. Sitting across the restaurant, all alone as he looked around for a waiter, was none other than Timothy Drake.

Chapter Text

Of course Timothy would find some twisted way to taunt him- to mock him without even knowing who he was. His appearance at Damian's restaurant was some grand cosmic joke. And on that specific day, no less? Fate was just laughing at Damian's expense. 

"Yeah. No way in hell." Damian turned toward the hostess, hurrying to catch up with her. "Over my dead body. Find someone else to help table six." Why is he even here? He hates this restaurant. He complained every time we ordered from it.

"I can't; Everyone else is busy. Besides, he's a Drake and a Wayne. He'll probably tip you a shit ton."

"Don't care. Not happening." The glowing lights shined across the hardwood floor, heating the back of Damian's neck and pricking his skin. He knew how unreasonable he was being, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

The hostess dragged a hand across her face. She looked exhausted. "If you do not go over there right fucking now, I'll fucking fire you on the spot," she snapped. "Are we clear?"

He gritted his teeth. "But-!"

"I said," she hissed. "Are. We. Clear?"

Damian didn't break eye contact, focusing on her as if he could kill her with a glare alone. "Crystal."

Her posture relaxed. "Thank you." Her voice- patronizing and ridiculously grateful- caused anger to pool in his stomach. He turned away sharply and stalked toward Timothy's table.

The boy looked, for better or worse, exactly the same since Damian last saw him. Hair still floppy and eye bags still pronounced. But his face was no longer trapped in his usual sly smile. In fact, he looked downright miserable.

At least he was just as upset as Damian was, their moods equally sour. Damian made no attempt to force his eyes to sparkle or crane his lips upward. He kept his face in the most irritable scowl he could muster. He wanted Timothy gone. And he was no stranger at infuriating Timothy into leaving.

The boy used to be Damian's greatest enemy. The one Damian wished to defeat. The one he thought he had to kill. To prove he was better. To prove he was more deserving. To prove his grandfather's admiration and his father's love incorrect.

He spat as many cruel words as he could, tried to defeat him and berate him. And yet, he was always proven the fool. The idiot. The failure. The monster.

Until, one day, he stopped trying. Stopped wanting to succeed.

And, after the hatred faded, they dipped their way into and out of truces for some time. Until the manor became too boring and the rooms became too silent. Until apathy dissolved like sugar in water. And, similar to dominoes cascading, from one conversation followed another. And then another. And another.

Maybe Damian found Timothy admirable- though he would loathe to admit it- and maybe Timothy found Damian comforting- though he would never say it. And maybe they both understood each other in a way few others did. But, one day, they found themselves at a place where time spent together was no longer wasted. And, maybe, they might even enjoy it a bit.

Timothy would ruffle his hair and call that 'putting it mildly.' Tease him about how 'love' didn't seem to be a word in Damian's vocabulary. But a Timothy who would remember him enough to say those words no longer existed. And such a possibility had long since disappeared. Four years of tenuous work and growth gone in a puff of smoke. A bridge built from resentment to care burned away.

But, despite that, despite the futility of his hope, Damian found himself smothering a smile when he approached Timothy's table. His previous rage long washed away. Oh, his stupid, stupid heart.

"Hello," Damian said, his throat raw, stinging as he spoke. "What could I get you started with today?"

"Um..." Timothy peered at the menu, before pausing and glancing up at Damian again. "I'd like a- wait, how old are you? You don't seem old enough to work here."

"I'm sixteen," Damian lied. "I'm old enough."

Timothy snorted. "You're sixteen? You look twelve."

That's rich coming from a prepubescent twenty-something, Damian bit back his response. He couldn't say that to someone who was technically a stranger. And it was all too similar to their bickering in the past. The jabs and insults that were mean when he was ten and became brotherly when he was twelve.

There was a brief moment of silence, and then Timothy drew his hand to his mouth, realizing what he had just said. "Oh, God. I- Wow. I am so sorry. That was... so rude. I don't know what came over me."

Damian swallowed down all the things he wanted to say. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm still sorry though. That was totally out of nowhere. I'm so sorry. I've just been on edge today."

Damian choked on his curiosity, frozen for a moment before swiftly moving on, pulling out his notebook. "Could I get you started with some drinks?"

Timothy didn't comment on the abrupt conversation change. "No thanks. I'll have my meal now."

Damian rolled his eyes inwardly. The idiot had probably brought his own coffee. "What would you like?"

Timothy scanned the menu. "I'll try the veggie wraps, please. Without pickles."

Damian almost dropped the pen out of hand. "But you don't like that dish." I like that dish. It's my favorite dish. The one you always called disgusting.

Timothy frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Oh. I... Uh..." Damian scrambled for an excuse. A reason for the- frankly, quite creepy- words that just spilled out of his mouth. "I'm a big fan," he said before he could think twice. "Of you. Timothy Drake-Wayne. I read the tabloids. On you. A lot."

"A lot?" Timothy asked.

"Mhm." Damian wanted to crush something with his hand. "A lot."

Timothy looked amused- which was better than suspicious. Although, with Timothy, you could never be sure. "You shouldn't trust that crap." He placed his elbows on the table. "They're wrong most of the time anyway."

As if tabloids weren't the lowest form of press. "Trust me," Damian said, his voice dry. "I don't."

Timothy stared at him, and then, to Damian's surprise, he laughed. It wasn't loud or long, just a short chuckle, but it wasn't plastic. Not like the laughs Damian had learned to give. It was genuine. It colored his cheeks and illuminated his eyes. "You know," he said, resting his chin on the palm of his hands. "You remind me a lot of someone."

"I do?" Damian asked, his mouth moving in sharp, blocky movements, trying not to let his eagerness show.

"Yeah." Timothy scanned Damian's face, contemplating. The silence clawed at Damian's skin, his eagerness giving way to apprehension. "Huh. Weird. I can't place my finger on who."

Of course, you don't, you imbecile. Damian tried to keep his thoughts bitter, but it was difficult to accomplish when he found himself physically deflating. "That's alright."

Timothy waved his hand around. "I'll figure it out eventually."

"Perhaps." Damian coughed. "Allow me to go retrieve your food."

Timothy opened his mouth to say something more, but Damian turned away before he could, too focused on the gnawing feeling in his bones.

Everything became a blur after that. He gave the order to the cooks, served other tables, and let artificial laughs drip out of his mouth. But his head only cleared when he returned to Timothy, a platter of vegetable rolls in hand.

Timothy looked up, giving a tired smile. "Thanks for the food."

Damian gave a curt nod, placing it down.

And that was it.

It made sense, of course. Damian was just a stranger. And his small talk was... passable at best. Timothy had no reason to continue a conversation- no matter how much Damian ached to still listen to his voice.

"Well, if you're all set, I'll just-" Damian turned around, ready to leave. But a hand shot up and gripped his wrist, pulling him back.

"Wait!" There was an unquestionable amount of desperation in Timothy's voice. And his hand shook as his nails dug deeper into Damian's skin. "Don't- Don't go. Not yet."

Damian looked back. "I'm sorry?" He tried tugging his hand away, but Timothy held a firm grasp.

"Please don't leave. Please- Please don't leave."

Damian tilted his head, frowning. "I have to go help other tables."

"But you'll come back... right?" Timothy's eyes were wide and his pupils were dilated. He looked dosed on fear toxin. "With the bill, I mean. You'll come back with the bill?"

"Yeah," Damian said. "Of course. Just... call me over."

Timothy looked down at Damian's arm, then at his food, bringing his hand back, as if calming down. "Actually, I would like the bill now, please."

"Now?" What the fuck just happened?

"Yes." Timothy cleared his throat. "Yes. I'll take my food to go. It'll probably be good for me to get some fresh air." He shook himself. "I've just been really out of it today. Maybe something's been going around."

Or maybe your immune system's so pathetic that a gust of wind could knock you over, Damian thought bitterly. No frivolous sickness could ever affect someone as skilled as me.

But Timothy looked healthy- or, as healthy as he always looked. It was difficult to run on so little sleep and remain in top condition, so Timothy always held an air of illness to him. Even so, he just looked sad. Not unwell. Even if he had just acted like Damian leaving was going to bring about the end of the world.

"You think so?" Damian made his voice light and conversational, hoping to keep Timothy lucid.

"I mean, yeah. My whole family's been miserable all day." Timothy said. "It's weird. Dad thinks- My dad thinks it's some sort of sickness. Wanted us all to stay in bed. But I couldn't just stay cramped up in the manor, you know?"

Damian had his fair share of bed rests. And he knew just as well as Timothy how the manor tended to cave in upon itself. Stay in one place for too long and the walls closed in and the air became frail and cold. He couldn't blame him for wanting to leave. Some parts of it were always home and some parts of it never were.

"Right." Damian ran his tongue over his teeth. "Well, uh, let me go get your bill." Damian turned away and, that time, Timothy didn't stop him.

He walked over to the front desk and grabbed both the bill and a styrofoam box. And then he returned to the table, drawing out each step, delaying the inevitable as much as he could.

Timothy placed cash next to the bill, counting it out. Damian waited, annoyance spreading across his face at Timothy's slow pace. Eventually, once he had finished getting the exact amount, he said, as if absentmindedly, "I think I figured out who you remind me of."

Damian stilled. "You have?"

"Yeah. My brother." Timothy gave a wobbly smile. "You've heard of Dick Grayson, right? I mean you should, since you read the tabloids."

"You think I'm like R- Dick Grayson?" Damian didn't mean for himself to sound so affected by Timothy's words.

Timothy nodded. "You have his smile."

Damian reached up to touch his face. He had smiled? There was no way. Any of his faux smiles he had to put effort into forcing. He would have remembered.

Timothy stood up and placed his food in the styrofoam box. "Anyway, thanks for your help." He reached over and ruffled Damian's hair. And Damian let him. "I should be going now. I'm feeling a lot better."

"You are?" Damian asked.

"Yeah," Timothy said. And Damian didn't say a word, even though he could tell from his face it was a lie.

Damian watched Timothy grab the box and turn toward the door, taking a step forward. And then he paused. And then he took a step back. And then another step forward. And he stepped back again. There was a conflicted expression on his face as if pained by leaving.

Damian watched Timothy struggle for a minute, wondering if it would work itself out before he sighed. "Are you going to leave?"

Timothy jolted before nodding his head slowly. "I am. Sorry, sorry." Another stretch of awkward silence. "Thanks, again, uh...?" He turned back to look at Damian. And it was obvious the fool was searching for a name.

Damian didn't give him one. "Goodbye, Tim Drake."

Timothy stared at him for a moment longer, then he turned away, the bell on the door frame chiming as he left.

Damian waited a moment, letting himself marinate in his own melancholy before he turned to Timothy's money, counting it out. He should have done it before Timothy left, but that hadn't been on the forefront of his mind.

He sorted through the bills. There was twenty-six dollars for both the meal and tax and for the tip there was... a hundred dollars. A hundred dollars.

Damian clutched the hundred dollar bill tightly, rumpling it as he did. He looked back up at the door where Timothy had just left. And then he looked at the calendar by the reception desk- just to make sure. 

It was August 9th. Damian's birthday.

A hundred dollars meant nothing to Timothy. Nothing at all. But, to Damian, in that moment, it meant the world.

Because, despite memory loss, a world-changing magical spell, and an entire universe against him, Timothy had still managed to get Damian a birthday present.

-

Tim Drake strolled through the streets of Gotham, a styrofoam container tucked underneath his arm. The warmth in his chest had dissipated the moment he left the restaurant, replaced with a misery that chilled him from the inside out.

He pushed down the agony and turned a corner, making his way home. Where his whole family was gathered. All oddly depressed. With some of them even randomly crying.

Bruce was concerned their mood was caused by biochemical warfare. Tim thought it of a more magical origin.

However, neither opinion mattered. Nothing they would try could fix it. And, tomorrow, they would wake up and everything would be normal again. And, in a few weeks, they would all but forget it even happened.

But as Tim walked, farther and farther away from that fancy vegetarian restaurant, he was unable to shake the feeling that he had left something behind.

Chapter Text

“Kiddo,” Jason had told the boy next to him, sitting atop a rustic-colored roof and admiring the cityscape below. “Can you hear it?”

Damian frowned, giving his classic, what-sort-of-idiot-are-you look. “Hear what?”

“The city,” Jason said, giving Damian a haughty look of his own– although his was more mocking than anything else. “Duh.”

"Yes. I can hear typical city noises. What is so special about them?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “They’re more than just ‘noises.’ They’re a song.” He tried to keep the reverence out of his voice. The kid thought he was deranged enough already.

Damian scrunched up his face. “Cities cannot sing. And besides, I do not hear a melody.”

Jason laughed, wrapping his arm around Damian and pulling him into a side hug. “You just have to listen.”

Damian looked indignant. “I am listening.” He crossed his arms, muttering, “This is ridiculous.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” Jason assured him. “Tell you what– next birthday I’ll take you up here and we can try listening again. How does that sound?”

“Hm. Acceptable. Although, I am quite certain it is both pointless and futile.”

Jason's grin widened. That was Damian-talk for: 'I don't see the point, but I'd like to do it if it's with you.' He pulled Damian closer, squeezing their shoulders together. "It's a deal."

- 

Damian was officially fifteen years old. He celebrated his birthday near midnight with a cheap, pre-packaged cupcake and a deformed candle.

After Timothy left, Damian ended his shift early, leaving the restaurant for the darkness of the streets. From there he made his way to a half-lit gas station, the hundred-dollar bill still crumpled in his palm. 

The lights were sharp, straining his eyes and causing him to squint as he trudged into the store. The window broadcasted nothing but a pitch-black void. As if the gas station was located in a different dimension, hanging in oblivion. 

He slunk through the shelves, half-heartedly grabbing a cupcake and a set of candles– and, after some consideration, taking a sketchbook and a set of pencils too. Just in case. 

He slammed the objects on the counter, placing the hundred-dollar bill next to them. 

“I don’t know if we have change,” the cashier said, eyeing the bill. “Sorry.” He offered Damian a weak smile as a form of apology. The man looked tired, face unshaven and hair unkempt.

“It’s fine,” Damian muttered, shuffling out another wad of cash from his back pocket. He had wanted to use Timothy’s money– to pretend the items were bought by him. That they were actual gifts instead of inferior replacements. 

The cashier took the non-Timothy cash and sorted through it. “So,” he said, his voice filling the silence. “It’s your birthday?”

“Yes,” Damian said curtly.

“That’s nice.” He sounded wistful. “You doing anything?”

Damian frowned, raising an eyebrow and looking pointedly at the packaged cupcake. “That. I am doing… that.” 

The cashier tilted his head, such a viscerally Cassandra-like motion. Damian almost recoiled. “Anything else?" He wondered. "A party?”

“Does it look like I’m going to have a party?” Damian asked, unable to stop his irritation from leaking into his voice.

“No party? Why?”

“I just don’t like birthdays,” Damian said dryly, leaving out the ‘anymore’ that should have followed. 

The cashier shifted through the bills, counting them and placing the change on the counter. “So no one’s gonna sing to you?” 

Damian gave him a cold even stare. “No,” he said. “No one is going to ‘sing’ to me.”

Pity flashed in the cashier’s eyes, making Damian shudder. Nothing Damian had said warranted pity . He quickly grabbed the items and change, turning away. 

“I can sing to you,” he offered. And he sounded so frustratingly hopeful. Damian was tempted to shove the cupcake– candle and all– into his face.

Damian paused. “No.”

“Why not?”

Damian opened his mouth to respond. And then he shut it. Feeling more stupid than he had felt already. It was an awful song. One that took Damian an absurd amount of time to learn the melody to. And yet, it was one that his family would always sing to him. No matter what. “It is stupid," he choked out.

“Come on, birthdays are always best when they’re spent with someone.”

Damian pretended he couldn't hear him.

“I have some matches, so I can light it for you too.”

Damian had buried his pride for less. He sighed and spun on his heels. “Just light it. No singing.”

The man nodded, and Damian headed back to the register counter. He put the cupcake down and placed one of the candles into the frosting. 

The man flicked the lighter, a flame sparking to life. He reached down and burned the candle wick into a small fire. 

He looked up and gave Damian a wide smile. 

“If you’re sure– ” 

“Oh, I’m positive,” Damian said, grabbing the cupcake and turning away briskly. 

He left the gas station, hurrying over to a nearby alley where he crouched down and placed the cupcake on the floor. He watched the flame dance, relaxing against one of the walls for a while. Then, he rubbed his eyes. Two minutes left until midnight. Two minutes until his birthday was over. 

Softly, he began singing. “Happy birthday to me.” It came out off-tune and scratchy, but he pushed through. “Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday, dear–” The whole thing was utterly idiotic. Why was he singing? And to himself at that? It was pathetic. Utterly pathetic. “Happy birthday, dear Damian. Happy birthday to me.” 

He gave a soft clap, listening as it echoed against the walls. And then he leaned down to blow out the candle, watching smoke erupt and cloud the air. 

- 

Timothy returned to the restaurant a few times the following week, but each day he arrived, Damian was able to evade serving him. In fact, Damian avoided Timothy entirely, taking any measure he could to completely stay out of the boy’s line of sight. 

Sometimes, when he had a spare moment, Damian would watch him. Hide behind a wall and peek out at him. Just to make sure he was okay. 

And it was on one of those days when the hostess walked up behind him and rested her arm on Damian’s shoulder. An unwelcome guest that clearly thought her presence would be appreciated. “He’s so creepy, right?”

Damian opted to ignore her.

The hostess continued as if Damian had shown an inch of intrigue. “He’s been coming here a shit ton. Only orders water. Tips fifty per meal. It’s insane. Like, I get it. He’s Tim Drake. But this is crazy even for rich people.”

“Yeah,” Damian muttered, half paying attention. He watched as a waiter walked up to Timothy’s table and Timothy whipped his head around, only to deflate when he saw who the waiter was. 

The hostess let her arm fall off Damian’s shoulder. “Dunno what he’s looking for, but I doubt he’s gonna find it.”

She turned and walked away, leaving Damian to stare at a boy who didn’t remember him. A boy who was ordering another glass of water and giving a small polite smile. A smile so unlike his  real one– lopsided and showing off all his teeth. A boy who used to be Damian’s brother.  

Damian waited another moment before he turned away too, following the hostess back into the kitchen.

- 

After a week, Timothy stopped coming in at all. And Damian… didn’t miss him. It was better that way, he reminded himself. It was better Timothy had finally given up. 

- 

Two weeks after Timothy’s first visit, Damian ended his shift early. He took the restaurant’s free meal– usually the only thing he would eat all day– and headed out, a worn-down messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

The moment he made his way out onto the sidewalk, a blur of purple crashed onto the street, creating a crater in the gravel. S poiler, blonde hair frizzy with sweat, pulled herself out of the debris, looking up at Penguin. The latest Gotham Prison escapee. 

Spoiler rushed forward, landing a sharp left hook to the Penguin’s cheek. Damian honestly expected the Penguin to put up more of a struggle, but Spoiler had him pinned in seconds. 

She tied him up completely, before reaching up and touching the com in her ear. “Understood,” she said, turning around and bringing out her grappling hook. A moment later she was swinging away, becoming nothing but a dot on the horizon. 

Damian had seen bits of hero business before and had done nothing but walk away. But... he thought of Timothy’s face, twisted with leftover emotions from a life he didn’t know he lived.

And he, despite his better judgment, decided to follow her. 

- 

He hid in alleyways and the space behind buildings, keeping a steady pace behind her, never too close and never too far. 

When she arrived at the Gotham Museum, greeted by Batman and Nightwing, Damian scrambled up the fire exit of a nearby apartment complex. He perched himself upon the edge of a roof and watched the fight below. The three heroes fought off hoards of Penguin’s men, a messy sprawl of punches and dodges and kicks and screams. 

And as Damian watched, he felt his heart slowly bleeding dry.   

Steadying himself, he reached into his bag and pulled out the sketchbook he had bought two weeks prior and a set of pencils. At first, it was small doodles and half-drawn head shots, but as the fight progressed, he moved to more intricately detailed drawings. 

He drew Richard, adorned in black and blue, a domino mask hiding his eyes but not his smile. He drew his father, cowl blending into the night and frown deep and heavy. He drew Stephanie, hair curled and eyes glimmering with excitement. 

Damian didn’t follow them once the fight ended. He just watched them leave, clutching his sketchbook to his chest. As close to his heart as he could have it. 

- 

It became a habit.

A really odd, really creepy, really strange habit. But a habit nonetheless. 

He would finish up his shift every night and from then until sunrise, he would follow the crime.

He watched Spoiler and Red Robin gather at banks half-robbed. He followed Red Hood through drug rings and tried his best to keep up with Orphan in the shadows. Occasionally Nightwing would be in town or Signal would join for a night-time crisis. 

He hid on top of buildings or inside of crowds, always sketching, always staring, always following. So one day, when he couldn't afford to watch them any longer, when he couldn't sketch them anymore, when he couldn't find them in the streets, he would remember them. Remember their intricacies. The things that time and age would wash away. 

“Laughs at her own jokes,” he wrote down next to a sketch of Stephanie, mouth open wide, caught mid-cackle. 

“Nervous tic of scratching his wrist,” he scribbled next to a drawing of Timothy, head ducked down and eyes warily peaking through his bangs. 

“Tucks hair behind ear when happy,” he put next to a portrait of Cassandra, her mask off and a small smirk dancing on her lips. 

He filled pages and pages with Richard’s smile, in vain attempts of getting it exactly right.

He was worried, at first. That he might need to step in and help. But that was soon proven unfounded. But they worked so well without him. It was like they didn’t even need him at all. 

And it didn’t hurt. The peace. The quiet. The way they always laughed with each other, not a care in the world. 

None of it hurt. 

Damian gave up sleeping in the kitchen and just settled for rooftops and alleyways, collapsing once their patrol was over, and waking sometime in the afternoon.

He followed them consistently for a full month before one of them noticed him. Which was surprising on its own, he was League of Assassins trained in stealth, after all. 

-

He was following Jason Todd through the underbelly of Gotham. The place where smoke clogs the sky and people who weren’t born as lucky as Bruce Wayne sleep upon benches. The place that doesn’t give people the option between hero and villain. Just between dead and alive.

It was a world of defects and mistakes and lost boys. And it was in that world, where dead men walked and trust was weakness, where Jason was the king.

But there were always those who looked to knock him off the pedestal. 

It had been a long night. An Arkham breakout. Still, Jason should have been able to win. It was just a petty criminal he he was fighting. Someone that should never have gotten the better of him.

Fists slammed into cheeks, elbows collided with necks, and Damian was peeking out from behind a trashcan. He was closer than he usually got. But he had grown bolder the more time had passed. Too bold.

He leaned against the trashcan, startled when it tipped over. Maybe his sleep schedule was getting to him. Or his lack of nutrition. But, whatever the reason, the noise was enough to attract Jason’s attention, both him and the crook turning to face Damian. 

And then, time seemed to freeze. Jason, as if acting out of his own control,faced Damian. His eyes widening and his brows furrowing. A look of confusion and surprise– and even sadness– consumed his expression. 

They stared each other down, both equally shocked.

And while that happened, the crook’s fist landed a blow it shouldn’t have been able to land.

Jason Todd was unbelievably strong. One of the most powerful people in the world. Despite the hit, Jason shouldn’t have toppled over. He shouldn’t have. But he did. And when he fell, Damian didn’t even think twice.

He lunged at the man. Pocket knife out and lodged into his shoulder. The man, already worn down, gave a loud groan when it happened, collapsing at Damian's feet.

Damian turned to Jason, surprised to find him peacefully asleep. Jason was never ‘peacefully asleep.’ He was a fighter, even when exhausted. He usually slept with his face scrunched together in concentration. But he seemed… calm? Could that word ever be used to describe Jason Todd? 

Damian began dragging Jason, hands underneath his shoulders. He pulled him into an alleyway, throwing him toward a clump of trash bags in the back. From there, Damian positioned Jason into a comfortable position, surprised at how the man still hadn’t woken. 

He watched Jason for a moment longer, considering wrapping Jason’s arms around himself so he could– just for a minute– give himself the illusion of being held. He shook himself. Weak. Weak. Weak.

“Perhaps,” he said, watching Jason’s chest rise and fall. “In another life, we could have been brothers again.”

Distantly, there were cars in nearby street, honking and blaring and rumbling. And there were shouts– kids playing with their friends, people scared for their life. 

“I would have liked a future with you all very much,” Damian muttered, looking away. 

Jason– despite being asleep– reacted to those words, shifting and causing the trash bags he was lying upon to clink together. 

Damian watched Jason a little longer, waiting for the man to wake up. But he stayed asleep for hours. And as Damian waited, he noticed something in the air. It was like… music, perhaps? Maybe it was just crickets, any melody created by them just made up in his head. A trick of the ears.

But, despite that possibility, Damian smiled. Just a little. 

"I did it," he whispered to the unconscious man. As if what he was saying was a secret or a prayer. There was joy in his voice. And hope. Oh, so much hope. "I heard the city sing."

Chapter Text

Jason woke up alone and gasping for air, frantically searching around the area as if he had just lost something.

What should have been on the front of Jason's mind was concern. Was he drugged? Poisoned? Compromised? Was a magic spell cast upon him? But none of those questions were what Jason was thinking about. He was concerned only about the boy. Green-eyed and poised, staring at him from behind a fallen trashcan. Did he really see him or did he just imagine him? Was his face really so familiar? His gaze really so full of conviction?

"Red hood!" A voice rang out from behind a corner, Nightwing appearing and hurrying over. "What happened?"

"Nothing, dickface," Jason muttered as he pulled himself up, crunching the trash bags underneath him. There was a growing sense of discomfort and distress returning to his chest.

"You didn't come home last night," Dick said. And Jason tried his best not to look apologetic. But he knew how much it meant to them. The rubber bullets in his gun. The rumpled sheets on his bed. The path he took every night that always led back to the manor.

"I'm fine," he hissed. "It's nothing."

Dick didn't seem convinced. "It's not 'nothing.' What happened?"

Jason turned away. "I said it's nothing. Back the fuck off." He wouldn't tell anyone about the boy or the peaceful sleep. But he wouldn't forget it for some time either. 

-

The apartment complex looked hideous both inside and out. It was a wretched building, with paint peeling off the walls and cobwebs hiding in corners. Half of the doors looked like they were about to fall apart, and sections of the ceiling had already done so.

But it was cheap, it took cash over the counter and didn't ask too many questions. Sure, Damian wouldn't be living in the height of luxury but at least it had air conditioning. And a bed.

The man at the front desk didn't even look up when Damian entered, too focused on filing his nails. "How much?" He asked.

Damian stared at the man- sitting cross-legged on a shoddy spinning chair- and forced the civility to remain in his voice. "I want the cheapest room you have."

The man finally looked up at him. "That's three hundred. Per month. You're like fifteen? Can you even pay that much?"

Damian said nothing and took out a stack of cash. He should probably spend some money on a wallet, but who would be capable enough to steal from him?

Damian put three hundred on the table and the man shuffled through it, throwing Damian a key when he was done, the room number attached. Damian caught it and moved up the stairs. They creaked as he walked, crying under his weight.

The room was small- claustrophobic even- and held only a single bed, pushed off to the side. Damian dropped his bag onto the floor and closed the door behind him. He pulled out one of his sketchbooks and began flipping through it, looking at the drawings.

At the manor, he used to put some of his sketches on the walls of his room- or the fridge if Richard was unusually persistent. Occasionally, he would gift a few to someone, if it was a special occasion. But he didn't have anyone to gift drawings to anymore.

He brought out a box of thumbtacks and carefully ripped the pages out of his sketchbook. One by one he stuck them to the walls, filling the empty space where he could. The room had a single window, overlooking a crowded street below. Damian opened it and listened to the hum of the city as he worked. People talked and cars honked and birds sang and time seemed to fly by. Until eventually, the walls were filled with clusters of drawings—a messy display of pictures and notes and memories and smiles.

Oh God, Damian realized, stepping back. I'm becoming Timothy.

How the mighty had fallen. All he needed now was a camera and an abhorrent sleep schedule and they would basically be twins.

Damian let his legs collapse underneath him. The drawings, the notes, the room- all of it was just some sickly reminder that no one was going to take care of him anymore. And he had to accept that.

-

Gotham had worked its way into a lull. Crime had become nothing but whispers and petty felonies. And everyone was restless about it. Gotham was one of those cities that never slept- only getting close whenever a storm was about to emerge. Cities tended to foreshadow themselves in that sort of way.

Despite the lull, however, its streets remained alight, filled with crowds and bustling strangers. Everyone had a place they needed to go and Damian was no exception.

He slipped through the streets, stumbling into people and biting down cruel remarks. But through the crowd, he glimpsed a small building. It was thin and squished, but it was inviting. Its door propped open with a big sign up front.

"Art Competition Announcement! Theme: Superheroes. Talk to a Worker Inside to Enter!"

Damian stared at the sign, contemplating it. Then, he turned away and continued to move through the city.

-

Two weeks later, he caved.

Making his way into the store, he locked eyes with a woman behind the check-in desk. "Can I help you?" She asked. "Our artist workshop doesn't start until three-"

"I saw your sign," Damian said before he could lose his nerve. "For the art competition."

"Oh!" She shifted papers around on her desk, pushing her glasses up. "You want to enter?"

Damian nodded. He pulled the drawing from his bag, forcing his face into a scowl to keep his hand from shaking. He had used a stiffer type of paper and a more expensive set of markers. To make it seem like he cared.

"Woah," she breathed, examining the drawing. "This is actually pretty good."

Damian smirked. It was more than 'pretty good.' He had made it, after all.

"Were you even alive when some of these guys were heroes? The detail is impeccable."

"Old newspaper photos," Damian admitted. He had found some online and printed them out at the library. He had guesses, of course. But he only knew what they looked like after time had lined their faces and worn down their bodies.

"And what do you want to name it?" She grabbed a sticky note and pulled out her pen.

Damian paused. He hadn't quite considered that.

He looked down at the drawing one more time. Four figures standing side by side, immortalized at fourteen. Their grins blinding as they looked at each other- as if sharing some kind of inside joke. Richard. Jason. Timothy. Stephanie. Each wearing a costume Damian had only ever seen frozen in test tubes and displayed like exhibits. Save for one, which Damian had been able to view on a living, breathing body of someone who- at the time- hated him quite a lot.

"'Robins,'" he said. Then, louder, "I want to name it 'Robins.'"

-

They would announce the winner in a month. But the wait didn't matter much, Damian already knew he was going to win. Anyone else would be preposterous.

But, near the end of that month, right when he was finishing up his shift, Jerry stopped him. "Hey," the man said, looking nervous. "Have you ever... uh... catered?"

"Catered?" Damian asked, trying to remain calm. Snapping at Jerry wouldn't do him much good- no matter how much Damian itched to leave. He might as well entertain the idiot's notions. "Like at an event?"

"Yeah! It'll be really helpful since Helen can't make it."

Damian considered it briefly. "Sure. I suppose I could help."

"Great! It's on the ninth. Here's the details," Jerry handed him a note card. "Let me know if there's any trouble."

Relieved to be set free, Damian took it and left. The card would remain in his back pocket, untouched until a few hours before the event. Long after it was already too late to back out.

But, if Damian had read it earlier, he would have done anything to avoid it entirely. And he would have known that, at the top of the card, in Jerry's stilted handwriting, it read, "Wayne Charity Gala." And he would have recognized the address scribbled right below it.

Chapter Text

The storefront was just as inviting, a new contest advertised where the old one used to be. The lady at the counter smiled at him when Damian walked inside, the door chime ringing. She adjusted the spectacles resting on the bridge of her nose. "You're back."

Damian nodded. "I am."

"Your drawing was really good," she told him. And the sympathy in her eyes told Damian everything he needed to know. "But... I'm sorry, it appears you didn't win."

Damian sighed. "I suppose second place is acceptable."

"No, you—" she cut herself off. "You didn't get second place either. Or third place. You aren't on the podium." She shuffled through some of her papers. "But you got an honorable mention."

"Honorable mention?" Who else in the entirety of Gotham could create a better piece of art than he did? He was trained by the league's finest. He had honed his craft until perfection. And some random civilian created a better piece than he did?

"Art is subjective," she said, shrugging. "The judges like the realism of it, but they had a few critiques."

Damian waited for her to continue. "Well?" He asked when she stayed silent. "Spit them out."

She handed Damian a packet with the name 'Robins' on the front. "Page three," she said. "It's yours to keep."

Damian knew he was going to hate it before he even opened the packet up. But he did, flipping to page three.

His first instinct was anger. Then, confusion.

His drawing, of Richard and Jason and Timothy and Stephanie, rendered with as many colors as he could add, warranted only two small words. Surrounded by a void of blank space. Short and infuriatingly simple.

"Something's missing."

-

In theory, Damian remembered the catering event. He remembered Jerry telling him about it. He remembered agreeing to it. He didn't remember, however, what day it was happening.

When Damian entered the restaurant he faced the chaos of servers and cooks scrambling around in a panic. Jerry was in the middle of the hurricane, directing people as they went. And when he noticed Damian, he waved him over.

"Oh, there you are! Good. I was worried you forgot."

"I do not forget things," Damian said. "Especially things like... like this."

Jerry snorted. "It's the gala. Remember? The one you agreed to cater for?"

Everything clicked into place. "Yes, yes, I knew that." Damian scoffed. "Where is our destination again?"

"We're going—" Jerry stopped in his tracks. "Shit. Do you have a driver's license?"

Damian scrunched his nose. "No. I am too—" young "—busy to take that idiotic test. But I have no need for a license, I can still drive just as well."

"Okay so... no. Um, we can probably have someone take you. I don't have room in my car but, uh..." He noticed the hostess, packing up a set of food into a tinfoil tray. "Hey!" He waved her over. "Can Damian carpool with you?"

The hostess glared at him, her voice venom. "What do you think?"

"Please?" Jerry asked. His puppy-dog eyes were nothing compared to Richard's, but they still seemed to work. "Just for one ride, okay? He's gonna be a huge help for the Wayne Gala."

"Did you just say Wayne?" Damian asked. There was no way.

"Yeah, it's on the note card I gave you," Jerry said. "Did you even read it?"

"Of course I did," Damian lied. "I just..." can't do it. I can't stand amongst the remnants of people I once called my family and smile. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

"Here, take the kid and we'll meet you two over there." Jerry wasn't talking to Damian anymore. He was using that soft mummer most adults have when they're talking right past a kid. Damian was no stranger to being talked over. Ignored. Underestimated. A strength and a weakness all trapped into one.

"Ugh, okay. Come on." The hostess motioned for him to follow and began walking off.

If Damian kept his head down and stayed a safe enough distance away... maybe it would be okay. Maybe he could be part of their life again— even if it would just be for a little while longer.

"Did you hear me or not? Come on!"

Slowly, Damian followed her to the car.

-

Damian stared up at the large, marble building. The manor looked arguably the same. Still just as powerful and elegant as he had left it. But to Damian, it felt like the relic of a different lifetime. A place natural to return to, and yet, terribly foreign. How much could so much change in five months?

What once was home now looked like what it truly was; The amalgamation of a lonely boy with dead parents and too much wealth.

Damian followed the hostess inside, holding the frozen food she had handed to him. He could have walked the path blindfolded if he had to. Through the manor and all the way to the ballroom, passing by the movie theater and the kitchen as you went.

The other servers had already begun spreading out plates on the rows of tables, while the cooks had begun preparing the food for the buffet.

"I don't know why we cater these things, honestly," the hostess muttered as she adjusted the salad knives. “Not a single Wayne is vegetarian. Why would they have a whole vegetarian restaurant cater at their gala? It's not even on theme."

"Perhaps they realized that vegetarian food is the superior option?" Damian suggested.

"Yeah, right." she sounded amused, as if she genuinely thought he was joking. "I'm just saying, we've catered a bunch of—“ she was cut off by Jerry, hurriedly shushing the two of them.

Bruce Wayne— the man, the myth, the billionaire— emerged through the main door. It wasn't the real Bruce Wayne. The one with tired smiles and a genius-level intellect. It was the celebrity Bruce Wayne. The one with planned responses and the personality of a dimwitted clown.

The man was once Damian's father. His mentor. Everything he aspired to be. And now, the man didn't even spare Damian a second glance.

"Jerry!" He greeted, arms open wide. "How are the preparations?"

"Really well, Mr. Wayne. We should be done shortly."

"Please, call me Bruce." Damian's father wrapped Jerry in a half hug, pausing to scan the tables. "It's looking pretty nice! Hopefully some of my kids will show up a bit early to help set up. But we never know with them, do we?" He laughed, Jerry joining in. One big joke that Damian was always the butt of.

When would Damian learn to stop wishing for things he could no longer have?

"Do you have the usuals helping out?"

"Yep," Jerry said. "Helen couldn't make it though, so we got a new person sharing the load." He gestured toward Damian. "That's Damian right over there. He's our newest server."

"Hello, Damian." His father turned to him, a smile on his face. But when he locked eyes with Damian, that smile dropped. Only for a brief second. But it was enough time for his expression to hold a flurry of emotions. Grief, worry, hope, joy. And then, the smile returned. "How are you doing?"

"Adequate." Damian kept his words clipped.

His father turned to Jerry. “Are you sure he hasn’t helped out before? I feel like I remember him from somewhere.”

"Nope." Jerry shook his head. "This is his first time."

"Really?" Damian's father asked. "Is a fourteen-year-old even allowed to be a server?"

“Oh, he’s not fourteen. I’m pretty sure he's seventeen. Had a birthday a few months ago.”

“A birthday?” His father asked. And Damian was taken back by the utter sorrow in his voice. “Oh. Yes. I suppose that makes sense.” A beat passed, and his father spared Damian a smile. “Nice meeting you Damian.”

By the time Damian mustered up the courage to respond, the man had already moved on, talking with Jerry about napkin placements.

-

The Gala had begun picking up, entering a rising action. A few quests were scattered around at tables, fiddling with napkins and making pointless small talk. Some waiters were stranded about, platters of food in the palm of their hands.

Damian stood in the back, trying to blend into the walls. Jerry had given him a small break to rest, but he didn't want to roam anywhere outside of the ballroom— too worried about running into his family.

And besides, his spot tucked into the corner was perfect. He could admire the room without making a big show of it.

It was the place where Cassandra had taught him dancing and where Duke had read him poetry. It was a room crafted out of gold and quartz, yes. But to Damian, it was made with memories.

"Found you." A soft whisper pierced through the hum of the crowd.

Damian physically restricted himself from flinching, letting a small exhale be his only form of response.

Timothy Drake stared down at him. No longer murky and miserable like last time. No, now he was electric with wit. A sly grin on his lips as he narrowed his eyes, studying Damian.

"I was hoping you would show up. I missed— I wanted to thank you for recommending those veggie wraps. They were really good."

Damian frowned. "I didn't recommend them to you."

"You didn't?" Timothy asked. "No, I'm pretty sure you did. You told me you liked them, right?"

Had he?

"Oh, and sorry about how I acted last time." Timothy laughed. "I was soooo out of it." He reached up to pat Damian’s head— a familiar motion— but stopped his action halfway, letting his hand fall to his side.

"Don't worry about it," Damian said, moving to leave. But when he began to walk away, Timothy followed.

"So, I was thinking," he said, with the voice that meant he was masquerading an interrogation as a casual conversation. "I never quite got your name."

"Okay," Damian said.

It didn't take a genius to see he wanted out of the conversation. And Timothy Drake was a genius. So why did he keep talking? "So, what is your name?"

"It's none of your business," Damian snapped. Whatever game the boy was trying to play, Damian wouldn't fall for it.

"Well, Jerry told me your name was Damian. So let's start there."

That little traitor. "Did he really?" Damian asked, trying to sound unphased.

"Damian Waller. Which is weird. Because Damian Waller doesn't actually exist. In fact, your face isn't in a single registry at all. Not a trace of you on this earth until around five months ago.” He was still smiling. “And I want to know why."

Any lie Damian could concoct wouldn't be able to fool Timothy. Not if it was purely logic or facts based. That was a battle he simply couldn't win. 

So, Damian tried a different tactic. Appealing to him emotionally. 

"I'm... a runaway." Damian swallowed, looking away. "Please don't tell anyone. Please. Jerry promised to keep it a secret and I can't let it get out."

Timothy paused, a look of shock passing over his face. Damian prayed to whatever gods existed that it would work.

He still looked unsure, so Damian had to act fast. The fake tears came quicker than usual, welling behind his eyes. "It just... pains me so much to talk about it. That's why I didn't bring it up earlier. But I... I never thought you would have gone digging."

Timothy's surprise evaporated into awkwardness. "Oh my god, I am— I am so sorry. I didn't even—"

"It's okay," Damian said, adding in one final sniff to finish off the performance.

"You ran away from your family? Were they...?"

"No," Damian said, not even wanting to entertain the idea. "They were...” Everything. “But I... someone had to leave."

"Are you ever going back?"

"I can't." If he could, he would do it in a heartbeat.

"Why?" Timothy asked, oddly invested. Why was he so interested? What did it matter to him?

Damian floundered for an excuse. “I don’t know if they want me back.”

“What? Of course they do. Of course they want you back.” Timothy stopped in his tracks, hands on Damian's shoulders. "I’m sure it’s killing them. Burning them from the inside out. So… If you can go home, go home."

"You don't understand," Damian hissed, shaking his head. It wasn’t that easy. It was physically impossible for his family to care about him anymore. He was a stranger. Just another person in a room full of people.

"Please go home, Damian. Please come—" Timothy paused for a moment. "Please go home."

“You don’t even know them.” It felt like a lie. Even though, to Timothy, it was the truth.

Timothy's words came out slow and shaky, his eyes returning from that maniac look to something calm and collected. "Right. You... You're right. I'm sorry." His face twisted into something Damian couldn't decipher and he turned around and walked away. His hands in his suit pockets, his shoulders slumped.

-  

Tim left the boy, ignoring the voice in the back of his head screaming: Don’t let him go. Don’t let him go. Don’t let him go.

Had Tim spent the past week of research on nothing? Was that weird feeling in his chest— screaming that this boy was wrong, wrong, wrong— nothing but a false alarm? Had he just embarrassed himself again?

No. There was something off about that kid. He knew it. And he was gonna figure it out.

And why did he keep acting like that? He barley knew the kid. Why did he care so much?

Chapter Text

Jason watched the scene play out before him from behind the refreshment table. Timbo, in all his red tie glory, stalked through the half-empty ballroom. He was staring at his hands and grumbling something to himself; a tell-tale sign for Jason not to engage. When Tim got insane about something, the smart decision was always just to back away. 

In all honesty, Jason didn’t even want to go to the gala. But Bruce had insisted. Some stupid crap about ‘wanting him there’ or whatever. 

Jason moved to leave, but before he could, he noticed the person Tim was walking away from. Was that the boy from the alleyway? With the green eyes and the haunting face? Or was he just imagining things again? 

Jason stared at the boy slinking away to the kitchen. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. God, he needed a drink.

-

Damian hid himself in the kitchen, finding Jerry and shaking the man. “I’ll do anything you need,” he promised. “As long as it keeps me busy.” And as far away from my family as possible.

“Anything?” Jerry asked. Damian still hadn’t forgiven the lying scum for telling Timothy his name– even if the surname was fake. “Uh, you can take out some appetizers.” Jerry slipped around the cooks hurrying through the kitchen and slid a platter of olives into Damian’s hands.

Damian didn’t leave immediately after. He sat down next to his bag– the one he had bought half off at some thrift store– and waited for the ballroom to become bloated with guests. 

Eventually, after enough time had passed, he left his bag behind and made his way out into the main room once again. 

The crowd was larger than he had hoped, swarming with guests all dressed to their finest. He had never seen his father’s parties in action much before. Always sitting in a corner or off to the side with a sibling. Near the beginning of his time with the family, he wasn’t deemed fit to interact with the public. Too busy being angry and bitter to spare a second at being polite. 

But he didn’t care much for fanciful parties anyway. He’d much rather mock people’s stupid outfit choices with Jason and Stephanie. Or play battleship in the lounge with Richard. 

A slim man with oily, brown hair bumped into Damian; a transgression that a lesser man would have maimed him for. For his credit, Damian managed to force out a small, apologetic smile, but maybe it wasn’t enough. Because the man stopped in his tracks and turned to face Damian full-on.

“Do tell me,” he said, and Damian tried not to let irritation show on his face. “What is the hardest word for a person to say?”

Damian paused, confused. “What?” He asked. 

The man repeated what he had just said, looking frustrated Damian hadn’t tried to guess an answer yet.  “What is the hardest word for a person to say?”

“Uh…” Damian shifted through his catalog of English vernacular. “Sesquipedalian?” That was one of the hardest to pronounce, wasn’t it?

The man blinked. “No,” he said slowly. “The answer is ‘sorry.’ I’m trying to apologize for bumping into you.”

“Oh,” Damian said. And it felt like he was back in the league all over again. Failing before he even knew it was a test. 

He turned away before he couldn’t bear the feeling any longer and returned to the crowd. People picked up the appetizers on his tray when he walked by as if he were nothing more than a piece of moving furniture. 

Damian moved through the crowd until a voice called him over, stopping him. “Heyy, bring some of those pig blankets over here.” Damian knew he had olives on his tray– not ‘pig blankets’– but he turned anyway, his body recognizing the voice before his brain did.

Jason stumbled forward, his suit rumpled and his hair tangled, looking anything but Gala-ready. He steadied himself on Damian’s shoulder and peered at the olives on his tray. 

“Those aren’t pig blankets.”

“Incredible observation,” Damian deadpanned. “They are olives.”

“Olives? Ew. Is that vegetarian?” He turned and met Damian’s eyes, his face twisting. He grabbed Damian’s cheek– not in the way old ladies would pinch it, but in the way that suggested it was constructed out of play dough. “Your face is wrong,” he said. “Wrong but right.”

Damian recoiled at the stench of alcohol in Jason’s breath. “Are you drunk?”

“Not drunk,” he said, and Damian didn’t believe him for a moment. “Wait, your eyes are the same shade as mine!” He pointed to his definitely not-green eyes. “Hey… are you that kid from the alleyway? In downtown Gotham?”

Damian had to get out of there as soon as possible.  “I don’t know what you are speaking of. You are acting irrationally.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Duhh. That’s what being drunk is all about, brat.”

“You just said you were not drunk.”

Jason ignored him and grabbed a lock of Damian’s hair, tugging it. “Your hair’s too long,” he slurred. “And dirty. When was the last time you washed it?”

“Big talk coming from the guy with a skunk’s nest as a haircut,” Damian spat. And fine, maybe he hadn’t gotten to cut his hair in some time but it wasn’t overgrown.

"Whatever, whatever." Jason moved his hand around aimlessly as if to show how little he cared.

It felt like old times– if Damian could even call them that.

But then, so softly Damian almost didn't believe the words slipped out of his mouth, Jason leaned down and whispered, “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? I know what you did.”

“What?” Damian asked, trying to twist out of Jason’s grip. 

“Let me ask you something,” he said, narrowing his eyes. And all Damian could smell was the sting of alcohol. “What happened in that alleyway?”

He didn’t even wait for Damian to answer before continuing. 

“I know you did something. You’re the reason I froze up and let that stupid bastard get the better of me. So what was it? A magic spell? Some weird brain meld thing? What happened after he landed that punch? What– 

Jason paused, a new thought spilling over his face. And suddenly the anger in his tone disappeared in favor of… fear?

“Did he hurt you?” He asked. And he dropped the grip on Damian’s hair, bringing his hands onto Damian’s shoulders instead, frantically searching for imaginary wounds. “Did he? If he hurt you, I swear I’ll fucking–”

"He didn't hurt me," Damian said, cutting him off. Jason's eyes were rimmed pit green. How far gone was he?

Drunken urgency leaked into Jason’s voice. “But what if he–? What if he–?"

“I said I’m fine,” Damian swatted Jason away.

Jason blinked. “…Right.” He patted the side of Damian’s face, nodding. “Nice- Nice talk."

Damian eyed the exit– something that was looking particularly freeing right about then. “Here, take this tray. Olives are good for you.”

Jason didn’t even realize Damian had put the tray in his hands until it was too late. “Wh– Hey! Get back here, you little demon brat!” He went to follow, but ended up stumbling into a table, hissing and letting out a shrill, “Fuuuuck!”

But it wasn’t until Jason was long gone from view, Damian in a hallway outside of the ballroom, that the man’s words fully registered. 

- 

Damian was overreacting.

Things like that happened all the time. It was probably just a slip of the tongue or a knee-jerk reaction. There was certainly a logical explanation for that nickname slipping through Jason's mouth.

A logical explanation that wouldn't get Damian's hopes up.

Unless... Unless it really was-

Damian stopped in his tracks, looking around. What was he just thinking about?

Whatever. It was probably nothing. Besides, he had a place he wanted to go.

Damian had taken the opportunity to leave the gala to explore the mansion, since hopefully most of the family would either be in the ballroom or outside the manor all together.

He took a sharp corner and made his way up the grand staircase.

He took in the smell, crisp and velvety from the air freshener Alfred drowned the place in. It was the smell Damain would wake up to– save for pancake days– and the smell Damian would fall asleep to– save for when he was tucked in someone’s arms or carried off to bed.

He peeked into the library, looking at the tall, overflowing shelves. Bitterly, he noticed the long, blue couch in the middle, remembering how many sick days were spent lying there, listening as a sibling read to him. Everyone had their story of choice– Jason’s go-to was an Austen or a Shakespeare, but Timothy preferred children’s classics, whether to annoy Damian or inspire him, the boy could never tell. Stephanie kept reading him Dracula while Duke stuck to poetry. Cassandra just recited how-to books from memory and Richard…

Damian left the library, continuing toward his room- or what used to be his room. He took a deep breath, when he arrived in front of the door, steeling himself.

Peering in, it looked like it had when Damian first arrived at the manor. A guest bedroom. Not a poster on the wall or a set of knives on a shelf.

Empty and forgotten.

He ignored the bile building in his throat and closed the door, moving to Richard’s room. 

Richard’s room was the most familiar sight of them all. Half messy, half neat. Desks were filled to the brim with books and cases and police reports, clothing was strung up on bed posts, gym mats were lying on their sides, and sitting on the man’s bedside table was–

Damian’s heart caught in his throat. He had almost forgotten about that. He thought– He thought that when he was erased, everything was erased with him. His clothes, his decorations, his books, his phone: Everything. And yet, placed upon Richard’s beside table, staring straight into Damian’s eyes, was–

- 

"Hey, Dami, I know you've been going through a lot lately with… With what happened to Bruce and all. But we're gonna get through this together, you know that, right?"

Damian looked into Grayson’s eyes. "Do not call me 'Dami,'" the boy snapped.

"Okay." Grayson reached up and ran a hand through Damian's hair, a motion that would soon become familiar– if not inherent. "I just wanted to let you know that you’re not alone. And to– to give you this."

He held out his hand, a small, stuffed robin resting on his palm. It looked well made, surprisingly so, and seemed recently bought. Like Grayson had ordered it for him and him alone. Was it a reward? But Damian hadn’t done anything to earn such a thing. Then, was it a bribe? What would Damian have to do to deserve it?

"It's… a gift,” Grayson told him. And for a moment, Damian just stared.

Damian managed to force out a small grunt. "It looks idiotic,” he snarled. Because that was before he learned to be anything other than callous and cold. Before he learned to trust the words in Grayson’s mouth.

"Well, it's yours now.” Grayson paused. “If you'll take it."

Damian huffed and snatched the stuffed robin, making a show of throwing it into his room carelessly. When he saw Grayson watch it fall, something sad and dejected in his eyes, he frowned. "Do people really hold such sentimental value for objects? The mere thought is ridiculous."

Grayson gave him a sad smile. "I suppose you're right, Dames. It is ridiculous, isn't it?"

-

Damian stared at the robin plushie, holding it delicately in his hands. He remembered the messenger bag he had downstairs. He could probably sneak it out if he wanted to. No one would notice a tiny stuffed animal going missing, would they? Richard probably wouldn’t even ca–

“Don’t take.” The words were hissed with venom, cutting through the air.

Damian whirled around, failing to hide how startled he was. “Cassandra Wayne,” he greeted, hoping his voice didn’t shake. 

Old habits die hard. He had spent ten years of his life terrified of Cassandra. Back when he was concerned with threats and orders and blood and honor. He thought he had gotten over that– but maybe that was just back when she knew who he was. When she called him ‘little brother’ and taught him ballet. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked.

Cassandra motioned to the stuffed robin. “Brother’s favorite,” she said. “Take it and die.” Her eyes narrowed, the light reflected in them gleaming. “Thief.”

Damian dropped the robin, letting her pick it up and place it back on the table, patting its head as she did. Damian slipped out the door to the room, hoping to escape back to the ballroom. And he almost made it. He was halfway down the staircase when she called out to him again.

“Why?” She asked, her voice echoing in the empty space.

Damian turned around, confused. “Why did I try to steal it?”

She shook her head, pointing to her heart, her finger digging into her chest. Then, she pointed at Damian and repeated the motion. “Why?” She asked again.

Damian stared at her for a moment, before turning away, mouth dry. He walked into the ballroom and didn’t look back.

He didn't have an answer.

-

“Hey, whose bag is that?” Tim leaned down to peer at the soft, brown messenger bag. He had walked around the ballroom for a while, thinking, before he made his way to the kitchen. Honestly, there were a lot of pros to being Tim Drake. And his favorite was how a single smile could get him almost anything or anywhere he wanted. 

Jerry leaned over, squinting at the bag. He was halfway through preparing a set of garlic rolls for the upcoming buffet. “That’s Damian’s, I think.”

“Thanks. He asked me to grab it for him,” Tim lied, taking the bag and hurrying out. 

Once he was a safe distance away, he began shuffling through it. But there was nothing of interest except… a drawing.

Tim felt his breath stutter. It was a drawing of him. And Dick, and Jason, and Stephanie. All four dressed in their Robin uniform. As if those worlds colliding was a possibility. Something about it was oddly sentimental, and Tim couldn’t help the feeling of nostalgia that took over. 

He pressed the drawing against his chest, feeling the paper crinkle underneath his hand, and closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, Tim returned to the kitchen, placing the bag back where he had found it. But he kept the drawing.

-

By the time Damian returned to the ballroom, his father had already begun his speech, holding a picture-ready smile and looking graciously into the crowd.

“The Wayne Foundation is honored to partner with the Raven Heart Establishment. A charity that helps find missing people and reunites them with their families,” his voice said, booming throughout the hall.

Ah. That explained Timothy’s odd behavior. He was just wrapped up in charity fever. Damian had been… worried for a moment. That there was a different reason. That maybe–

“If you can donate even a cent,” his father said. “It would be amazing. I can only hope that it receives the funds it needs to continue such wonderful work.”

Once the man began thanking people, Damian headed outside to the patio. 

Which was why, when Bruce Wayne ended his gratitude portion by saying, “And the biggest thank you of them all goes to my seven wonderful, wonderful children. You guys mean the world to me,” Damian had already stopped listening.

-

When he walked out- his only goal in mind to avoid all those terrible reminders- who should he find but Stephanie Brown, leaning against a fence, her back to Damian.

"Duke?” She asked, without looking behind her. “Finally decided to join the ‘Bruce’s speeches fucking suck’ club? Jason’s around a corner somewhere throwing up. If you’d… want to see that. Ew, Duke. Why do you want to see that ugly mug throwing up? That’s so gross.” 

Great. Time to leave. Again.

“Wait, you’re not Duke.” She said, looking back. “Were you trying to go? The exit’s over there.”

“I was. Thanks.” Damian went to leave, but she stopped him, pulling him back by the fabric of his sleeve. 

“Wait, wait. Hang on. Stay until the end of the Gala.” She grinned seeing the skeptical look on his face. It’ll be worth it. Trust me.”

“Then why are you out here?”

She laughed. “Because Bruce’s speeches are sooo annoying. He never knows when to stop talking. A fatal flaw, I fear.” She sighed. “Besides, we all give him a hard time about these events, but I actually kinda like them. After it’s over, we all gather in the movie theater and put something on and… honestly, it makes me feel like I’m seventeen all over again.”

“Seventeen?” Damian asked. The age she became robin?

“Yep,” she said. “Not the best year of my life by any means– hell, I didn’t even have half the family I do now. But it was one of those years, you know?”

“Uh…” No. 

“When you turn seventeen,” she told him, and when it came from her mouth it sounded like a promise. “It’ll be great. Just… just trust me on this. Seventeen is a year worth living to.”

Damian opened his mouth to lie and tell her he was already seventeen, when she jumped up, noticing something behind him.

“Duke! Over here!” She waved the boy over. 

Duke flashed her a smile, walking through the doorway. “Hey, Steph.” His eyes flickered to Damian. “Who’s this?”

"My friend," she said, shrugging. "What's up?"

“How’s Jason?” Duke asked. “Last I saw him he was screaming at a rose bush.”

Stephanie barked a laugh. “Oh my god, I saw him screaming at the rose bush too. Got it on recording.”

“Wha’s that?” Jason asked, stumbling into view. He looked even wilder than usual– as if he had just spent the past few minutes running through a thorn bush. “My name?”

“Speak of the devil,” Stephanie muttered.

"How you feeling?" Duke asked.

“Fucking terrible,” Jason croaked out. He rubbed his eyes and leaned against Duke for support. “Stupid boy’s fault.”

“Aww I’m sorry,” Stephanie said, clearly trying not to let him know she found this whole thing hilarious. But the mocking came through nonetheless.

The seasons were slowly making their way to winter, but the air had already become cold and bitter. Despite himself, Damian couldn't quite suppress a small shiver, gritting his teeth in an attempt to stop it. Duke slipped off his jacket, resting it on Damian’s shoulders, the entire action seemingly on instinct alone.

“Shhhut up,” Jason said. Then, he noticed Damian. “You,” he hissed. “You were the boy who forced the olives onto me. You’re the olive forcer.”

“Oookay,” Stephanie said, directing Jason toward the door. “Let’s stop terrorizing small children and go back inside.”

Jason almost walked into a wall, his estimation of the door handle slightly off, but after a minute of searching he found it. Damian wondered in amazement how many drinks that man had.

Damian followed Jason into the manor, Duke and Stephanie close behind– almost overbearingly so. Giving the feeling Damian couldn’t turn back even if he wanted to.

When they made it inside, the door closing behind them, a magical web casted itself over the outside, trapping them in. Jason, despite the alcohol, realized it before anyone else and slammed himself against the door to no avail. 

A man emerged, gun against Bruce Wayne’s head. “Do not panic. You are all currently hostages. So, if you don’t want to get shot, I’d advise you all to be very cooperative.” 

The moment the man appeared, Jason turned from the door, practically shoving Damian behind him.

They were trapped. Or, more specifically Damian was trapped. With the seven people he wanted to avoid most.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Damian had a nightmare. Again. Groggily, he pulled himself out of bed and stepped into the hallway, moving to Richard's room, just across from his. He hoped the man was too deep in sleep to notice Damian's presence.

It was a hollow hope, of course; the moment he entered the room, the man awoke, sensing his presence before Damian even made it known. And yet, Richard pretended to be asleep anyway.

And Damian climbed into the bed, tucking himself under the covers. And for a while, they stayed like that. Nothing but the rise and fall of their breaths to keep each other company.

But then, Damian spoke up. "I know you're awake," he grumbled. "I'm not stupid."

Richard shifted, turning around to face Damian. His eyes were open wide, bright blue, and shining in the moonlight. He gave a small smile– something between fondness and humor. "Alright," he said. "You caught me. What's up?"

"I need to thank you," Damian said. He didn't quite know why he was doing it then. But the night had a wistful effect on people. It made them melancholic. And, sometimes, afraid.

"Thank me for what?"

"For loving me." It was something he'd always been grateful to Richard for. "You loved me even when I was a monster."

Richard reached out an arm and pulled Damian against him. "You were never a monster," he whispered, Damian's head tucked underneath his chin. "And don't thank me for loving you. Not when it's the easiest thing in the world."

Damian wanted to protest, but Richard wasn't done.

"I'm always gonna love you, okay?" The words were spoken softly, but in the silence of the night, they were loud and blaring and beautiful. A promise. They were a promise. "No matter what."

Damian was tempted to ask if he truly meant it. Just for a feeble reassurance. But Richard was here. Next to him. And asking pointless questions would not keep him around any longer. "Okay," Damian whispered.

"Okay," Richard said. And Damian believed him.

But, a year later, a red, glowing rock would appear in the Justice League headquarters. And it would offer up a deal. A deal that needed a sacrifice. And Damian would realize, deep in his heart, that Richard might not be able to keep that promise.

-

Damian was trapped. Encased in the manor by a glowing, purple web made out of some sort of magic. And as the cherry on the top of the horrible-day cake, they were being held hostage.

The man with the gun against Damian's father's head spoke up. He had brown, oily hair that clung to his forehead. Damian stopped, startled. That was the man from earlier. "I want every single Wayne over here immediately." He pointed his gun at the ceiling and fired a warning shot, sparking muffled shrieks throughout the crowd.

More men were emerging behind him, taking out guns they had hidden inside their jackets. More henchmen for whatever villain was behind all of that.

Slowly, his siblings emerged from the crowd. Timothy moved first, his hands outstretched. He was smart. He knew it wasn't just the bats' lives on the line, but every guest's life too. Cassandra was right behind him. And then, slowly, Stephanie and Duke headed toward the men too. Their hands were all tied and the oily-haired man dropped the gun from Bruce's head, tying up the billionaire's hands as well.

But, the men only had five Waynes. Not seven.

Looking around, Damian couldn't spot Richard in the crowd. Actually, had he seen Richard at all the entire night? And Jason, despite the orders and the gun, remained where he was.

One of the goons noticed Jason and walked forward, clicking the safety off the gun. "Come on, buddy. You heard what he said." Jason had to play along with the little charade. Keep his identity a secret. 

And yet, when the man told Jason to join the others, waving around a gun that Jason should at least pretend to be scared of, Jason looked him dead in the eyes and said, “No.”

“Jason,” Bruce warned from across the room, the meaning clear.

Still, Jason hesitated, looking behind him. And it was in that hesitation the man noticed something. The goons weren’t dumb, no matter how stupid their choice of profession may be, and he saw something in Jason’s face. Something that made his eyes turn to Damian.

Jason was drunk. Full of alcohol. And that made him sluggish, his brain murky. So when the man grabbed Damian, pressing a gun to the side of his head, Jason was too slow. Too slow and too late. 

Damian bit his tongue to keep himself from fighting back. He had to keep up the facade of a helpless little kid, no matter how much it killed him.

"You wanna protect this little kid, huh?" The man asked. Which was stupid, Jason wanted to protect everyone. "Something special about him or are you just playin' hero?"

Jason looked furious. He kept staring at the gun, the one that felt cold and cruel against Damian's skin, his eyes wide and dilated.

The man sneered. "You don't want me to put a bullet through his brain, do you?"

Jason glared but he let his hands be tied without complaint. Eyes locked upon the man the entire time. 

After he was tied up and thrown with the others, the oily-haired man turned to the Wayne’s. “Where’s Dick Grayson?” He growled.

The group stayed silent.

The henchman holding Damian hit him with the back of his gun, striking the side of Damian's head. And suddenly, everyone was shouting. Outraged and furious. Jason had lurched forward, teeth gritted together. Damian supposed it made sense for them to act that way. They cared about every citizen's well-being. 

"Are you so pathetic you'd beat up a kid for an answer?" Stephanie snapped, her voice emerging out of all the others. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess behind her. "Besides, Dick's not here right now." 

"Don't lie!" The oily-haired man barked. "I saw him earlier. Where the hell is he?"

"Hey." Another henchman tapped him on the shoulder. "The boss is gonna be here soon. Does it matter whether Dick Grayson is here or not? We have most of 'em."

The oily-haired man faltered. “Boss asked for all the Waynes, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but if we can't find Dick Grayson, he's probably not here. There's nothing we can do about it."

He paused, considering it. "Okay. Fine. Whatever. Throw them in some safe room or something. Remember, Boss doesn’t want Batman to find them without solving his riddle first. So make the hiding spot good.” The Riddler. Of course, it was the fucking Riddler. And of course, the Waynes would be the prize for Batman's riddle. 

"What if they fight back? Jason Todd's pretty strong and drunk enough to do something stupid."

“Okay, well throw the kid in there with ‘em. That’s the one they care about right?” He asked. Damian kept himself from scoffing. He wasn’t ‘the one’ they cared about. And he wouldn’t do anything to stop them from breaking out, they would want to save everyone.

But, if he was trapped with them… they wouldn't be able to escape, would they? Not without revealing their identities.

"Understood." The other nodded and went to tie Damian's wrists while the oily-haired man walked off. 

The Waynes were sent down the hallway, guns to their heads and Damian in tow. They entered Bruce's panic room– one of the few displayed on the manor's official blueprint– and had the restraints cuffed to furniture. They kept their heads down and didn't say anything. It was a faux display of docility.

The men shuffled in and inspected the room, just to be sure it was secure. And then they left, leaving them in a panic room waiting for a Batman that wouldn't come. 

The room looked wealthy. With velvet walls and expensive wine locked in a silver cabinet. There was even a spare bathrobe draped over a chair in the back, the initials, “BW” written on it in elegant cursive. To the untrained eye, the room looked used. To Damian, it looked staged. Like a set piece for a movie. 

Duke spoke first. "Do we know where Dick is? He was totally at the party earlier."

“Dickhead’s probably got a head start on us or some shit,” Jason muttered, trying to rub his head with the palm of his hand, contorting his body to make such an action possible. “I’m sure he’s already in the Bat–” 

“Jason!” Stephanie hissed, kicking him with her feet. When he looked up at her, she gave a sharp nod toward Damian.

"Shit," he muttered. "Umm…"

"He's drunk," Duke said, in lieu of a better excuse. "You know how drunk people get."

"Uh huh," Damian said. And maybe it was the skepticism in his voice that had Timothy hurrying to change the subject.

"Are you feeling okay? Being held hostage is really scary."

Yeah, if I was spineless, Damian thought. Aloud, however, he gave a curt nod, saying, not terrified in the slightest, "Yeah. It's scary."

"It gets easier," Stephanie said. "First time I got kidnapped I was so scared the kidnappers just brought me home. Said I was too much work."

Damian gave a fake laugh, he had already heard the story plenty of times before. If they could play civilians, Damian could play clueless. "You guys get held hostage a lot, don't you? I see it on the news all the time."

"Yep," Jason said. "Comes with the territory. Rich dude and rich dude's children are always prime kidnapping material."

"We keep score," Timothy said, grinning.

"You're just saying that 'cause you're in the lead." Jason rolled his eyes. "The scoreboard means nothing. "

"Oh, please. You're just mad you keep losing."

Cassandra nodded. "Sore loser," she said, her tone mocking and her smile wide. 

Damian watched them, almost in awe, as they continued squabbling. A push and pull of laughter and teasing. Some part of him wanted that to last forever. Wanted to sit back and listen to them talk about nothing for as long as he could.

They were in the room for twenty minutes. Sometimes the family would converse with each other. Sometimes they would talk to Damian, ask him questions they used to know the answers to. And it was nice, answering the questions. Listening to them talk. It reminded him of old times. Of happier times. 

But eventually, the door burst open, Nightwing arriving with a note card in hand. A cluttered mess of bodies in the hallways behind him. He dropped the note card– a riddle clearly written on it–and hurried to undo their restraints. "Why the hell didn't you guys escape?" Nightwing hissed. "I had to–"

"Oh, Nightwing!" Jason said, his voice comically stilted and obnoxiously loud. "Thank you so much for saving us! Without you, we would have been trapped here like the feeble, non-superheroes we are!"

Nightwing paused for a second, confused. Then, he noticed Damian.

He went rigid. “Oh. Um. Hi.” A beat. “I’m Nightwing.” He looked toward the others. “I’m uh… helping the Waynes escape safe and sound. After I release them I’ll get to you, okay?”

Damian looked at him. “Okay,” he said. And it sounded like a defeat.

-

After Nightwing freed the Waynes they all bolted out, giving a flimsy excuse of returning to the ballroom. Damian just nodded, knowing full well they were all sneaking off to the Batcave.

Then, Nightwing undid Damian's restraints. "Are you okay?" He asked, reaching out and running his hand through Damian's hair.

Damian had rarely felt like a child before. Those moments were saved for brief, simple times. Times when Richard knew who he was. But, for a single second, Richard's hand in his hair, Damian could glimpse such a feeling again. 

"Yes, I am adequate," Damian said. "And I should be… returning now. To the gala." 

Richard blinked. "Right. Yeah, let's go find your parents." Richard stood up, taking Damian's hand in his. He guided Damian through the hallways like a lost child. "Where's your family, kiddo?"

Here. They're right here and I have to leave them. "Um… I… I'm here by myself."

"All by yourself?" Richard asked, turning to face Damian. "Your family's at home then? They must be so worried."

"They aren't." The words came out bitter and resentful. Distantly, Damian knew it wasn't their fault. It was his. But he couldn't help it. 

"They aren't?" Richard asked.

And before Damian could say anything more, Richard bent down, pulling him into a shift, constricting hug. 

It was random and unexpected, but most of all, it felt like coming home. Like he had spent the past five months waiting for that hug without even knowing it. 

Nearly half a year ago, Damian used to think he must have been made—molded— to fit so perfectly into Richard’s arms. There was no other way to explain it. Explain how perfect it felt. 

But, although the hug felt like everything all at once, it was more of a stark, crisp reminder that he could not return. That such things were not made for people like Damian.

"I'm sorry," Richard said.

"It's okay," Damian whispered. And it wasn't– because everything hurt and ached and screamed– but it was– because he knew they would be okay without him. 

Richard didn't look content with his response, but pulled apart nonetheless, if a bit regretfully. "Sorry, I just really needed that," he said, his voice full of gravel. He rubbed the back of his neck, as if embarrassed. "Anyway... Uh... Is there someone else who can–?"

"Yes. My boss. Jerry." 

Richard nodded and led Damian back to the gala.

-

The ballroom had become a battlefield. The guests were clustered off to the side and the bats had already dawned their uniforms, attacking the Riddler and his men as a single unit. 

The fighting was vivid and vicious. Bodies were thrown to the ground, guns were knocked out of hands and banged against foreheads. It was a sprawling mess, almost rhythmic in its flow. 

Richard stopped at the entrance, eyeing the battle warily. Damian didn't have time to wait for Nightwing to guide him through it, he needed to get out of there as soon as he could. Turning away, he headed toward the group of guests. 

He heard Nightwing call out something behind him, distressed. And, in the corner of his eye, a man began sprinting at Damian. Whether to use him as bait or a show of power, Damian would never know. Because a smear of blue dashed across the area, slamming into the man and forcing him to the ground.

Nightwing perched on top of the fallen body, the balls of his feet digging into the man's torso. Without a second's pause, he turned to Damian and rushed forward, bringing Damian into another bone-crushing hug. 

Richard's words were shaky as his arms wrapped around him. "I didn't save you in time, I didn't save you in time, I didn't save you in time." Richard squeezed Damian against him, as though, if he tried hard enough, Damian could melt into him. "I was too late."

"You weren't," Damian said, confused. "You made it in time. I'm fine."

Richard didn't seem to hear him. "I was too late. And you… I didn't save you. I lost you." 

"I'm fine," Damian insisted. "You made it in time. I'm okay. You saved me." He pushed himself off Richard, and almost felt bad for doing it. The man looked so helpless, so broken. He just stared at Damian for a moment.

"I couldn't–" he choked out. "I was too late. Too slow. I wasn't good enough. I failed."

"You did fine," Damian assured him, confused. "I'm safe. The man's unconscious."

Richard rubbed his eyes, and it was like a spell had broken. Slowly, he stood up. "Let's go– Let's go find your boss," he said. "Okay?" 

"Okay." A part of Damian would have wanted to remember that moment. Analyze it. But it slipped out of his memory just as quickly as it came. 

They began walking toward the guests again, Richard shielding Damian from the crowd. 

Jerry came closer into view and… that was it. He could finally leave. He'd go with Jerry, wait the battle out, and then head home. And then he might never– Damian felt a chill settle through his body. He might never see them again. The people who raised him and cared for him and loved him and didn't even remember him. He might never see them again.

For some reason, he sort of expected they would remain a part of his life. But, they didn't need him. He planned to return eventually but what if he– What if he just didn't? What if he went back to work tomorrow and never crossed their path again? And that was it?

He didn't realize it, but he was clinging to Richard a little tighter.

As they drew closer, Jerry noticed them. "Oh, Damian!" He jumped up, hurrying over. "I saw what happened! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He was saying that a lot today, wasn't he?

Jerry turned to look up at Richard, gratitude in his voice. "Nightwing, thank you so–" He stopped, surprised.

Richard, through the blue and black domino mask, glared at Jerry. "Of course," he said, his tone devoid of kindness. "Happy to help." Slowly, he dropped Damian's hand. If Damian didn't know better, he might think Richard was… jealous?

Richard moved to leave, eyes still clinging to Damian, when one of the henchmen lunged, a knife in his hand. There was still a battle happening around them, even if Nightwing seemed to have forgotten that.

If Damian took a moment to think, he would realize Nightwing could handle it. It was just a man and a knife. But Damian wasn't thinking. He was stuck in one mindset. The fighting kind. And when he was Robin, it was his job to have Nightwing's back. To protect him from threats. 

It was a move his father had taught him long ago, and it was the most instinctual action at that moment. He still remembered the first day he learned it, raw and brittle on the training mat, hands wrapped and legs sore.

He propelled himself toward the man, knocking his arm into the other's neck. He landed with one hand wrapped around the man's jaw and the other placed over his heart. He stared there for a minute, staring at his hand. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

Eventually, he looked up.

The bats had all stopped fighting, bodies writhing at their feet, to stare at him. The Riddler, captured already, with his hands cuffed and tied to a table leg, raised an eyebrow at Damian.

Cassandra narrowed her eyes, tilting her head at Damian. "Where did you learn that move?" She asked. And Damian felt his blood run cold.

"Uh…" Damian desperately wanted to cling to Richard and hide himself behind the man. So he stepped away, hands closing into fists at his sides. "Why does it matter?" He spat, knowing the hostility in his tone wouldn't deter them. But he had to try anyway. 

"Because," Batman stalked forward, closing the space between them. "The only people who know about such a move are in this room right now. So, I'll ask again. Who taught you that?"

"I learned it off the streets," Damian said. "Saw one of you guys do it and tried to replicate it." Out of all the excuses, that one Damian could see him believing.

Batman furrowed his brow, considering it. Damian had almost won him over. 

"You're lying." The words cut through the air like a knife. Not a question. Not a guess. A statement. Richard's mouth closed into a thin line after he said them and his eyes met Damian's, cautious and confused. 

The silence was suffocating. Because the bats were intimately familiar with lies. And people only lied when they had something they wanted to hide. 

Damian faced Richard, not willing to back down just yet. "How the hell do you know that?"

- 

Dick stared at the boy. The boy with the face that made Dick feel like crying. He looked frail, and Dick kept wanting to ask if he’d been eating well. 

"How the hell do you know I was lying?" The boy asked again, and Dick's mouth twisted.

How the hell did Dick know this kid was lying? 

He just felt it. Deep in his bones. When the words came out of the boy's mouth, some instinct deep within him screamed, Lie! He's lying. And the movements that were so subtle to anyone else– the twitch of a finger or tilt of an eyebrow– suddenly seemed like they were under a magnifying glass, the most obvious things in the world. 

But it didn't matter how he knew; he was positive he was right.

Dick gripped the boy's wrist– the contact of it made him wonder if the kid would let him hug him again– and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "Who," he said slowly, "are you?"

Chapter Text

Damian recoiled at Richard's words, trying to force his wrist out of the man's grasp. Who am I? I'm your brother, I'm your Robin. I'm-

"Not important," Damian croaked out. "I'm not important and this is not important." Damian felt torn between running and fighting. Between attacking and defending. Between hoping and hating. "I know one move. So what? You guys know a thousand fucking moves. Why is this one so important?"

"Because that move is unique," Batman said gruffly. Damian stared into the white, pearl lenses of his cowl, watching as they narrowed and widened, giving the illusion of expression. "I created it and only the people I choose should even know about it. Let alone learn it."

"Well," Damian said, struggling to make the excuse effective. "There's a chance I could have randomly conceived that move as well."

"That exact move?" Red Robin asked, scoffing. "Yeah, sure. And pigs have a chance at flying." He sat cross-legged on the floor, the Riddler's question-mark cane in his hands as he fiddled with it.

Much too far away to even reach him, the Riddle lay, hands and feet bound together and locked to a chair leg. His bowler hat was cast aside, resting aimlessly across the floor. And yet, despite all of that, the Riddler was smiling. A small smile. But a smile.

"Still," Damian said. "You aren't allowed to keep me here."

"If you're a threat to Gotham, we can keep you here as long as we like," Batman said, towering over Damian.

Damian looked up at him, and suddenly he was eleven again. Back when he was Robin and still hadn't made his place in the family.

Back when all he knew was violence and all his father could use was anger. Back when they spent half their time arguing and throwing cruel words around like pebbles on a pond, unable to see past their own viewpoint. 

Back before they understood each other.

"Enough," Nightwing's voice broke apart the festering anger. "We'll figure this out once we get the guests to safety." He turned to Red Robin. "Did you get the cane to work?"

Red Robin hummed, tapping a button on the side of the question mark. "I think so. The web should be turning off right about... now."

As he spoke, the bright, purple web encasing the building dripped away, and doors swung open. Batman moved, Orphan and Signal close behind, to help herd the guests out of the manor. Through the flooding crowd, the hostess locked onto Damian’s gaze, giving him an indecipherable look.

The police had already arrived and they rounded up the Riddler’s men, dragging them away in handcuffs. While Commissioner Gordon and Batman had hushed discussions about who would deliver the Riddler to Arkham.

It took them a while to clear all the guests out, and while they did, Richard stayed with Damian. Damian’s opening was right there, and yet, every time he tried to struggle away, Richard would just tighten his grip, looking sadder and sadder.

“Listen,” Richard said, watching as the guests were ushered out. “Batman can be… overly suspicious sometimes, but he just cares. Just tell us the truth. If you do, I promise we’ll…” he paused for a moment, struggling to get the words out. As if they didn't taste right in his mouth. “We’ll let you go. We don’t want to trap you here, we just want to make sure Gotham’s safe.”

“Gotham is safe,” Damian grumbled. “I don’t see how my knowledge of one move leads to the immediate assumption of a compromised system. It is ridiculous.”

Richard gave a bitter smile. “I suppose you’re right. It is ridiculous, isn’t it?” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “But stranger things happen.” They waited in silence for a few more minutes, watching the scene play out in front of them. Then, maybe to break the silence, Richard asked, “You go to school?”

Damian scrunched up his nose. “No.” Having no obligation to that rotten place was one of the few positives in Damian’s current life.

“You don’t?” He asked.

Damian shook his head. “I do not need schooling. I already know everything that grimy building could possibly teach me. What use is there in going?”

Richard looked at him, his lips pressing together and his cheeks puffing. For a moment, Damian didn’t know what to make of his expression. But then, without warning, Richard burst into laughter. Richard’s laughter was always something special. No matter how much Damian struggled against it, Richard’s laugh never failed to make a smile creep up his face. It was a fact of life. The sky was blue, water was wet, Richard’s laugh made Damian smile.

Richard let his head rest in Damian’s hair. “You’re just like Red Robin. I swear, school was the bane of that kid’s existence.”

Timothy looked up from his previous position, the cane still in his hands. “Hm? Were you talking about me?”

"You and him have, like, the same exact feelings on high school."

"Damian does?" Timothy asked, picking himself off the floor. He dropped the cane, letting it clatter onto the ground.

"That's his name? Damian?" Richard asked, smiling growing even bigger. Damian couldn’t figure out the root of this unusual behavior. Richard had never acted so… giddy around kids in the past. He was always kind and polite, of course, but never so genuinely delighted in the smallest things.

Timothy shrugged. “He could’ve given me a fake one, but that’s what I’m calling him. It sounds right.”

Richard opened his mouth to say more, but Stephanie interrupted, joining in their conversation. "Okay! So, all the guests should be gone by now- Well," she paused, nodding pointedly toward Damian, "Almost all of them."

"Riddler, Arkham, when?" Cassandra asked, looking to Batman.

Batman crossed his arms. “After we figure this out. We have time before we need to bring him to Arkham.”

"Arkham?" The Riddler asked, tilting his head up and sighing. "Same old, same old. Say, I'm made of nine muses and stonewall too. Inside of my halls, the dead come back from the blue. What am I?"

"Gotham City Museum," Red Robin answered immediately. “Seriously, come up with better riddles next time.”

“Why wait?” Signal asked. “Let’s just bring him to Arkham now.”

Batman looked toward Damian, and the meaning was clear. Damian went stiff, his father was preparing to send him to Arkham.

“Batman,” Nightwing said warily, turning from Damian to his father. “He’s just a kid.”

“This is Gotham,” Batman said. “Villains hire kids to do their work all the time. He could be a spy, or he could know our secret identities, or he could have access to the Batcave or the cameras in the Batcave.”

“Knowing our secret identities?” Nightwing asked. “Isn’t that a bit of a leap? How can one fighting move result in knowing our secret identities?”

“Do you want to take that risk?” He asked. 

“There’s no risk. We can just ask him.” Nightwing turned to Damian. “Hey, buddy. Can you just answer one question for me really quickly? I just wanna see if you know our secret identities.”

Would Richard be able to tell if Damian lied again? Was Richard always able to tell when he lied? Did he just never tell Damian? Every time Damian lied– and Damian lied a lot– did Richard just play along?

His hesitation was, apparently, just as much of an admission as there could ever be. Because the room reacted as such, becoming suddenly alert and cautious.

“Fuck,” Red Hood said. “Seriously?”

“No,” Damian answered quickly– too quickly, his words tumbling over each other. “I don’t know your identities at all.”

“Lie.” This time it was Cassandra who called him out on it. Because Damian wasn’t in a room with his family, he was in a room full of people trained in interrogation.

But if Damian dug his heels in, he'd be fine. They couldn't lock him up for too long, and they certainly wouldn't torture or kill him. If he didn't say anything, didn't answer any of their questions, eventually, they'd have to let him go.

“If you really do know our secret identities…” Batman rubbed the bridge of his nose. He let out a long, deep sigh. “I think we’ll have to call Martian Manhunter to erase your memory.”

Everything inside of Damian stopped. And there was a moment of pure, unfiltered silence. A void empty of emotion. And then, every inch of him began to scream. Outwardly, his mouth was kept closed. But inside, he felt like he was splintering into two. Fracturing down the middle. 

If they erased his memories of his family… then what would be left? The connection between them would just disappear. As if it wasn’t ever there at all.

And Damian would really be alone then. Without the memories of them to keep him company.

Damian could see it play out like a movie. Martian Manhunter would arrive, staring at him with sharp, brutal eyes that pried the secrets from his hands. And he would reach up, tapping Damian’s temples and accessing his mind.

First, he would search Damian’s memory. See every inch of his life, dissect it, analyze it– all within a second– and then discard it. Then, he would remove Damian’s memories like a surgeon, with callous preciseness. And Damian would be back to ten years old again. Raw and hurt and bleeding from the league. And he will look at the people who once loved him and feel nothing.

And then he will turn to the only thing he knows. Violence.

And that will end with him in Arkham– just like his father wanted– or back with a mother who didn’t remember him.

“No!” The words burst out of Damian, filled with enough conviction and desperation to make heads turn. “You can’t do that. You– You can’t do that!”

Batman looked regretful. “We have to. It’s protocol. I know you’re scared. But it’ll be okay.”

The Signal stepped forward, looking a little sick. "Wait, hang on. Let’s think about this. I don’t know if that’s a decision we want to make right now.

“It’ll be safer for him,” Red Robin said, even though he looked unsure as well. “Once the villains learn he knows our identities, they’ll try to hunt him down. I don’t want–” Red Robin paused, before continuing, “It will keep him out of danger.”

Batman nodded and grabbed a crystal from his utility belt. The kind that summoned members of the Justice League. 

“Wait!” Damian pulled himself forward despite Richard’s grip. “Please don’t. Please, I don’t care about danger. I can handle it.” Damian counted his breath and picked his words, trying to buy himself time. Time. He needed more time. He needed to convince them.

“How about we discuss this in a different room?” Spoiler suggested, glancing over at Damian.

“Yes,” Orphan agreed. “Needs more discussion.” 

As if in a daze, Nightwing brought out a spare handcuff, locking Damian’s wrist to a door handle. He moved to leave, forgetting Damian’s hand was still encased within his own. He blinked, and then after a minute, let Damian go.

The Signal flashed him an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he said. “This is just until we figure out what we want to do with you.”

They shuffled out of the room, sparing a few glances back toward Damian, and closed the door behind him. But in his family's panic, they had forgotten one thing.

The Riddler spoke up from his position on the floor.“So, you know the Bats’ identities, do you?”

Damian ignored him, eyeing the doors his family was behind. The closed door was a double-sided card. Damian couldn't hear his family's conversation. But, on the other hand, they couldn't hear his, either.

The Riddler laughed. It wasn’t a maniacal laugh like the Joker’s. It was a slippery laugh, the kind con men wear. “Well then, riddle me this: would you like to get out of here?”

Damian paused for a moment, weighing the options. He should say no. That was a reasonable option. But… he wasn’t even willing to risk the memories of his family. He loved them too much. So, if he had to align himself with a dangerous criminal was what it took to keep them, he’d do it in a heartbeat. 

Damian turned to the Riddler, fire in his eyes. “What do you need me to do?”

-

“Well, he’s not telling us how he knows it,” Bruce said, his voice echoing across the manor’s halls. Hopefully, it wasn’t loud enough to seep inside of the ballroom. “It’s the safest option.”

“He’s a kid, Bruce. He’s probably scared.” Steph crossed her arms. “Let’s be honest, he probably was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Saw one of us remove our mask or something and put together the pieces.”

“Then how was he able to figure out that fighting technique?” Tim couldn’t help but ask. 

“Guys, we’ve been arguing about this for so long,” Duke said. “We’ve been going in circles.” He turned to Bruce. “Listen, if we erase his memory, none of your questions will get answered. So let’s get the answers first and then decide what to do with him.”

Bruce frowned. “Fine. But if his responses call for a memory erasure, we erase his memories. If it doesn’t, we let him off with a warning. Understood?”

“I don’t know... I don't like the idea of taking someone’s memories against their will,” Dick said, the words tumbling out of his mouth.

“It’s protocol,” Bruce huffed out. That was the thing about Bruce, he rarely let his emotions get in the way of his work. Even if Tim could see the agreement on his face. The man didn't want to erase the kid's memories either.

"Okay. Let’s check up on him,” Steph said. “Hopefully, he wasn’t bored to death.”

“Well, he had the…” Duke trailed off, something dawning upon him. ”The Riddler. We left the Riddler there.”

“Shit,” Jason hissed. “I forgot about him.”

“I left his cane on the floor,” Tim said, dread pooling in his stomach. He hurried to assure himself, “He can’t get to it, he’s too far away.” And then, like a million things were dawning upon him all at once, “But the kid can.”

-

The cold, biting air licked at Damian's skin. He hadn't expected the cane to work the way it did, but after it teleported them outside the manor, there was no time to waste. He left the Riddler behind and moved swiftly down the front stairs. His family hadn't entered the ballroom yet, and he wasn't going to be waiting outside when they did.

The Riddler, however, caught up with him quite quickly, stopping him at the front gate.

"Say, how about an eye for an eye? I helped you escape, you tell me Batman's identity. That's a fair deal, isn't it?"

Damian glared at him, preparing himself for a fight. "As if I'd tell you."

"You could give it to me in a riddle, if that helps you feel better."

Damian pushed past him, but the Riddler pulled him back by the collar of his shirt. As Damian struggled against him, trying to pry the man's finger's off, the golden question mark on the top of his cane began to ring.

He glanced at his cane, clicking his tongue. "Shame. Looks like we'll have to continue this conversation a different time." He tapped his cane against the ground, teleporting away in a puff of smoke.

Damian watched the smoke evaporate, gasping for air, but he didn't have time to waste. He had to go. And so, he moved past the gate, continuing to run. And he didn’t look back.

That was a lie. He looked back twice.

-

“He’s gone,” Dick said, voice empty as he stared at the ballroom. “The Riddler too.”

"I can't believe we let him escape," Batman muttered. "That... complicates things. I'll have to put what little information I was able to gather in the database. That way we can add him to the watchlist."

"Watchlist?" Dick said, turning on Bruce. "Watchlist?! Bruce, he's not a villain. He's a kid." He looked around, trying to communicate his distress. "What if the Riddler took him? Or captured him? He could be in danger right now. We don't have time to wait around and-"

"He could have been working for the Riddler," Bruce said. “The point is: we don’t know. And until we do know, we have to treat him as a threat. Tim, check the security feeds.”

Dick opened his mouth, prepared to argue, which was not something Tim needed right now.

"Got it!" Tim said before Dick could talk again. "I'm pulling up the feeds right now." He pulled out his phone and flicked through it. "Here. I found the feeds for tonight. It looks like the kid got Riddler's cane for him, and the Riddler activated some sort of teleportation control in it. Whatever happened, it looks like they escaped together."

Bruce shot Dick a look. He wasn't the type to gloat, but if he was right, you would know it.

Jason took off his helmet, fanning the air. “Teleportation magic? They could be halfway across the world by now.”

“So we aren’t gonna look for them?” Steph asked, hand on her hip.

Cass shook her head. “No direction. Will fail.”

Bruce nodded. “Cass is right. We have no idea where they could have gone. Looking for them will be a waste of resources." He sighed. "I checked the heat detectors, there's no one left in the manor. You all can change out of costume and clean up the ballroom, I'll tighten Batcave security. Oh, and Tim, you write up the report, okay? Add him to the database. Once we're done we'll reconvene at the movie theater, Kate's patrolling for us."

Usually, most of them would perk up at the mention of movie night, but this time no one could bring themselves to feel excited.

Tim ignored the voice in his head, distressed and worried and telling him to bring the boy back now. “Yeah. That works.”

Bit by bit, they began cleaning the wreckage left in the wake of the hostage disaster. Tim moved toward the Batcave to write up the report. And, an hour later, everyone had finished their task and moved to the movie theater, as per tradition.

“You guys can go watch the movie,” Dick said, waving his hand arbitrarily and walking toward the grand staircase. “I’m gonna go to bed early.”

Tim and Cass exchanged a glance, but they kept quiet. If Dick wanted to miss out on his favorite part of Gala night, they knew he probably didn’t want to be questioned about it. Even if he had come over all the way from Bludhaven just for that. 

After he left, everyone else filtered into the movie theater. Duke got his hands on the remote and picked some Disney film for them all to watch. It was a cute, animated film, about a blue alien who looked like a dog.

It wasn't a considerably sad movie, either. And yet, for some reason, half of them cried at the end anyway.

-

Dick stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom. The place he lived in when he became Robin and the place he stayed in whenever he visited.

Clutched in his hands was that small, stuffed robin of his. For some reason, Dick couldn't quite remember where it came from. He had just found it in one of the guest bedrooms one day and decided to keep it.

And whenever Dick felt sad, he would hold that robin plushie in his arms. Because, no matter how unhappy he was, it would always comfort him. It would always, no matter what, make him feel better.

Except for tonight. Tonight, Dick was miserable again. And no matter how much he squeezed the stuffed toy against his chest, it didn't help.

Not one bit.

-

Dick didn't know it then, but he had kept a promise he didn't even remember making.

-

“It’s over here,” the security guard said, nodding toward the museum director. “I swear, it’s happening again.”

Gotham City Museum was a collection of oddities. It had things you couldn’t find anywhere else in the world. Things unique to Gotham. It wasn’t the greatest museum ever, but the people there loved it. And at night, the lights from the outside world beamed inside, illuminating the space to an almost alien-like degree. 

The guard led the director to a glass case, one of the ones holding the newest arrivals. It was a beautiful rock, red and sparkling in the night air. Found just five months ago.

"Look," he said.

The museum director followed the guard's gaze, staring in surprise. “The rock. It’s–” Fractures had formed around the rock, splintering the stone. There were cracks when they had first found it, but these were newer, bigger. “It’s breaking?”

“Keep looking.”

The director looked closer, watching in awe as the rock began to fill in the cracks, holding itself together. Trying to contain whatever was inside of it. “It’s healing itself?” He asked. Then, realizing what that meant, “It’s healing itself. It’s a magical artifact.”

The guard gave a solemn nod. They both knew what that meant.

The museum director cursed. But he knew the rules. “We have to give it up to the Justice League.”

Chapter Text

When Damian arrived back at the apartment complex, the man at the front desk was in the middle of shuffling through cash. Damian approached him and he looked up in surprise. "Uhh... Whaddya want, kid?"

Damian was acutely aware of how messy he looked. He had glimpsed his appearance in the window of a closed-down nail salon. His tie had come undone and a few buttons were missing from his shirt. His hair was windblown and frizzy, doing nothing to help his eyes, manic and wide with adrenaline.

"Do you take bribes?" Damian managed to ask between the roaring sounds in his ear. They were inside, where was that coming from? "Is my information secret?"

The man worked his jaw, unsure. "What do you mean?"

Damian's mouth was busy trying to catch up to his thoughts. "Well, if Batman were to come here and ask about me, would you-"

The man cut him off, laughing. "You got nothing to worry 'bout. I don't do business with any heroes-" he said the word with contempt. "-and especially no bats."

Perhaps that was one of the good things about living in such a sketchy place. They were used to having sketchy clients.

Damian quickly said a "Thank you" and ran up the stairs to his apartment room.

-

Damian had forgotten how much of a disaster his room was. Filled with clutters of drawings and spare paper bags, it looked massacred. Thrown into a wind tunnel.

He kicked a spare piece of paper away, moving to take off his messenger bag. Only, he found nothing on his shoulder.

Oh. That's right. He had left his bag back at the manor.

Well, that was okay. There was nothing of interest in his bag. Just a spare change of clothes, an emergency stack of cash, and... And the drawing. The one of all four robins. Damian had left it in his bag. And now it was gone. Forever.

Damian had just gone through a long night. And he was exhausted and miserable and bitter and that was the breaking point. Every inch of his resolve shattered. Tears that had spent hours welling behind his eyes burst and spilled across his cheeks. His lost drawing was- in that moment- the worst thing in the entire world. The end of all ends.

It was over. Everything was over. Damian was all alone, his family knew him and hated him, and he had lost his drawing.

With that, a deep, unflinching rage bloomed inside of his chest. Curling around the sorrow.

"Why the fuck can't I do anything right?!" He yelled, his voice slowly turning hysterical. "I messed it up! They were going to put me in Arkham! Arkham!"

He grabbed one of his drawings off the wall and ripped it in two. And then he did it again. And again. Until he was left with a thousand cluttered pieces of one drawing, dotting the floor like snow.

"Erase my memories! Like I was some sort of criminal! Like I was never even his son!"

He stumbled backward, falling onto his bed.

"It's not fair," he gasped, running a hand through his hair. "It's not fair. Why do they get to be happier without me, but I can't be happier without them?"

-

When Tim woke up, he could hear them arguing.

Their first mistake was the poor room choice. And the second was allowing the frustration to build up into volume. To let their words seep through the walls of the manor and reach Tim's ears. It was obvious enough they wanted their conversation to be private.

"I can't believe you said that. Would you really have put him in Arkham?"

"It was a bluff, Dick. Something to get him to talk. Of course, I wouldn't. But you're emotions are getting the better of you. Can't you see where I'm coming from?"

"I do, Bruce. But I... I don't know. Something about him..."

Tim was looking for an excuse to stop listening. And he found it in the sound of a door unlocking downstairs. Tim dragged himself out of bed and to the entrance hall. Titus ran past him, eagerly making his way into the kitchen. And behind the dog, Alfred was dusting off his waist-coat.

At the sight of the butler, Tim let a relieved grin spread across his face. "Alfred!"

"Master Timothy," Alfred greeted. "How have you been?"

"Shitty," Tim answered the man honestly. "Whole gala last night was... a lot."

Alfred nodded. "I heard many such things about it. A hostage situation, was there not? And the Riddler escaped."

Tim winced. It was his fault the Riddler had escaped. "Right. And, it made me think. You know that fancy vegetarian restaurant a few blocks away? With the obsidian and gold accents?"

Alfred considered it for a moment. "Why, yes. I do. We used to go there around once a year, didn't we?"

Tim leaned forward. "Do you know why? No one in this family's vegetarian."

Alfred shrugged. "You went there a few times earlier this year, correct? In... August. Why did you do that?"

"I don't know, Alfred," Tim muttered, putting his hands in his pajama pockets. He thought of Damian. With the olive eyes and shaky hands and gaze that looked at Tim like he was a face the boy had seen many times before. There was something there. But Tim could only focus of him for so long. There was a sharp headache forming in the back of his head. And it only grew stronger as he tried to think.

He floundered for words for a moment, Alfred only giving a fond smile in response. "Have you had breakfast yet, Master Timothy?"

"No," Tim said, abandoning his thoughts and letting Alfred lead him into the kitchen.

-

Damian hadn't left his room in days.

He survived purely on a spare box of breakfast bars and sink water. He spent most of his time, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. But, once he ran out of breakfast bars, he knew he couldn't rot in his apartment forever. He had already wasted a week.

So, he took a quick, freezing shower, his body feeling as though it was made of iron and cobwebs while the water blistered against his skin. And he threw on the first outfit he saw- again, another waiter uniform, he didn't really have much else in his wardrobe- and slipped out the door.

He took to the side streets, hiding behind buildings and dodging security cameras. He could never be too cautious. They had eyes everywhere.

When he arrived at the restaurant's back door, he barely needed to knock before it burst open.

Jerry poked his head out, the hostess following suit. "What happened?" She asked the moment they locked eyes, her voice hungry for drama. "Why was Batman mad at you? What did you do?"

Jerry cast her a disapproving look before turning back to Damian. "What she means to ask is: are you alright?"

"I am fine," Damian said.

"Good, good." Jerry moved to make space in the entryway. "Why don't you come inside? I, uh, wouldn't want to say this here."

"No," Damian shook his head. "Fire me outside, please. I have places I need to be." Specifically, the grocery store and my apartment room floor.

The hostess let out a low whistle, giving Damian a small grin. "You heard him, Jerry."

Jerry sighed. "Listen, I don't want to do this. But-"

"I know." Damian shrugged. There were more powerful people than Jerry. They were men in tall chairs and long, black suits. There were more powerful people than Damian too. The only difference between him and Jerry was that Jerry's people were his bosses and Damian's people used to be his family. "I'll be leaving now."

The hostess pushed her way past Jerry, before the man could say anything. "Hey," she said, her voice unusually kind. "Good luck. You'll always have a free meal here."

Damian gave a curt nod. "I suppose that is an adequate offer for departing. I accept it."

She looked off-put for a moment, before laughing. "Okay, great."

Damian didn't have anything more to say, so he turned away. The shame of being fired stung, even if he had predicted it. He really thought firing himself before Jerry could do it would make it hurt less.

But it was better that way. And besides, even if they hadn’t fired him, he still would have quit since Timothy already knew he worked there. So that was the best option for everyone.

Damian walked off, traveling through the town and watching as the city buildings shifted along the skyline.

As he moved, his mind began to think, reaching out for something. A goal. A dream. An ambition. Something to think about before Damian felt aimless again.

A new job would be a good start. But where could he go? He was trapped if he stayed in Gotham, confined to the shadows. But leaving was a whole other deal he couldn't even bring himself to consider.

If he moved out of Gotham, maybe he could become a vigilante. But he was a far cry from what he used to be. No longer in top physical shape. And barely sleeping, eating, or working out definitely played a part in that. His condition was laughable.

Just as Damian moved to turn a corner, the sound of soft, rhythmic tapping caught his attention. He halted, trying to peer through the darkness and locate the source.

He was alone, standing in the back of a closed-down retail store. No security cameras or street lights. Just him in the deep void of night.

The tapping grew louder and footsteps could be made out as well. Damian craned the listen. There were three of them.

Damian crouched into a fighting position, ignoring the way his hands shook. If he started running, there was a chance he could get away. But Damian had grown sick of running. He ran from everyone and everything. And there was a deep desire festering inside of him. He wanted to fight.

And that was why Damian kept his ground even when the Riddler emerged from the shadows.

“Sorry I wasn’t able to stay and chat last time. Crow was working on a new fear toxin and he needed some…” The Riddler moved his hand around, clearing nonexistent smoke from his face. “...Help."

Damian remained silent, hoping his glare could pierce through the night.

"Not talking? That's alright. I’ve been in Gotham a long, long time. Dealt with my fair share of boys who can’t quite understand orders. So I’ll ask you nicely once." He leaned forward. "Who is Batman?”

Damian’s hands curled into fists. “Why don’t you come here and we’ll find out?”

The Riddler’s eyes narrowed. “If you don’t want to cooperate... that’s okay with me.” He straightened as two of his men emerged from the shadows behind him, stalking toward Damian.

Damian knew a fight when he saw one. And, for his credit, he managed to land a few punches. The sound of knuckles hitting bone echoing throughout. But one of them restrained Damian from behind. Locking him in place.

The Riddler smiled. "Care to tell me who Batman is now?"

Again Damian didn't respond.

The Riddler took out a gleaming, silver pistol. The sound of a shot rang through as the bullet collided with Damian's arm. Damian grunted as pain coursed through him, but other then that, he managed to hold his tongue. It hurt like hell but he had been shot before.

"I'll ask you one. Last. Time," the Riddler growled as Damian tried to keep his face from twisting in pain. "Who is he?"

Damian locked his mouth shut, feigning apathy like he had seen Jason do all the time. The Riddler wouldn't kill him. He wouldn't.

The Riddler sighed, clearly disappointed at both Damian's silence and indifference. “I suppose you’re right. It would be no fun if you just told me, wouldn't it? It’s something I have to figure out myself.”

He pointed the pistol squarely at Damian’s chest, tipping his hat.

“Shame there's no more use for you." He fiddled with the trigger before looking up. "Say, what’s black and white and red all over?”

Damian was wearing his waiter uniform. White button-up, black slacks. 

It happened in an instant.

And then agony clouded Damian’s vision. A scream ripped its way through his mouth, no matter how much he tried to keep it in. The pain was too much. It felt like he was burning. He began thrashing against the men holding him.

"Pity," the Riddler said, as if Damian was a mild inconvenience. But Damian could hear the glee in his voice. He had gotten the reaction he wanted.

The men released Damian and he fell to the floor, legs giving out from underneath him. He tried to force himself to stand but he couldn't even lift his head.

"You understand why I had to do this, don't you? I can't have you selling that information to one of my rivals."

Damian struggled to reply, croaking out something incoherent. His arms grasped at his wound. The bullet had definitely hit a major artery. The man's aim was refined. If he wanted to, he could have killed Damian instantly. But no. He chose to let Damian bleed out to death instead.

The men walked off, their footsteps fading away, and Damian was all alone. Stuck in some backwater place where they wouldn’t even find his body until morning came.

A deep, sickening thought bubbled in his head as Damian pulled himself over to a wall. He had cut the last of his ties just earlier that day and he didn't have a phone. No one would miss him if he died. No one would even know.  

Except the landlord. Who probably would burn his drawings and sell his room without a second thought.

Damian just wished that someone would– That someone would–

"I'm here, I'm here." The words were hushed and relieved, someone behind Damian wrapping a pair of arms around him. "You're safe. I'm here.”

Damian looked up, his forest green eyes meeting ocean blue ones. Shakily, as if in shock, Damian found his voice. "Richard?" He asked, no louder than a whisper. Scared the man would disappear if he talked louder. "How- How did you get here? How did you find me?"

Richard moved around, facing Damian. "I always find you, baby bat."

Damian reached up a hand, ignoring the way his flesh ached and screamed. He fell just short of reaching Richard's hair. "You here," he breathed. "You're here." Damian was crying again. “Richard, I– I’m so tired. I just want to go home. I just want to go home. ”

“You can come home anytime you want,” he promised.

“I can’t,” Damian muttered. “Father wants to erase my memories. Or lock me in Arkham.”

Richard laughed. “Don't worry. He can't do that, Dames. I won’t let him.”

Damian frowned. "But it doesn't even matter. No one remembers me. It's a house without a home. And they hate me. I didn't even make a good use of this wretched second chance."

"I don't hate you," Richard said. "I could never hate you." Damian hated the way he said it. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And Damian thought of that night again. The one where he wandered into Richard's room, hoping for just a sliver of comfort.

"I miss you," Damian choked out the words between sobs. He had never admitted that before. "I miss you so much."

"I'm right here," Richard said soothingly, brushing away a spare strand of hair from Damian's face. "I'm right here. I found you."

His hand on Damian's forehead didn't feel like it should have. And Damian could taste metal in his mouth. "Not this time," Damian admitted. Because he couldn't pretend any longer. "You didn't find me this time."

Richard's gaze fell down to his hands, looking at them as if they were the most useless things in the world. "You're right," he agreed softly, like he was being torn in two. "Not this time."

Chapter Text

Damian woke to sunlight. It spilled into the room, pooled on his eyelids, and forced him into consciousness. 

He could hear the sound of rustling. Someone clutched Damian’s hand, holding it in their palm. And through the haze, Damian’s first thought, groggy and disoriented, was, which sibling is this?

His second thought was closer to reality. With the sharp, cruel edge that truth always seems to have. His second was formed not in words but in emotions. The loudest was sorrow. But beneath it was fear. And hidden between those two, intertwined like strands of yarn, were memories. Memories of the Riddler, cane crooked and hat tipped. Memories of Richard, looking down upon him with hands that didn’t feel like hands and eyes that didn’t look like eyes. 

Then, Damian tried to move his hand away and sit up. But his movements were sluggish and jerky. Distantly, there was a voice calling for more anesthesia. 

Damian's final thought, before he was pulled under once again, was a realization. Because the other person wasn't holding his hand at all. They were simply checking his vitals.

-

When Damian woke up next, he played it safe. Kept his eyes closed and his body still.

There was a machine pressed against his mouth, ventilating his breath and a buzzing in his hear- most likely some sort of machine.

Voices were talking, hushed and compressed in the background, but Damian could still make out pieces of the conversation. 

“...slie, how is…?”

“Internal organ damage… an infection…”

“Does that…?”

“...anesthesia but the pain meds should still…”

“When…?”

“Soon… probably.”

Damian needed to stay awake, but he also needed answers. He forced himself to stir and prop himself up. But his body disagreed, agony coursing through his bones as he tried, making him hiss in pain.

That got one of the voice’s attention. “Oh?"

Damian pulled his eyelids open one at a time, trying to command the world into focus. But everything was blurry. So blurry.

“You’re awake.”

He could make out a single figure. She had white– maybe gray– hair and a lab coat. She held a clipboard in one hand while the other rested on her hip.

She spoke slowly like he was toddler of some kind. "My name is Leslie Thompkins. I work here at the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic. Can you tell me your name?"

Damian had met Thompkins before. Many times, in fact. She would help tend to his more serious injuries in the Batcave's medical bay. And while she was efficient at her job and surprisingly well versed in medicine, she never failed to make snide comments about child soldiers as she worked. But only when Damian's father was around to hear them.

Damian didn't know much about her past with the family. Just that Timothy hated her and Stephanie loved her and she was always the nicest to Richard.

"My name?" He asked, the words coming out slurred and jumbled together.

"Mhm. We haven't been able to identify you."

"I'm..." Damian struggled for a moment, trying to come up with a convincing fake name. He couldn't quite accomplish 'convincing' so he settled for 'believable.' "...Grayson Brown?"

"First name Grayson, last name Brown?"

Damian swallowed. “Yes.”

“And do you have any family members we can call, Grayson?” 

Damian's voice cracked a little. “No.”

“Okay…” She scribbled something down on her clipboard. “And how old are you, Grayson?”

Fifteen. But he told everyone seventeen. But seventeen was still young enough for him to be sent to an orphanage. “Eighteen,” he coughed out. “I’m eighteen.”

"Really?" She asked in surprise. Damian braced himself to be caught in the lie. But she believed him, muttering, "that could be the effects of the malnutrition…” before returning her voice to a regular volume. “And how are you feeling?”

"Terrible."

"Well, that's to be expected. You were shot in the heart around a week ago. It was a pretty close one, too. We almost lost you."

"A week?" Damian asked. Had he already been there a week?

"Well, there were some complications. I... I'm actually surprised you're even conscious right now." She paused, looking lost in thought. "Perhaps we should increase the dosage... are you in pain?"

"No," Damian said, earning him a raised eyebrow.

"Really? Well, can you move your arm for me?" She nodded toward the one that hadn't been shot, his left one.

Damian frowned. "I don't... feel like doing that right now."

"Mhm," she said sarcastically. “I'll give you a little more medication next time." She looked back at her clipboard. "And how often have you been eating? We picked up signs of malnourishment.”

“I eat fine,” Damian snapped. He did. He ate a perfectly reasonable amount of food every day. There was nothing to worry about. Damian cleared his throat, looking around. "How much will all this, uh, cost?"

"Not a single penny. We're a free clinic." She gave him a bitter smile. "Aren't you lucky she found you?"

"She?" Damian asked. "Who found me?"

Leslie nodded toward the area next to Damian. And awkwardly, Barbara Gordon shuffled into view, the hinges on her wheelchair squeaking a little as she did. "Hey," she said, trying to keep her voice soft and quiet. "I'm Barbara, it's nice to meet you." She held out a hand that Damian didn't take. "If you don't mind, I have few questions about who shot you. My dad suspects-"

Damian interrupted her, speaking quickly and thinking of hands that didn’t feel like hands. “When you found me was– Was someone there? Next to me, I mean?”

Barbara frowned. “No, there was no one.”

Damian could still feel the ghost of a hand in his hair. Could still imagine those burning blue eyes. "Oh," he said. Because he didn't have an actual response. He knew it was an illusion. So why did he even ask? How stupid was he?

"I found you on my way to the store. And you were bleeding out alone, so I called the paramedics and they rushed you here. I'll leave in just a moment, I promise, but like I said, I have some questions. Batman and my father are trying to-"

"Batman?" Damian asked, his voice turning into ice. Did Batman see me? Does he know I'm here? Is this some ruse to keep me here until Martian Manhunter arrives?

Barbara sensed the abrupt mood change from him and pivoted the conversation. "Anyway, if you could just confirm the person's identity, I'll be on my way."

I want her to stay. I want her to go. I want her to stay. I need her to go.

"Get out," he hissed. His voice showing too much fear for his liking. It was louder then he intended, moving across the room. "Go. Go!"

Thompkins acted fast, bolting up and moving to the, quite confused, Barbara Gordon. "You heard him," she said to Barbara, ushering her away.

Barbara tried to tell her something but Thompkins just shook her head. "Wait outside," she told her. And Barbara nodded her head, rolling her wheelchair out. Once she was gone, Thompkins shut the door- the handle didn't make so much as a noise when she released it.

The silence was suffocating. Thompkins turned around and, without so much as a word, made her way back to the edge of Damian's bed. No one said a word for a moment, just them and the buzzing of the machines.

But she eventually broke the silence. “I get it,” she said. “Not much of a Batman fan myself. But listen, you're safe here. If you want Barbara to stay outside, she'll stay outside.”

"Has Batman... Has he seen my face?" Damian asked.

Thompkins shook her head. "No. He's just heard about you from Barbara's reports. I don't let Bats into my clinic."

"I don’t want…” Damian frowned, searching for words. “I don’t want Batman to know I’m here.”

Thompkins laughed. “Of course. That's not something you gotta bargain for. Batman doesn’t know anything that goes on here. And I’ll do everything in my power to keep it that way."

Damian relaxed. "Okay. That's... Good."

Thompkins flashed him a smile. It was a little forced and a little crude, but it was kind. "I'm gonna go talk to Barbara outside, okay? Just relax in here for a while."

"How long must I remain here?" Damian asked.

"As long as we need you. But, hey, you're already a week in, so chin up." She turned toward the door, giving a back-handed wave before heading out into the hall.

“Great,” Damian grumbled, watching as she left the room. His bones were too heavy and his flesh too sore to even consider moving. “Just great.”

-

“Leslie, is he…?”

“Is he what, Barbara?” 

“He’s the kid Batman mentioned to me, isn’t he? He matches the physical description perfectly. I haven’t told Batman yet because I wasn’t sure. But that reactio–”

“Good.”

“What?”

“I said: good. It’s good Batman doesn’t know about him. Let’s keep it that way.”

“He could be a wanted criminal, Leslie.”

“Look around. Everyone here is a wanted criminal. And it’s my job to keep them safe. He’s a scared kid, and I promised him Batman wouldn’t know about him. I am not going to be made into a liar.”

A sigh. “Fine. But can you at least tell me who shot him?” 

“I’ll ask.”

“Thanks... I hope he feels better soon.”

“He will, don’t worry.” A pause. “They all do.”

-

Damian woke up utterly delighted. The joy was all-consuming, a beautiful array dancing inside of his mind. It was so grand. Everything was just so grand. His body felt like it was made of air, like he could do anything. Like he was never even hurt at all.

He moved to get up when a nurse hurried over to push him back down. Damian wasn’t deterred by this, though, offering her a dazzling grin. “Hello,” he said. “You look just like my mother.”

“Uh… thank you?” she said, but she didn’t seem to really take his compliment to heart.

That didn't matter much, though. Nothing was going to ruin this wonderful day.

Damian couldn’t stop smiling. “Today is amazing,” he declared. “Absolutely amazing.”

The nurse, on the other hand, looked a little concerned.

"Wait," Damian said, looking around. The hospital room was empty. Why was it empty? "Where is my family?"

“Your family?” She asked. “We were not informed you…”

“Where are they?” Damian asked, looking around. The vibrant happiness inside of him turned to sludge. “They’re usually here… whenever I’m injured, they’re here. Did they leave me?” He looked to the nurse. “Why? What did I do wrong?”

The nurse looked a little helpless. "I... I don't know."

"No, of course, they had to leave me. They’re– they’re very busy.” He said, to reassure her. “They’re very busy people. Have a lot of things much more important than me. But I do wish–” He stopped himself. “They’re very busy people.”

“Why don’t you stay right there, okay?" She asked. "Let me go get someone for you.” Her voice was delicate, careful.

“Yes, of course. Of course. But my family will see me soon, won’t they? I… I think I miss them. I miss them so much. He told me he found me. And that he was gonna take me home. And that I was– He promised me, you know? And I used to not believe him, but now it’s all I do. Believe him, I mean. I can’t stop believing him.”

The nurse turned to leave just as a woman appeared in the doorway. She was old and a little familiar.  The woman guided the nurse back in, offering her a sympathetic look. Then she turned to Damian.

"How are you doing?" She asked. She looked tired. Tired in the way Father looked tired. Like it was a commitment, not a state of mind.

“My family isn’t here,” Damian said because the answer to her question depended on the answer to his. “Do you know where they are?”

"Family?" She turned to the nurse next to her. "How much morphine did you give him?"

"Enough for an eighteen-year-old. I didn't expect... this."

The woman nodded, thinking to herself for a moment. Then, she turned back to Damian. "We’re going to put you back under, alright?” 

"What?" Damian asked. "No, no. I have to wait for my family to get here. I don’t mind waiting, I’m quite good at it actually. But, I want to be here when they arrive. It’s very important to me that I’m here when they arrive.”

"We'll wake you up when they get here, okay?"

Damian frowned. "Can you at least move that chair over here?" He asked, pointing to a chair in the corner. "That way they can sit next to me. And hold my hand. I love it when they sit next to me.”

“Sure,” she told him. And the nurse skidded the chair over to Damian’s bedside. The old woman clicked a switch somewhere out of Damian’s view. “Any other requests?”

“Can you... tell them I love them?” Damian asked. His voice was slow and his tongue was heavy. Why was it so heavy?

The old woman blinked in surprise, before smiling. "Why don't you tell them yourself, okay?"

Damian wanted to respond. Tell her he couldn't for a reason he couldn't quite remember right now. But darkness encircled the corners of his vision, leaking across his view until everything disappeared. And then he began to float.

-

Collectively, Damian stayed in the hospital for a little less than two months. The time spent there was wasted, he did nothing but lay in his bed and stare up at the ceiling. He was given books, thankfully, to amuse himself with. But that was all.

Damian didn't remember the day he was accidentally given too much morphine. But people told him of it. They asked who his family was and Damian denied everything. He always denied it. Even if, just hearing them ask and acknowledge he had a family, made him a little happy.

He was honestly quite pleased to get discharged. He was free to travel the city again. But he would miss the hospital's free food. It was a treat to not have to worry too much about currency. Especially with his... lackluster employment status.

The nurses were kind, too. One of them even had a cat she promised Damian she would bring to work. It was a small cat, calico fur and wide, mismatched eyes. A shame she never got around to bringing it.

When he left, the hospital gave him back the clothes he was shot in- although he doubted he could make much of use of them- and his wallet, which was in his back pocket.

He shuffled through the wallet, making sure everything was accounted for, before leaving. As he walked down the stairs, he caught Thompkins' eye. She was standing at the entrance and when he noticed her she offered him a small wave.

He waved back, watching as she moved back inside. And then he returned to walking, he had a long trek to his apartment.

-

When he arrived back at his apartment complex, the weather was a soggy grey with clouds blotting the sky. Walking inside, his body ached from the long bus ride and all he wanted to do was collapse in his bed, maybe draw a little, and sleep.

He did not, however, want to be stopped mid-walk by an angry man with a grudge. And yet, the landlord glared down at Damian despite that, crossing his arms. "Where have you been?!" He hissed. "I needed your rent two months ago."

Inwardly, Damian groaned. Rent. Shit. He scrambled for his wallet, opening it and finding three hundred to present. "Here," he said, failing to hide his irritation.

The man took it but didn't move aside. "I need thee hundred more. Two months worth of rent, kid."

Damian grumbled and turned back to his wallet. And as he did, he felt something inside of him die. He had three hundred fifty left. Most were in spare twenties. But one, one was a hundred dollar bill. Timothy’s hundred-dollar bill. 

"I have more cash in my room," Damian insisted. And he did. He saved most of his tips and stashed them in a bag underneath his bed. "Just let me go get them."

"You have money right there in your wallet, don't you?"

"Not enough," Damian said, hoping the man would let him pass.

The man held his ground. "Sucks for you then. I'm not letting you any further into this building until you give me the rent."

"I have more in my room," Damian said, but he knew it was a futile effort.

The man glowered. “The rent. Or I kick you out and you won't have a room to return to."

Damian wanted to fight back. It was how he was trained. But he remembered his time as a waiter. Always had to force a smile on his face. And maybe there were good things that came from swallowing his pride. Even if it killed him. Little. By. Little. 

“Please?” Damian tried, ignoring the shame that came with it. “This money it’s really–”

“Rent," the man growled. He wasn't have any of Damian's shit. "Now.”

Damian's pleading eyes turned back into a glare. “Fine,” he spat, giving up the cash and shoving it into the man’s palm. He ignored how much his chest began hurting. It was just the bullet wound. The pain was just in his head. And if Damian pushed through, it would all be fine.

Damian returned to his room, seething. He blew the hair out of his eyesight as he imagined killing the man. Stabbing his body and throwing him out to the rats. It was delightful imagery.

First, Damian lost his family. And then his drawing. And then, Timothy's money. Damian couldn't keep anything. They were all just slipping through his fingers. Disappearing into the wind. He kept losing and losing and losing, even when he felt like there was nothing left to lose.

Despite how tired he was, Damian brought out his sketchpad and began to draw. He didn't stop until sunrise and he woke up to drawings of Timothy scattered through the room. Everything was in pencil-led black and white. Except for the eyes, which Damian had drawn in full color.

-

He spent the rest of that day dismantling a mirror in his bathroom, wrenching it off when he couldn't quite remove the nails. 

He had begun refusing to look in mirrors weeks ago when he noticed how long his hair had grown. He couldn’t bring himself to cut it– Alfred had always cut his hair– so he opted to simply ignore its existence entirely.

-

Damian jumped between never leaving the apartment and doing nothing but wanting to leave the apartment. He didn’t want his family to find him, but he was growing restless. He wasn’t the type to stay confined to small spaces. Not after his body had healed and he could once again move without aching.

So he took up the habit of walking through Gotham City Central Park. The dogs were always willing to play, and there was a profound amount of families. Parents with their kids. Siblings bickering on the playground. And so little crime during the day, Batman rarely passed through.

It was a great place to stand in. To listen to the world around you. It gave him comfort he hadn’t found since he had given up following his family on patrol. 

And, around a month in, Damian took an alternate path through the park. He had long since given up thinking his family was still looking for him. Which was… good. It was good they had stopped looking. Better even.

The sun was soft that day, the cold, march air giving way underneath it. March was a transition period. Where the seasons couldn’t quite decide who they wanted to be.

The scenery was exceptional, a lush green taking over the park. Nature was a force that cradled. And Damian had a reverence for it.

Damian was so focused on it that he didn’t even notice someone was behind him. He didn't hear the patter of steps until Titus slammed into him, tail wagging viciously as he forced Damian to the ground.

Chapter Text

Damian tried to pick himself back up. Tried to push against the dog. The big, slobbering dog that had decided tackling Damian was a good idea. Despite himself, Damian couldn't help but laugh as he shoved the dog off himself.

However, his humor faded when he heard a voice calling out. "Titus!" It said. "Titus!"

Emerging into Damian's vision, Alfred appeared, pulling the dog off Damian and swiftly clipping the leash back onto the dog’s collar. He shook his head at Titus, making a disapproving noise, before turning his attention to Damian.

"My dear boy, are you alright?"

Damian bit on his tongue- hard enough to draw blood- and gave a curt nod.

Alfred gave the dog a small, but fond, glare before returning his gaze to Damian. "I'm so sorry about him. The little rascal loves to play too much for his own good." Alfred stopped for a moment. "Although, he is usually much more well-behaved."

Damian stared into Titus’s beady, black eyes. And Titus stared right back. "It's okay," Damian said. "I don't mind."

"Maybe you have an animal at home? Dogs like him are exceptional at telling that sort of thing." Alfred offered a hand for Damian to take.

"No pets," Damian said.

"None at all?" Alfred asked. "Well, that's quite a shame. But I suppose they aren’t for everyone.” He spared a look to Titus. “Hopefully you're keen on dogs. Or else this would give them quite the bad reputation.”

"Dogs are wonderful," Damian said with half the mind to be offended. "Their reputation could not be so easily changed."

Alfred smiled at his words. "I suppose you're right." He glanced at Damian's knee. "Are you positive you're okay? I have bandages if you need any."

"That is unnecessary," Damian said. The small scratches on his knee were nothing to worry about. "Thank you for offering."

Alfred was used to boys too brazen for their own good. He lived with Timothy for a while, after all. But thankfully, he let it go. "If that is the case, would you mind playing with him for a while? He seems to have taken quite a liking to you. I... actually don't know if I've seen him this happy in a long while."

Damian should say no. He should walk away and never look back. But Titus seemed so happy and there was really no harm in staying a bit longer. "I would like that," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Alfred sat down on a nearby park bench, playing frail. "These bones are not what they used to be. And the poor dog needs energy I cannot give him. You are doing me quite the favor."

One Alfred clicked Titus's leash off, the dog jumped forward, excitedly running up to Damian once again.

Damian caught the ball Alfred threw at him and turned to Titus, a wry grin on his face. "You and me," Damian told the dog. "You and me."

-

Damian had forgotten how fun it was to play with Titus. They had made their own games out of tennis balls and blades of grass and the beating sound of adrenaline in their ears. Games that were theirs and no one else's. Games that Titus shouldn't have fallen into as if they were an old pastime. As if he knew them just as intimately as Damian did. But maybe he was just a quick learner.

Alfred finished up a phone call he had received just as Damian and Titus arrived back at the bench.

"My apologies," he said, putting his phone away. "I did not expect the call to take so long." He hooked the leash onto Titus’s collar, causing the dog to turn from ecstatic to miserable startlingly quickly. "It was a- er- grandson of mine. He has been worried about his brother lately." The man patted Titus's head. "Was Titus good?"

"He was marvelous," Damian assured him.

"That's comforting." Alfred looked down at Titus, considering something. "Say," he said. "Would you mind walking with us? I believe he enjoys your company an awful lot."

Again, Damian was tempted to say no. But if it meant he got to spend a little more time with Titus... "Sure," he said. "That works."

Titus glued himself to Damian's side throughout the entire walk. Not even tempted by the other dogs or the brightly colored flowers on the path. Damian frowned when he noticed, he never remembered Titus being so needy.

They talked about pleasant things, Damian and Alfred. Like the weather, or the scenery, or the type of sounds birds make. It was a quaint walk, nothing of importance said. But still, it made bile form in the back of Damian's throat.

When it ended and the path gave way to sidewalk, Alfred turned to Damian. "Would you be free next week? Same time, of course. It's always nice to have some company."

"I'm free," Damian said before he could stop himself. Before he could think twice. Because Titus was still next to him, warm at his side. And Alfred was the only familiar thing in his life right then. And Damian didn't always think about the risks before he took the leap.

"Well," Alfred said, smiling. "I shall see you then."

-

They made a weekly thing out of it. Sunday from ten o'clock to eleven fifteen sharp. And it was a perfect way to begin Damian's day. Especially since the rest of it would be spent drawing until his fingers bled or fruitlessly job searching. And he was really starting to run out of paper to draw on.

So, despite the bitterness of those walks, the way they burned the back of his throat, it was nice. It was... really nice.

-

"Titus likes you,” Alfred said one day, amused. They were, once again, walking through the park, Titus eagerly trotting in front of them. "I don’t suppose you would be willing to take on a job as our dog walker?"

“I do not need a job as a dog walker," Damian said. He couldn’t get caught up with the Waynes again. Even taking walks with Alfred was a big enough threat. 

“If you’re positive…” Alfred said, trailing off.

“Very positive,” Damian said firmly. And he was. Even if needed a job dearly. He tried not to let his mouth dip into a scowl. He couldn't afford to grow agitated. “I am seeking other sorts of occupations.”

Alfred tilted his head. “What kind of occupation?”

The kind that gets me money and far away from my old family. “A better one,” Damian snapped. Richard would have winced at the bluntness in his voice. Rephrased it in a way that sound kinder. But Richard wasn't there no matter how much Damian wanted him to be.

Alfred didn’t take it personally. “A better job... Well, I heard Gotham Pets Emporium was looking for some new employees. If you’re interested.”

Damian turned to him, surprised. “Huh?”

“You like animals, do you not?” Alfred asked. “Or perhaps it is simply that animals like you?"

"No, I-" Damian paused. "I like animals."

-

"And, um, what prior work experiences do you have... exactly?"

Damian looked at the interviewer, trying to keep his expression calm. Or, if not calm, acceptable. The interviewer was not nearly as imposing as Damian had feared. His voice not nearly as booming and his tone not nearly as harsh. If anything he sounded tired. Drained.

The interviewer was one of the few at the company who could hire Damian on the spot. Which meant, if Damian played his cards right, this could be easier than he anticipated.

"I worked in a restaurant," Damian offered. "You can call the number on my resume. It's my boss's. He said he'd give a recommendation."

"Uh... yes. I'll be sure to do that." The man sounded wholly uninterested. He put the resume aside and abruptly shifted the conversation, as if reading the next item on a list. "How qualified do you think you would be for this job?"

"Fairly," Damian said. "It isn't difficult."

"Right. But why should we give you this job to you instead of someone else?"

In the league, everything was a test. With a solution that Damian needed to figure out. In the manor, everyone had a soft spot. A vulnerability Damian first tried to exploit and then tried to protect. This was just like that. He needed to simply combine those two ideas. Find the man's weakness and you find his solution.

"If you pick me," Damian said. "Hire me right now, you won't have to talk to the other applicants. I'm good enough no one will question this decision and you can... go home early. Or do whatever you want to do."

It was a gamble. But if Damian didn't take gambles he would still be back in the League, a corpse inside a grave.

And when the man paused, considering the offer, Damian knew he had won. "You won't make me look bad?" The interviewer asked.

"Not at all."

The man looked back down at Damian’s resume and sighed. “What the hell. You’ve got yourself a deal, kid.”

-

The next day, Damian was given a uniform- a paper apron with a dog on the chest- and guided to the cash register. He sat, staring at the cluttered hell that was supposed to be his work station and sighed. But if he could be a waiter, he could do this job too.

He grabbed the first thing he saw, a newspaper, and examined it. It was opened to a gossip column discussing Scarecrow's newest fear toxin.

"Oh, the new fear gas, huh? Don't listen to that crap, it's just rumors." A girl from the cashier next to him leaned over his shoulder. When he noticed her, she offed him a smile. "You're the new hire, right? I'm Rose-" she pointed to her nametag "- and you're Damian, right?"

"I am." Damian dropped the newspaper into a thin, metal trash bin. He had forged the documents to have a separate last name than the one Timothy knew. So using his first name should be safe.

"That's Cameron," she said, motioning to the person on the other side of Damian at the next register. "And, you met Bill, I'm sure. He's the one that hired you."

"Cameron" had his feet propped up on the table, comic in his hands as he flipped through the pages. He looked up at Damian, blowing the hair out of his face. "Hey. You like comics?"

Damian didn’t touch comics with a ten-foot pole. "No," he responded dryly. Cass and Duke both liked comic books, but he had never considered them worthy of his time or attention. He read manga, of course. But they were two very different things.

Before Cameron could reply with something Damian was sure would be 'devastating,' a man approached the register, looking oddly nervous. "Um… excuse me,” he said. “I need some help with cats.”

Damian perked up. “You need cat help?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m trying to figure out which one to get.”

Damian stood up, moving around the table. “What sort of breed are you looking for? Ragdoll? Siamese? Persian?”

The man blinked at Damian. “Uh… maybe? I don’t really know.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “You’re helpless. Okay, come with me.” He dragged the man toward the feline section. “Do not think getting a creature as majestic as a cat is a simple process. You will need to think of breeds and proper food and, of course, litter boxes are a necessity. Now, I know what you're thinking, and the answer is simple. It's actually quite easy to name your cats. If you know their personality. If not, greek myths or kind people are always correct choices as well."

-

The man walked out of the store that day with a litter box, a scratching post, a bag with various toys and food, and a calico cat named Damian.

-

Damian watched Titus dance in the field, howling and barking with the other dogs. In the few months since Damian first began the walks, Titus had become less clingy. More willing to stray from Alfred and play with other pets.

Damian enjoyed the walks. He really did. But, like most things Damian enjoyed, they would be ripped from his hands one way or another. So he had already braced himself for their inevitable expiration. An inevitable expiration that was taking a while to happen.

Damian was sitting on a park bench, a few meters away, sketchbook in hand. He had almost finished his drawing of Titus. All he had left was to perfect the shading. 

“I must say, my boy, your drawing skills are quite exceptional," Alfred said, glancing over at Damian's drawing. “I must ask,” he said. “Could I order something from you?”

“Order?” Damian asked.

"I would like to buy a drawing. A..." he struggled with words for a moment "Granddaughter's birthday is coming up and I would like to get her a unique present."

"Oh," Damian said. "I could do that."

"Just a drawing of Spoiler would be nice. It's her favorite hero." He paused. "Actually, if you're able to, the drawing of the blonde Robin next to Spoiler would be great. I think she would appreciate that very much." Alfred had a glimmer of something in his eye. As if he knew whatever he was ordering would cause an emotional reaction from... who exactly? Stephanie? Her birthday was the only one in June.

"I could make you something," Damian said.

"Thank you," Alfred said kindly. "That means so much to me. Is seventy-five dollars an acceptable amount?"

Damian had no idea how much he was supposed to ask for. And Alfred seemed like he had no idea how much he was supposed to give. "Sure," he said. "That works."

-

When he gave the drawing to Alfred- a small "D" in the corner of the page- the man gave Damian a check.

Damian took the check, despite him not having a bank account and the name it was  addressed to being fake. He took it and he thanked Alfred. And, once the walk was over, he stared at it. Tracing the curve of the letters with his eyes, studying the calligraphy as if he could memorize it.

Then, he threw it into a trashcan and walked away.

-

Damian soon had a stack of comics in his apartment. Half he borrowed from Cameron, half he borrowed from Rose. And some nights, when he was much too tired to draw, he picked one up and started reading.

Cameron's were all about zombies. Rose's were all about family.

And some how, some way, they always involved a tragedy. And a happy ending.

-

Damian's sixteenth birthday passed by with little fanfare.

He didn't tell anyone about it. Simply called in sick to work, claiming both the flu and a cold, and spent his evening at the vegetarian restaurant. Tradition was tradition. And Damian was planning to stick to it.

When he entered it, the hostess looked up from her station, noticing him. "Damian? Holy shit, kid. You’re here. Took you long enough.”

She quickly guided him to his table, offering him a menu.

"My shift ends in twenty minutes," she said. "Don't leave until I'm done."

Damian didn't even get his food for fifteen minutes. And then he had to wait for the soup to cool off before he could take a bite. So by the time she hurried over, joining him at the booth, he had just taken his first bite.

"So," she said, sitting down. "You'll never guess who came in asking about you."

Damian felt something cold begin to fester inside his stomach despite the warmth of the soup. "Who?"

She grinned. "Tim Drake." She said it like it was a particularly interesting piece of drama. A secret she couldn't help but share.

Damian, however, nearly choked on his soup. "He did?"

“Mhm. But he was a little bit…” She trailed off, making a twirling motion around her ear. “...Crazy. He kept muttering something about a rock. I was a little freaked out.”

“A rock?”

She shrugged. “He seemed pretty out of it. Just took our answer at face value and left.” She shifted around, clearly eager to switch conversations since the current one had become too boring. “Anyway, what’s the special occasion?”

"It's my birthday,” Damian told her, returning to his food.

“It’s your birthday?” She asked, gasping at him. “And all you ordered was soup?” She called a server over. "Can we get some ice cream?" She turned to Damian. "I'll pay, don't worry. But having your birthday without something sweet is like a crime. I think."

Damian just hoped they gave him vanilla ice cream. Anything else would remind him of those dessert shops Richard used to take him to after patrol.

"Are you doing anything for your birthday?" She asked.

Why did people always ask that question? Was it a required question to ask people on their birthdays? The answer was clearly no. “Yes.”

"Yes?"

Damian almost took it back. Almost told her the truth. That he had no one and nothing. But... when he stopped to think about it. He could tell the hostess anything. He could say whatever he pleased and she wouldn't know it was a lie. She couldn't fact-check him. "I'm celebrating with my family tomorrow."

"Really?" She asked. "That's cool."

"Yeah. We're going to have dinner together. And they'll play a few board games, maybe watch a movie..." The more Damian spoke, the more the smile on his face grew. "And, at the end of the night, everyone moves to the living room and they stay up talking and sharing stories and it's really great. It's-" Damian paused for a second, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'm really looking forward to it."

The hostess gave a soft laugh. "You love them a lot, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I bet they love you a lot too."

Damian looked away, scared that if he met her eyes she would see right through him. Like he was made of nothing but glass and paper and bandages. "Yeah," he lied. "They do."

Chapter Text

A bright orange bone was clamped in Titus’s jaw, the tangerine color peeking out between his teeth. Damian had bought the toy for him from the pet shop to present to the dog as a gift. And Titus had carried it proudly around the park ever since, bouncing around the trail with it in his mouth, his tail wagging.

Alfred hummed, walking next to Damian, his bony hands keeping a tight hold of the leash. The old man's eyes followed the dog, his voice firm when he spoke. “Fall is coming soon. Are you going to return to school?"

Damian scoffed, crossing his arms. "No." Was Alfred talking about college? He must be since Damian had lied about his age. Again. Said he was eighteen. But when he told him that, Alfred had given him one of those chuckles, the kind that meant he didn't believe it all. Which was information... Damian wasn't quite sure what to do with.

"That is a shame. Why not?"

A lot of reasons. The biggest being that Damian legally didn't exist. So getting into a public school was impossible. The second biggest reason was that school really wasn't worth the effort of fabricating records. "It's unimportant and moronic. Why should I go to a place like that?"

“I disagree," Alfred said. And beside him, Damian bristled. "I find that schooling is very important.”

"Well, importance is relative and meaningless." Damian sniffed. His voice had a defensive tint to it. The kind he hoped Alfred wouldn't notice. "There are plenty of things that people deem important that are, actually, utterly useless."

"Oh?" Alfred asked. "Like what, pray tell?"

Damian could name a hundred things right then and there. But most of them would be lies. Lies that involved warmth and smiles and laughter. Lies that died in the back of his throat. "Many things," he said instead. And it was the weakest excuse he ever gave.

Alfred, thankfully, didn't push. And the conversation topic died out from there.

-

The next week Alfred showed up with a homemade lunch, packed neatly in a container he claimed he didn't need back. He gave it to Damian, offering the boy a smile and making him promise to try at least some of it.

Damian wouldn't say it, but that lunch was the most delicious meal Damian had eaten all year. Reminiscent of the family dinners long past where Alfred would cook dishes for the family, making food that became a unknown comfort for Damian.

And it wasn't until a while later, once it was already too late, that Damian would realize the whole thing was completely vegetarian. With certain dishes going out of their way to not include meat.

Which was odd, Damian would think. Since, he didn't remember telling Alfred that at all.

-

As each week went by, and each walk came to a close, worry festered in Damian's gut. He knew this was just another thing to be pried out of his hands. Another joy he wouldn't be allowed to keep. Alfred would leave. Someway or somehow.

But it wasn't happening soon enough. And Damian couldn’t bear it anymore. Couldn’t spend the rest of his life waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

So one day, when they had reached the edges of the park, Damian ripped the bandage off. "I won't be here next week," he said. And he left out the part about never coming back.

Alfred simply looked surprised- only for a second- and smiled. "Oh, of course, my boy. We all have our obligations.”

Damian gave a short, abrupt nod and leaned down to pet Titus one last time. Titus stared up, eyes wide and tongue hanging out of his jaw. Not for the first time in Damian's life, he wanted to talk to the dog, if only to tell him goodbye.

-

Damian didn't show up the next week. Or the next one either. Or any week after that.

Damian thought leaving would feel good. Like a relief. A weight lifted off his shoulders. He wouldn't have to worry anymore. It was over.

But, a few weeks later, Damian gave in. He hated to admit it, but he missed the walks. Missed their time together. So he returned to the park, at the usual time and place, hoping he hadn't ruined it. Hoping he could keep it just a little longer.

But it wasn't Alfred who passed him by, Titus's leash in hand. No, the man had finally hired that dog walker he had mentioned to Damian. And she was the new person strolling around the park.

Damian watched her for a moment, chatting on the phone, before he turned away. He felt triumphant when he walked off. Because Alfred had left, just like Damian thought he would. So leaving first was the correct choice. The right choice. He had made the right choice.

Damian avoided the park after that- greenery and smiles and families on picnic blankets were not made for people like him- and spent as long as he could at the pet shop. He worked long hours and stayed late nights. If he focused on work, he could earn more money. And if he earned more money, he could get more breathing room.

Because that was... what he wanted. Peace and quiet and breathing room and nothing else. Nothing else at all.

-

"Uh, what am I looking at?" Cameron asked, tilting his head. He was leaning forward, arms on the cash register to prop himself up, peering at the paper dangling from Damian's hand.

"The new logo for Gotham Pets Emporium," Damian said, not caring about the pride in his voice.

"If you think that's gonna win the competition you're in for a rude wake-up call," Cameron muttered. And Damian still couldn't tell how much of him was serious and how much was joking.

"Think?" Damian asked, clicking his tongue to make a, 'tt,' sound. "I don't 'think.' I know this is going to win."

The idea of designing the new company logo had been the perfect distraction. Why the pet shop would create a competition with such an obvious winner, Damian didn't know. He almost felt bad entering. But the prize cash- one hundred dollars- was too appetizing for Damian to pass up on.

His proposed sketch was of a cat and dog, sitting side by side. And if the dog was actually Titus and the cat was actually Alfred, well, no one would have to know.

“Woah,” Rose leaned forward, examining his drawing. “Wait... you’re actually really good at this stuff.”

Damian preened. “Of course I am.”

She grabbed his hands. “Hey! You could be my artist!"

“What?" Damian asked, trying to put her words in an order that made sense. Your artist?” He forced his hands out of her grip.

"I need to make comics for my portfolio." She said it like it was obvious. The only explanation possible for her oddly phrased sentence. "But I can't draw for the life of me."

Damian knew artists needed portfolios. But she just said she couldn't draw. Again, nothing was making sense. He felt like there was another piece to the puzzle that was conveniently left out of his equation. "What portfolio would you need comics for?"

Cameron looked up. "She wants to be a writer. For Scooby-Doo." He looked at Rose and then back at Damian. "And if you couldn't tell from her current occupation, she's failing."

"Ignore him," Rose said, shooting Cameron a glare. "One day, I'm totally gonna be a major writer there. I swear it. And when I do you will be begging me for money, you here me? Begging." She turned back to Damian. "But, for now, it would be a huge help if you could help me with a comic. I have one already written out, actually. You just have to draw it."

It was a waste of Damian's artistic talent. An excuse to leech off his greatness. The answer was no. A cold, hard, unchanging no. "Well, I suppose, if you really need my help, I could offer some assistance." Fuck.

"Perfect!" Rose clapped her hands together. "That's so great, thank you so much. I'll send over the instructions."

-

When Damian lived in the league, he was a knife. A blade with blood still dried upon it and a handle that bent to the holder's will. And if he made himself sharp enough- for sharpness was the only thing a knife was good for- nothing else about him would matter. All his faults would be forgotten. Everything he wasn't wouldn't compare to what he was. 

But now, when he looked into the mirror, he didn't see a knife. Not anymore. He saw something else.

And yet, whatever he was, he was terrified that it was less than what he was before.

-

Damian's design was picked for the store. He was wrong on his assumption no one else would apply- several people did- but he still won anyway. And that was what mattered.

He spent the hundred dollars on art supplies and a set of throwing knives. They were not as hard to find as he thought they would be. Their handles were charcoal black and the blade had a silver shine. He never sharpened them but he carried one with him wherever he went.

-

Damian was eating cereal, weathering the morning shift with action comics and half of Cameron's lunch. On his lap was a sketchpad, open to a half-drawn comic page for Rose's latest idea. The store quiet and empty. A dog had barked moments ago, obviously hungry for a meal, and Cameron had left to take care of it.

And it was in that calm serenity that Rose’s phone rang, bright and loud, playing some cheesy 80s theme song.

It rang once; Rose didn't glance up. It rang twice; she flipped the page of her Scooby-Doo comic. The third time it rang, Damian couldn't take it anymore. And he certainly couldn't take how casually she ignored it.

"Phone," he snapped, uncaring for the harshness in his tone.

"Oh," she said, finally looking up. “Sorry.” She checked the name and flicked it off. “That was my mom.”

Damian frowned, looking at the phone placed back on the table. "Do you not like your mother?”

“No!” She said quickly. “No, that's not it at all. I love her. I just... don’t pick up her calls often.”

Damian probably should have left it at that. If he wasn't so bored, he probably would have. "Why don't you?"

"It- It's a long story." She said, waving it away.

"Okay," Damian said, shrugging. He really didn't care much anyway. But Rose looked at him again, her expression growing restless and eager. And it took Damian a few moments before he realized she wanted to talk about it. "Uh..." She wanted him to ask her about it. "Tell me... anyway?" He grimaced inwardly at the uncertainty. She was the one who wanted something from him. Not the other way around.

"Well," she said. "Since you asked- I suppose it's not that long at all."

Great. Well, Damian had nothing but time until his shift ended.

"She has dementia. Doesn't remember me, or my name, or even that she has a daughter." She looked down at her hands. This was what she wanted to talk about? Why? Do people like discussing things that make them miserable? "But she keeps calling me because... she still remembers my number. It's the one of the few thing she does. And calling it- Calling it makes her feel safe."

Damian didn't know what to say to that. "Uh... Okay. I see."

"It's... awkward when she calls, so I usually ignore it. But, I guess it's nice to get the call." She laughed softly. "Love, huh?" She asked, her eyes sad but her smile wide. "It's one of those things people can't quite seem to forget."

-

Damian kept up training, despite the fact he could never be a vigilante again. Well, never again in Gotham, at least. It would be too noticeable. It would draw too much attention to him.

But he did miss the feeling of saving someone. The feeling of adrenaline in his blood as he dodged a punch. The feeling of looking up from a mess of bodies– not dead, never dead– and meeting his father’s approving gaze.

Despite that, he spent most of his time not training but drawing. Mostly the Waynes or Rose's stupid comic book.

Her comic's genre kept switching every chapter as if she couldn’t decide between slice of life or paranormal mystery. And, well, to say her work was inspired by Scooby-Doo might be an understatement. It was unabashedly a knock-off. Which was actually less stupid than Damian thought it would be. And surprisingly fun to draw- she had a talking cat! A cat! Oh, if only he could share that with Richard.

-

"School starts Monday," Cameron said one day, dramatically sighing directly after. He plopped his head onto the desk, hands in his hair. "Stupid, fucking school."

"School?" Damian asked. He had been under the impression the two were older than him. Somewhere in their early twenties.

"Yeah," Rose said. "Gotham University. Worst school ever!"

"My sister goes there," Damian said. And he didn't give it a second thought until it left his mouth. Then, freezing, he muttered. "Wait. No, she doesn't. She- she graduated." His mouth formed into a straight line. "Last year." And I missed it.

"Lucky her," Cameron grumbled. "Getting out when she could. Ever since Stephanie Brown left Ms. Cally's been pissed that they don't have the Wayne's funding anymore."

"You have Ms. Cally?" Rose said. "But I thought you were majoring in Math."

Cameron shrugged. "I am. But I'm minoring in English."

"Excuse me." A person moved to the front counter, slicing through their conversation. The voice itched something at the back of Damian's brain. "I need to check out this bag of dog fo-" The person's voice cut off, as if surprised.

Damian looked up. "Yeah, sure, what do you-” Every thought in Damian's head stuttered to a halt. He locked eyes with Duke Thomas.

Duke Thomas. Holding a large bag of dog food. Standing in front of Damian. Staring at him. In Gotham Pets Emporium. Gotham Pets Emporium. On a Thursday.

For a moment, both of them were silent, staring at each other. Then, Damian moved. He stood up with a bolt and grabbed Duke's wrist, dragging him off to a corner.

Damian knew Duke. He knew that if he put on a good enough performance, he could get the man to leave him alone. But it had to be a convincing show. With tears and a sob story. Perhaps a dramatic monologue about abandoning his life of crime thanks to the joys of... retail work.

But, Damian didn't need to do that. When they arrived at the back of the store, Duke spoke before he could. "I won't tell anyone," he said, his words sounding like a promise.

"What?" Damian asked. "Why?" His shock faded into doubt. He narrowed his eyes. “What’s in it for you?” Was it a trap? A scheme? Damian was not about to blindly trust this man. Not when his memories were on the line.

“Because you’re a kid,” Duke said, giving a scattered laugh. “I don't want you to... lose your memories. And I know B cares, but he’s way too paranoid for his own good.”

That was... reasonable. A valid answer. A Duke Thomas-worthy answer. It would have convinced anyone. Anyone except Damian. “Liar,” he hissed. And Duke startled a little at the certainty in the boy's voice. “Give me the real reason.”

Duke frowned. "Can't that be the reason? I don’t know, I think that's a pretty good reason.”

Damian glared, watching as Duke debated his options. He looked around, as if debating how secure their spot was. Which, as far as pet shops go on Thursday evenings, was pretty secure. Finally, after what felt like forever, the man gave in.

"Ugh, fine," Duke said, exasperated. "You seem harmless and I just... don't want to add another thing to everyone's plate. We're already busy enough with Tim-"

“Tim?” Damian asked, the nickname feeling stuffy inside his mouth. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing is wrong with him. Everything is fine.” Duke said it quickly, his voice immediately becoming guarded. And again, Damian was reminded he was a stranger. An outsider. Not privy to inner secrets. "I won't tell anyone. Just let me go check out this bag of dog food. Okay? That's all I want. As long as you don't make any trouble for us, I'll leave you alone."

”Fine,” Damian bit out. “Fine.” Damian rolled his eyes, hoping the death glare could disguise the hurt rolling in his stomach. He spun on his heels and stalked off.

If Duke didn't want to tell him, Damian would figure it out himself. He couldn't risk leaving his life in Duke's hands.

-

Once the boy walked away, Duke- only for a moment- jolted forward. Hand outstretched before he pulled it back, shaking himself a little. He walked away, rubbing his arm.

Why had Alfred suggested this? Their old pet shop had worked just fine- Duke didn't need to find a new place to get Titus's food.

A message popped up on Duke's phone and he sighed, abandoning the dog food back in the store and walking out into the parking lot. He slipped a comm into his ear, hiding it with his phone. "What's up?" He asked. What did she want to talk about? And why on the comms?

Steph’s voice came in with a crackle, talking fast and quick and vicious. “Listen, I need you to distract everyone for me tonight. It's important. I found a lead–”

“For Tim?” Duke asked, interrupting her.

“No. That’s why I need you to distract them. I have a lead on Scarecrow.”

Duke blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah. Him and his whole operation. He's planning to test his newest invention at an art show in a few days. But don't tell anyone.”

"Don't tell anyone? Why would-" Duke frowned as he processed the information. “You can’t seriously be thinking about doing that all by yourself.”

“I'm not doing it by myself. I got Cass to play bait.”

"Cass?" Duke asked. "She agreed?"

"Well... she will. Once I ask her."

Duke sighed. "Yeah, okay. Good luck with that." He sagged into his car, adjusting the comm as he sat. The static rustling on Steph's end was annoying and loud- what was she doing? Duke looked around as he waited for her, a question forming on the tip of his tongue. “Hey, Steph?” He asked.

“Yeah?”

“What if Tim…” Duke fiddled with one of his jacket strings. “What if he’s right? I mean, Tim’s usually correct about this sort of stuff. So what if he’s right this time, too?”

Silence. Then, “You know what, Duke? I thought about that too. And… That’s what scares me the most about this whole thing.”

“You don’t want him to be right either?” Duke asked, letting out a small, humorless laugh.

“It’s not that I don’t want him to be right." Duke could hear Steph tap her nails on a table- a nervous habit of hers- before she spoke again. "It’s that I really hope he isn’t.”

Chapter Text

Tim was vaguely certain he was going insane. Which was terrible. Awful even. But it was also reasonable. Especially considering the circumstances.

The rock was red, glowing- sure, Tim would give them that- and filled with cracks. But it was also… normal. Tap water normal. Coffee shop normal. Not-magical-in-the-slightest normal.

“Are you–” Tim spoke, turning to Bruce. “B, look me in the eyes here– are you positive this is a magical item?” It wasn’t that he didn’t believe him. He just knew that there were a lot of false alarms. Most citizens didn’t quite realize that not every colored rock on planet Earth was worthy of the Justice League’s time. 

Bruce sighed. “You know the rules. We have to check every item. Just in case.”

Great. So Tim was getting all the junk Bruce didn’t have time to deal with. 

He flipped over the file on the table, skimming through it. The rock came from Gotham City Museum? Tim hadn’t taken them as the type to pull shit like this. 

“Breaking and healing itself?” He asked, focusing on the ‘reason for submission’ section of the file in his hands. His mock awe was blistering with sarcasm. “Wow. Should we put it next to the penny? Or how about the dinosaur?”

Bruce didn’t look amused. His face was blank, empty of anything. Even an eye twitch. Which, was fair. It wasn’t that funny of a joke. But it was also, rude. He could at least pretend to laugh.

"Just... play around with it," Bruce said. "Listen, if you don’t find anything, just put that on your report. And that will be that. Constantine already tested it and found nothing, so you just need to do the final checks for me, okay?"

Was he just... admitting to handing Tim his discarded busy work? Like that made it all any better?

Bruce continued. "If Constantine thinks it's not a magical object, I doubt you'll find anything. But it's protocol. So put it through the tests and mark it as a negative. Then, we can throw it away and I won't have to think about it ever again." He rubbed the side of his forehead like the rock had given him a headache. Which, in Tim's opinion, was melodramatic. 

Screaming would not do Tim any good, even if it was warranted. So he swallowed down his anger and said, “Sounds great."

If Bruce could tell from his voice how not-great it sounded, he didn't let on. Just turned and walked down the tunnel out of the Batcave. And that was that. Conversation over. Tim had given in without so much as a final fighting word.

He looked at the rock after Bruce had left, turning it over in his hands. It was as if they had hired the most normal rock ever and plastered bioluminescent moss all over it.

He shook his head and put it away. He'd deal with it later. Set a reminder on his computer in case he ends up forgetting about it.

After all, what was the rush?

-

Tim stared at the Batcomputer, knees tucked into his chest. He felt like a zombie. More so than Jason could ever be. He was confined to a sickly cave in the early hours of the morning, rotting as the shine from the screen grew blurry. He was awash in the light from the monitor, its turquoise gleam coloring his cheeks and flaring against his eyes.

He clicked through report after report, managing three separate windows simultaneously. In the first, he was researching rumors on Scarecrow's newest batch of Fear Gas. In the second, he was scheduling three separate Wayne Enterprise meetings with multiple different companies. And in the last one, he was ordering a mug with a poorly photoshopped photo of Nightwing at a barbecue. With a caption that read, "Hey Thirsty! I'm Nightwing." In bold. The only reason he hadn't bought it yet was because he was worried Dick might actually like it.

A notification popped up in the left corner, glaringly bright. Tim had to stare at it for a few seconds just to discern what it said. Then he needed to stare for a few more, his mind too muddled to quickly comprehend it.

"Complete the magic check on that rock."

Tim nearly groaned at the thought. But he forced his body to move, swerving the chair around and grabbing the rock off one of the tables. He moved back in front of the Batcomputer, running his fingers over the fissures in the stone. Were the cracks in the same place they were before?

Curiously, Tim dug his nails into the fractures, attempting to pry it open. When that didn’t work he grabbed a hammer. If it really was just something normal, there was no harm in Tim breaking it, right?

He held the hammer above the rock, positioning it over a weak spot. But right before he could strike it, two things happened at once. 

The first was pain. All-consuming pain. So unavoidable it blotted out his vision with staining white dots.

Tim dropped the hammer and pushed his chair back, his mind whirling. His knees gave out underneath him and he crumpled in on himself, hands pressing against his forehead, face paling as he gasped for air, he needed it to stop.  

And yet, the second thing to happen was much more powerful than the pain. Much more visceral.

It was sorrow.

It felt like a large, gaping hole had ripped its way through his chest, tearing his flesh apart. He was so sad. Like he was experiencing grief all over again. Like he had just lost something important.

Tim didn't know when he had begun crying. All he knew was that when the pain halted, rolling to a tentative stop, tears were slipping down his cheeks.

Shakily, he pushed himself off the ground and slumped back into his seat. He sat there for a moment, taking deep, heavy breaths.

Then, he noticed the rock. In his struggle, it had fallen onto the floor. Tim rushed to pick it up, cradling it to his chest. Why the hell had he ever wanted to break it? The rock was important. Special. The idea of breaking it made Tim shudder at the thought.

The rock was certainly the cause of that pain. Which meant it was magical after all. But to manipulate emotions like that... Something about that felt weird to Tim. Concerning.

Tim let the rock rest in his lap and clicked through the computer, rubbing at his eyes absentmindedly. He pulled up the report, staring at the first question. Then, as if in a daze, he wrote, "Not magical; false alarm."

If he told them the truth, they'd take the rock away. And Tim had– he'd already lost him once. He couldn't lose him agai– it again. Tim couldn't lose it again.

Besides, he had more research he needed to do. There was something going on with the rock, and he was determined to figure it out.

Then, he looked back at the rock and tucked it closer to his chest. It was cold against his hands. But something inside of him felt like it was supposed to be warm. And breathing.

-

“What are you doing?”

Alfred looked up at Tim, confusion vivid on his features. He looked down at the rock in his hands before glancing back up at Tim again. As if the apprehension in the other’s voice was unwarranted. "I'm cleaning up? Is something the matter, Master Timothy? Master Bruce claimed you said this rock was normal."

Tim stared at the rock, unable to take his eyes off it. “...Right,” he said slowly. “I did say that, didn’t I? In the reports…” He walked forward, moving to pry the rock from Alfred’s hands. "Uh, would you mind if I kept hold of it? I'd want to keep it for just a little longer."

“Keep it?” Alfred asked. But he relented the rock to Tim, who took it gratefully into his arms.

The rock was safe. Tim could protect it again. “Yes. Just– just for now.” 

Tim ignored Alfred’s odd look and walked away. That was close. That was really close. Alfred could have accidentally broken the rock… or discovered it was magical.

Tim entered his room, kicking stray clothes out of his way as he went. He had to put the rock somewhere. A place that wasn’t too suspicious but also wasn’t too obvious. He opted to rest the rock on the highest shelf he could find, the object emitting a soft glow as he did.

-

Jason gave a loud, obnoxious yawn as he lounged in the chair across from Tim. Hamlet was propped open in his hands, his eyes scanning the page as if the play was simply a light read. Tim was positioned on the other side of the room, cross-legged on his bed, computer open as he typed up a research report for W.E.

They sat there in silence, the only noise between them besides keys clicking and pages turning was the occasional grunt or muttering from Jason, commenting on the state of Hamlet’s reasonableness. He kept calling the Prince of Denmark stupid, as though shocked by his actions, even though Tim was vaguely certain this was his tenth time reading it.

The peace lasted until Jason leaned back, noticing Tim’s shelf.

“Hey, what is that?” Jason stretched his legs before bouncing off the chair. He crossed the room, moving around stacks of discarded books and heaps of trash. “I think I’ve seen one of these before,” he said, grabbing the rock from the top shelf. “You get this at a pawn shop or something?”

Tim bolted up, moving off the bed to grab the rock from Jason’s hands. “Um… no.” He cleared his throat. “No. I just, uh, found it.” Internally, he winced. Real smart sounding, Tim. Way to go with that one. “I thought it looked cool, that’s all.”

“How do you think it glows like that?” He asked, tilting his head. “Maybe it’s the light? Some sort of reflection thing?” 

“Bioluminiscent moss?” Tim suggested weakly, knowing that wouldn’t throw Jason off the trail.

“Here,” Jason said, holding out his hand. “Can I see it?”

“Uh…” Tim could hand over the rock to Jason. But he also had to keep the rock safe. He had to. Because last time he failed. Because last time he was too– “No,” he said, bringing the rock a little closer. “I wouldn’t want it to break.”

Jason shrugged. “Uh, okay. Keep your pet rock, I guess.”

Tim hunched his shoulders. “No, it’s not that– I just– I–” I couldn’t protect him and now he’s gone. He’s gone. He’s go– What the fuck am I thinking about?

Jason rolled his eyes. “Chill, Timberlina. I’m joking.”

Tim managed a laugh. But his mind was reeling. What were those thoughts? Were they because of the rock? Or did they come from somewhere else?

“What do you know about magic?” Tim asked abruptly. And he could tell even Jason was started by the swift change in topic. 

“Uh, I don’t know shit about magic, kid. You should really ask… anyone else. Like– Genuinely anyone else."

Tim sighed. “Okay. Thanks.”

Jason narrowed his eyes, and Tim suddenly felt very observed. “Why?” 

Tim looked away, hoping his nerves didn’t show on his face. “Nothing. No reason.”

Jason didn't seem to believe him.

-

Tim shuffled his way through the crowded dressing room, surrounded on all sides by performers entranced by their mirrors– dotted with lights. The space was dim, almost dark, with no overhead lights except for a few flickering bulbs dangling from the ceiling. It smelled faintly of peppermint and dirt.

The room was abuzz with noise, everyone talking over each other– someone even singing opera-style in the background. Tim squeezed past magicians and clowns, pushing his way through, before stopping at two ballerinas.

"Uh, excuse me," he said, hoping they could hear him through the roaring chatter. "Do you happen to know where Zatanna is?"

One of the girls looked up at him, before glancing at her friend and pointing toward a door in the back.

"Thanks," Tim said, leaving them to put on their pointe shoes in peace. He headed toward the door, round and wooden and out of place amongst the cluster of performers. It squeaked softly as Tim opened it.

Stepping into the room, Tim realized it was nothing more than a smaller, more private dressing room compared to the ones outside it. In the back was Zatanna, standing in front of a mirror fully dressed in her stage outfit and adjusting her top hat. 

When Tim entered she didn’t even look up. And yet, her voice boomed through the room when she spoke. “Red Robin. Here to watch the performance?”

Tim shook his head, even though he was pretty sure she couldn’t see him through the mirror. “Not tonight, Zatanna. I have a question I need to ask you."

“I’m on in five,” Zatanna said flatly.

“A quick question,” Tim amended. “It's about magic."

She sounded a bit more intrigued at that. "Go on."

"Can it create emotions out of thin air?”

“Well… Hm.” Zatanna stopped fiddling with her hat and turned around to face Tim. “Technically, yes. But that’s quite difficult to do. Usually, the best way to accomplish any emotional manipulation magically would be to draw upon pre-existing emotions. Or emotions that were taken from the target beforehand.”

“Taken?”

“Yes, like if they took your memories, those memories have emotions attached to them. So theoretically speaking they could rip the emotions away from the memories and force the feelings back to you. But it’s not a clean-cut situation. Some memory pieces still latch on to the emotions and it’s…” She waved her hand around. “Messy. It’s all very messy.”

Tim processed the information, categorizing it in his head. So either the rock was more powerful than expected, it was drawing upon his emotions, or it had stolen his memories. All... wonderful options.

She looked at Tim, crossing her arms. “You aren’t planning to manipulate anyone’s emotions, are you?”

“Not at all.”

A soft buzz rang through the room. Zatanna looked up, her coy smile turning more genuine. “That’s my cue.”

”Break a leg.”

“Feel free to stay and enjoy the show,” she said, walking past him. “It’s going to be quite the spectacle.”

-

The manor was flooded with purple. Purple. Purple. Purple. The streamers colored the ceiling a deep violet, while the cake was decorated with lavender frosting. And almost everyone had the wrapping for their present to be some shade of eggplant or indigo– without any coordination at all.

And Steph was loving it.

"You know, I'm into the new wardrobe change. We should keep the manor like this. It really brightens up the place." Steph grinned at Tim as she sat down at the dinner table.

"Yeah, yeah," Tim said. “Change the Batcave to the Spoilercave. Just for you.”

”Exactly!” She said. “You get it.”

In the corner of his eye, Tim noticed Alfred enter the room. The butler held a tray of food in his hand as he placed it on the table. “Happy birthday, my dear,” he said. And Steph beamed at him.

"Thanks, Alfie. When’s the rest of the group getting here?”

“Very shortly, I believe. Should I check with Master Bruce?”

“No, it’s fine, it’s fine.” She leaned back in her chair, making a popping sound with her lips. She looked to the presents, her smile turning more excited by the moment. "You get me anything good this year, Alfie?”

Alfred smiled, something glimmering in his eyes. “I got you quite the excellent present, Miss Stephanie. If I do say so myself.”

Tim laughed. “Knowing Alfred, he’s going to blow the competition out of the water.”

“Every present has its merits, Master Timothy.”

-

Everyone had moved from the dining table to the living room, crowding around Stephanie as she opened her presents. She seemed elated with most of her gifts, even though as the years went by it became easier and easier to tell everyone's gift-giving patterns. In Tim’s opinion, at least.

Bruce's were always extremely expensive, something large and extravagant and almost always unusable. Dick's came in acts of service, while Jason always managed to tiptoe the line between thoughtful and rude. Steph's were funny and Cass's and Duke's were more practical, even if personalized. The only wildcard was Alfred. And hopefully Tim. He would hate to be predictable.

Steph gasped when she undid the wrapping. “You didn’t,” she said.

He grinned. All teeth. “I did.”

She held in her hands a scrapbook filled with pictures of her. Tim had gotten some from her mother, or Dick's and Cass's photo album. But a good amount was from his own camera. Pictures snapped at times she was too engrossed in the moment to notice. His favorites were the ones of her mid-laugh.

"Tim these are all so great. You–“ She cut herself off, taking one of the photos in the book and showing it to Tim. It was one where she had just turned seven, head bent back, face mid-laugh. “Where did you get this photo?”

Tim inspected his nails, failing to hide his smile. "Your mom."

"Ugh she’s such a traitor," she muttered happily. She looked up and met Tim's eye. "Thank you. Seriously. I’m keeping this forever and ever.”

“Happy birthday,” he said in reply.

She nudged him in the shoulder affectionately before turning to Alfred’s present. His was in a bag– a purple bag, of course, but it also had yellow tissue paper poking out from the top.

When Steph looked inside the bag, she froze, eyes widening.

Leaning down, she pulled out a paper from the bag– a drawing. Although Tim could only see the back of it. “Alfie…” she said. “This is…”

“I had it specially commissioned just for you.”

“Oh fuck. God, Alfie...” She gave a laugh that sounded like a sob. “This is gorgeous.” 

Cass tilted her head and Steph moved to show it to her, eventually passing it around so the rest of the family could see.

It was a beautiful drawing. One that depicted Steph as Robin, stared up at Spoiler. The Hills in the background.

They seemed to be mid-conversation, with Robin pointing at Spoiler’s hood, mouth open wide, and Spoiler leaning forward, listening. In the background, the bat-signal could be seen, twinkling off in the distance. It looked… normal. As if the two people existing at the same time together was possible. And Tim could see why Steph liked it so much. It had an air of approval about it. Like it was saying that if Robin Steph could see Steph now, she would be proud.

But Tim wasn’t too focused on that. He was focused on the strokes. The style. God, Tim could recognize that style anywhere. He held it for a moment, staring, before he jumped out of his chair and turned toward the staircase.

“Wha–? Tim!”

“Sorry Steph,” he said. He was apologetic. But his brain was working too fast to make it sound genuine. “I just need to borrow this for a moment.” Before anyone could stop him, he began running. Up the stairs and into his room, scrambling for his desk.

He shoved papers and books aside, letting them fall to the floor without so much as a care. Anything and everything in his way was discarded in favor of the search. And at the bottom of all the trash, he found it.

He held up that kid’s– Damian’s– drawing. The techniques were so similar it was painful.

Had Damian painted this? At Alfred’s request? But wasn’t he working for the Riddler? (A kid working for the Riddler. Gotham was so fucked up.) But why would Alfred–

Steph burst through his door, staring at him in a mix of confusion, and worry, and bewilderment. "Tim,” she said. “What the fuck is going on?!”

Tim hid Damian's drawing behind his back, holding Steph’s one out to her. “Sorry, I thought it was something but it was... nothing. Here’s your gift back.” 

“...Thanks.” She said, grabbing the drawing and casting him a concerned glance. Tim pretended not to notice it.

They headed back down to the living room and Tim forced his face back to calm and collected. He gave nothing away as he said the same half-baked excuse had had given to Steph. No one seemed to quite believe him, but it wasn’t outwardly troubling enough to keep the topic going.

Tim didn't care what they did or didn't think was happening. Because inside, Tim could hear his heart thrumming in his ears. Like he was at the tipping point of a breakthrough.

-

The hostess stared at him, bleary-eyed and irritated. "Hello," she said, her voice clipped. She shifted around, standing at the reception desk awkwardly. Tim felt a little bad about the whole thing. But there was no one else waiting to be seated, so surely she had free time to talk.

“I just need to ask you a few questions about Damian. He works here, I assume you know him?” Tim ignored how much his heart hurt at the sound of the boy’s name.

Tim had forgotten to investigate more about Damian since the kid’s whole thing at the gala. Which was weird, the kid was something Tim was certain he wouldn’t forget. But with Steph’s reminder, he had grown curious again. And if he also just wanted to see the boy again, no one would have to know.

He had asked Alfred about the drawing and the man claimed he had commissioned it from a stranger he met on the street. Which wasn't helpful to Tim in the slightest.

The hostess looked at the notepad in her hand, as if trying to run through a list of excuses. A list that must have failed her, because she said, ”Um… sure. Let me go ask.”

Tim watched her leave the desk, listening passively to the trivial conversations happening distantly around him. While he waited, he wrote imaginary code for a video game he would never design and made a list of all the Wayne Enterprise work he needed to do. 

And then, once that was done, his thoughts turned to the rock. 

It was definitely connected to something. A plot or scheme to destroy Gotham, maybe? Coincidences never happened. Not to Tim.

“The easiest answer is the rock’s purely drawing on my emotions… but it could also be part of a plot to manipulate me. Destroy the family from the inside out? Could the rock–”

“Rock?” The hostess asked, popping up in the edge of Tim’s vision. She had returned to the front desk.

Tim blinked at her. “What rock?”

She tilted her head. “The rock you were just talking about?”

…Had Tim said that out loud?

His mouth slid into a thin line. “It’s nothing,” he said, hurrying to change the subject. “Did you find out anything? About Damian?”

She clicked her tongue, giving him a look many people had worn on their faces lately. Why did people keep looking at him like that? Like he was losing his mind or something. 

“Nope.” She said, her voice tilted in a way that made Tim sure she was lying. “Don’t know what happened to him at all. We fired him a while ago. He’s long gone.”

“Oh. Okay.” Tim should question her, ask about where he went or if he’s contacted her since. But he felt so… tired. Like even thinking about Damian was taking energy out of him. In the back of his mind, a headache was beginning. “Sure. Whatever.”

-

Arriving at home, Tim tried to hurry to his room, stopped only by Alfred in the entryway to the kitchen. The butler gave Tim an appraising look, unhappy at whatever he saw. 

“My boy,” he said. “You look terrible. Where were you?”

“At some restaurant. And I look fine.”

Alfred pressed the pack of his hand to Tim’s forehead. “You’re burning up. I think you might have a fever.”

“Fever?” Tim asked. “I’m not sick. I’m fine.”

“Master Timothy, I insist, let me check you over for–”

“I’m fine, Alfred.” Tim put effort into making his voice sound soft instead of hysterical. 

Alfred didn’t look pleased, but he let Tim pass. 

A fever... did the rock cause that too? And why? Was it trying to stop Tim from accomplishing something? Or maybe Tim was looking in the wrong direction. Maybe he was really just sick.

If he was being honest, he preferred magic rock disease over a real illness.

Tim returned to his room and grabbed the rock off his shelf. Maybe Tim could investigate the rock’s properties more? Determine if it was alien or earthly. That would be a good start.

But Tim worried about breaking it. He wouldn’t want to hurt the rock.

A wave of nausea overcame him, and Tim gritted his teeth together. Was that really all the rock's doing? The fever? The nausea? The headaches he keeps getting? What was so important that the rock was hiding?

Or maybe... all that pain meant he was getting close. Closer to figuring it out. And the rock was scared.

So caught up in the thrill of discovery, the strain of the headache, and the burn of the fever, Tim didn't even notice Alfred peeking through the doorway, frowning.

-

Tim spent August ninth sobbing his eyes out into the palm of his hands. He lay in his bedroom for most of the day, accomplishing very little- if anything at all. Which, compared to the rest of his family, wasn't half bad.

-

Tim was greeted bright and early– around two o’clock in the afternoon– with the scene of his family all huddled in the living room. They were all there. Even Alfred. And yet, Tim felt a recurring ache in his bones again. Like it was somehow incomplete.

But, he could deal with that later. He had more concerning things to focus on. Like the fact that they weren't talking. No laughter or banter or meaningless small talk. No, they were staring. At Tim.

“So, uh,” Tim said nervously, waiting for someone to say something. “What the fuck is going on?”

Jason crossed his arms like it was obvious. “We’re holding an intervention, dipshit."

Tim blanched. “Intervention?” He looked around the living room. “For what? My sleep schedule? Guys, it’s getting better, I swear. Why would you need to–” And then he saw what Cass was holding. “Where the hell did you get that?”

The rock's glow had dulled, but it was still unmistakable. "You're room," Cass said. "Top shelf."

Fuck. Tim should have hidden it.

He tried to wrench it out of Cass's hands, but she was quicker and kept moving it just out of his reach.

"Give it back!" Tim pressed.

"No."

Tim stopped his struggle and pulled back, looking at the rest of his family. “Why do you have that?”

“We think it’s doing something to you,” Duke said. “You’ve been acting weird lately and we just... we're worried about you Tim. And we think the rock might have something to do with it."

“It wouldn’t be the first time a magical object was here in the manor, manipulating someone," Bruce said. “We’re here to stop it before it gets too late and–”

“Oh, I know it’s manipulating me,” Tim said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

"You–” Bruce paused. "What?"

"It's not the most subtle magic in the entire world, it's pretty obvious about what it's doing."

"Okay," Dick said. "That's... good. So we'll take it to the Justice League and–"

"No!" Tim said frantically. To frantically, perhaps. Maybe the rock was doing more than he thought.

"What?" Steph asked. "What do you mean, 'no?'"

"I mean, you can't take it away from me. I still need to figure out what it's doing and– uh–“ he floundered for excuses. “It’s part of a mystery, Dick. If we give it away, we'll forget about-" Tim stopped in his tracks. Everything clicked into place. That weird incomplete feeling. All those headaches. "Forget! Forget! Oh, of course. That’s the one it’s using. Memory magic." He had to talk to Martian Manhunter.

“Tim–” Dick reached for him. Tim knew that type of voice.

“No. No." Tim said, backing away. "I’m not crazy, I swear. I’m not under some magical alien control." Okay. Maybe he was under some magical alien control. Just a little bit. But that was not the point. "I need you to trust me on this.”

Dick just kept looking more and more worried. 

Okay so… not going great. There were a lot of ways this could have happened, and this was definitely a failure of an attempt. But, in his defense, he planned to never tell them until after he solved the problem. And then everyone would cheer and thank him.

Tim looked at Jason pleadingly. 

Jason snorted. “No help here. Who do you think helped Alfred and Bruce piece all this together?”

So Jason had abandoned him too. "Just... give me back the rock and let me talk to Martian Manhunter, okay?" He thought for a moment. "And John Constantine. They'll clear everything up and I can figure this out once and for all. And then..." He bit his tongue. "I'll drop it," he lied. "Okay?"

Alfred spoke for the rest of the group, relieved at the possibility of Tim letting the rock go. It made sense, Tim supposed, a lot of magical items make it very difficult for their owner to get rid of or destroy them. "Okay, Master Timothy. We agree to your terms."

-

They agreed to half his terms. He got a meeting with Martian Manhunter and Constantine– who both looked pretty pissed about being randomly called to the Justice League Tower. But as for the rock, Dick held it. Which was fine. Not like Tim cared.

The floor was sleek and well-cleaned, the overhead lights reflecting across the tiles, flushing everyone's faces a bit. It was a pristine building, hanging in space. Its windows hold a dazzling view of the galaxy.

“I already checked the rock, didn’t I?” Constantine asked. “It was rubbish.” A coin danced in his hand as he talked. “Not a magical object at all.”

Martian Manhunter took the rock from Dick and Tim forced himself not to bristle. “Of course, it wasn’t a magical object,” he said. “It’s no object at all. It’s alive.”

"What?" Constantine asked. "So it's sentient?"

"It's an alien species, anything is possible.” Martian Manhunter walked around, thinking as his cape swept behind him. “It seems to be alive the same way a tree or a flower might be alive. Follows instinct. Adapts to the world around it.” He looked to Tim. "What do you know about it?"

"Memories," Tim answered. "I think it does something with memories."

"Oh?" Constantine asked. "That's why you called in the bald, green man?"

The edge of Manhunter's lips twitched, he looked almost entertained by the magician's insult. "Memories... It could use those as a lifeblood, perhaps. Or a defense mechanism... I'll need to do more investigating. But, I can tell you one thing." From the graveness of his face, Tim could already tell he wouldn't like it.

"What?" He pressed. Because he had to know.

"The cracks on the rock..." Manhunter trailed off as drew a finger along one of the fractures, as if he was impressed by its very existence. "The more important something is, the more difficult it is to erase."

Tim looked at the rock, with all the splintering cracks surrounding it. "So you're saying that the cracks are..."

"Marks of resistance. You lost something very important, I believe."

“Or someone,” Constantine said, shrugging. “It could have erased a whole person.”

A whole person. A whole fucking person. Tim turned to his family, as if to say: See? This is something important!

And yet, they still didn't look fully convinced. No, wait, that wasn't it. Their expressions weren't skeptical they were... sad. And Tim's excitement faded when he realized what he was implying.

"We lost someone," Tim said, realizing it out loud. And if the look in Dick's eyes was anything to go by, the man believed him. Because it made sense. Every small thing that felt just a little out of place made sense. Every time something felt incomplete or fractured... "We lost someone," Tim repeated. Because fuck.

Chapter Text

The art show was—for lack of better words—an assault on the eyes. The outside walls were painted a deep, charcoal black, but inside, the lights were glowing gold and a million artworks splotched with vibrance were displayed upon towering walls. The outrageous display of color almost blinding.

Damian had absolutely no idea why Duke had marked this place on his map. Especially since the time written next to it was after sunset— and Duke rarely worked outside of the daytime hours.

Maybe Damian had got the wrong note?

Duke had a habit—that, thankfully, hadn’t changed since Damian was forgotten—of trading important vigilante notes through books at the Gotham Library. Damian just had to trail him to the classic section, see him slip a piece of paper into one of the most grotesque-looking versions of Homer’s The Odyssey, and peek inside it. Doing so revealed a map of Gotham, the art show circled in red ink. 

On the bottom, written in blue, was, ‘Fine. I’ll do it.’ But Damian had no idea whether Duke was returning the map or giving it. Despite that, he memorized the location written down and tucked it back into the novel. Duke was hiding something, and Damian was determined to find out what.

So there he was, standing in between a life-sized portrait of Superman and a tiny canvas of Lex Luther. Staring at a scene that was so obviously not vigilante-notes-in-library-books worthy.

There was nothing special about this place, so why did Duke put the map in a library book instead of giving it in the Batcave? Unless there was a reason Duke couldn’t do it in the Batcave? Could he not trust the Bats?

Suspicious, Damian supposed. Whether it was done for a reason or not.

But why choose this art show out of all the other art shows? What was going on? Why couldn't Damian figure it out?

And to top off his frustration, everything smelled of vanilla, as if the building had been doused in it multiple times.

And that was pretty terrible. Because it reminded Damian of Timothy and the vanilla cologne he was obsessed with. 

A while ago— years, actually, now that Damian really considers it— Timothy used to pick Damian up from school. He would arrive in some rich-looking sports car and drive Damian to Wayne Enterprise for a few hours while he finished up work.

Damian never liked waiting at Wayne Enterprise, always forced to sit in the chair at the front, glaring at the receptionist and whoever walked in. But he never waited there—sketchbook in hand—for too long. Timothy always finished up his meetings relatively quickly. And after he was done, he and Damian would drive home together.

And those parts were always the best. They always made everything worth it. 

Those were the parts where it was just him and Timothy in the car, neither saying a word, listening silently to the ragged, ethereal voice of a man on the electric guitar. The parts where they didn’t need to say anything as Timothy turned up the music and Damian leaned his head back, the hollow drums beating through the speakers like a choir. Sometimes, if they both knew the words, they’d sing along. Damian would never sing if he thought Timothy could hear him, but Timothy never cared about that. He would always belt out the words as the windows rolled down, a giant, stupid smile on his stupid face.

Damian would never admit it, but that voice, bloated and off-key, trying in vain to compete with the rushing wind cascading through the car, was better than any lullaby. Any calming, crystalized piano song.  

And during those car rides, when Timothy was still wearing his work suit, all Damian could smell was vanilla, vanilla, vanilla.

It almost felt rude, in a way, for such a building to smell so obnoxiously of vanilla and for Timothy to be nowhere in sight. 

Damian tried to distract himself, walking through the isles and admiring the different displays. Some were modern art, blotches of color splattered around bold, cartoon pop. Other pieces were more classical, with a refined focus on realism. But they were all gorgeous in their own right, and some of them Damian almost felt envy towards.

Perhaps he should look into getting his art pieces into a show like this. The idea of doing something with his art instead of letting it accumulate in his room was one he hadn’t considered. And the thought alone, of his work of art, hanging somewhere in front of a large crowd, quite pleased him.

He could imagine dragging his whole family to see the opening, the whole pack of them walking through the halls to see Damian’s art up on display. And afterward, they would go out for dinner and cake. Where they would laugh about the art critics' weird fashion choices and Damian would lean into Richard's side and listen as Father would tell him how proud he was of him.

It would be amazing.

And also, impossible.

Because that would never happen. Which is why he had to stop imaging it.  

It had been a year and a half since he had lost them. He really needed to get used to it. And he had. He had gotten... relatively accustomed to it. In fact, he was perfectly fine and happy until Duke had shown up and ruined it.  

But, honestly, if all it took was another reminder of his family to send him spiraling, maybe he should just move out of Gotham all together. He couldn't go to Bludhave— thatwas Richard’s town—but there were other cities he could move to. Maybe Central City? That would be a good place to live.

Well, he would deal with the moving situation after all of this was over. He just had to figure out what was so special with this art show, then get out. And after that, he would know. He would know what Duke was trying to hide—which could be any number of things that previously Damian would have been privy to—and he could finally get over it. Damian could walk away and never think about any of this ever again. 

So for now, art. He should just focus on art.

On his right was a painting of Red Hood, holding his mask up in front of him like Yorick's skull. He stared at it with intensity, however a small grin was forming on his lips. He wore a domino mask, concealing his eyes but not his hair, the classic white streak dangling in front of his face.

The painting was reverent. Feverishly so. Jason would have loved it.  

As Damian walked deeper and deeper into the art show, the paintings grew more experimental. He had a suspicion that the best was saved for the front and the worst—or at least the art shows idea of the worst— were hidden in the back.  

But, as he reached the outer edges of the building, he paused, halting in his tracks. To his left was a painting, large and silky, depicting Gotham. Not the rich parts of Gotham with the wealthy, lavish parties nor the underbelly of Gotham with the smog and graffiti and darkness. It was just... Gotham. A painting of some random street in broad daylight. Damian had never seen a painting of Gotham in daylight before. The city was always portrayed at night, with a Batsignal or full moon in the sky. Sometimes, if an artist was more daring, they would place it in a sunset. But never at noon. And never so full of... 

“People,” Damian muttered, shocked. “There’s so many people.” Every painting of Gotham was desolate and dark, with empty streets and criminals peeking out of the shadows. Yet this one was filled with people. People walking their dogs or running to work or chatting in cafes. Even looking through a halted taxi's tinted windows revealed a mother with a baby in her hands, laughing with the driver.

It felt so alive. And so... unlike the wasteland Damian was used to seeing. 

“You like it?” A woman asked, appearing in the corner of Damian’s vision. She must be the painter of it, hair tousled and eyes wide, as if both her appearance and expression were in a constant windblown state.

“There’s a lot of people,” Damian repeated, like he had nothing better to say, like he was a goddamn idiot. 

She didn't seem to take his dull response to heart. “Well, you know what they say: Gotham might be alone, but you’re never alone in Gotham.” She ran a hand through her hair, looking back at her painting.

Damian had never heard anyone say that. Ever. “Well,” he said. “It’s... an interesting interpretation.” 

“Thank you?” She said, as if unsure if it was a compliment. “I know most people prefer it gloomy. That’s why my piece was put near the back. But that’s neither here nor there, you know?” 

Damian said nothing, still looking at it. “It’s an adequate portrayal of the city,” he decided, turning to look at her. “They are fools for putting it so far away.” 

At that, she smiled. “Thank you.” 

Just then, a loud cackle boomed through the art show and the music stuttered to a stop.

The once eager chatter gave way to uneasy muttering. But no one was panicking.

Well, no one was panicking until Scarecrow fell down from the ceiling, slamming onto the floor below. Then, the people began to scream. Not for a bad reason, out of all of Batman's villains Scarecrow was by far one of the worst.

But, dropping down from the rafters, landing with grace next to the man's writhing body, was Orphan. She stood, her posture poised and ready to strike.

Underneath her hood, Cassandra's eyes were trained sharply upon the masked villain. But, just for a moment, they flickered to Damian.

-

Cass crouched down, slipping her mask over her nose and tucking her hood over her face. In her hand, she fiddled with a smoke bomb, rubbing it between her fingers. A cold breeze swept through her hair.

Her comm's connection sparked and flickered, Steph’s voice crackling to life in her ear. “You in position, Orphan?”  

“Yes,” Cass replied, low and soft. Her eyes studied the guests entering the building, memorizing their faces and the colors of their shirts, burning it into her memory. “Duke?” 

“He’s distracting them. I sent him a map through our library system. Said he can go anywhere in Gotham as long as he stays a mile away from us.” There was a shrill noise, the sound of Steph spinning in her chair. "Hopefully, he can distract them. Last thing I need is Tim breaking the fuck down over Scarecrow's gas. Can you imagine that? It'd be a fucking disaster."

"Rock."

"Exactly! Especially since we let Manhunter keep the rock. No matter what we say, Tim just won't listen." Steph's sigh was deep. "I love Tim, but I swear that boy is losing it—I mean, have you seen the whiteboard? Insanity. Genuine insanity, Cass. If there’s a solution to this problem, it’s written on there somewhere.” 

“Current... Leads?” She asked, creeping closer to the edge of the roof, allowing her a wider view of the guests trailing in.

“Well,” Steph said, her voice excited, as if this was an answer she was particularly excited to share. In the background, there was the sound of tapping, she must be pulling up a photo on her phone. “The main theories right now are: “Bruce’s secret dead wife,” “Jason’s son kidnapped by evil aliens,” and “The rock is actually a genie lamp.” 

Cass processed the information, taking it in and dissecting the theories carefully. However, it took her only a moment before she rolled her eyes. “Liar," she said. She had no doubt those were written somewhere on the board, but they weren't the main ones.

Steph laughed. “Fine. You're right. But they’re the most interesting out everything. Although, the second one I'm pretty sure Jason wrote as an attempt at a joke.”  

“Main ones,” Cass insisted. “Important.” 

Steph grumbled something. “Okay. We got: ‘Prevented world-ending disaster with sacrifice,’ ‘Used to be Robin,’ and ‘Bruce accidentally killed them and then, consumed by guilt, erased everyone's memories of them so he can remain Batman despite being a killer.’ But they can’t all be winners, I guess.”  

“Robin...” Cass said, picking the second option and pointedly ignoring the third. “Probably Robin.” 

“You think?”  

Cass shook her head, even if Steph couldn't see it. “Know.”

“Yeah... this is all just one long gut instinct game of telephone, isn’t it? But I haven’t had any crazy vibe attacks yet.”  

“You have.” If this was real—and each day that felt more and more like a possibility—then Steph had definitely felt it. She just didn't realize.

“Uh, huh,” Steph said sarcastically. “Well, I’m sure I'll—Oh!" Her voice turned from casual to serious. "We got ourselves the Crane-wanna-be, forty-five degrees west. You remember the plan?”  

Did Steph even need to ask? “Yes.”

“Alright." The sound of her rubbing her hands together was faint. "Go get ‘em, Tiger. Be the best damn bait this world has ever seen.” 

- 

The plan was simple. Find Scarecrow—not really Scarecrow, this was a trap for her, so Crane used a decoy—on the roof above the art show, preparing his "gas" for release. Then, attack him, kick him through the roof and make a show out of it. After that, pull off his mask and snarl, “You’re not Jonathan Crane,” and look up in surprise when the henchmen surround her.  

She would put up a fight—but not a good one—and would end up captured. From there, the real Scarecrow would take her to his base where she would escape, give Oracle the coordinates, and take down Scarecrow and fear gas supply. 

This newest batch was his worst yet. It was lethal, prolonged, and—if it worked—it could destroy Gotham in months.  

Cass knew exactly how important everything going perfectly was. She knew that a single misstep could lead to a disaster. And yet, as she stood in front of Not-Scarecrow, the people surrounding her fleeing from the building, her eyes found... that kid. From the Gala. What did Tim say his name was? Damian?  

He was a fighter, she could tell from the way his muscles twitched, tense and prepared. But she knew that already. His hair was too long, as if he had forgotten to cut it. And there was fear in his eyes, a startlingly intense amount of fear.

From the way his hand rested over his abdomen, she could tell he was hungry. And from the way he looked at Scarecrow, Cass knew—without a doubt—that the kid didn't work for the Riddler. The two villains were close friends and if someone worked for one they wouldn't hate the other. They also would know this was a trap, which he didn't.

All of that she gathered within a second. And yet, it took her much longer to contextualize the clawing sensation that burned through her chest. Care, she realized, with surprise. It was an intense amount of care. For the kid.

Not-Scarecrow began to groan, pushing himself up. Right. The performance.

Cass leaned forward and ripped off his mask, hoping her acting skills were good enough to portray shock. “You’re not Jonathan Crane."

And the man grinned. He was missing two teeth—either from fights or a lack of proper medical care. From the way his knuckles were bruised and his left bicep shook, she would have to guess the former.  

“I’m may not be Crane," he crooned. "But you have fallen right for his trap.” 

The henchmen appeared out of seemingly nowhere—although Cass had noticed them hiding among the crowd earlier—each holding some sort of weapon in their hands. If they thought this was enough to take out Orphan, they were not as intelligent as Cass had originally though.

The guests had almost all left, hurrying out of the room, but as Cass sneaked another glance at Damian, she found him still standing there, staring at her.  

The woman he was talking to hadn’t run either, she was on the floor, knees to her chest, shaking. She had been fear-gassed before, if Cass had to guess. And she was too frozen by the possibility to find it in herself to escape.

Cass felt that ache of care course through her body again as she turned and took off through the gallery.

-

Damian stared at Cassandra as she left, weaving through the hallways, pursued by Scarecrow’s henchmen. The man who definitely wasn’t Jonathan Crane was picking himself up, rolling his shoulders, and turning to go after her. 

But Cassandra wasn’t Orphan for nothing. If that was all the men they had, she would win in less than a minute. All without breaking a sweat.

Which meant that now was a better time than any for Damian to get out of there. But as he turned to join the flocks of people scrambling out of the building, he noticed the woman from earlier. 

She had pushed herself against a wall behind him, her knees tucked into her chest. One hand was gripping the fabric of her shirt so tightly it seemed to fabric might tear.

“No...” She croaked out, eyes trailing after the man in the Scarecrow outfit as he ran through the gallery. She shook her head. “I can’t get Fear Gassed again... not again...” 

Damian wanted to scoff. He wanted to sneer and tell her off for being so weak. Wanted to say he had been Fear Gassed twenty times before and they weren’t that bad at all. That he had handled each and every one of them perfectly. 

But that would be a lie. Because they were that bad and he hadn’t handled them perfectly. Or well. Or in any acceptable way at all.  

Actually, each time he got dosed with it, the effects grew worse. More vivid. More erratic. More worrying.

The first time it happened; he didn’t react at all. Just clamped up, froze over, went silent, did nothing but follow orders. And no one had even realized his rebreather was broken until they had already returned to the Batcave and Damian had begun shaking.  

The last time it happened; Damian couldn’t stop screaming.

So, although it pained him, he held his tongue.

Even if her cries were growing more annoying, snapping at her to cease her whining would not be as much help as he would have liked.

Richard had gotten Timothy to calm down after Fear Toxin, hadn’t he? Damian couldn’t remember what exactly he had said... some long-winded speech that made Timothy stop struggling long enough for them to inject the antidote into him.  

The woman wasn’t under the influence of Fear Toxin yet, but surely that could work, right? All he had to do was conjure up Richard's wording of it.

“It’s dark right now,” he said, crouching down next to her, imitating Richard's tone with his voice. “And you can’t see anything except fear.” Richard used to tell him of Speeches. Of how the most well-crafted ones could send men to a war they knew was already lost. Of how the sword was nothing without the pen.  

Damian didn’t know how words could be so powerful. But he had to try something here.

“I know you’re scared, Tim—” No, he couldn’t say Tim. Couldn’t copy Richard’s speech word for word. “—or... whatever your name is. But you have to... be strong. Strong? Strong.” 

Yeah, that wasn’t working at all. She looked less than convinced at his measly attempt at comfort.

So, Richard’s speech was a bust.  

Maybe... 

“Have you ever worked for the League of Assassins?” He asked, immediately after, uncaring for how blunt it was.

She blinked, her distress waning in favor of confusion. “...No?” 

Damn it. Well, Damian was all out of ideas. He couldn’t use any of the league training on her. Couldn't tell her to remember their five-step program to shutting down your emotions. (Even if it didn't work as well as a ten-year-old Damian would have liked.)

Did he have to actually... talk to her? As a person?

Well, that couldn't be too hard. All he needed to do was calm her down. Inspire some bravery back in her—enough to convince her to run away—and then get out of there himself. If stealing Richard’s speeches didn’t work, and using League methods wasn’t available, he’d just have to rely on personal experience to fester her courage. 

“Do you...” He frowned. “Have any siblings?” 

She rubbed her eyes. Was she crying...? In front of other people? Damian hadn't cried in front of someone in years. “A younger sister," she said.

There. That was a hook. Damian could work with that. "A younger sister? Do you love her?” 

She looked offended. “Of course I love her. How could I not? She is my sister.” 

“I have sisters too,” he offered. “A few of them, actually. And a lot of older brothers. Well, I used to, I guess. Don’t really have them anymore.” Not the point, Damian. Get it together. “But your sister needs you, doesn’t she?” 

“You don’t know that,” she spat, but she was looking less hysterical and more miserable... so that was a start. 

“Well, no. I don’t. But most younger siblings need their older siblings.” Not Damian, though. He had never needed anyone before in his life. Not then, not now, not ever. “And, most older siblings need their younger ones.” That one was even more of a guess. But he was pretty sure it was true.

She looked up at him, considering his words. "You really think she needs me?"

Uh... "Yes. And that's why you need to get out of here. For her."

“But I— I'm scared, what if Scarecro—"

"You might be scared," he said, having no idea where his sentence would end. "But you're also brave." Yeah. That sounded right. "So brave. And you’re going to pick yourself up and get out of here, you hear me? For her. She needs you. And you need her."

“You think I’m brave?” She asked, slowly picking herself up. So that was good... it seemed to be working.

“Yes,” he forced out. She wasn’t acting brave, so the words sounded ridiculous to him, but she was standing up. Her legs were shaking and wobbling, but she was standing up.

"You—" She said. "You're right. This is— This is crazy. I can't just die here when I could be killed any minute. She needs me." She leaned against the wall, taking deep, shaky breaths. She seemed to be sobering up from her terror. "What's your name?" She asked. The fight could be heard in the distance, even though Orphan should have won already.

“Damian,” he told her. No use lying. 

“Thank you, Damian. Sorry about... that. This was, uh, definitely not an experience I wanted to go through with a sixteen-year-old kid, but thanks for not leaving me here. That was... really kind of you.” 

Damian blanched at that. His mind whirling with thoughts.

He was too occupied to notice her grab his hand and slowly lead him out of the building, taking small, steady steps out one of the emergency fire exits. He was too occupied to process Orphan, restrained by two henchmen in the corner of his vision. (Although, he registered it distantly in his brain, locking it away for later.) He was too occupied to feel the breeze graze his skin as they stepped outside.

“Kind?” Damian asked. He thought of blood stains and pit-green eyes and razor-sharp swords and words whispered through parted, chapped lips. He thought of screams and soft, shaky pleas and dirtied hands and red, glowing rocks that promised blessing and curses and control and retribution. “I don’t think I’m kind.” 

“Well,” she said. “I don’t think I’m brave.” She smiled and looked around, pleased with her work. They had made it out onto the street, where police had already arrived, surrounding the building with civilians crowded behind them. There were still a few stragglers emerging from the art show, but the majority of the crowd from earlier had long fled. Surprisingly, there was no Batman at the scene. “And yet," she said. "Here we are.” 

Damian turned to her. “Yeah,” he said numbly. "Here we are." Then, because he had nothing more to say, any wise words long drained out of him. "Farewell."

"Farewell," she replied, and he was somewhat sure she was mocking him.

Then, finally free of the art show, he walked away.  

It was ridiculous he went to the art show in the first place. Like all things, it ended in disaster. Plain, stupid disaster. Built from some dense pipe dream. He had only gone for some fading sense of need in his chest, some desire to become part of something he was never going to be part of ever again.

So, it was ridiculous he went. But now he was leaving. And maybe he could work toward finding himself a place out of Gotham. Maybe Metropolis would be a good city to move to.

Still, he thought about Cassandra. He thought of her somehow losing against the Scarecrow’s men in the corner of her vision. She would be okay, though. She was Orphan. She was feared. Just because he saw her lose the fight and be restrained didn't mean she actually lost the fight.

Cassandra didn’t need help. Especially not from him.

She would be fine. She would be—

Damian sighed, his breath a white puff in the chilly, Gotham air.  

Kind, huh? 

He turned on his heels and walked back into the building.  

Chapter Text

Cassandra Wayne doesn't get captured easily. Technically, she doesn't get captured at all. Which is why the men— giddy and proud and clapping each other on the back— really should have been more cautious.

She had led them to a secluded area of the art show, long since evacuated, for the show. She had put up a convincing front, a suitable performance for her audience of five, but ultimately lost. It wasn't a real loss, she had to purposefully trip, but it was still a loss.

They had fried her trackers and comms and bound her hands by rope. Her back flanked by guards on both sides. Despite their victory, they were still cautious. Which was a good tactic, even though, despite all their prevention, it would still be an easy escape for Cass.

But Cass was to play the part of hapless bait, as per Stephanie's ten-step plan. Accurately titled: Defeat Scarecrow, Save Gotham, Never Let Bruce or Tim Know.

Cass watched the men, observing them and categorizing every detail she could find into neat, simple folders inside of her head. One of the men was hiding a set of daggers inside his sleeves, the bumps in the fabric giving him away. Another was paranoid, back to a corner as his eyes flickered around the room. He didn't even trust his own teammates, watching them with weary, frantic eyes. A weak link if Cass had ever seen one. And the other two were brothers— twins, most likely.

The fake Scarecrow— their stand-in leader until Crane was back in the picture— was still on an emotional high. He kept grasping near his neck only for his hand to meet air and fall down to his side. He was most likely expecting to grab his mask, the nervous tic revealing how exposed he felt without it.

Her deduction was confirmed when, a few seconds later, the fake Scarecrow turned to one of the men and in a low, hushed voice— the kind Cass wasn't supposed to hear— said, "My face... Did anyone else see it?"

"No one except Orphan, sir," the henchman replied. "I'm sure of it."

And he was right. With the commotion they made— a catalyst for the stumbling, terrified crowd of people— no one was paying attention by the time Cass tore off his mask. Everyone else was too focused on escaping before the Fear Toxin took hold.

He got lucky, she supposed. In any other situation it would have been glaring and vivid. But in the hazed mess, no one spared a glance. Even the boy— Damian— the one closest to the struggle, hadn't seen it. Or perhaps he did. Whether he caught the man's appearance didn't matter, as long as none of the henchmen brought him up.

Now, why the man didn't want his face to be seen was a mystery. Cass didn't recognize him and she certainly couldn't connect him to anyone. But he cared deeply about who or what saw his face, surprisingly concerned with it. Maybe it was—

A loud clang interrupted her thoughts, blaring through the silent art show. Every head whipped around, searching frantically for the source of the abrupt noise.

Cass watched as everyone relaxed when they saw it was just a fallen table. Cass, however, was still on edge. She could see the shadow hiding behind it. The person who had knocked that table over. And when the shadow walked forward, light illuminating the face, her eyes widened with surprise at the sight.

Damian came in sobbing.

He stumbled forward, his wails loud and obnoxious and echoing through the building. Their attention was drawn to the blubbering boy immediately, Damian tripping over himself to back away. Tears dripped down his cheeks as he stared at the henchmen with big, glassy eyes, utterly terrified. His cries were cluttered and choked and realistic. Which was impressive considering it was— without a doubt— a complete ploy.

All of it was fake. The tears were fake and the stutter in his step was fake and the tremble in his breath was fake. It was one big ruse. Designed and calculated to make Damian seem as helpless and normal as possible.

But the worst part about it was, at that moment, Damian seemed his age. A scared teenager who just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. It made her sad. Sad because he could only ever be his own age when he was pretending.

Damian kept crying and the henchmen kept staring. Cass could tell he was growing annoyed. He was trying to get captured and they were just standing around doing nothing. Oh. He was trying to get captured. With Cass.

"Get him!" The fake Scarecrow hissed, agitated. But Cass caught something else in his voice. Panic. "He saw my face, you idiots."

The men moved into action then, hurrying over and tying the kid's wrists together too. He didn't even do anything except limply back away and resist the men, both to no avail. When the knot on his wrist was finished, his head dropped, shoulders quivering. The illusion of numb acceptance.

The man moved to hold the kid's forearm, almost purely for formalities sake. He barely glanced at the boy, not even considering him to be a threat.

Which was a mistake. Damian was not the type of person you wanted to underestimate. Cass knew that and she knew it well.

"So what do we do with him?" One of them— the one with the poorly hidden daggers— asked. "He's just a kid. Scarecrow doesn't need him. We can't use him as a hostage; I don't think anyone will want him."

The fake Scarecrow shrugged. "Test subject."

The idea of Damian being used as a test subject for Fear Toxin made Cass's stomach boil. But she held her tongue, keeping her face passive. Damian, however, briefly flashed an insulted look— as if the idea of being nothing more than a test subject was personally offending— before quickly masking over it.

"Or he'll just kill him," one of the twins mumbled. When the paranoid looked at him oddly, his head bolted up. "What?" He asked. "You know how much boss likes doing that."

Cass didn't think it was possible for her anger to multiply itself tenfold. But somehow, this man managed to accomplish such a feat.

The henchmen kept talking, moving Cass and Damian together as they did. It was a smart tactic, put all your hostages in one place. But, as the men continued talking, the attention on their prisoners waned, and the two could converse quietly without notice.

"Orphan," Damian greeted in a whisper.

"Damian," she whispered in return. He flinched, not liking the reminder that she knew his name. Something inside her made her feel like even if she didn't see him again, she'd still never forget it. "Need to go."

"I can make you an opening," Damian said, always so persistent, always so stubborn.

Cass shook her head. "Not needed, little br— boy."

"Not little," Damian retorted, almost from instinct. "And it is needed. You have to get out before—"

"I need to stay. You need to go. You must... Get out."

"What? Why?" Damian asked, confused. He seemed "I want to—"

"Well start with knocking him out," the paranoid man grumbled, cutting through their conversation. "I don't want to listen to his whining the whole ride over."

Cass was the only one who saw Damian roll his eyes before the man behind him, banged the back of a gun against his head, and he was out cold.

-

Damian awoke to a jump and a headache. There was a low rumbling beside him a his body jostled around like a little kid on a mechanical bull. His thoughts coughed and stuttered as he tried to orient himself.

Opening his eyes revealed the interior of a truck, with Cassandra tied up across from him, staring at him, unfazed.

There was this thing about Cassandra's gaze; it was observant in a purely passive manner. She didn't even mean to read a person, didn't even mean to pick apart their thoughts like a surgeon, it just happened. Almost unintentionally. There was a time when he found it comforting when her ability to discern his emotions from her perception alone was welcome. But now he just found it jarring and worrying.

Damian glanced toward the front of the truck, the silhouettes of Scarecrow's men could be seen in the driver's seats, separated from him and Cassandra by a small glass panel.

Cassandra leaned forward. "Okay?" She asked. It was a pleasantry question, purely as a show of politeness. There was nothing Damian could tell her that she didn't already know herself.

Still, he lied. "Yes," he replied curtly, pointedly ignoring his headache.

She narrowed her eyes but didn't comment any further. Which he was grateful for. "You should... get out," she said. "Not safe."

"How?" Damian asked. He began trying to undo his own restraints while he talked. The rope rubbed against his skin while he did, burning. "You know, I could have given you an opening and we both could have escaped."

Cassandra frowned, contemplating. "After mission complete... I will... get you out."

"Then neither of us would be in this me—" He paused, turning to look at Cassandra, her words processing. "What?"

"Needed to be... captured," she said. "Sorry."

Damian opened his mouth and then closed it. "Mission?" He asked, deflating.

"Mission," she confirmed.

Fuck. Of course. That made... sense. Cassandra would never actually be captured. Why did he even think for a second she was— Ugh. So now he was trapped in a truck with Cassandra, on his way to wherever the hell Scarecrow's base is, all for nothing.

"But helpful!" Cassandra insisted, leaning forward. Oh, she had sensed his frustration. Great.

He clicked his tongue, making a soft, "tt," and met her eyes. "It was just a mere miscalculation. Your pity is unneeded. Apologies for interfering with your mission." Why did he ever listen to his stupid, bleeding heart?

"After mission... I help," she said. "I will... get you out. Do not worry."

"I'm not worried," Damian snapped. He could escape whenever he wanted to. Well, he could escape whenever he wanted to once he untied his hands.

"Hm," she said.

Damian felt needles on his shoulders, prickling his skin. He hated the feeling of being predicted, of his movements being cataloged. He used to be able to read people too— not as well as Casandra, obviously. Never as well as Cassandra. And never when it mattered.

That was the thing, wasn't it? Anything and everything he learned in the League, oblique in the face of his family.

Cassandra watched him for a moment.

"I will protect," she said.

Damian sneered at her. "I don't need protection."

"I know," she said. "I protect anyway."

Before Damian could respond, the truck screeched to a halt and the back door swung open, two men emerging.

They clamored inside, revealing behind them, a background of metal walls. One grabbed Cassandra and dragged her off immediately, disappearing out of view. The other didn't seem as pressed.

While the first was more stiff, the second was more casual. He didn't drag Damian off the truck, just sauntered in before taking the seat across from Damian, sitting in the spot Cassandra had previously occupied. In one hand was a box. In the other, was a phone.

"You'll run yourself ragged if you keep trying to escape," the man remarked as Damian continued to struggle with the rope binding his wrists. "There's no use for it."

Damian made a show out of stopping, even if he continued trying to worm his way out a moment after, taking care to make his struggle less visible.

"I wanted to let you go, but the boss was all pissy 'cause you saw his face. So, whatever." The man sighed. "You know, you're pretty feisty for a kid. Would've thought with all that crying you'd be much more cooperative. Maybe Orphan got all in your head. She tends to do that. Always so heroic, you know?"

Damian remained silent.

The man kept talking. "It's not always a good idea to get too chummy with the Bats, people like Scarecrow notice that shit." He opened the box, revealing a syringe inside of it. "Scarecrow, he's... Well, he has ideas. Things he wants to do. Some further his goal. Some are just for fun. I don't care much as long as it pays." He took the syringe out, examining it. "Don't feel too bad, this is the same kind that's going in the water supply."

Was that... Fear Toxin? Damian forced his expression to remain neutral.

"Say," the man said, tilting his head. "What are you scared of?"

Damian froze, narrowing his eyes. "What?" He asked, trying to buy himself time.

"I said: what are you scared of? What are the things that keep you up at night? What are the worst possible images you can conjure?"

"Nothing," Damian said, pressing himself into the wall. It didn't do much. If anything, it might have given away his defensiveness if the man was observant enough. Still, the action alone gave him a flicker of comfort. It wasn't enough— it was never enough— but if Damian tried hard enough, he could pretend that was all he needed.

"Nothing?" The man asked. "Nice try. Everyone's afraid of something."

"Nothing," Damian repeated. His focus was on the syringe.

"Should I guess? Hmmm... spiders? Or is it a fear of heights?" He contemplated. "You seem like a kid who'd be real afraid of the dark."

Damian didn't even dignify that with a response.

He leaned back. "No, the real fears go deeper. That's when things get vaguer. Is it loss? Hatred? Anger? Is it your loved ones? Your enemies? Yourself?" He waved a hand. "All theoretical, technically. But it's fascinating to think about. I wonder if you got Fear Toxin in your blood, what you'd be afraid of. Whose name you'd scream." But then he frowned. "But, I don't even understand why he wants this. It's not like we'd get to see your reaction."

Damian frowned. See my reaction? Did he mean he was going to leave after he gave Damian the toxin? It wasn't a wild statement but something about it felt... off. As if Damian wasn't given all the pieces to a puzzle.

"At the same time, some things are worth the wait." The man looked at the syringe coyly.

Damian leaned back, rubbing the ropes trapping his wrists together. He had almost wormed out of the restraints.

The man reached out, placing the needle right against Damian's neck and giving Damian a disarming smile. In his head, Damian calculated the distance between the man's hand and his mouth. He weighed his League training against his Bat training. To manipulate or to appeal.

Damian chose neither; he bit the man's hand.

"Fuck!" The man jolted back, giving Damian a wary look. "Did you just... bite me?"

Damian barred his teeth, still maneuvering out of the ropes binding his arms. He was almost...

There.

Damian twisted his hand out of the rope, hand curling into a fist hidden behind his back. "No," Damian lied, giving an innocent expression. "I didn't bite anyone."

"What the hell, kid? I wasn't actually gonna—"

Damian punched the man in the jaw, vicious and quick and powerful. A satisfying crack followed after.

The man swayed, hands reaching for his chin. And in his disorientation, Damian pounced. His palms pushed into the man's chest, forcing him against the wall. The man squirmed, trying to fight Damian off. But he had lost the battle before it had even begun.

Loss was not something that existed in the League. You either won or you died trying. Damian was not versed in the art of defeat. Moments of weakness— his mind flashed to the Riddler pointing a gun to his chest— usually lead to death. Or almost-death.

Damian tapped one of the man's pressure points— a skill learned from Cassandra's training. A non-lethal move used only in close combat.

A loud thump rattled through the truck as the man landed on the floor.

One down.

Damian traced his teeth with his tongue, wondering how much dirt was on the man's skin. Still, it was better than Fear Toxin. Anything was better than Fear Toxin.

Examining the man's fallen body revealed daggers hidden in the stitches of his shirt. Damian let a small, relieved grin take hold for a second. Daggers, he could work with daggers. He had been trained on them by his mother many years ago.

He stole the daggers before creeping out of the van. Sneaking through the back doors, he emerged outside. The truck was parked in Gotham City's water supply. Which, if Scarecrow had a new Fear Toxin, made the location much more malicious.

The other two henchmen— along with the not-Scarecrow— were huddled near the front of the building, discussing plans and plots and strategies.

Damian climbed to the top of the truck, watching them from above. He was faced with two options. Run or fight.

Was there any debate? Damian chose the latter.

He targeted the fake Scarecrow first. He dropped down from the top of the truck, behind the man. He acted fast, so as to have the advantage of a sneak attack.

And it worked. One swift, unexpected kick to the head, and the man was out.

The other two henchmen noticed Damian and squared up, ready to fight.

Their faces were a mix of arrogant and worried. Arrogant because Damian had spent ten whole minutes crying when they first captured him. Worried because somewhere in them, they could sense the prowess of his technique.

The first one to run for him, his hand prepared for a jab, was tripped. Damian weaved out of the second's hook and met him with an uppercut. Damian immediately hit him with a body shot and the second was cold on the floor.

The first guy pulled himself up, but Damian managed to have his strike land first, knocking him out with an elbow to his temple.

Damian hadn't actually fought people in... In a while. He was rusty. If his Grandfather could see him, he would be so disappointed. It was... shameful, honestly.

But, during the fight, Damian missed something. He was rusty. His knowledge frail. He missed something. A key fact about one of the pressure points. He had remembered which pressure point, but he had forgotten how long the unconsciousness lasted.

He didn't know it then. But he would know it soon. Once he noticed the figure emerging from the back of the truck, armed with nothing but a syringe.

The man from earlier— the one with daggers in his shirt— grabbed him from behind and stabbed the syringe's needle straight into his neck.

Damian gave a halted gasp, struggling against the man as both hands flew toward the spot where the needle punctured. He let out a few scattered curses in Arabic, mind going black. He just— That was—

Fear Toxin.

There was Fear Toxin in Damian's blood. He was a ticking time bomb. A boy with a few minutes left before every nerve in his body would begin to scream.

Damian stared at the man. It was just one guy. One guy Damian had to fight before the Fear Toxin took over.

All he could hear was the rushing in his ear. Was it his heartbeat? His terror? A manifestation of his own inhibition? Everything was turning vivid and overwhelmingly bright.

Damian tasted bitter sawdust.

Yet, the men hadn't begun looking optimistic. He still looked grave, looking from his fallen friends to Damian, as if he thought the Fear Toxin wouldn't do anything at all.

Damian hesitated a moment, weighing his options. Before he flipped the man over, slamming his body onto the ground. Using the rope they had for hostages, he tied them up and left them waiting on the side of the truck.

Then, he turned and ran.

Cassandra would take care of everything. She would. Damian had to get away before the Fear Toxin took hold. And, knowing how quick Fear Toxin worked, he didn't have much time.

He ran and ran and ran. Through the facility and between rooms inside large corridors, until he landed in front of a storage closet.

Damian had seen people on Fear Toxin before. Damian had been on Fear Toxin before. He knew what people did and how they acted: Erratic and crazed and worried and screaming and terrified. He had heard their secrets— words forcibly spilled from chapped lips too busy begging to understand what they had revealed.

Damian locked himself in the closet.

It was dark and cramped and filled with objects, but Damian just moved past them, squeezing between two shelves, and hiding himself in a corner. If the Fear Toxin made him act like he thought it would, he would spend the next four hours curled up in that corner, crying and shaking and too scared to leave. Or perhaps he would be a statue, too paralyzed to move. It was hard to say. Fear Toxin was ever-changing, adapting to the victim's current fears.

Damian just hoped that if the hallucinations got bad enough, maybe he could see his family again. Not his family-family, but his family.

Somewhere down the line, there became a difference, a separation, a distinction. Somewhere down the line, he cut them into two like an orange. Took one slice and kept it for himself, tucked it inside a coat pocket, and held it close like a grudge or a secret or a lifeline.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was selfish to only want the family that remembered him. But it didn't feel selfish. It felt cruel.

Cruel in the sense that he couldn't truly separate them. That a hug from Richard— with memory or without— was still a hug. That a smile from Jason was still the same even if there was no backstory to prelude it. That some days Damian almost didn't care that no one remembered him. He wanted them back even if they didn't want him at all.

Damian wished it wasn't Fear Toxin in that syringe. He would have taken anything: poison or venom or a paralytic.

Well, at least the Fear Toxin would wear off. That was the only good thing about it; The fact that it didn't last forever.

Something clattered to the floor and Damian scrunched his face together. This was all so... pathetic. Why couldn't he brave through it? Why did he have to do it by himself?

All alone in a dark, suffocating storage closet, Damian waited for the Fear Toxin to set in.

-

The first thing Cass did was take the man guarding her by surprise. Then, once he was out of the way, she hurried to the central area, where Scarecrow's newest batch of Fear Toxin resided. Destroying it was the easy part. Actually defeating Scarecrow and bringing him back to Arkham? Harder than she thought. Harder than it should have been.

Jonathan Crane— the real Scarecrow— emerged from a door, coming face to face with her and his vat of destroyed Fear Toxin.

He frowned, noticing the destroyed toxin but not commenting on it. "Just Orphan? You didn't call any other bats? That's a little disappointing."

He pulled out something from his pocket. It was... Cass's emergency pin. It was the type that was supposed to be sown into Cass's outfit, so all she would have to do was tap her inner wrist and help would be on the way. That was... not something Scarecrow was supposed to have. Not something Cass should have let them take.

"I suppose I'll have to do it for you."

"Where?" Cass asked, stalking forward, eyes trained only on the emergency pin.  "When?"

"When was this taken? When that boy entered the picture, you grew distracted. My second in command saw that opportunity and took advantage of it, sending it over to me the moment he arrived. Really, if all it takes is one little kid for you to lose that sharpness of yours, I'll have to bring in a child actor every now and again. Give you someone to focus all that concentration on."

Damian. He was talking about Damian. "Alright?"

"The boy?" Scarecrow asked, pushing himself up. "Yeah, the kid's fine. Well, for now. I had some instructions for my men over there, let's see if they follow through." He grinned as if enjoying whatever scene was playing out in his head.

Cass glared, moving to attack. Scarecrow, before she could grab it, pressed down on the emergency button and threw the pin into a vat of water.

That was bad. That meant it would be sending Steph an emergency distress signal, saying she was in danger. Which, she wasn't. But if Steph entered the picture, brashly coming to save her, they both could be.

"You're only interesting for a little while. Let's see if any of your other Bat friends want to join us." He cracked his neck, the sound eerie in the flaky Scarecrow costume. His eyes darkened. "Now, let's talk about how you destroyed my greatest creation."

His 'greatest creation' was the deadliest and most dangerous Fear Toxin to date. And if his anger was anything to go by, Cass was fairly certain he didn't know how to recreate it. Which meant good things for Gotham City's mortality rate.

-

Damian felt nothing. He had been in the closet for at least an hour, but nothing had happened. There were no spiders on his skin, no screams in his ear, no hallucinations of any kind.

Was there really Fear Toxin in that syringe? Maybe there had been a mistake? A change of liquid?

Confused at his own lucidity, he slowly began moving out of the supply closet.

He stepped over stray brooms and kicked trash out of his path, opening the door and walking outside. What was going on? Why wasn't the toxin working? Unless... It was working. Was this part of the Fear Toxin?

Damian's mouth dipped downward. It didn't feel like fear Toxin. It felt normal. Dull. Fear Toxin made everything vivid and visceral.

The halls were empty, vacant of any life. And the faint buzz of some sort of machine remained a constant in the background. The surroundings were a silver, metallic grey, making it feel as though Damian was in the inside of one of those cartoon robots.

He began to shuffle down the hallway, eyeing every door. Each one had a different number on it, displaying a different purpose for each room.

Damian was so focused on the area around him, on counting the numbers, on examining the door knob shape, that he almost ran into Stephanie Brown.

Stephanie. Brown. In full Spoiler-costume glory.

They noticed the other just in time, both jumping backward and eyeing the other warily.

She stared at him, he stared at her. At first, neither said a word, simply opting to study the other.

But, they both were not Cassandra Wayne. They could only get so much information out of a person from just looking at them. And from there, it became a battle of who would speak first. Who would break the uneasy, tension-filled silence. And the answer was— as per usual— Stephanie.

"So you're working for the Scarecrow now too?" She asked, crossing her arms and looking him up and down. "Do the villains really cross-employ? Isn't that weird? Since you're effectively working for the opposition? Well, Riddler and Scarecrow are friends, I guess. But—"

"Riddler? Scarecrow?" Damian asked incredulously. "What are you talking about? I'm not working for anyone."

Stephanie paused, frowning. "No, you totally do. You're working for the Riddler, right? Or you were working for the Riddler. I'm pretty sure you were working for the Riddler."

Damian almost laughed at the thought. "Working for the Riddler?" He asked. "How heinous thought. I hate that man."

Surprisingly, Stephanie actually looked a little delighted at the admission. "Hey, no way! Me too!" She grinned. "He's fucking awful." Then, face falling, "Wait... No, you're definitely working for the Riddler. Our cameras caught you escaping with him."

Damian clicked his tongue. "Is the answer not obvious? You were going to erase my memories. Who wouldn't want to escape that?"

"Well, okay, kid," she said, raising her hands in a mock defeat. "If not henchman...ing, then why the fuck are you here?"

Damian sniffed. "Simply an error in determining the reasoning behind the outcomes of an altercation."

"A what on the what of a what?" Stephanie asked, staring at him quizzically.

Damian rolled his eyes. "I thought Orphan was in trouble. I wanted to save her."

"You thought? No, she is in trouble."

"No, she's not. I moved to help her thinking that and I got captured by Scarecrow's men. Then, we conversed and she elaborated that—"

Stephanie grabbed his shoulders, leaning forward. "No, dude, she's really in trouble. Like right now. In trouble. I got her emergency signal a few minutes ago. I think maybe Scarecrow did something, or maybe she's about to die or— or—" She broke off, regaining her patience. "But I don't know where she is. All her trackers are fried and this place is so confusing and—" She paused, considering something. "Wait! You can help me look for her."

"What?" Damian asked. "Help you?" He scoffed. "No."

"Oh my god," Stephanie groaned. "Please? It'll be really helpful. I need to cover as much ground as possible."

Damian considered it for a moment. H doubted how much danger Cassandra was actually in. He had been tricked once, he wasn't going to do it again. But... perhaps there was something to gain from this. "I want no attempts on the erasure of my memories. Ever."

"Deal," Stephanie said, way too quickly for her to have actually thought about his offer. "I guarantee it. Now, take this—" She handed him a comm. "—and you head left, I'll go right." She didn't even wait for a response, turning and walking off.

Damian slid the comm into his ear. It took a moment to connect, but the next thing he knew, Stephanie's voice, loud and clear boomed in his head, as if she was right next to him.

"Testing, testing, one, two, three. You there?"

"Yep."

Maybe the comms were too advanced, Damian could even hear her footsteps as she ran through the building.

"Good. I'm making my way to the heart of the water supply. That seems like the most likely place for her to be. Check every room you can, okay? Cover the outer edges."

"Affirmative," Damian said, opening every door he passed. No luck with any of the rooms he had checked so far, they were either empty or cluttered with wires and pipes.

"Affirmative," she mocked him, amused. "You use such big words for a fourteen-year-old."

"Sixteen," Damian corrected. He opened a door, peeking in to find nothing but a control room.

"Sixteen?" Stephanie said, shocked. "Wow, that's... That's really old. I mean, not old as in you are old. I mean, you are old. But not old old. I just— I mean that sixteen is a long time to be alive. Well, it's not that long. Just it's longer than fourteen. I—"

"North wing is clear."

"Holy shit you're fast," she muttered. "Okay, go to the west wing. I'm still heading further in."

Distantly, he wondered why she was so trusting. So willing to let him help. So willing to share a comm with him and expect him to follow through on his work. But he didn't care. He was too focused on the warmth he found in it. He was drenched in sentimentality. How this used to be just like missions when Damian was Robin.

He soaked in the moment, savoring every inch of it. The silence between them as they coordinated efforts, searching together. It felt like—

"Kid, get over here! I found them!" Stephanie said. "Kid, I—" She paused. "Aw, shit."

Then, her comm line cut out.

-

It was a standoff. Scarecrow with a scythe to Steph's neck, Cassandra frozen a few feet away.

A step closer and Stephanie would lose her head.

They had found themselves in a battle of will. Well, a battle of will for Cass and Jonathan Crane. Steph was bored out of her mind. She yawned not once, but twice. Uncaring about the sharp, silver weapon pressed against her neck. Always the cheeky one, always the one who stayed freakishly calm while Cass was laser-focused on keeping her friend alive.

All of Cass's training, as hellish as it was, always felt like it led to something. Some point. Some purpose. And at some point Cass decided it would be to keep her family safe.

Cass could keep her body still. She could freeze herself like a statue. She could watch Scarecrow with sharp, unwavering eyes, waiting for a mistake, an opening. She could be a predator, crouched among the weeds, prepared to strike.

Water leaked from the ceiling, dropping on top of Cass's head and trickling down the side of her face.

"So... " Scarecrow said. "We've arrived at a standstill."

Cass looked up and noticed something moving in the wiry framework above them. "Indeed," she said.

"Is this all the help that's coming?" He asked, looking at Steph.

He sounded disappointed.

"I'd really like it if another Bat showed up. But, having the two of you claw at each other's eyes would be fun enough too." He motioned to one of his machines in the back. Cass hadn't noticed it at first, assuming it to be another part of the water supply. "This is filled with the old toxin since you destroyed almost all of my new stuff." He paused, contemplating. "Well, not almost. If he followed my orders then, yes, you would have destroyed all of my Fear Toxin." His face twisted as if he had just eaten a lemon.

Cass had no idea who "he" was. Maybe one of Scarecrow's henchmen?

Jonathan Crane shrugged after he finished, uncaring. But Cass could tell that inside, he was fuming. His newest batch of Fear Toxin— while a horrific development— was obviously a pet project that had been in the works for a long time.

To lose it before he even got to use it... well, it was bound to make him bitter.

Scarecrow sighed. "At least my new toxin will get to affect—"

Damian dropped down from the rafters and onto Scarecrow.

His heel dug into the part where Crane's shoulder and neck connected, forcing the man to drop the objects in his hands, creating an opening for Steph to escape.

From there, Damian jumped down, arms wrung around the man's neck as he threw him to the floor. It was impressive. But it was also a League move. A distinctive one. One Cass could identify immediately.

Damian took out two daggers and pinned Scarecrow to the floor with them, using one for each shoulder. The Scarecrow began to struggle, trying to fight against him, but Damian held his ground, using his weight to keep Scarecrow down.

Steph, taking advantage of her newfound freedom, grabbed a zip tie from her utility belt and began tying Scarecrow's kicking legs together.

The struggle wasn't over yet, though. Scarecrow landed a jab to Damian's cheek, pushing himself up enough to whisper something in the boy's ear. Whatever he said was powerful enough to make the kid freeze. Damian's eyes blown open wide, shocked and disoriented.

The man pushed Damian off him easily, reaching for his scythe, the object sprawled nearby on the ground. He kicked Steph off him, grabbing and brandishing the blade at Damian, still reeling from whatever the man had told him.

But he didn't see Cass coming. No one ever did.

Scarecrow dropped to the floor with one powerful hook to the back of the head. And the fight was over.

Cass however could only think of two things. And neither had to do with victory.

"Alright!" Steph cheered, moving to high-five Damian. But the boy just stared at her open hand and she dropped it soon after. Still, she remained just as cheery. Probably from the adrenaline high. "You totally rocked it with that drop-in. I was almost worried you wouldn't come."

Damian made an exasperated noise. "I considered it. But since you were gracious enough to lend me that offer, I decided I would assist you. For purely transactional reasons, of course."

"Oh, yes, of course. How could I possibly think otherwise." She smiled. "You know, a second later and my head might have rolled right off."

"Please," Damian said. "Don't fool yourself. You would never let that happen."

"Is that a compliment? I think that was a compliment." Steph gave a wicked grin when Damian's face reddened.

"You idiotic—"

"Steph," Cass said, interrupting the kid. "Here." She motioned for Steph to come over. And Steph obliged her if looking a bit confused. She gave an apologetic nod to Damian, who, for his part, did a good job at pretending not to care.

"What is it?" She asked when she got close to Cass, her voice a low whisper. Behind her, Damian watched, his face a mixture of hurt and suspicion. "Listen, if it's about Tim, let's talk later, after the kid's g—"

"Need you..." Cass said. "Leave."

"What?" Steph asked, blinking at her. "Why?"

"Explain later. Leave now." Cass waited a moment. "Please? Explain after. Promise."

"What are you planning?" Great. Now she was suspicious.

"Nothing. Well..." Cass's eyes flickered to Damian, and she almost considered telling Steph. "Nothing," she said again. "Tell later. Swear."

Steph sighed. "Fine. But you owe me a huge fucking favor." She turned to leave before stopping. "Oh, and don't beat the kid up. I actually sorta like him."

The door closed with a click and Cass waited a moment. Steph was obviously trying to listen through the door, but when nothing was said, she ended up giving up. A faint, "well shit," reached Cass's ears as footsteps pattered away.

And then there were two.

Cass stared at Damian, the boy staring right back at her, brazen in his resolve. But he didn't know what she knew. Didn't realize what was happening.

"League move," Cass noted, motioning to the Scarecrow.

The boy drew back, eyeing her, his gaze calculating. A beat. "So?"

"So," Cass said. "Move at Gala: Bat Move." She walked forward, and Damian walked back, his stance growing more and more defensive. His eyes spoke to regret and hindsight. "Our identities," she said. "Knowledge. From where?"

"What are you trying to say?" Damian asked. He pulled out another dagger and held it in front of him, still backing away as she drew closer. Where did he get that weapon? She was sure he had nothing on him in the truck.

She knew where it would end, but she couldn't see the path to get there. "Dick knows lies... Jason said the alley... Tim went to... restaurant... And I..." She trailed off.

Damian was looking at her like a caged animal. A million truths flashing in those viper green eyes.

"Fighting... Together," Cass said. "Natural." She struggled for a moment, everything coming together as the words slipped out of her mouth. "Like... I did it... before."

Damian opened his mouth as if to give a quickly formulated excuse, but Cass interrupted him before a single word could get out. She didn't want an excuse. She wanted the truth. A truth the boy had.

"Have I..." She hesitated. Cass rarely hesitated. "Forgotten?"

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

"Forgotten?" He asked. His voice was low and breathless and terrified, betraying him so wholly that Cass knew the answer without a doubt.

Still, she needed to hear him say it. "Have I?"

"I..." He froze, eyes dancing around the room, doing anything except look at her. His hands curled in on themselves, forming into balls. He was a colorful display of emotion. Worried, hopeful, bitter, anxious, angry, miserable.

But then, Damian did something that rarely ever happened. He did something that very few people have ever truly accomplished; he surprised Cassandra Cain.

Damian laughed.

It was a dry laugh, void of joy. And for some reason, the version of his laugh, empty and barren, it made her heart hurt.

"I... don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh," Cass said, still watching him, still following the way his eyes moved and his mouth worked and sprung. "Okay."

Damian watched her a moment longer, expecting something. Before he turned and walked out, leaving the room with the door clanging. Cass let him go, even if her fingers twitched just a little, urging her to pull him back.

She thought Jason was bad at lying, but this boy was a thousand times worse.

-

"Are you sure no one got hit?"

"Yes, Bruce," Steph said. "No one got injected with Fear Toxin. New version or old version. And we destroyed his whole supply of the new shit."

"Good," Bruce said. He looked weary and worn down— more so than usual. The rock had thrown a wrench into the whole family dynamic, and everyone had grown more and more stressed ever since.

Even giving Martian Manhunter the rock, hoping he'd figure out how to fix it, yielded no results. If anything, all it did was send Tim spiraling.

"If you didn't—"

"I know," Steph said. "But we did."

Bruce grunted. He turned back to the Batcomputer, clicking on another case file. And Steph backed away, walking out of the cave.

She had been worried Bruce would be angry at her. Angry for lying and tricking him and convincing Duke to distract him. Angry for fighting Scarecrow with just her and Cass. Angry for not telling him about it. For not consulting Babs and— the list just kept growing.

But he wasn't. He was too exhausted to be properly mad.

She was grateful no one got gassed, though. That would have been a disaster. Thankfully, they were able to destroy his whole supply.

Scarecrow's latest creation was a sleeper toxin. It lay dormant for the first month after injection. And then, when it started working, it did so slowly. It built the fear up, making the victim more and more erratic and unstable.

The end of the second month was when it came into full force. With the Fear Toxin high lasting itself three weeks.

Steph had gotten a hold of some of the Scarecrow's reports and some of the details were horrid. It was a miracle that Scarecrow didn't get to use the gas on anyone.

After all, none of Scarecrow's test subjects had made it past the third month alive.

-

Damian stared into his mirror, pushing his hair out of his neck. He frowned, staring at the dot in his skin. It was blue— almost like a bruise. Was there really no Fear Toxin inside that syringe? He hadn't had any hallucinations or unnatural fear at all. It was... concerning.

Well, maybe it was just defective. Maybe Damian was worrying about nothing.

Nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Jason gave Cass a level look. "Are you serious?" He asked, even though he knew she was. Cass wouldn't be anything but serious. Not when it came to this. "You want me to do... what, exactly? Stalk a random kid?"

"Not stalk," she said, rolling her eyes. "Gather intel."

"Right," Jason said dryly. "'Gather intel.'" He huffed a laugh. "Why me? Why not Timbo? He's the stalker. Like, he's a literal stalker. Plus, he has all those computer gadgets and shit. And the money to support it." Jason grabbed an apple and tossed it into the air. In one single motion, he pulled one of Alfred's kitchen knives from the knife block and sliced the apple in half mid-air. He caught both pieces as they fell, taking a bite from one of them.

"Not stalk," Cass repeated. "And... can't." She walked around the kitchen counter, leaning toward him.

"You can't?" Jason asked. "Why the fuck ca- oh." The realization dawned upon him. His lip twitched in irritation. "It's about that stupid rock, isn't it?"

The last few weeks had made themselves into a hell for the kid. The rock had messed with his head, making him frantic and ill and a little obsessive. Then, when they tried to help him, Tim dug his heels in and got other people involved. (John Constantine? Martian Manhunter? Really?) And despite all their protests, he refused all help before talking to the magic men. Meaning that, when they decided Manhunter would keep the rock, Tim's fever was running high enough to burn and he freaked the fuck out.

Jason didn't even know how to describe Tim's reaction. He was acting like they were taking away his- his little brother or some shit.

Ugh, Dick was rubbing off on him. All of his claims about the forgotten person being their little brother were really getting into Jason's head. Dick, when pressed about the fact that no evidence points to his conclusion, had said it was a gut feeling. Jason was pretty sure he was an idiot.

After the rock, Tim had folded him into this withdrawal state. That was the best word for it. He spent half of his days walking around like he was a zombie or in a trance. It was a little unnerving, seeing him so lifeless.

"Not stupid," Cass said. "But yes."

"Okay, so no Timbo or Dickhead. That would be too messy. But still: why me? Wouldn't you want someone who actually cares?"

"You care," Cass said.

Jason narrowed his eyes, glaring. Fuck her and her bullshit body-language skills. "Whatever. Listen, I do not have the time to be running around Gotham looking for someone who may or may no-"

"No looking. Know where he works."

"You know where he works?" Jason asked. "Then what the hell do you need me for?"

"Scared of me," Cass said sadly. "You are... less scary?"

"I'm less scary?" Jason asked disbelievingly. "And the brat is scared of you?" Cass could be terrifying, yeah, but only when she wanted to. If Cass didn't want someone scared of her, then they wouldn't be scared of her.

Cass pointed to her eyes. "Perceptive." Then she pointed to her mouth. "Says truth." She shrugged. "He... does not face... reality well." She paused before continuing. "Most things... he does not face... at all."

"And what do you want me to do? Confront him? About what?"

"Not yet. No confront yet." She pointed to her head. "Memory," Cass said, her voice going lower. "See if he's-" She cut off, which should have been Jason's cue to go silent too.

"See if he's what? If he's stupid enough to get people's memories of him erased by a-"

A thunk interrupted the conversation.

Shit.

Jason turned around to find Tim, staring at him in the doorway. His- thankfully empty- mug rolled on the floor by his feet. He was staring at Jason, wide-eyed. Tim hadn't looked so awake in a while. Which was awful because this was not the sort of thing they wanted him to hear.

"Who?" Tim asked, leaning forward. He spoke quickly, something dancing in his eyes. "Who are you guys talking about?"

And this was worse than Zombie-Tim. Worse than a half-dead Tim who wandered around the house in his pajamas at dinner time. Honestly, anything was better than this version of Tim. The one looking at them with a piercing gaze. The one analyzing them for any weakness, any fault, any opening. The one looking at them like they had just personally murdered his dog and had the audacity to lie to him about it.

"Is this about him?" Tim pressed.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jason said. While inwardly, he was wondering why Cass didn't shut him up before Tim walked through the door. "You're just hearing things again, replacement."

"Like hell I am," Tim spat. He turned to Cass, hope still kindled in his eyes. "Did you find him?"

Cass shook her head. And holy fuck she was a good actor. She nailed the apologetic disappointment perfectly.

"Well, what were you talking about?" Tim asked. "You can tell me! I'm fine. I don't know why everyone decided they needed to walk on eggshells around me."

"When we let Martian Manhunter keep the rock you broke down crying," Jason said flatly. "I had to restrain you."

Tim glared. "I'm fine," he repeated. And it didn't sound like Jason was the one he was trying to convince. "So... uh... tell me. What were you two talking about? Is this about the rock? Is this about me?"

"First of all, not everything's about you," Jason said. "Maybe one day you'll realize that. And second of all: no. We were talking about-" Think of a convincing lie. Think of a convincing lie. Think of a convincing lie. "-Leads. We haven't figured out who it is, but we were trying to make theories on some possibilities."

"Uh huh," Tim said. Jason could tell he didn't buy it for a second. "And who are some of your leads?" He asked.

Fuck, Jason had nothing. He was really hoping Cass could jump in with something convincing, but she stayed silent too.

"Well," Tim said after the silence stretched thin. "I'll leave you to it." His words were laced with venom. And slowly, he trudged out of the room, grabbing his mug off the floor as he left.

The room was silent for a moment before Jason turned back to Cass. "Well," he said, keeping his voice calm. "That was weird." But, with his hands, he signed the words: "Is he still listening?"

"Yes. He's hiding behind the door." Cass smirked as she signed. She always got cocky when someone underestimated her abilities. Then, out loud she said, "If stay... he could have... joined."

"Please," Jason said. "He's just bitter Bruce took away his Batcomputer privileges."

"Shouldn't be bitter," Cass said, shaking her head. "More free time now." After that, she signed, "Disabled securities in cameras in here. If he checks, he'll get suspicious."

"Anyway," Jason said. "Did you hear what Alfred said about those security camera glitches?"

Cass shrugged, accepting the excuse he offered. "Yes," she said. "It is... worrying."

And so they continued, hoping from one boring conversation to the next. Until the faint sound of footsteps was heard and Cass sighed a breath of relief.

"Gone," she said.

"Good," Jason grumbled. And hopefully, he had given up on pursuing that thought any longer. The last thing they wanted was a stubborn, restless Tim, hungry for answers. Not when Cass was bent on finding them herself, without him.

"Well?" She asked.

And Jason finally considered her offer. He thought about what Tim said. Thought about Tim's reaction to the rock. And Dick's whole... thing.

Did Jason really think that the rock had their memories of some long-forgotten person? Sort of. He wouldn't be surprised if there really was someone important erased from existence. It was just the sort of batshit thing to happen to them.

But he'd prefer it if it wasn't true. He'd prefer it if this was all some elaborate hypnosis Tim had fallen under.

Cass looked at him expectantly.

Jason groaned. "What do you need me to do?"

-

Damian watched the buildings blur together, staring passively out the car window. The radio was blasting heavy metal, Rose bobbing her head along to it. They swerved down Gotham City's streets, dipping through neighborhoods and swerving around skyscrapers.

When you really looked at Gotham City, viewing it through the tinted, fogged-up windows of an automobile, it looked a bit majestic. Like everyone seen walking along the street could be holding some glowing secret tucked deep inside their chest.

Rose was at the steering wheel, eyes on the road. She had been giving him rides lately, helping him out whenever he needed it. All he had to do was call her at the pay phone in the lobby and she'd come over at her earliest convenience. Damian didn't mind waiting for her. All he did in his free time anymore was sketch and train.

She had asked him once- not unkindly, "Are you ever going to get your license?" At his silence, she quickly added: "Not that I care! I don't really mind driving you around. I just feel like you probably don't like waiting for me to be available all the time."

Damian had replied bluntly, telling her, "Patience is a necessary virtue. Besides, you are quite efficient once beckoned. As for my driving license, I am... working on it." By 'working on it' he meant forging it. He already knew how to drive and he couldn't go through the legal test since all necessary documents for it were erased long ago. But while the fake license should have been made months ago, he hadn't been able to decide on a last name yet.

All of the last names he wanted were too recognizable to the public. They would only bring more suspicion to him. More unwanted attention. So he was stuck at the crossroads where he had to pick a last name he was going to use for the rest of his life. A last name without any of his family attached to it.

Damian slumped against the armrest, laying his head against the glass.

They were almost there.

Rose pulled into the parking lot, her car jumping a little as she did. "How long will you be?" She asked, pulling lipstick out of a container in the front.

"Short enough for you to wait for me," Damian answered.

"Got it." She swerved into the curb, the engine rumbling as she waited for him to leave.

Damian took a steadying breath and unlocked the car door. He walked up the steps, one by one, making his way into the hair salon.

The shop was clean with well-washed windows and pristine, tile flooring. Chairs were lined up by the front door, placed next to stacks of photo books displaying the different hairstyle varieties. Shelves were set up nearby, different hair products and shampoos placed upon them. Beyond the main area was a series of swivel chairs facing mirrors and people sitting and chatting while their hair was trimmed and dyed.

The lady at the counter barely even glanced at Damian as she took his cash and wrote down the fake name he gave her.

He sat down in the thin, plastic chair and waited.

It had been a horrific realization when Damian realized he didn't have a photo of his older hairstyle. Of before. To this world, there was no before. Only the after. To this world, Damian's hair- bangs dropping into his vision, ends of his hair dipping to his shoulder- was normal. No trace of Damian's past hairstyle left.

So, he drew it. He sketched it onto a crumpled-up napkin and presented it to the hairdresser like a prize. She glanced at it, mulling it over, before nodding. "That works."

She placed a black cloth around his neck to make sure none of the cut hairs would land on his clothing. Then, she washed through his hair, cleaning it, before she made measurements with a fine-tooth comb. She hummed to herself, tying parts of his hair into small pigtails before picking up a pair of scissors.

She took a lock of Damian's hair, holding it up as she decided where exactly to place the blade. After that, she moved to-

"Stop!" Damian gasped.

He jumped out of his seat, fumbling for the cloth around his neck. Suffocating. It was suffocating. Damian tore it off, panting. But it was still choking him. Still squeezing against his neck.

He backed away, feeling for his hair. Alfred always cut his hair. Alfred was the one who cut his hair. Every time. It was Alfred who did it. Alfred.

And if this... random lady cut his hair that meant... that meant it was...

Damian couldn't- He couldn't- He-

Damian couldn't breathe.

His hand grabbed his hair, fingers clinging to it so tight it pulled at the roots. He ignored the pain, opting to focus on orienting himself but the world around him grew more heightened, more vibrant.

"I..." he said, eyes glancing frantically around the room. He couldn't find anything concrete to look at. "I..."

Then, he turned and ran.

He bolted out of the store, not caring for his money or the lady calling out his name. He had to escape. He had to get out. He couldn't think about anything else at that moment except leaving. He needed to leave.

Damian ran into the parking lot, shoving past strangers until he found Rose's car. He stumbled for it, slamming the door behind him.

"Wow, you're back fa-"

"Go," he said, his voice rushed and breathless. "Go!"

"What?" She asked him, pulling out of the parking lot. "Damian, what's going on?"

Damian didn't respond, just kept breathing, taking shaky inhales as the car turned onto the street.

After he calmed down his beating heart- which was beginning to burn a little at his panic- he returned to his previous position, pressing his cheek against the window. If Jason saw him then, perhaps he would laugh. Call him the perfect image of a sulking teenager. God, Damian hadn't seen Jason in forever. Had barely seen most of them in forever. He had seen Cass and Steph a week ago, and Duke a little before that. But all the rest of them... the only time he had glimpsed them was through newspapers and televisions.

Damian ran a hand through his hair, undoing the tiny pigtails, taking out the hairbands, and tossing them aside. His hair clung to his face, still wet from being washed.

"Seriously, Damian," Rose said after she heard his breathing calm. "What happened?"

"I really don't..." he trailed off. "I really don't know." It was a weak response. Small and stupid when it fell from his mouth.

She frowned but didn't press further.

"Just drop me off there," Damian said, pointing toward a building off to the side of the road. He needed something comforting. He'd prefer something stronger- like a hug or a promise or seeing Richard one more time. But he would settle. He had gotten very good at settling.

"There?" She asked. "Are you sure? That's a vegetarian restaurant. And it's, like, three P.M. You're not gonna eat dinner at three o'clock in a vegetarian restaurant, are you?"

"Just drop me off," Damian said. "I used to work there."

-

Damian stared at the sign hanging from the front door. "Sorry!" The sign said. "We're closed."

A gust of wind rustled through Damian's wet hair, making him shudder. It was winter and no one wanted to walk through frigid Gotham streets with their hair drenched.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets. He was wearing a worn-down jacket he had found at a thrift store. It was three sizes too big, effectively engulfing his figure. He had bought it because it looked just like the jacket Timothy used to wear around the house. A large Nightwing symbol was plastered on its back.

Damian shifted in front of the sign, staring at it like his will alone could change the words.

But it remained the same. Locked and closed. And Rose had already driven off.

He looked away, standing at the curb and counting the cars. How dull. How benign. Damian would have to walk back to his apartment now.

Well, at least he could count it as a stretch. A midday walk to help strengthen his legs. It wasn't like he would be doing anything better at home since his hair appointment was a bust. There goes thirty-eight dollars, washed down the drain.

Disappointing. It was all so... disappointing.

A sharp yelp sounded from behind him.

Damian turned, seeing an old woman sprawled across the floor. Her cane was lying next to her and she was struggling to pick herself back up, her arms shaking.

He walked over, helping her to her feet and handing her cane back to her. She wobbled but ultimately found her balance, giving Damian a grateful smile. "Thank you," she said, patting him on the cheek.

Damian resisted the urge to scoff.

"Would you mind helping me get home?" She asked before Damian could leave her. "My house is just a few blocks away. If you could help me, it would be quite kind of you."

Kind. There was that word again. People threw it at him like it meant something. Like he was someone befitting that phrase.

He hated it.

Voice clipped, he said, "Only if it's on the way to my apartment."

"Of course," she said. "It's just off in that direction," she pointed to the left. "Is that the same way to your apartment?"

"It is," Damian lied. And he let her hold onto his shoulder for balance as they walked down the sidewalk.

They were only a minute into the walk when the lady began to chat. Which only served as a terrible omen for how the rest of the time was going to go. "Quite a chill day, isn't it?"

Damian nodded in agreement.

The old woman had a scarf wrapped around her neck and two gleaming feather earrings dangling from her ears. She reminded him a little of Jon's grandmother. "Not much of a speaker are you?"

"I can be," Damian said. He didn't realize he was going to have to hold a conversation with her.

She laughed. "You know," she said. "You remind me a lot of my son. He's a real charmer that boy." Her expression sobered. "Always so sad."

"Sad?" Damian asked. Did Damian look sad?

"Well, not sad in the usual sad. He just had that air to him. Always hid within himself. Never let anyone get too close." She paused for a moment as they waited at a crosswalk. Once they were allowed to walk, she continued. "But don't take what I said to heart. Everyone your age reminds me of him."

"He's sixteen?"

"He's twenty. Still feels like he's sixteen." She turned a corner and Damian followed. He wasn't even helping her now, she was fine enough to walk on her own. Why'd she even ask for my help then? "They grow up so fast, don't they?"

"So fast," Damian agreed, not even thinking too hard about what he was agreeing to.

"Still, I wish he'd come back home. I miss him so much." They moved from one street to the next, the lady taking the lead as Damian trailed behind. "But at the end of the day, if you really miss someone, sometimes you have to be the one to do something about it."

They passed by a poster plastered on a building wall. It had a much younger Timothy plastered on it, the boy still in his Robin suit, with text talking about the future of the Robin mantel.

"Oh! Would you look at that?" The old woman asked. "What do you think? Have any idea why Batman hasn't gotten himself another Robin?"

"Robin?" Damian asked. "Maybe Batman doesn't need one anymore."

The old woman laughed at that. A full-body laugh. "Are you serious? I mean you know what happened last time Batman didn't have a Robin." She paused. "Oh, perhaps you don't. You were probably much too young. Well, it wasn't good. He's not as bad as he was last time, although a lot of people had made claims that he's losing it."

"Losing it?"

"Yeah, over a year ago he started barking orders to empty space. Kept forgetting there was no one beside him." She chuckled. "Maybe he's going senile. But, no. He's much too young. The tabloids say he's just forty-five."

"Senile?" Damian asked. "Batman?"

"I know, I know," she said. "We just don't have as much of an explanation for it. I mean, six whole years without Robin? What does that mean? Why hasn't the mantel been filled? Are they waiting for someone?"

Something told Damian this was a conversation this woman had discussed many times before. And from the look in her eyes, he could guess she enjoyed gossiping about it. "Maybe it's not that important. Robin doesn't always need to exist."

The woman sighed. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Eventually, we'll have the last Robin and there'll be no one after that. I guess it just feels a little too soon. Like something's been cut short." She shook her head, changing topics. "Are you a fan of the Bats?"

"Of course," Damian said. "Who isn't?"

"I assume Nightwing is your favorite?" She asked, motioning to his jacket. "My niece gave me a Red Hood one. But personally, the first Robin has always been my favorite." She grabbed Damian's sleeve, tugging him when he didn't turn the corner with her. "Over here. This way."

Damian's mind blanked as they walked into Crime Alley. Did she... live there? In Crime Alley?

The woman stopped in front of the doors to an apartment complex. "Home sweet home," she said, walking toward the steps. Damian moved to help her, but she didn't need his assistance, walking up the steps just fine on her own, without even using her cane.

Damian frowned. "Did you really trip?"

"Looks are allowed to be deceiving, aren't they?" She asked. Then, she paused, considering. "I get lonely sometimes." She walked toward the door before stopping and looking back once more. "And before I go, what's your name, boy?"

He was tempted to lie. But he "Damian," he told her.

"Damian," she repeated back to him. "Lovely name. Mine's Martha. And I'm late for my bridge group." She walked inside the building, leaving Damian alone in the alley. He let his shoulders drop, pressing his jacket close to his chest. It was going to be a long walk back.

-

"Damian, remember that comic you drew for me?" Rose asked, packing up her items. It was eleven and the store was going to close. "The one with the talking cat? Kat the cat?"

Damian nodded. "I can recall." He scrunched his nose up. "I insist you change that name though. It's unbefitting for someone of her stature. She deserves something more suitable." He stuffed his sketchbook into his bag, placing his colored pencils into their designated pockets. Damian's apartment might be a sprawling mess, but he at least tried to keep his items organized.

"Oh my god. Damian, it's a pun. Do you not understan-" she stopped herself. "Anyway, that's the comic I'm talking about. And you'll never guess what happened."

"What happened?" Damian asked because that was the question you were supposed to ask when people told you that sort of thing. You weren't supposed to actually guess. Because if you got it right they'd be disappointed.

Damian had learned that the hard way when Duke had grown sad when he correctly guessed that Richard had won the ring toss at a carnival.

If Damian got to guess, he would assume that her comic got picked up by a publisher. Which meant a lot more drawing for Damian, but also a better way to fill time. Boredom had been a sharp pain in his side as of late.

"We got picked up by a publisher!" Rose beamed at him. "Isn't that great?"

It wasn't great. But it also wasn't terrible. Damian conjured a fake grin, pretending to be overjoyed. "That's amazing!"

"Really?" Rose asked, still excited but surprised aback by his response.

Damian dropped the smile, his voice going flat. "No." Maybe the skill of learning faux emotions had some uses after all.

Rose just grinned at that, even if it was a complete denial of what she was excited about. "Complain all you want, you still promised to help me with three more issues." She picked up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "Me and Cameron are getting drinks after to celebrate. Wanna come?"

"In case you've forgotten, I am underage."

"We're going to a restaurant. Not a bar." She rolled her eyes. "Don't worry your tiny, infant head about alcohol consumption." She and Damian walked out of the store in the biting night air.

Damian sniffed. "Still no."

"Ughh, I bet if one of those older brothers of yours asked, you'd say yes."

Damian hadn't meant to talk to Rose and Cameron about his family. But he did. He didn't know when it started, or even how it happened, really. All he knew was that he ended up spending a lot of his day talking about them. 'Oh, my sister likes this' or 'My father can do that.' And it just kept going, snowballing from there. He couldn't help that talking about them felt nice.

They teased him for it- because of course they did- but they were never too mean about it. And they'd listen to his stories with a startling amount of attention. They even asked him questions.

"They're better company than you two idiots," Damian quipped back. "You both are the most unsophisticated delinquents I've ever met."

Rose sighed. "Is this because of the cheese-ball eating competition?"

"What do you think it's about?"

"Fine, go sit alone in your boring little apartment. Oh! I'm sending you the script tomorrow for the next issue, if you could draw up a sketch before the eleventh, that would be great."

"Got nothing but time," Damian said. Which, in hindsight, would be funny. Funny because by the time the eleventh came around- in a little less than four weeks- Damian would be too busy screaming his throat raw to even worry about a deadline.

"See you Monday," she said, waving her hand. "Tell your family I said hi!"

Damian watched her walk off and join Cameron at one of the cars. He turned in the opposite direction, walking to one of the old, rickety park benches planted outside the bus stop. The bench was old. Like exceptionally old. The kind of old that made you expect ants burrowed into the wood. But, if anything, its age was impressive. Very few objects in Gotham's streets survived that long.

Damian pulled his bag close to his chest. He had been thinking a lot about division lately. He had been thinking a lot about division ever since two weeks ago. With his fight with Scarecrow.

When Scarecrow crooned in his ear, "You'll never be one of them," it was obvious what he meant.

Scarecrow thought he was a stupid kid- a civilian- who was simply playing at vigilantism. Someone who was helping the Bats with a childish hope that maybe he'd be able to become Robin too.

Damian knew that. He knew many civilians had worked with the Bats over the years. He knew most didn't become anything. He knew he wasn't special.

Someone walked by Damian, sitting on the other side of the bench. Damian didn't even glance up.

And yet, when Scarecrow said it to him, Damian heard it as something else.

He heard it as a reality.

Damian, in the moment, and in the haunting recollections after, heard Scarecrow's words as truth. A truth he was spending so much of his life trying to reject. A truth-

"So you're a 'runaway,' huh?"

Damian's head jumped up, shoulders hunching He knew that voice.

Jason Todd was sitting next to Damian, legs crossed, his left ankle resting on his right knee, with his hands raised in a show of harmlessness. "Hey, not gonna hurt you, kid. Just wanna talk."

"Talk about what?" Damian spat.

"A shiny red rock that certain brothers of mine have developed a little fascination for," Jason leaned forward. "Any ideas as to what that is?"

Damian stayed silent.

Jason sighed. "Cass-cass has a lot of thoughts on you. Apparently, you left a big impression."

"She's wrong," Damian said. He didn't know what she thought, but he knew she was wrong. Because she had to be wrong.

Jason gave him an unamused look. "Cass is never wrong. So, what the hell do you know about memory erasure? And alien rocks for that matter."

"I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about." Damian kept his voice cold and emotionless. But he felt his heart in his throat. He didn't know what Jason knew. He couldn't give anything away.

"I'm talking about a red rock with memories of someone trapped inside of it." Jason leaned back, watching Damian with an expression that reminded him how perceptive the man could be. "Do you know anything about it?"

"No."

"No?"

"No," Damian said, absolute.

"So Cass is wrong?" Jason asked doubtfully. "It's not you? I've never met you before that gala?"

The walls were closing in on him. "You don't know shit," Damian hissed. "Stop acting like you do."

"Oh, I don't know shit?" Jason asked. "Here's what I know: I know you don't work for Riddler, I know you care enough about your memories of our identities to momentarily work with the Riddler. I know that you convinced Steph to make sure Bruce didn't erase your memories. I know you live in some shady apartment run by a bastard named Steve. And I know you told Tim you were a runaway."

Damian paused. He couldn't deal with that. Not now. He had to focus on one thing. Distract Jason from the rest. "How the hell do you know where I live?"

Jason shrugged. "That was Cass. I mean, I was the one assigned to actually talk to Steve. Apparently, he runs a lot of underhanded deals there. And he's also terrified of the Red Hood. A real lucky break."

"Stalker," Damian grumbled.

Jason turned. "That's what I said!" He gave a small laugh. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna break in."

Damian gave a disgruntled look. "I don't care." But if you did, you'd find my drawings. And that would be... embarrassing. And terrible. Embarrassing and terrible. 

"Well?" Jason asked, returning to the previous topic. "Did I miss something? Is that a good enough list for you?"

"I think your list is short and pitiful," Damian said, looking away.

"So you really truly have nothing to do with it?" And why couldn't he just leave Damian alone? Damian knew how to do alone.

"Yes," Damian said. He didn't want to have anything else pried away from him anymore. He was done playing those games. Done getting his hopes up. Because it wouldn't be like it used to be. At all. And he just... had to let it go.

But Damian also wanted Jason to stay, fervently so. And he was busy trying to find a middle ground. One where he kept Jason around and didn't reveal anything. One where got to spend a bit longer with him.

Maybe if he gave the man just a little information, he could keep him around? The bus always took a while to arrive. And waiting for it with him would be... It would be nice.

Jason exhaled, his breath visible in the icy air. When he spoke, he sounded skeptical. "Well alright. If you say so."

Damian shifted, looking away. He felt like he had both won and lost the battle.

Jason whistled and leaned his head back, resting it on the bench.

They stayed like that for a while, sitting there in silence. Damian ended up pulling his sketchbook out of his bag, Jason looking over his shoulder as Damian began drawing. Jason snorted at a few design choices for Kat the cat but Damian refused to acknowledge him.

Eventually, Damian began to draw Jason. It was a slow movement from the feline filling up the sketchbook's pages to the man with a streak of bleached white hair. But it happened. Damian had grown irritated or annoyed or something else he couldn't place and had started doodling Jason's face with a "Stop looking," written next to it.

Jason hadn't stopped looking. He had just snickered and said, "You got my eyebrows all wrong. Here, look at me and try again."

"My drawing is accurate," Damian muttered. But he moved to face Jason and began drawing another one.

Jason, for his part, acted like a good statue and kept his mouth shut. He looked away, placing a hand underneath his chin as if it would help frame his profile. All it did was make a mockery of the art form of modeling.

His face was, also, a disgrace. With him trying to put on what Damian was sure he must think was a "dignified" look. But it came off silly and exaggeratedly haughty.

Damian didn't complain, though. He just kept drawing.

Jason grew bored after a bit, beginning a conversation, one that thankfully wasn't pressing Damian for answers. "Soo," he said. "Nightwing's your favorite?" He motioned to Damian's jacket.

"Why does everyone always ask that question?" Damian muttered. He began shading the sketch, making sure the lighting was correct.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you're literally wearing his merchandise?" Jason rolled his shoulders and Damian had to poke him with the back of his pencil to make him stay still.

"Is Batman your favorite?" Damian countered. "You're wearing a Batman jacket."

Jason ignored all the rules about staying still and faced Damian. "What the fuck are you talking about? I'm not wearing a Batman jacket."

"Oh, I thought that was an inside-out Batman jacket," Damian said, feigning an innocent expression. "My mistake." Damian knew for a fact that it was an inside-out Batman jacket. He had found it in Jason's closet two years ago and hadn't said a word since.

Jason gave a half-hearted glare. "Oh, you think you know everything, don't you, demon brat?"

For a moment, time slowed.

Damian could hear his heartbeat, pounding in his ears. He didn't really have a thought process after.

It was a mix of shock and a built-up fear from the entire conversation. But the next thing he knew, he had discarded his sketchbook, thrown himself off the bench, and forced Jason to the floor. A gleaming knife pressed against the man's neck.

But no sooner had Damian pinned him, than Jason had pulled out a gun, placing it right against the side of Damian's head.

They were at a standstill. A knife and a gun. A battle as old as the invention of the firearm.

The barrel of the gun was cold, Damian could feel it dig into his hair. His breathing became ragged. He kept the knife pressed against Jason's neck. He kept himself pushing against the other's body, trying to keep him on the floor.

For a moment, neither said a word.

"Don't call me that," Damian said.

Jason, as always, didn't listen. "What about that nickname made you so pissy, Demon Brat?" Jason asked. "Was it the demon part? The brat part? Both wonderful adjectives combined together? We got nothing but time. Might as well tell me."

Damian glanced at his knife, then at the arm holding the gun to his head. "You won't shoot me. You don't kill kids."

Jason grinned. "You seem awfully confident about that, don't you?" He tilted his head up, still staring at Damian. "You know, Cass thinks you were Robin. And, you know, with all that skill of yours, I could see it. A Robin trained in the League of Assassins is still a Robin."

Damian pressed the knife a little deeper into Jason's neck out of instinct, he drew back when a speck of blood was drawn. Jason, for his part, didn't even wince in pain. "She thinks what?"

Jason said nothing for a moment, watching him. "Robin. The boy wonder. Crime fighting extraordinaire. Multi-colored pain in the ass. Ring any bells?"

Damian's mouth slid into a straight line. If looks could kill, he'd like to think Jason would be a rotting corpse. Well, technically Jason was already a corpse. A walking, talking, annoying corpse.

Jason took his silence in stride. "I'll take that as a yes? You know, this whole thing has been pretty informative. I don't know why Cass said not to confront you."

"Maybe because I'll kill you?" Damian asked, making a show of tipping the knife's blade toward Jason a little more.

"You think you're gonna kill me with that pocket knife?" Jason asked, an amused grin on his face.

"You think you're gonna kill me with the safety on?" Damian countered. And he really hoped he was right. He hadn't been paying attention to whether Jason's gun had its safety on or not. But Damian knew Jason wouldn't shoot him. Jason wouldn't shoot Damian. He wouldn't.

Jason's face fell from gleeful to irritated.

Damian had called his bluff.

Slowly, he pulled the gun away from Damian, letting his arm- gun in hand- fall to the floor. And then it was just Damian's knife. The blade had claimed victory.

Damian stared at the knife before stepping off Jason's chest and placing the tool into his pocket. He stood up, walking back toward the park bench. It was stupid of him to have done that. To blatantly show off his skills, give away his hand. He picked up his sketchbook off the ground and stuffed it into his bag.

After a moment, Jason joined him, pulling himself off the ground and dusting off his hands. He slid the gun into his jacket.

The two faced each other. Jason's hands were in his pockets. Damian's hands were curled into fists at his side.

Something was bubbling inside of Damian. Jason was here. He was in front of him. Jason Todd. Damian's older brother. The most vexing person Damian had ever had the displeasure of being related to. The one who always helped him when he fell, even if he was a pest about it.

"Can we..." Damian searched for words.

He felt high on anesthesia again. Like his bones were breaking and shattering from nothing but the pure desperation he was trying to force down.

"Start over?"

Jason only looked confused for a moment, before shrugging. "Sure. Let's start over." There was something in his eyes, though.

Damian didn't feel like himself. He felt set alight. He felt like he was fourteen again and hungry to be more than what he was. He felt lonely and hopeful and lonely and miserable and lonely and lonely and lonely. "Hello," he said slowly. "My name is Damian." And I used to be your brother.

He forced on his waiter-smile. The one that looked genuine to trick anyone who didn't know him well enough. Which was everyone now, he supposed. Still, Jason's face faltered.

"What's your name?" He asked.

Jason gave Damian a rueful smile. And from there, a problem began to arise.

There was a discrepancy. A space between Jason's mouth and Damian's ear. A division.

Jason said: "My name's Jason Todd. Nice to... meet you."

Damian heard: "My name's Jason Todd. Nice to know you."

Maybe nothing could ever really start over. Maybe Damian would always hear words that weren't there. Maybe memories were fickle things that cared too deeply and sunk claws into people they were better off forgetting.

"Likewise," Damian said.

The bus rolled into the space upon the curb in front of them, stopping with a shrill screech. Damian looked at it before glancing back at Jason.

"It's been a pleasure talking with you, Jason Todd. But I believe I have to go."

Jason waved a hand. "By all means, Demon Brat."

Damian didn't even bother to respond, walking onto the bus and handing spare change to the driver.

The windows were clouded with fingerprints, turning Jason into a smudged-out blur as the bus began to pull out. Damian didn't wave or smile or do anything cheesy. He just took his seat, pulled out his sketchbook, and spent the rest of the bus ride staring at his drawing of Jason Todd.

It was his most accurate one yet.

-

"So..." Duke said, crossing his arms. "How long is he gonna make us wait?"

"Give the man a break, Duke," Steph said. "It takes a lot of work to backstab your friends and figure out the secrets to magical rocks."

"Plus," Jason added, "I'm sure he and Martian Manhunter got along just peachy."

The family was all gathered at Justice League headquarters, all in their uniforms, with Barbara and Alfred waiting patiently on the comms. Tim kept giving Jason these odd glances, as if he was trying to discern something. Particularly, he was focused on the small cut on Jason's neck.

Jason pretended not to notice, but it was worrying.

When Tim got all cautious and untrustworthy, it never turned out well. And right now, the kid thought it was him against the world.

Cass was still irritated at Jason for talking with Damian. Which, was fair. He did disregard every inch of her plan. But, at the same time, he got way more information out of that interaction than she would have gotten through espionage alone.

And he felt better after talking to the brat. Something about him made Jason feel happier. Which, fuck. If he was really the person erased by the rock that would mean Jason actually cared about him.

"I'm just saying," Duke said. "We're twenty minutes past the time he agreed to meet us. Any longer and I think we should sic Jason on him."

"Ha. Ha. Ha," Jason deadpanned. "Real fucking fu-"

A sharp hiss and a portal appeared with John Constantine appearing through it, looking as aggravated as he ever did. His hands were in his pockets as he walked toward the Bats, eyeing them like they would attack him any second.

Which boded great fucking things for the conversation they were about to have.

He coughed, giving them a wary look as he took his hands out of his pockets to cross his arms.

He didn't bring the rock with him, Jason noted. Probably a good idea.

"Constantine," Dick said before anyone else could speak. "Do you know how to break the rock?" No pleasantries. No incline into topic. Straight to the point. Although, with John Constantine, you rarely wanted to hear about his personal life anyway.

Constantine gave an overly dramatic sigh. "Yes."

"You don't look happy," Bruce noted.

Constantine glared at him. "I'm not." He ran a hand through his hair. "Because none of you are gonna like what I have to tell you."

Chapter Text

One year and six months ago.

Fifteen minutes before Damian Wayne was erased from the world's memory he was walking down Gotham City's streets, holding the phone up to his ear. Fifteen minutes before his life would change, Richard Grayson was talking to the boy on the other end.

"Richard," Damian said, adjusting his grip on the phone. "I require some minuscule advice."

"Ooh, advice?" Richard's voice perked up. "Advice with what, baby bat?"

"Well," Damian said, trying to make the most sense out of the mess inside his head. "I believe I am being stalked."

The line went silent. Damian continued to walk down a pathway, letting the silence stretch itself thin. He walked past a boutique, its window displaying different elaborate outfits, each looking more expensive than the next. One of the mannequins had its hand out a red rock resting in its palm.

Damian walked a little faster.

"Stalked?" Richard asked, breaking through the silence, his voice low and dangerous and laced with concern. "Damian, where are you?"

"In the manor," Damian lied, crossing the street.

There was a scuffling sound, which Damian could only assume was Richard pushing things aside and standing up. Then, "I'm coming over."

Damian hunched his shoulders as he walked through the buildings. He kept the phone pressed to his ear, his head lowering to scan simply the ground. "Do what you wish." He tried to sound flippant but relief seeped through against his will.

"Don't do anything risky until I get there, okay? Then we'll talk it through together."

Damian hummed. "Too late." He began running, sprinting into neighborhood districts as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Damian?" Richard asked. "What do you mean: 'too late?!'"

"I mean I think I'm going to confront them- confront it. Whatever." His voice was rushed, breathless. He knew Richard could hear it. There were very few things that got past that man.

"What?"

Damian saw a glow of red inside of a bush. He took a swift left. There it was waiting for him in a windowsill, Damian scrambled in the other direction. "I can't take this anymore," Damian said, and he hated how tired he sounded. "It's been following me all week, Richard."

"What's going on?" Richard asked, sounding really worried now. That was bad. Damian had been trying to get Richard to worry less. "Who's stalking you?"

Damian spun into an abandoned alleyway, skidding to a stop. There it was again, blocking his path.

Well, Damian said he wanted to confront it. Maybe it was listening to him.

"A rock," Damian said. "I think that I am perhaps being stalked by a rock." He pulled his phone away from his ear, Richard's voice of confusion being nothing more than muffled chatter, and hung up.

He walked forward, staring down at the sharp, red object waiting in front of him.

"I don't know what you want," Damian said to it. "Or why I've been seeing you everywhere this whole week. But I think it's a coward's choice to disguise yourself as a scarlet mineral."

The rock said nothing. It had to be some sort of supervillain tactic, that's what Damian had decided. And he had called Richard in case something happened to him with this, the man could pick up the breadcrumbs and solve the problem.

Damian leaned down, fingertips barely grazing the rock's surface.

And then everything in his vision turned a rushing white.

-

Damian woke up in a cold sweat, screaming.

-

Two garden rabbits danced in a garden. Damian was almost finished shading the rabbits' fur, sketching the scene across his notebook with small, curt pencil strokes. He sat in front of the cash register, letting the illustration rest on the counter instead of his knees.

As he drew, he rubbed his eyes absentmindedly, inwardly bitter with his lack of sleep the night prior.

Damian was no stranger to terrible sleep schedules. But that didn't mean he liked it when he was forced awake by a nightmare he couldn't even remember. Whenever Damian tried to focus on it, the image slipped through his fingers, pooling like sludge.

It had been over a month since Damian had met Cassandra and had fought the Scarecrow. It had been over a week since Jason had met up with Damian outside of a pet shop. And it seemed like they both knew... something. About the rock. About Damian.

He had been paranoid ever since. Always checking behind him when he was out in the street. Terrified another bat would pop up in front of him.

But so far there was nothing.

And even if they did, it didn't matter. No matter what they figured out, they wouldn't be able to remember Damian.

They couldn't.

The world would end if they did. That was the deal. Someone's memories in exchange for the safety of the earth.

"Hey, Damian! How a-"

Damian bolted up, a strike of fear jumping through his bones. He spun on his heels and rushed forward, holding the pencil against the interloper's neck like a dagger.

The tip dug into the skin, not enough to draw blood. And for a moment, neither spoke. Damian took a steadying break and drew his vision upward, to meet the person's eyes.

Oh.

It was just... Rose. Damian felt like laughing.

Rose looked at him and then at the pencil pressed against her neck. She grinned nervously as slowly, Damian lowered his arm. "Someone's flinchy today," she said.

Damian scowled, scratching his arm with the hand not holding the pencil. "I have extensive training in regulating my emotions. I do not 'flinch.'"

"Right," Rose said. Damian had long accustomed her to his veiled references. "Is this your way of saying you took a meditation class?"

Damian rolled his eyes, feigning indifference.

In his left hand, the pencil snapped in half. Startled, he looked down at his hand, opening his palm and watching as each broken piece clattered to the floor.

"Just..." Damian said. "An overreaction. That's all."

"Well, I have something to cheer you up!" Rose leaned forward as if she was sharing some sort of secret. "Cameron told me we might be getting a raise."

"Might?" Damian asked, crossing his arms. "What makes you think that?"

"Didn't you hear?" She asked, tilting her head. She moved toward the counter, pushing Damian's notebook aside and jumping up to sit on the top. "The company that owns Gotham Pets Emporium? It was bought last night on a whim."

"Bought?" Damian asked. "The whole company?"

"The whole company!" Rose said. "Not just their pet store chain. All of it." She grabbed a bag of chips from her bag resting below the desk, opening it with a pop.

"How much did it cost, even?" Damian asked. He took a chip from the bag and took a bite, grimacing. "What is that?"

"Sour cream and onion," she said, throwing a chip into her mouth. "And... I don't know. It costs like a billion something. Crazy high numbers."

"A billion dollars?" He asked. "Who bought it?"

"Who buys a billion-dollar company overnight?" She asked, something sparkling in her eyes. "That's the best fucking part about this whole thing. It's-"

"Damian, Rose, listen up," Cameron cut through the conversation, walking up to the two of them. "This is really important."

"Is this about the company being bought?" Rose asked.

"Of course," Cameron said. "The buyer is coming today. And we all need to be fucking angels. Okay? He has suddenly come into a lot of power concerning our jobs. If we play our cards right, we could get ourselves a better wage."

Rose nudged Damian. "See? Told you."

"So just... be on your best behavior," Cameron said. "Okay, Damian?"

Damian tilted his head up. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm always on my best behavior."

Cameron raised an eyebrow. "Do I need to remind you about Halloween?"

"Nothing happened on Halloween," Damian said.

"We have security cameras, Damian," Cameron said. "You can't just-"

"Okay!" Rose said. "We get it. We'll be so good. Damian won't insult him or release animals in broad daylight. Right, Damian?"

"Right," Damian agreed.

"And I'll compliment his... hair?" She seemed unsure. "I mean, I did some research on him and people seem to think he cares about his hair a lot."

"Uh... sure," Cameron said. "Compliment his hair. Whatever. Just suck up to him like you've never sucked up to anyone before." He, absentmindedly, fixed his own hair. "He's already here. I was gonna give him a tour but he just wanted to talk to the boss. He might come over and ask you some questions. So just... say good things. Great things even. The more amazing you make this place out to be the better."

He looked behind him.

"The boss is coming over," he said. "He'll give you guys a better layover. I have to go tell the others."

Cameron left just as the boss approached the two of them. He was sporting an oddly professional suit and tie. Which was an obvious attempt to impress the new buyer since all Damian had ever seen him wear was sweatpants and baggy shirts.

Their boss barely spoke to them at all. He was a quiet guy, content to just leave them to their own devices. But apparently, this must be some special occasion because not only did he decide that interacting with his workers was acceptable, but he had also combed his hair. Damian would give a snide compliment on it if he didn't think it would get him fired.

"I need you," he said, pointing at Damian. "The owner wants to speak with you."

"Me?" Damian asked.

"Damian?" Rose asked. "On purpose?"

"Yes," the boss said. "I tried to offer up different options but he really wanted Damian." The man shrugged. "Not the best liar we have. But he'll do. Come on." He beckoned Damian and began walking off.

Damian spared a glance at Rose as he moved to follow.

The boss began strolling down the aisles with Damian keeping himself a small distance behind him.

"So," the boss said. "Damian. I'm sure Cameron gave you the spiel but just... This is my boss's boss's boss. And I know you don't know him outside of the rumors but... he's powerful. Very powerful. Got a powerful dad, got powerful brothers. If he wanted me fired it'd be easy, Damian. If he wanted anyone here fired, it'd be easy. So when he asks you about the company just talk it up, okay? Make everyone here seem amazing."

"Sure," Damian said, fully planning on not doing that. If the man wanted honesty, Damian would give him honesty. "And for what purpose does he want me?"

"It's an interview of sorts. They want a worker's thoughts on the management. To get a feel of the place. So just remember to tell him good things about me, okay? Say I'm always there for you guys and all that shi... stuff."

They walked through storage into a small hallway at the very end of the store. Entering a place Damian had never traveled to before. Uncharted waters.

They walked past rows of doors, the boss continuing through the corridor until he stopped in front of a door at the very end.

"Don't mess this up," the boss said.

And then he opened the door, putting on the widest, falsest smile Damian had ever seen.

The room revealed was a professional-looking conference room. With a mahogany desk and a leather chair placed behind it. There was a bookshelf at the back. The boy waiting in the room for him only helped to heighten the sense of sophistication, wearing a slim-fit suit with his hair polished and slacks ironed. Even if the sight of the boy alone made Damian's blood run cold.

Damian stared in horror as the boss pushed him into the room, his face still in the faux grin. "Ah, Mr. Drake-Wayne. Here’s Damian Waller. It's his pleasure, I'm sure."

Timothy Drake, leaned his head back, giving the man an equally fake but much more charming grin in return. "Oh, thank you. I hope it wasn’t too much work— I know it was an odd request."

"Oh," the boss said, waving it off. "Not at all. I was honored."

Timothy's gaze flickered over to Damian. "Hello, Damian," he said, locking eyes with him. Somehow, his smile looked even sharper when he was facing Damian. Somehow, Damian couldn't help but akin it to a predator. "It's nice to meet you."

"I need to leave," Damian croaked out. "Now."

Timothy's smile dropped into a frown.

"What?" The boss asked, looking over at Damian. Confusion and irritation clear in his tone. "Why?"

"I... left my oven on. At home." Damian didn't even have an oven. "It'll burn my house down if it is not treated immediately." That was a reasonable excuse. Maybe. Damian had never worked an oven before. "Therefore, I must go urgently."

"Damian," the boss said. "I don't know what you're-"

"It's really bad," Damian said, and his tone almost bled into pleading. "So, I should really go fix it."

"What temperature did you leave it on?" Timothy asked, blinking at Damian innocently.

"Thirty degrees," Damian said before he could think twice. That was hot for an oven... right?

"Oh, did you now?" Timothy asked, voice dripping with amusement. The sound of it just irritated Damian even more.

"Damian, cut the crap." The boss sighed. "Just go through with the interview, okay?" He gave Timothy an apologetic look. "I'm sorry about him. If he gives you any trouble just let me know."

Timothy didn’t even look at the boss when he responded to him, still focused on Damian. "Of course," he chirped.

The boss gave Damian another warning look before he turned and left the room, closing the door in his wake. Timothy watched him leave, his fake-pleasant expression remaining even when the man left.

After a moment after the door was shut, Timothy whistled and slid his hands into his pockets. "Seems like a swell guy," he said.

Damian glowered at him. "What the hell do you want?"

"To ask you some interview questions," Timothy smiled sweetly, wringing his hands. "Say, how's the management? Is team morale good? Your boss treats you okay? Would you say working at this company has improved your life?”

Damian ignored the questions, crossing his arms and giving Timothy a withering look.

Timothy raised an eyebrow, continuing in the same pattern. "Did you erase my memories of you with an alien rock approximately a little over a year and a half ago?”

Of course, that was what this was about. Damian bristled, refusing to answer. The bats knew more than he thought they would. The idea of them- of them knowing anything terrified him.

He didn't want a half-baked relationship where they felt guilty he used to know them and where he was too lonely to care.

He needed to change the conversation. He needed a misdirection. "Quit the needless queries," he hissed, swallowing any tremble in his voice threatening to bubble up. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, it's my company now," Timothy said. "I bought it. So... what are you doing here?"

"Did you..." Damian almost didn't know what to say. "Buy this company because of me?"

Timothy had the audacity to look sheepish. "Would you believe me if I said no and that this was all just one crazy coincidence?"

"No."

It was almost impressive how fast Timothy crumbled. "I’m sorry, okay?" He spread his hands out. "I panicked! I was worried you were gonna run away or dismiss me or-"

"I can still do all of those things here," Damian observed. "With just as much efficiency as anywhere else."

"Well, yeah. But you'd also get fired. And that's motivation... maybe?"

Damian crossed his arms, trying to figure out what spurred this all on. Was this about him and Jason’s conversation? Or him and Cassandra’s? Or were they all working together and pooling their information? "You are doing terribly at this, Timothy."

Timothy pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am trying my best here. It's been a long few months. And all I want is an answer."

"An answer?"

Timothy gave him a plain look. "Are you my little brother or not?"

Damian hadn't heard anyone refer to him as anyone's little brother in a long while. And, for a moment, the word alone made him freeze.

Memories washed down over him. From when he tried to kill Timothy, blade slashed across the other's throat, to when they both curled up on the couch, watching and complaining about Timothy's crappy horror movie choice.

"So," he said eventually, dragging the words out of his mouth as if they were a chore. His initial guess was proven correct. "You did talk to Jason."

"So," Timothy said. "You do know what I'm talking about."

Damian bit his tongue. He didn't say a word. Kept his eyes locked onto Timothy's. A show of will. Whoever looked away first lost.

Timothy waited for a moment, then took a step forward. "Please," he stressed. "I know it's you. They- Listen, I've been trying to find you for a while. I tried to tell them but they thought I was crazy. But I'm not. You're here. You're right here. So, just... please. Tell me I'm not crazy."

Damian twisted his mouth, trying to conjure up anger in his expression, trying to have his face warp in fury. But it fell short. It ended up looking garbled and distorted. It ended up looking sad.

His eyes fell to the floor, defeated.

"You weren't supposed to know," Damian whispered, suddenly small. "Ever."

Timothy took another step toward Damian. "Ever?"

Damian nodded; his throat dry.

And then Damian was pulled into a hug, pressed against Timothy's chest. Timothy buried his face into Damian's hair, holding onto him like a lifeline.

How odd, Damian thought, too stunned to process it yet, Even after all that time... I'm still shorter than Timothy.

Then, realizing what had happened, he jolted forward, wrapping his arms around Timothy's shoulders, clinging to him, melting into the hold. He pressed his face into the crook of Timothy's neck, trying to hide from the world. As if the embarrassment of the vulnerability would lessen if he performed that action.

Timothy muttered something that Damian couldn't quite hear. But it sounded a lot like he was saying the phrase: "I found you."

Damian didn't know how to feel about that. He didn't know how Timothy knew to look for him in the first place. He didn't know what compelled him to do so. He didn't know anything.

"So," Timothy said after a moment, giddiness starkly clear in his voice. "Adopted?"

"Biological," Damian grumbled, his face still pressed into Timothy's neck.

Timothy froze for a second before laughing. "Seriously?" Timothy asked, delighted. "You're Bruce's biological kid? Goddamn. Duke was right on the money."

"Duke correctly hypothesized my origins?" Damian asked.

"Well, he also thought you were kidnapped by Lex Luthor." Timothy paused. "And four years old."

"So, he was utterly incorrect." Damian sniffed. "Twelve years off the mark with that lousy guess of his."

Timothy flinched. "You're sixteen?"

"Mind-blowing, I know," Damian deadpanned.

"When did you come to the family?" Timothy asked, pulling back so they could face each other. His hands were still on Damian's shoulders, warm and comforting. "Or were you always-?"

"No. I was given to Fa... Bruce when I was ten. Six years ago."

"So that would put you right on the timeline to be Robin." Something lit up in Timothy's eyes. He gasped."You're Robin!" He grinned down at Damian. "Did I give you the mantle?"

"No," Damian said flatly. "I tried to kill you. And then I was given it after Father's fake passing."

Timothy blinked. "Oh."

"But it became a mutual exchange of power eventually," Damian said, trying to comfort him quickly. "If I wanted you dead now you'd be dead."

"Would I?" Timothy asked. "It seems to me like you failed pretty badly."

Damian muttered a correction under his breath.

"What was that?" Timothy asked.

"Twice," Damian said. "I failed to kill you... twice."

Timothy laughed at that. "Looks like I'm better at avoiding death than I thought." He stopped, considering something. "Back then did you try to kill everyone you met?"

Damian shrugged. "Mostly."

They went like that for a while. Timothy asking questions, Damian giving answers. He learned about Talia. And he also learned about the League, the training. And he only looked a fair bit devastated with that news was given. He asked meaningless questions and important questions and everything in between.

Then, came the topic of his last name.

"It's not Waller, is it?" Timothy asked. "It's... Wayne, right?" He thought for a moment. "Damian... Wayne," he said, testing the name on his tongue. "Huh. That sounds better than I thought it would."

Hearing the two names placed so closely together made Damian wince. "Technically, it is Waller. All the legal documents I forged say Waller. So that's my name. Damian Waller." It was a reminder to both him and Timothy. This is my reality now.

Timothy looked at him, something swimming in his eyes. Damian stared at his face, frustrated that he couldn't read the other's expression.

He shifted and stepped back and Damian pretended not to be sad at the loss of contact. Timothy opened his mouth and then closed it. Then he opened it again.

"We figured out how to break the rock."

Damian lurched away, stumbling back and pressing himself against the wall behind him.

The rock? The one that started everything? The one that made Superman scared? The one that promised the destruction of the earth?

"You can't," Damian croaked out, trying to make him understand the severity. "You can't."

Timothy looked at him, tilting his head. He looked confused, yes, but there was something more to it than just confusion. There was... grimness. "Why not?"

"You just can't," Damian said, well aware of how flimsy of a reason it was. "Because you're you. And I'm... me. And you don't remember me." He swallowed. "You don't remember me and that's okay. I don't- I don't need you to remember me. I'm fine. I am... fine all on my own."

You can't remember me. Don't try to remember me. It won't work and it'll just hurt everyone a little more. Or it will work and the world will end and you'll all die.

"You can't," Damian said again. He was becoming a broken record.

Timothy eyed him apprehensively. "Damian, do you want us to remember you?"

To Timothy, it was a question.

To Damian, it was a noose.

"No," Damian lied. And he said it because it was easier to pretend. To pretend that he didn't want it. To pretend that the longing didn't burn every inch of his body. To pretend that he liked it this way. Because the last thing he wanted was for them to feel bad about a random kid who craved things he didn't deserve to have.

For a moment, no one said a word.

And then, to Damian's utter horror, Timothy burst out laughing. Not a small chuckle. No, a full-body cackle. Timothy covered his mouth with his hand, failing to hide it.

"Did I use to believe that?" He asked, smile so wide it streaked across his face. "Like, did I really fall for that?"

"I would like to think you believed me," Damian muttered. Was he that obvious?

After a few beats, Timothy straightened up, laughter dying off. "What's the real reason you don't want to break the rock?"

"You won't believe me."

Timothy raised an eyebrow.

"Fine," Damian spat. "If you break the rock the whole world is going to end. It will be destroyed. Or another person will have to sacrifice the world's memories of them. You don't understand. They needed a sacrifice."

"Oh, Damian," Timothy said, his voice- for the first time- falling into pity. "Is that really what you think?"

"Do not patronize me," Damian seethed, drawing back. "Of course, that's what I think. You do not remember being there. You did not have to make the decision. I made it for you. Do not dismiss me."

There was a voice whispering in Damian's ear. It was a shrill, shrill voice. And suddenly the walls of the room were growing very close to Damian, pressing against him.

Timothy's words were muffled, his apologies and pleads fallen on deaf ears

Damian's voice rose as he spoke. "The world was going to fucking end! I had to do it! I wanted to do it! And if you break the rock that means that everything I did was for nothing! And if it was all for nothing and the world ends anyway then what was the point?!"

Damian needed to regain control of his emotions. Even if his vision was blurring and becoming much too bright at the same time. He needed to shut his mouth.

Damian used to be so good at hiding his emotions. At stuffing them down and never thinking about them. So why couldn't he do it now? Why did everything feel so intense? Why was Damian ruining this?

"Wait, Damian," Timothy begged. "It's not what you think it is. Let me explain."

"No!" Damian said. "No explanations. I want out. I'm done playing these games. I cannot keep having hope-" Damian's voice broke "-dangled before me like a carrot on a stick. You will not remember me and I will not be remembered. And that is all."

Timothy walked forward still. "No, you don't understand. The rock-"

Damian turned and opened the door, storming out and running straight into the boss, who was standing just outside the door.

"Damian?" The boss asked, grabbing Damian by the wrist when he tried to push past the man and looking up at Timothy. "What's going on here?!" He growled, turning on Damian. "What did you do?"

If Damian really wanted to, he could easily break out of the man's hold. But he had to play the part of a civilian. Because that was what he was reduced to "Nothing," he said. "Nothing's going on."

The boss scoffed and turned toward Timothy, his voice suddenly void of rage. "Are you okay? What did he say to you?"

Timothy's expression flipped on its head. Desperation turned to anger. He stalked forward and slapped the man's hand away from Damian's wrist. "Leave him alone," Timothy snapped, glaring at the man so viciously he took a step back in surprise.

The boss eyed Timothy warily, confusion vivid.

Timothy turned back to Damian, voice shifting. "Please don't go, just hear me out, okay? Just hear us out. It's not-"

"Begging is beneath you, Timothy," Damian snarled. And then he turned and ran.

Timothy followed, of course, persistent in his chase. And the thought made Damian feel wanted. He scrambled through the halls, sprinting out of the shop and onto Gotham's streets.

Timothy was many things, but, at the end of the day, faster than Damian was not one of them.

And, after an hour of pursuit, Damian lost him. He had to hide in a few alleys and disguise himself in a crowd, but Timothy was no longer following, separated from Damian.

Damian tried to feel happy about it.

He didn't succeed.

-

One day prior.

"So," Constantine said, crossing his arms and leaning against the Justice League's control panels. "The rock is a living being."

"Right," Dick said. A beat. "We know that."

"But we got it wrong. It's not like a plant. It's sort of like a... predator. It's a predator with a specialty in memory magic. It picks its victim, with the goal of stealing people's memories of them. It gains power and energy through that.

"So it's sucking life away from our memories?" Jason asked.

"No," Constantine waved away Jason's concern. "It just gathers its power from holding memories. But, for every strong ability a magic user might have, more and more restrictions are placed upon it. The rock would need its prey of choice to agree to the memory erasure process before it could do anything."

Constantine pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, making Bruce grimace. He was the only one who cared about the Justice League's rules enough to be irritated by the blatant disregard for them.

"So, it uses a pretty special tactic to force them to agree." He motioned to Tim. "This one felt some of its effects... Its tactic is to use that same sort of emotional manipulation but to a greater degree. With its memory magic"

"It did the same thing it did to Tim but... more powerful?" Steph asked.

"Not exactly." He looked at Tim pointedly. "His manipulation was emotions plucked from his contained memories. This rock can do more than that. Every once in a while, when it conjures enough power, it can create a memory. A false memory. An illusion. It creates this drastic scenario inside the victim's head to convince them into thinking they have to agree."

"And they believed it?" Dick asked.

"It's supposed to be very convincing. It studies its victim for a bit beforehand, crafting it to make everyone's actions as realistic as possible." Constantine shrugged. And didn't say anything after that.

Once the silence stretched on for too long, Jason moved to speak. "So, how the fuck do we break it?"

Constantine looked up from his nails. "You can't," he said flatly.

Jason blinked, stalking forward to the man. He grabbed Constantine's collar and pressed him up against the glass. Constantine shot a fearful glance to the others, who did nothing except stare at him expectantly. "What the fuck do you mean we can't?" Jason asked. "So there's no way to fix this?!"

"I didn't say that," Constantine said, pushing Jason away and straightening his tie. "There is one person who can break the rock. It's just that... the only person in the whole world who can break this rock is perhaps the only person in the whole world who's convinced something terrible will happen if they do."

Chapter Text

Damian couldn't sleep.

His bed was empty, cold, vacant. His blanket wasn't enough, suddenly much too thin to shield him from the night. He tried to rest, he did. But every time he was close to drifting off, every time his body melted and relaxed, a shadow would leap out at him and Damian would jump up, back against the wall, knife at the ready.

Always, without fail, there was nothing. Just a trick of the light that had Damian's heart rattling and lungs gasping.

He tried to sleep with the knife, thinking it would help, hoping it would provide safety. He was wrong.

His conversation with Timothy ran inside his head on repeat. The words echoed through his skull. Constant. Constant. Constant. It became a sort of default, something he couldn't help but retread over and over again. It bled into his brain, overwhelming his thoughts.

Damian wanted to escape those insentient words, those buzzing noises in the back of his ears. But all he could think about was that they couldn't break the rock. That Damian needed to stop them from breaking the rock. They'd be destroying the world. Killing themselves. Damian couldn't let every inch of his sacrifice go to waste. He couldn't let all his work dissipate into nothing.

Sacrifice was divine.

That was what Father had told him, many years ago. When he was young and freshly Robin and dying to prove his place.

The man had knelt down to meet Damian at eye level. He had placed a hand on Damian's shoulder and told him, "Being a hero requires sacrifice, Damian. That's what being a hero is about. It's about sacrificing yourself and desires for things that are more important."

Damian had nodded, but he had spent the rest of the night wondering what he would have to do to become important. What he would have to do to be worth sacrificing something over.

Why was his family worth all this sacrifice? Why did everything he do, as long as it felt like it was for them, become justified? Damian didn't know. He couldn't find the theory or equation behind it. The reasoning was irrational.

Eventually, he decided it was no use. Sleep wouldn't come to him. No matter how hard he tried.

And so he pulled himself out of his bed, a small headache forming behind his eyes, and trudged into his bathroom.

Adjusting his mirror, he stared blankly at his reflection before a sickening feeling bubbled in his throat. He pushed himself away, staring at himself in horror.

His hair...

His hair, his hair, his hair, his hair, his hair, his hair, his hair, his hair, his hair.

His hair.

Damian brought a hand up, clutching a chunk of his hair and pulling it forcefully, pain burning from his scalp. He wanted his hair off, off, off, off, off, off, off. He wanted it gone. It looked unnatural. It looked freakish. It didn't look like it was supposed to. Damian hated it. It hurt to look at it. He tugged even harder, trying to tear it from his scalp.

But no matter how hard he tried to rip it off, it didn't work, it didn't work. Nothing worked. Damian was too weak.

His attempts were all in vain. His hair was still long, he was still there, Damian was still Damian.

Feverishly, he fumbled for the knife, grabbing a lock of his hair and holding it out for the blade to meet. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He moved to cut and it sliced through the hair seamlessly, causing the discarded strands to drift to the floor, gone from his head. It was so easy. Damian didn't even think it would be that easy. He thought it would be unattainable. Unreachable.

But he could just... do it.

He laughed at the thought, staring at the fallen strands of hair. It was a small, shrill laugh. A little crazed.

Frantically, Damian began cutting off more locks of his hair. He grabbed chunks with his hand and slashed through as much as he could. He wasn't a hairdresser, Damian didn't have a comb or know how to section. His cuts were uneven, rough, nowhere near the length of the previous ones.

Cut by cut, each hand full of hair landed on the floor. Some lengths were small, Damian only cutting off less than an inch. Some were longer, much longer.

When Damian finished, the fear subsiding- just a bit, never fully, never fully, never fully- he looked up. His eyes trained on his face.

His expression fell into something mangled when he stared at his appearance. His hair looked awful, terrible, hideous. A botched, miserable-looking mess. Nothing like it was before.

Damian's legs gave out from underneath him and his body dropped to the floor.

He rested his forehead on the cold, porcelain sink, tears tumbling out of his eyes. What a mistake. What a failure. What a stupid idea. Now his hair was a mess and the world still felt rotten and bleak. Everything he tried always ended up backfiring. Maybe that was his existence.

He pressed himself up, limply raising a hand, conjuring all his energy curl it into a fist and smash it against the mirror.

When it shattered, it shattered violently. The glass shards spewed out, scattering all across the bathroom floor. A good amount scratched against his hand, Damian's knuckles beginning to bleed. When it broke, Damian backed away, glass shards littering the floor around him, legs, once again, sinking to the ground. The short burst of energy gone.

Damian's foot was littered with cuts. He tried to pry some glass splinters out of his skin, trying not to wince in pain.

Lately, his tolerance had been so low it was almost laughable.

Eventually, all the shards were removed from his skin. And once he was done, Damian let himself sob. He curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around himself in some poor attempt to give himself makeshift comfort. His cries were muffled as he lay on the cold bathroom floor, blood seeping onto the tiles.

-

Damian had left his apartment. He had left it three days ago. And he didn't know where to go.

The apartment had grown too discomforting for him to remain. It was too creepy, too disturbing, too off-putting. All Damian knew was that he needed to escape it. Even if it meant living on the streets.

Damian frequented gas stations often, buying water with the little money he had left. As for food, he just stopped eating. He knew his body, he knew how long he could go without food. As long he kept a good handle on the days it would be fine.

All he had with him was his bag, stuffed with a few changes of clothes- all the same exact white button-up and the same black slacks- the Nightwing jacket, and a knife he had found on his bathroom floor.

The knife was more translucent than he was used to, sharp and painful when he gripped the handle, but it would keep him safe.

He considered taking his drawings- they made him feel safe, safe, safe- but he knew being caught with those sketches of his family would lead to more questions than Damian would like. So he left them and gave the landlord enough cash to pay for his rent for the next year. That way he could back for the drawings later. Once the apartment no longer killed Damian to live in.

Since then, when he wasn't at the gas station, or wandering the streets like a ghost with nothing to haunt, he found himself at the park. The same one he and Alfred would meet at to walk Titus.

At the park there was comfort.

He picked out a space underneath the trees in a secluded area of the land. Where no one would find him or bother him. And he lay there, the grass licking the edges of his face, staring into the sky.

Occasionally, there would be the rustle of animals, and Damian would full-body flinch, the sharp pain from it thudding through his bones.

Every sound was much more heightened, loud, buzzing, grating against Damian's ears. Everything felt like an attack, something to be wary of. He scratched at his arms, nails raking into his skin.

Damian sunk deeper into the grass and dirt.

He tried not to think about anything when he was here. He tried to just let himself relax. It was difficult, painful even. But he tried his best. Tried to keep himself calm when every minute it felt like his heart was about to burst from his chest.

It reminded him of when he was coming off surgery. His heart aching and scalding, as if Damian was set ablaze.

A snap of a stick sounded from behind him and Damian bolted up, looking behind him with wild eyes. "Who-?" Damian stopped, halfway to a scream, his posture relaxing. Oh.

Richard walked through the trees, looking down at Damian.

"Richard," Damian said, relief dripping into his voice. He moved his body to face him. To Damian, Richard was a symbol of solace, of comfort. "You're here. You're here. You're really here.

Desperately, Damian wanted Richard. He wanted the man to bend down and sweep Damian into his arms. He wanted the man to hold him and talk to him and promise him things that couldn't possibly come true. He wanted to be

Damian was drained. And every concern he had before crumbled away in an instant. Damian thought he was above things like begging. No longer did such conviction hold true. "Stay. Please, stay. Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it if you stay. You're here. You're here. You're here."

Richard looked at him calmly, observing Damian the way someone might look a stranger, coldly and with stark disinterest. "Damian," he said.

Damian struggled to his feet, ignoring the pain screaming through his body. He reached forward, trying to grasp Richard's arm. "I know you don't remember me but please-"

Richard swatted Damian's hand away, expression still uncaring. "I don't. And I'd like to keep it that way."

Damian froze, feeling his skin ice over. "What?" He asked. He suspected it was the truth but for Richard to just say it like that. For Richard to just-

"I'm not particularly interested in remembering you," Richard said, walking toward Damian. Slowly, relaxed, without a care in the world. "Timothy might be, but he won't once he actually remembers you. Once we remember you, we will all be begging to go back."

The 'Timothy' flew right over Damian's head. But later, he'd pick it back up and examine it.

Hindsight does that.

"To go back?" Damian asked. "You won't. You want me back. You just can't because of-"

"Really?" Richard asked, stalking forward. "You really think we want you back?"

Damian stumbled away, all he could think was, No, no, no, no, no. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening. He didn't trust himself to speak.

"Don't be naive, Damian."

"You're not real," Damian said, his voice tiny, minuscule. "You can't be."

"The world will end if you break that rock." An airy laugh. "How selfish is that? Dooming the world for your own petty whims? How typical of you, Damian. You always were the type."

Go away, go away, go away. "I don't like this version of Richard," Damian whispered, feeling as if he was sinking into his own skin, trying to disappear into his flesh. "I want a different one." The one that let me hold him when I was bleeding out.

"Well, suck it up," Richard growled. "You think I want to be here? Next to you? You think I like this?"

Richard sighed and stood up, beginning to walk away.

Damian felt fear curl around himself. He was feeble and pitiful. He was like a bug, a cockroach. Still, he threw away his pride. At this point? He'd do anything for Richard to turn around.

"No, please don't go, I take it back. I take it back. I take it back." Damian's fingers twitched, he felt his throat turn sore. "I'm sorry. You can be mean to me all you want. I can take it. I can. I'm really good at taking it, I have a lot of practice. Please just come back. I'm sorry."

Richard looked back for a moment before scoffing.

"No, please don't leave me. Please, I'm so scared and lonely and- and-" Damian's head was spinning. He, ignoring the pain in his legs, hurried after the fake Richard, following him out into the forest. He scrambled over sticks and bramble, tripping over the foliage in the ground below.

But Richard was also just a little bit too far. Always just out of his reach. And eventually, Damian's legs gave out.

And then Richard was gone.

He was gone and Damian was all alone and the shadows were growing and the lights were blinding and Damian's head throbbed.

Damian screamed.

-

"Water," Damian gasped, rubbing his eyes. "How much." His voice was raspy, crackling on the edges of his voice. The man behind the counter flinched, as if hearing it was painful.

"Yes, of course," the man said, too eager to provide. "Water. Right away." He turned behind him, hurriedly procuring a cup of ice-cold water.

"How much?" Damian asked.

"On the house," the man said. Then, after a moment. "Please just take it. You sound like you need it pretty bad." He frowned. "And some sleep. Your eyes are-"

"I know," Damian dismissed. They looked slightly bloodshot, yes, but nothing deranged. It wasn't too concerning. It was just four days without sleep. Damian would survive. He would.

He grabbed the cup from the man, surprised at its weight. He struggled to keep it upright, readjusting his grip. He must have looked incompetent, struggling to hold a simple paper cup of water.

"Um... Thank you," he said.

"Don't worry about it," the guy offered a pained smile. "I'm sorry to bring up another thing, but you know your hair is-"

"Trust me, I am more than aware," Damian said, voice curt. "I look like a walking mistake." This man was not the first to comment on that, and Damian was sure he wouldn't be the last. He couldn't even blame them. Damian agreed.

The man laughed. "Yeah, kind of." He looked around at the empty cafe. "Anything else you need?"

"No," Damian said after a moment. "I'm all good. I... I'm all good." He frowned. "The warehouse down the street... it sells law enforcement equipment, right?"

"Yep," the man turned away, organizing something outside of Damian's view. "Handcuffs, pepper spray, medical kits. Everything."

"Understood," Damian said. He hugged the cup of water close to his chest. "Thank you for the water and your assistance." As he left, he heard the man call out a farewell.

Damian didn't turn around.

-

Tugging it over his head, Damian pulled the Nightwing jacket off, tucking it into the bag next to him. He made sure to stuff it in there, keep it packaged and compact.

After it was properly packaged, Damian leaned back, resting his head on the wall of a building, hand laying on his torso. His back was pressed up against the building wall, sitting in the alley between two buildings in a mostly forgotten part of Gotham. The city of Gotham was always busy, but this place had become a phantom town.

His head nodded off for a moment, exhaustion weighing him down, before his body jolted upward. He wasn't allowed such a luxury as sleep. No matter how much Damian desperately wanted to sleep.

He hadn't slept in days. His body wouldn't let him. He was too nervous, apparently. To jittery. Every time he was close to dozing off, a shadow would jump at him and he would be wide awake again, terror thrumming in his bones.

Damian thought that maybe if he went somewhere safe, somewhere he felt content, he could finally rest.

And yet, nothing worked. Damian had traveled all over town.

Damian looked up, staring up beyond Gotham's buildings to the building perched up upon a hill overlooking Gotham. Wayne Manor loomed above it all. To many people in the town, it was ominous, a gloomy symbol of wealth. To many, it looked cold, foreboding.

But when Damian looked at it, his heart sang the same tune over and over.

Home. Home. Home.

"Hey, would you mind if I sit here?"

Damian sighed, lifting his head to look to his right. Numbly, he regarded the person standing in front of him.

"Richard," Damian observed cooly, trying to remain unaffected. There was a hitch to his voice though, his tone betraying him. "Are you the kind one?"

"You call me Richard?" He asked, giving Damian a bubbly smile. Then, he paused, the rest of the sentencing catching up with him. "The kind one?"

"Are you kind or cruel?" Damian asked. "I need to know what I should expect out of this illusion."

"What?" Richard actually seemed surprised. "What are you saying?" He bent down in front of Damian, frowning.

“Whatever, it doesn't matter." Damian looked away. "It doesn't matter which version of you this is. All that matters is that my mind's stupid enough to bring you back.

“You think I’m not real?"

"Yes," Damian said bluntly. "A hallucination, most likely."

"A hallucination?” Richard asked, sounding sad. Looking at him now, staring up at Damian with wide, puppy-dog eyes, Damian felt bad. He didn't want to hurt Richard, hallucination or not.

Still, he remained steadfast. He couldn't entertain this idea any longer. “Obviously”

"Do you-" Richard frowned, the way he looked at Damian made it actually seem like he cared. "Have you hallucinated me often?"

"Occasionally," Damian answered, his response clipped. "It all happens on whims." He coughed. "So go on. Say what you want to say." When Richard remained silent, Damian glared. "Just say it."

"What sort of things do I usually say?"

Damian glared, irritated. Was the purpose of this hallucination to be annoying? "I don't know. They're usually the sort of things I want you to say"

"Well, what do you want me to say?" Richard asked, shifting over so that he was sitting next to Damian, leaning against the same wall, a foot or two apart.

"'I remember you, Damian.'"

Richard grinned. "I remember you, Damian."

"'I love you so much.'"

"I love you so much."

"'I miss you,'" Damian tried.

"I miss you."

"I care about you."

Richard leaned over, wrapping an arm around Damian's shoulder and tugging him closer. Damian fell toward the hallucination, head tapping against Richard's shoulder as the man spoke softly. "I care about you."

"You're safe," Damian mumbled.

"You're safe."

And Damian knew it was a losing battle the moment sleep grabbed the edges of his vision.

"I'm not actually a hallucination."

"Mm," Damian said. "You are." Damian didn't want to make Fake-Richard sad. "But it's okay. I don't care. It's almost as good as the real Richard. And I'm really good at pretending."

This just made Richard sadder. "What?! No! I'm not- I- Damian. I'm real."

"You're not."

Richard frowned. "Well, um, okay. Let's say I am real, though. Let's pretend, okay? What would you tell me then?"

"Okay," Damian said. "Well, I'd tell you that you can't break the rock. Because the world will end. And that I'd rather I never see that ugly face of yours because all it makes me feel is pain."

"And what if I told you I wanted you to come home?"

Damian laughed. "I'd call you an imbecile and a fool for even- for even thinking that I would agree."

"I mean, I would have to try."

"Yeah," Damian said, adjusting his position to rest his head on Richard's shoulder in a more comfortable manner. He yawned. "You always do."

"Hey, Damian?"

"Yeah?"

"I do need to talk to you about that. There's some information you need to know."

"You want to talk to me about, what, again? That stupid rock that erased everyone's memories of me? You and Timothy both." Somehow, Damian still wasn't able to go to sleep. Somehow, this still wasn't enough. "Can it wait until later?" After you're gone?

"The magic in it, is messed with your memories too, you know? So, you have this misconception about what's going on. And once we clear that up you have to break-"

Viscerally Damian pushed himself away from Richard. "Can't you just shut up?" He said, using the wall to pull himself up. "I want you out of my head, out of my head, out of my head. I made you up! You're in my head! Why can't I make you nice? Why can't I do that? It should be so simple, so easy, but I just-"

"Hey, hey," Richard said, standing up as well and walking toward Damian. "It's okay. Damian, it's okay."

"It's not okay!" Damian reached up and grabbed at his hair. It was still too long. Still too long. "I want you out. If you're not the real Richard and you're not willing to let me- to let me pretend then what use are you?"

Richard's expression collapsed. "Damian... I am real. I'm not some made-up creation, I- I'm not this hallucination. Can you just listen to me? We don't have to talk about the rock or the memories if you don't want to, okay?"

"No!" Damian said. "Say your piece to me, Richard. What's so amazing that you've conjured up to torture me with even more? Haven't you had enough? Haven't I had enough? Why haven't I had enough?"

"Damian, calm down. Calm down. Tim said he thinks the rock might be causing a distress reaction out of you. It might be playing with your emotions are something. So-"

"The rock isn't doing anything, Richard. There's nothing more to it than the truth. And the truth is straightforward: The world would have ended if I didn't do it. So why are-" Damian paused, feeling all his anger melt away from him. "You said Tim."

Richard frowned. "I guess I did?"

"You said Tim." Damian felt conflicting emotions pass through him. He felt bile crawl up his throat, as, hoarsely, he said, "You're not really a hallucination, are you?"

Richard's smile was rueful. "No, I am not."

"I need..." To get out before I give in and ruin everything. "I need..." His mouth was sluggish, slow. Again, a wave of exhaustion hit Damian. This was the real Richard. The one Damian knew. The one Damian knew minus all of his memories of Damian. But that didn't matter. This was Damian's Richard.

"What? What do you need?" Richard asked, stepping forward. And it took everything inside of Damian not to run into his arms.

It was like this with Timothy too. He was always so close to falling over and letting them carry him home. He was always at the edge of giving in.

"What's wrong?"

Damian was so tired. He needed safety. He needed to sleep. He needed- He needed- Tears rimmed his eyes and Damian felt himself sway.

Why wasn't it working? Why did his flesh ache and his bones scream and why did... why did... why was keeping his eyes open so difficult? He had been up for five days, why fall asleep now? Why couldn't he just stay awake just for a few more hour... hours? Why not a few... more... hours?

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Damian said, voice weak. And then his body gave out.

-

Damian fell forward, collapsing straight into Dick's arms. Dick held the kid close, clutching his limp body. "Damian?" Dick asked, reaching up to feel Damian's pulse with one hand.

Still alive. Just... sleeping?

Dick picked the Damian up, cradling the boy in his arms. "Sorry," he whispered as the boy whimpered when he readjusted his grip. Was he in pain? Hurt? Injured? Dick pressed the worries down, he'd deal with those later. Once he convinced Damian to come back to the manor.

Something akin to relief flooded Dick as he held the boy a little closer.

He turned and walked out of the alleyway, out toward a nearby bench, hoping the kid wouldn't be mad that he had moved him a little bit. But even walking around, the noise of the city blaring, the clamor of the people around them, Damian didn't stir.

Once Damian fell asleep, he fell asleep hard. And somehow, that didn't feel right. Somehow, Dick felt like Damian should be a light sleeper.

Dick walked past Damian's bag, where he paused for a moment to put a backup plan into place, and over to a bench, resting Damian on the seat.

Damian stirred, expression twisting in distress when Dick released his hold on the boy. He began shivering, trembling in his sleep. Dick, panicking, unzipped his jacket and covered Damian with it like a blanket.

When that wasn't enough, Dick returned, wrapping an arm around Damian and pulling him into a tight side hug. The moment he was back, the boy immediately relaxed, melting into the touch. His head lolled, resting on Dick's shoulder.

He trusts me, Dick thought giddily. The idea of Damian giving up defenses, of letting sleep take hold, it meant something special to Dick. It felt like an accomplishment. He trusts me to protect him.

The time spent- a few hours, maybe, the sky turning from a midday blue to a soft hue of sunset- went by surprisingly fast. Maybe it was because just holding that skin-to-skin contact with Damian brought flashes. Moments of a life Dick cannot remember.

They were brief and slippery, Dick never being able to properly latch onto any of them. But they were vivid. They caused intense emotions to course through Dick's being, enough that he had to restrain himself from pulling the boy into one large, enveloping hug and never letting him go ever again.

The feelings were visceral- innate. They made him immensely sad and incredibly happy all at once.

Dick knew that the memories held something. The final piece to explain every inch of the puzzle. He knew that there was reason he wanted to brush the kid's bangs out of his face and call him 'baby bat.'

But he had nothing. So he was left caring about this boy with enough love to destroy the world ten times without knowing why. He'd do anything for Damian, and yet he had barely any memories of the kid. He was fundamentally a stranger to Dick.

The memories were gone but the emotions remained.

Eventually, much to Dick's disappointment, it ended. Damian began to stir, rubbing his face deeper into Richard's shoulder.

"Hey, kiddo," he said, surprising himself at the warmth in his voice. "You waking up?" God, it was insane how easy it was to love this kid. It felt surreal how freely the love just flowed through Dick's soul.

"You're still here," Damian observed. He pushed himself away from Dick, movement still groggy. Then, looking at the location and time change, he asked in horror, "Did I fall asleep?"

"A few hours," Dick answered.

"Great," Damian grumbled. "Just great." He rubbed his face, waiting a moment. He looked up at Dick, obviously expecting him to bring up the rock again. But Dick didn't. He wanted Damian back but the pang in his heart, the pulse of irrationality, wanted Damian to stay. And it was currently very difficult to have one of those with the other.

Didn't matter. Dick was great at conversation. He could give this fourteen-year-old something so interesting to latch onto. Even if the only reason for it was purely for Damian not to leave. "That haircut in style?"

Damian's glare wasn't as withering as it should've been. Still, the indignant tone in his voice was clear as day. "I don't want to talk about it," he seethed.

"I'm not judging!" Dick hurried to say. "It looks..."

"Hideous?" Damian prompted. "Awful? The worst fucking haircut you've ever seen?"

"I wouldn't say that," Dick said nervously. "But it doesn't look... um, professionally done." He winced. "Not that. I just- It's not-"

Damian looked away. "I cut it myself."

That explained so much. Dick tilted his head, trying to school his expression. "Oh!" Dick said, his voice straining.

Damian scowled, seeing through his attempts. "Don't patronize me," Damian hissed, narrowing his eyes. "Trust me, I know what it looks like."

"Okay, okay," Dick placated. "I'm sorry I brought it up." He ran a hand through his hair, staring up at the sky. Mindlessly, he reached his arm and rested it on the back of the bench.

The wind gave a small rustle and Damian shivered violently. He tugged Dick's jacket closer to himself, holding it like a blanket. He didn't leave, much to Dick's surprise. Which was good. Nice, even. He wanted Damian to stay.

Damian did more than stay. He actually seemed almost content. They stayed like that for a while. Just the two of them, sitting on that bench, facing the bustling road.

Dick kept pretending not to notice Damian slowly shifting closer and closer to him. The kid tried to play it off, but it was obvious that he was trying to subtly move closer to Dick. And he actually kept glancing at Dick out of the corner of his eye.

Dick tried not to smile.

"You were Robin?" He asked, breaking through the silence.

"Robin?" Damian asked, phrasing the question like the name Robin was alien to him. "I... Yeah. I was."

"When we thought Bruce was dead, were you..." He trailed off. It had been a question he was wondering for a while. Ever since his family theorized that Damian was a Robin. "Were you my Robin?"

Damian looked at Dick and gave a tentative nod. "I was. I was your Robin. You were my Batman." He gave a noncommittal shrug, but there was something in his eyes. "For a while."

"Was I a bad Batman?"

Damian looked up at him quizzically. "You might not remember me, but you definitely remember your time as Batman. Do I need to tell you what you were like? The answer is obvious."

Dick shouldn't have expected anything less. "I guess what I meant to say is: was I a bad brother?"

Damian frowned. He looked off, staring at the cars whizzing by them. "Not at all," he said. And he didn't sound angry or sad. Just wistful. "But, I suppose there were instances where I-" He paused, swallowing. "There were some days where I forgot you were my brother at all."

"Oh."

-

Damian looked at Richard. The man was so similar to how Damian remembered him. So painfully similar and so tragically different. He had the same hair the same smile the same eyes. But his outfit was different and the way he looked at Damian was different and everything felt so out of place.

So much of his life was spent drowning or drifting. But with his family- barely at the beginning but overwhelmingly at the end- Damian found peace.

And yet, lately, Damian felt like he was doing both. His body drifting, his mind drowning.

"Don't misconstrue my words," Damian said. "Being with you... it was as if you could find a home in a person."

"That's... good," Richard said, somehow not looking satisfied.

Damian didn't want to make Richard upset. Because really, Richard was one of the best people he had ever met. "What's concerning you?"

Richard shook his head, smiling. "It's nothing. It's- You wanna know something funny? I should've hated that time as Batman. In my memories, I can barely find anything redeemable about it. And yet, all I feel when I think back to it is fondness. I remember enjoying it. I hated the responsibility but I..." He gave a small huff of laughter. "For some reason, I remember loving it." He looked at Damian. "What do you think about that, Dames?"

Oh.

That confession spurred something deep inside of him. Something Damian had tried to bury for such a long time.

He didn't even realize he was crying until Richard was cupping his face, his worried expression coming into Damian's focus.

"Oh, darling," Richard fretted. "Please don't cry. Please don't cry. What did I do? I'll make it better, I promise. I'm sorry, I am. I'm sorry."

"No," Damian said, shaking his head. He let his head hang limp, a weight in Richard's hands. "That's not it. That's not it."

Richard's voice was kind, gentle. "Well, what is it? I can't make it better if you don't tell me what's wrong."

"You're wrong," Damian croaked. He was so pathetic. How did anyone ever look at him- this disheveled, distorted mess- and find anything worth loving? How did Richard do it? What did he- use to- see in Damian? How could he find good in Damian when Damian had spent all his life searching and still came up with nothing?

"I'm wrong, Dami?" Richard asked.

"You are what's wrong with me right now. With your stupid smile and your stupid nicknames and all your talk about hopes I shouldn't have. With everything that's the same and different and terrible." Damian rose his head out of Dick's hands. I love you. "I hate this."

"Okay," Richard said, although there was disappointment thick in his voice. "That's... okay."

"But I miss you. And this is similar to when I first arrived. And I... It doesn't matter too much to me. Whether you have your memories or not." A car sped past. "I mean, it does. Because all of that stuff made it what it was. But I just... don't care."

"That's a lie."

Damian didn't laugh, but he made an amused huff. "You never told me you could do that."

"Do what?" Richard sounded confused, as if he really didn't know."

"Read me," Damian said. "You used to not be able to tell when I lied." Damian paused. "Or I guess you used to pretend not to know when I lied. You played the clueless game well."

Richard laughed. "I'm glad you think so."

Damian rolled his eyes. "That wasn't supposed to be a compliment, imbecile."

"Imbecile..." Richard repeated, lost in thought. The word triggered something in him. He stared off for a moment, before coming back to awareness. He shook himself and cleared his throat. "Listen, Damian. We need to talk."

"About the rock?" Damian asked.

"It's time," Richard said. "I need to- I need to tell you. To get this through to you.

"Now?" Damian asked. "Can't it wait? We have time."

Again, that word, time. A clock or a countdown? How long did Damian really have? The truth was three weeks. No one knew that, though. Not Damian, not Dick, not anyone.

Richard leaned his head back, staring up at the small lights forming in the clouds. Damian followed his gaze, the stars slowly peeking through the haze of dawn.

"We talked with Constantine. That world-ending threat? That whole memory? It's a lie, Damian. It's not real."

"Not real?" Damian asked.

"It doesn't exist."

Damian laughed. "Out of all the theories you could have tried to fool-"

"What I'm saying is true, Damian. I'm not trying to trick you. What would I gain from that? It created a false memory. Don't you think that if it could take away everyone's memories it could add one?"

Damian shifted, crossing his arms. "Well..."

"It created a false memory to trick you into agreeing. Into selling those memories away. All you'll have to do is break the rock and it will all be fixed, Damian. It can be fixed. And you can come home. And my heart can stop hurting and I can feel complete for the first time in a while."

Damian was still stuck on the first few sentences, brain repeating them on a loop. "So you're saying there was no world-ending threat?" Damian asked, a damn inside him threatening to burst.

"Yes," Richard said, a relieved smile forming. "That's exactly it."

"So... what?" Damian asked. "So, I did this all for nothing? So, I... I messed up? I ruined everything for some stupid trap? I... No." His voice gained steel. "No, no, no. Stop talking. Stop talking."

"But-"

"Shut up!" Damian said, voice rising. Thankfully, there was no one on the sidewalk passing them by. Damian didn't have the energy to hide these emotions. "You're wrong. Wrong. Wrong. The world was going to end so I did it. I did it for a damn good reason. And it was... it was... it was worth it. It was justified. Because the world was going to end. What I did- the decision I made... This is not my fault."

"I didn't say it was your fault."

Wordlessly, Damian rose from the bench, storming back over to the alleyway. Anxiously, Richard followed, his pace a bit too quick for Damian to pretend he wasn't worried about Damian running.

"Wait, Dami...an. Damian, hear me out here. I don't want to make you defensive, I just want to let you know what's going on."

"Shit job at that, Richard," Damian said. Damian walked all the way through the alleyway, to the back. A dead end where a metal fence waited for him. "I don't think you're lying to me, I just think you're misled."

"This isn't the best solution, I know. But if you could look past-"

"Richard," Damian's voice grew loud, cutting through his older brother's words. "If I ran... would you follow?"

His voice sounded heartbroken when it drew closer. "Damian..."

"If I ran away from this- from this conversation. Like a coward. Like I did to everyone else. Like I always do. Would you chase me?"

"Chase you?" Richard asked.

"I'll follow you to the end of the world, Baby Bat. I'll never leave as long as I can help it, I promise."

Damian placed a hand in the fence, letting his fingers hang from the wires. He tugged on it once, testing out the strength.

"Yeah," he said. "Would you go after me?"

"Well... I mean, yeah. I would. I'd try to find you and bring you home," Richard trailed off, the second half of his sentence unsaid. But Damian heard it anyway. "Would you want to be caught?" Richard asked, walking forward a little more.

Richard was almost right behind Damian. Just a few inches from Damian's back.

Perfect.

Damian turned, grabbing Richard's wrist, twisting it, and slamming it into the end of the fence. He slid the handcuff out of his pocket, cuffed Richard's wrist to one of the fence's metal poles, clicking the metal shut, trapping him there.

Jumping back, Damian watched as Richard struggled against the restraint. He turned, fire in his eyes. "How did-?"

"You underestimated me and you went easy on me. Richard never did either," Damian said, trying not to sound too haughty or giddy. He failed at both. "Experience taught him that."

If Richard had really tried to fight Damian, if he had really known Damian, this would have been a much easier battle, with Damian as the definite loser. He was under no false pretentious of his fighting strength compared to his brother. They had sparred enough times for Damian to know that.

Richard sighed, giving Damian a weary look. Damian could see him hide the captured hand with his back. He was picking the lock.

Two can play the game of reading each other, Damian thought smugly. You read me, I read you.

"Listen," Richard said. "I know it's not... ideal. I know it doesn't align with everything you remember. But just... Just consider it, okay?" His eyes were pleading, and Damian could see the desperation in them.

Damian walked back to the front of the alleyway, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. "No," he said. "I'm done with this."

"Dami-"

"I'm done!" Damian threw his arm out, tears pricking his eyes. "I told Cassandra, I told Jason, I told Timothy, I'm telling you now. You don't remember me. These emotions? These are mine. You don't miss me. You can't want me back. You don't even know me."

"I called Tim an imbecile the other day."

Damian felt himself stop. "What?" He asked.

"I was talking with him and I called him an imbecile. Which didn't make any sense because that's not something I would say. But I have a feeling it's something you would say." Richard halted. "I don't have to guess, actually. You called me an imbecile twice in this whole conversation."

Had Damian really...?

Richard lowered his head, meeting Damian at his eye level. "Do you not want us to miss you?"

"Of course I want you to miss me. Of course. But you don't. You don't and I don't have a say in whether you do or not." Damian swallowed, trying to ignore what Richard had just said. "This is all stemming from some sense of misguided guilt."

"But the rock-"

"Shut up about the rock!" Damian snapped. "Just stop talking. I already told you the world's going to end, that was the deal. It can't be any other way. I refuse. I refuse. I refuse. And if you keep talking, you'll talk me into it. And if I do it the world will end and you'll hate me and-"

"Woah, why would I hate you?"

"You might not want to remember me."

Richard laughed, grinning as if what Damian said was absurd. "But I do."

"You say you do. But you don't have all the information. What if I told you that, in actuality, you hated me?" Damian walked closer. "What if I told you that I was your least favorite brother and no one wanted me in the family? What would I do if I told you that?"

Richard blanched. He couldn't prove Damian right or wrong. Damian had caught him. "Did I?"

"Maybe." Damian drew away. "The point is that now you don't have to worry about me."

Richard tilted his head. "What if I liked worrying about you?"

Damian rolled his eyes. "You didn't. But, it's okay, Richard. I've spent a long time being alone. I'm used to it now. I'm fine. And if it's for you?" I could do anything for you. "I'll handle it. I was trained by the best of the best."

He took a few steps back, not taking his eyes off Richard.

"You won't have to hate me or be annoyed by me or anything. I'll be gone. You can pretend I never even existed at all. It'll be easy. And you can be happy." Damian allowed a small smile at that. "I think have this whole love thing figured out now. It's a particularly odd feeling, one that goes against most of what I was taught about survival. In the League, it was all about survival."

Richard didn't say anything, he just stared at Damian, sadness etched in his face.

Damian spun on his heels and walked out, picking up Richard's jacket from the floor as he did.

The catch to this all was obvious. Damian- no matter what Richard said- couldn't turn around. He had to remain steadfast. Any attempts to draw Damian back were just Richard trying to buy himself more time to break out of the handcuffs. And if Richard escaped, Damian knew that man could convince him. He knew that if Richard broke through Damian's only backup plan that rock would be broken in less than an hour. He knew all of that.

Which is why he ducked his head and kept walking.

"You're not the only one who knows sleight of hand tricks," Richard called out after him. It didn't seem like a trick or a ploy to bring Damian back, more like a warning.

Damian ducked his head and kept walking. He carried Richard's jacket for a mile before dropping it off in an alleyway. It hurt, but Damian knew they had trackers in it. Damian knew that he couldn't keep it, no matter how nice it felt to hold it.

No matter how much fear haunted Damian after he left it.

-

Damian stared at the door in front of him. It belonged to a house on the outskirts of Gotham, oak and tinted with silver hinges. Not expensive looking in the slightest. It made a curt thunk when Damian rapped his knuckles on it. Silence. He waited a minute and knocked again, louder that time.

He waited for the door to be answered, clawing at his arms anxiously.

"Who is it?" Someone called out.

Damian knocked again.

"Ugh!" A loud noise was heard. A thud. The sound of objects being knocked over and a messy scramble were clear to Damian's ears. "I'm comingg! Hang tight."

A moment or two later the door swung open, and Rose- hair tangled and wild, eyes wide and blown open, outfit mismatched and clashing- appeared with Cameron blinking up from behind her.

Rose gawked at him. "Damian? What's u- Oh my God? What happened to your hair?"

Damian blinked. Right. His hair. It looked awful. A massacred mess of slices and snips. "I tried to cut it," he said, wondering if he should state the obvious. "It didn't work."

"Yeah," Rose said. "No shit." She rubbed the back of her head. "What's up?"

"Could I..." Damian looked to Cameron, who was staring at him, even more baffled. He looked almost embarrassed. Damian looked back to Rose. "You offered up refuge here once and I-"

"Oh yeah. Of course. Come in, come in." She beckoned him forward, pushing Cameron away. Damian followed her, listening as she talked. "Sorry about Cameron being here. We were just... uh... hanging out. Good friends we are. Yep."

"I genuinely couldn't care less," Damian said, hugging his bag close to him. "I apologize for the intrusion. I'll only be here for a short while."

"Of course, of course. Stay as long as you need. Roommates kick you out or something?"

"Yep," Damian said. "Roommates."

"Got a guest bedroom over here," she led him toward a room at the end of the hallway. "It's a little messy but it should do the trick. The bed should be comfortable enough, just put your bag over there and tell me if you need anything."

"Thank you for letting me stay here," Damian said, placing his bag on the bed.

"No problem," she said. "Just don't annoy me."

"Don't plan on it," Damian said. "I'll be gone as soon as I can."

"Perfect," she said. And she walked out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her. The sound of hushed bickering could be heard between her and Cameron as their voices faded off.

It was quick, simple, efficient. That's what Damian liked about Rose. She was to the point about these sorts of things.

Damian wanted to breathe and collapse on the bed and feel safe. But he still felt frantic, on edge. He glanced around anxiously, wondering if he should check for cameras or hidden trackers.

Calm down, he told himself. Damian walked back to the bed, opening his bag to pull out the Nightwing jacket. However, he was halfway through opening it when he stopped, groaning when he saw the contents inside his bag.

When had Richard...?

Inside the bag, placed upon Damian's folded clothes, rested the rock. The same one from Damian's memories.

It was red and filled with deep, entrenched cracks. The fractures were so deep and splintering, that they traveled right to the rock's core.

Damian took it in his hands, fingers digging into the fissures pervading throughout it. The entire rock looked so fragile, as if on the verge of collapse. All it would take is one small, abrupt movement and the thing would shatter in his hand.

One thought was going through Damian's head as he walked over and placed it on the table farthest from his bed.

If Damian wanted, it would be the easiest thing in the world to break.

Chapter Text

On the first day, Damian didn't leave the room.

He caved in on himself, laying frozen on the top of his bed, watching the ceiling with enough terror it could almost be mistaken for determination. Damian's limbs were so heavy it felt like they were made out of lead, dragging him down, deeper into the mattress. If he saw even a single movement, he would flinch violently.

When he had to move, his movements were jerky and quick, eyes either trained on the floor or stuck to the ceiling. He never looked around the room, never glanced around.

On an unrelated note, the rock was resting in the same place it was left. It sat on top the dresser, a low hum of red emitted from it. Damian ended up sleeping with the lights on, just so the ruby glow never reached his face and illuminated the room.

-

On the second day, Damian covered the rock with a blanket.

To do so, he had to walk across the room. His movements, shaky and stiff.

Damian wasn't used to that. He was used to fluidity, to strength. He was used to bravery and brazen and boldness. But he wasn't... used to this. This feeling. Of fear and apprehension and worry. He used to be strong. Cruel and strong and mean and bitter and alive.

Now he felt like he was bleeding, like his heart had been wrenched from his ribcage and left to slowly beat out on the floor. He felt the blood seep into the sheets, form around him like a snow angel. A mockery of a human.

"Dinner?" Rose had asked, bringing in a plate with a few slices of pizza on it. "Me an Cameron are going to head out tonight. A friend from college is having a party. Wanna come?"

"No, thanks," Damian said, taking the plate from her. "I'm fine."

She shrugged. "Alright."

Turning away, she walked off. Damian waited until he heard the car pull out of the driveway before he took his first bite of the pizza.

Less than an hour he was throwing his meal up in the bathroom. His head was dizzy, his vision was disoriented.

Am I sick? He thought, letting the water run down the sink. Maybe a cold?

Damian scrunched up his nose, he was not used to getting a cold. Sickness was not something Damian got. His grandfather had genetically designed him to be perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

But Damian wasn't perfect. He was a disgrace. A failure.

Damian made sure not to leave a trace that he was in the restroom when he left. He felt ashamed crashing at Rose's- and Cameron's- place. So he tried to make himself as scarce as possible. He tried to disappear, to fade out like he was never even there at all.

And yet, Rose and Cameron kept seeking him out, asking him questions and trying to talk to him. Even when he made it so easy for them to ignore him.

It reminded him of his family. And not in the way that everything somehow reminded him of his family- but in a different sense, a little bit more in an innate way. In a way that made the ache in his heart turn into a pang.

-

On the third day, Rose knocked on his door.

"Hey, Damian. Can I come in?"

"Sure," he said. He could tell that Cameron was hiding right outside the doorway, prepared to listen in on their conversation. He couldn't bring himself to care.

The door clicked open and her footsteps pattered into the room. She sat in a chair by the bed, staring at Damian waiting for him to start the conversation. They hadn't really talked since Damian crashed at her house and it was obvious she'd been meaning to talk to him. About what, exactly, Damian didn't know.

When Damian made no move to say a word, she sighed.

"Okay, so..." Her tone was eager, curious. "When were you going to tell me that the Waynes are obsessed with you?"

Damian nearly bolted up in his bed at that. He turned to her, eyes wide, coughing to hide his surprise. "What?" He asked. "Why would you think that?"

"They've been coming to work asking about you." She paused. "Also Tim Drake literally chased you out of the fucking pet store." She gave a fond smile. "He came back after, though. Gave us a crazy raise and told us to contact him if you ever came back."

"What did he... say about me?" Damian asked. The bats were idiotic. They didn't understand what they were doing. They didn't understand that what they wanted would only hurt them.

They didn't understand that the world was better off without Damian Wayne in it.

He knew- with a certainty and dread that should have made him question it- they would reject him. They would regret bringing their memories back.

"They said that they've been looking for you. That they want to help you. They seemed really worried, really genuine but I-" She looked to Damian. "I don't know. Are they...?"

"No," Damian said. "They just want to find me because they think they need me for something. But they don't."

"Oh!" Rose let out a relieved laugh. "Good, good. I mean, wow. That's crazy. I can't believe the Waynes know who you are and that they need you for something." Damian almost corrected her but he didn't. She continued, "Like, dude, are you secretly famous or something?"

"I'm not secretly anything," Damian said. "If I was famous I would not be taking a job that pays minimum wage."

"It's not minimum wage anymore!" Rose said gleefully. "Once this is all over, you should come back!"

"Yeah... no," Damian said. "I'm going to have to quit. Probably."

"What?!" Cameron asked, poking his head in and revealing himself to an unimpressed Damian. "You're quitting?" He asked.

Damian shrugged. If they found me... "With all the scrutiny on me right now, the boss will probably realize my birth certificate was forged."

Rose blinked at him. "I'm sorry, your birth certificate was what?"

Damian rolled his eyes. "Ha, ha," he deadpanned. "Like you've never forged a birth certificate before."

"You forged a birth certificate?" Rose asked and Damian was starting to suspect she had never actually forged a birth certificate before. Which was not something he had expected. His- The bats did it all the time.

"Uh..." Subject change. Subject change. Subject change. "So, you and Cameron are dating?"

That got Rose to go bright red. Which, funny enough, got her to let go of the birth certificate thing. "Uh..."

"Okay. Rerouting back to the Wayne thing," Cameron said, stepping forward. "If they're giving you a lot of trouble, you could always tell the police or-"

"No," Damian said, shaking his head. "That's not what's going on at all."

Cameron paused, staring at Damian as if gears in his head were turning. "Damian," he said slowly. "Are the Waynes trying to adopt you?"

If Damian was drinking water he would have done a spit take. "What?" He asked, voice breathless from disbelief. "What did you say?"

"Adopt you. I mean, he hasn't done it a lot. But it's not uncommon. Plus, if they adopted you-"

"Cameron," Rose said, giving a small huff of laughter and waving away the idea. "Please. The Waynes? Adopting Damian? Like Damian would ever take up that offer. I mean, have you heard the way he talks about his family? He wouldn't give them up for anyone. Even if the Waynes are..." She stared off wistfully. "Rich as fuck."

"Right," Damian said, the irony of her statement not lost on him. "But, besides, they don't want to adopt me. I..." He trailed off, actually thinking about it.

The Waynes adopting Damian.

Damian.

And- voice lowering into a whisper- the moment the confession left his lips, he knew his past self would have killed him for it.

"I wish they wanted to adopt me."

Never in Damian's long, sixteen-year life did he ever think he'd utter words about wanting his own father to adopt him.

And never in Damian's long, sixteen-year life did he ever think he'd mean it.

-

On the fourth day- after Damian promised them he didn't actually forge a birth certificate (lie) and that he'd explain the Wayne situation to them when he was feeling better (also a lie)- they showed him their lizard.

"Her name is Lily the Lizard," Rose said as Cameron held a plastic container in his hands. Cameron adjusted his grip, showing off the tiny, dessert lizard placed inside.

Damian gave a small gasp, leaning forward. "She is beautiful."

"Isn't she?" Rose asked, joining Damian next to the box. "She's the only pet we have, and we realized you hadn't even met her yet."

A shaky smile stretched across Damian's face. He placed a hand up to the plexiglass. "Hello, Lily the Lizard," he said. "Your name is as tragic as Kat the Cat, which sadly speaks volumes of your owner's inability to name animals. She should not be trusted with the likes of you. And for that, I am sorry."

"Okay, okay, we get it," Rose said, walking forward and picking the lizard out of its cage. "I'm a terrible name giver and you pity all of my future offsprings. Do you want to hold her?"

"Yes," Damian said. Then, quickly after, "No." An image of the lizard being crushed in Damian's hands flashed through his mind. His hands were covered with blood and the lizard was laying dead and mauled on the floor. "No," he said again, voice wavering. "I'm alright."

Rose gave him a confused look. "Oh, what? Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously," Damian said. "I am alright."

"Are you sure?" Cameron asked. "I mean, she's the same breed as Sam. And you love Sam- even if he's way more bitey than Lily."

Damian recalled picking up the mean, little lizard once or twice. He didn't, however, recall 'loving' the experience of having his fingers gnawed on. "It's nothing," Damian said. "I'm just not in the mood."

Rose shrugged. "Okay, if you're sure..."

"I am," Damian said. Don't give her to me, don't give her to me. I'm gonna kill her. I'm gonna kill her. I'm a monster. A monster. A monster. A monster. My own family doesn't even want me. Please don't give her to me, you can't trust me.

Cameron and Rose exchanged a glance. "Are you... okay?" He asked, lowering the box. "You've been a little off lately."

Rose nodded. "Yeah. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Off?" Damian asked. Damian didn't know what they were talking about, he had been acting normal all day. And yesterday. And the day before that. And the... Well... "I'm fine," he insisted. He pointed to himself, to add emphasis. "This is the definition of okay."

Damian realized belatedly that he was pointing at his hair and slowly moved his finger to point at his face.

"The definition of okay," he repeated, much more weakly than before.

"Right," Rose said slowly, raising an eyebrow. And Damian knew she didn't really believe him.

-

On the fifth day, Damian left. He packed up his stuff- even the rock, the rock, the rock- and slung his bag over his shoulder. He wrote Rose a note with a curt, simple thank you. And left it for her on the kitchen counter.

And then he was gone.

He wandered the streets for a few hours, getting water from wherever he could. And soon daylight turned into night and rain began to drizzle from the sky.

Damian hadn't been able to stomach food for a week, but he found hunger finally reach him as he used up his energy plowing through the city and jumping at any possible threat. (And there was always plausible threats.)

His mindless wander turned into a determined walk as he began making his way through the city. He didn't have a lot of money left on him, but he knew where he needed to go. The neon lights from the advertisements enveloping him in bright, vibrant colors as he walked.

He took a sharp left into a nearby gas station. It was one he had only gone to once before, on his fifteenth birthday. And Damian had originally planned on never going back there again. But honestly, it was cheap and nearby and he couldn't even bring himself to care anymore.

Entering the store, he noticed the same cashier from his fifteenth birthday behind the counter. Apparently, the man was still unlucky enough to find himself with a late shift.

Damian almost didn't recognize him, which made Damian more confident that the cashier probably wouldn't recognize him at all.

"Hello," Damian said, not caring for any preamble. "I need something cheap and healthy from your store."

The cashier blinked at him, almost wearing an amused expression. "Cheap?" He asked. "And healthy?"

"Yes," Damian said. "As well as vegetarian."

The cashier gave a small huff of laughter. "Um, well, okay. First off, love the initiative. But uh, you may need to sacrifice one of those preferences. This is a gas station, we do not expertise in miracles."

"Fine," Damian said, sniffing. "Cheap and vegetarian shall do.

"Uh..." The cashier stood up, looking at the collection of junk food and plastic-looking turkey slices displayed on the shelves behind Damian. "I'm sure there's probably something in here that fits your criteria..."

"No better time to search than now," Damian said. "I don't have anything better to be doing."

He had to force his body to keep from flinching when a nearby mop fell over. He did, however, bite his own tongue so hard he tasted blood.

The cashier shrugged and shifted out from behind the counter, beginning to wander the aisles, Damian trailing behind him.

"Are chips vegetarian?" He asked, pulling a bag off the shelf. "Or are they-"

"No," Damian said. "Chips are vegetarian... but maybe not filling."

"Hmm," the cashier hummed, continuing to walk. "Something filling, huh?"

"Before you ask, beef jerky is not vegetarian either," Damian said.

"The kids got jokes, huh? Don't worry, I'm not that dumb."

"Could've fooled me," Damian muttered. And that actually got a laugh out of the man. He turned onto another aisle, one with refrigeration.

"What got you in the mood for a midnight snack?" The man asked.

Probably the fact that I haven't eaten in ten days. "Are you always so nosey?"

"Yep," the man said.

It irritated Damian that he didn't even seem at least slightly sheepish about it.

"Oh!" The man noticed something, hurrying forward. "How about nuts and yogurt?" He asked, turning over and offering a container with the two items mixed. "That's pretty good, right? Some protein in there too."

Damian looked at it and smiled. "Yeah," he said. "That works." He reached for his bag. "How much?"

The cashier looked at the price before wincing. "Um... You know what? Don't worry about it. I got you, kid."

"I can afford-"

"No, it's alright. My treat." He walked over, sat behind the counter, rang it up and placed his own cash in register.

"That's very generous of you," Damian said, taking the container from the man. "Thank you." His voice was small.

The man waved him off. "Hey, don't worry about it, kid. You look like you've been through hell. You kinda need it." He propped his chin up with the palm of his hand and Damian knew he was about to ask another question. "Did you have a better sixteenth birthday than your fifteenth?"

Damian blinked, surprised. "You remember me," he said.

The man shrugged. "You're wearing the exact same outfit."

"Not the exact same," Damian muttered, crossing his arms. But he did have an excessive supply of the same exact clothing choices. It wasn't boring, it was convenient.

"Good birthday, bad birthday?"

"Adequate birthday," Damian said, sniffing. He was trying to give off a clear message that screamed: Do-Not-Pry. He hoped it was working.

"Well," the man said. "Better than bad. Worse than good." He leaned back. "Next birthday you should try to spend with your family- whatever your family is." He grinned. "I know from experience, you won't regret it."

"I shall... keep that in mind," Damian said dryly.

"You should!" The man said. "My buddies went out for drinks with me on my thirtieth and I loved it so fucking much. Think I'm gonna do it again this year too."

"Have fun with that," Damian said, walking towards the door.

"Oh, I will," the man said. And he waved Damian goodbye. And despite Damian's better judgment, he waved back.

-

On the sixth day, Damian ate the yogurt. Somehow, he didn't throw it up. But despite the fact he was able to keep it in, it was nowhere close to enough nutrients. And Damian could feel his energy declining.

He tried to buy a train ticket out of town but he needed an ID and a bit more cash than he had on hand. Which was just peachy. A lovely little cherry on top of everything.

He tried reasoning with the lady, but she said they were being extra strict about all of this. And that all IDs had to go through intensive security check to make sure they weren't fake.

'What?' Damian had asked. 'Why?'

The woman had shrugged, looking apologetic. 'I don't know. The bats required it. Apparently, they're worried about someone sneaking out of town. Maybe they got a tip-off or something.'

-

On the seventh day, Damian finally returned to the vegetarian restaurant. He shuffled through the doors, the warm, glowing lights hitting his skin and warming his hair. He walked a few stilted steps forward, making his way to the [front desk] where he waited, legs aching, until the hostess appeared.

She had her notebook in her hands, quickly jotting down numbers as she walked back to her place.

"Hello," she said, not yet looking up. "How many?"

"Just one," Damian said.

"Damian!" The hostess said, head shooting up. Damian backed away, from the intensity in her voice. Her expression shifted from happy to concerned. "You look terrible."

"I know," Damian said. "The hair. You don't hav-"

"No, not the hair- I mean it's bad, but not nearly as..." She trailed off. "Terrible as what's going on with your face." She looked around for a moment before beckoning him forward. "Here, let's get you some food."

The hostess led him to a booth, frowning as he slunk deep into it, pressing himself into the corner between the backrest and the wall. He made sure he could see all possible threats. He had to make sure that he was as protected and secure as possible. His eyes flickered around the room, scanning everything for potential danger.

The hostess... what if she tried to attack him? How should he defend himself from her? And what about that family over there? They could be League assassins, waiting to strike. Or what if the hostess brought Jerry over? He might kill Damian, or stab him, or poison him. Or- worst of all- try to help him.

"Hey," she said, voice softer than normal. "You doing okay?"

"I'm adequate," Damian told her, frowning. "Do I really look that bad?"

She pulled out her phone, flicked it over to selfie mode, and held it up for Damian to check. "I mean," she said. "You tell me."

Damian did look awful. His eyes were rimmed red, in a way that made it seem like he was either high or done with a vicious cry. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, just from sitting there alone. Damian's body was tense, on edge, rigid, as if prepared to strike at any moment.

Damian winced away from the camera and the hostess took her phone away, leaning back and crossing her arms.

"I don't look that bad," Damian tried.

"You do."

Damian deflated.

"Here, can I try something?" The hostess asked, placing her notepad into one of her apron pockets.

"Sure," Damian said.

The hostess abruptly jolted forward, hands held out. It was one of those fake jump-scares Richard did to try to scare the bats out of their hiccups. The two movements were uncannily similar, drawing intense comparison. But Richard's movement never worked on Damian and yet this time, the hostess's movement did.

Damian flinched back so violently that his head hit the wall behind him. The headache he had just gotten over coming back full force, vision sparking.

"Oh, shit," the hostess said. "Sorry, I didn't-"

"It's fine," Damian said, leaning forward and rubbing the back of his head. He felt light-headed, dizzy. "I'm fine."

"Damian, I..." She looked nervous. "I think you've been hit with Fear Toxin."

Damian looked up to meet her eyes. "What?" He asked. "Fear Toxin? No, I'm- I'm not. This is normal. Normal. Normal. Normal."

The hostess placed a hand on her hip. "I've been in Gotham long enough to know what Fear Toxin looks like. Hell, you've probably been in Gotham long enough to know it too. Everyone has. And this? This is really obviously Fear Toxin."

"No," Damian refused. "It's not."

The hostess sighed.

A man walked past her, faltering when he glanced into the booth and saw Damian.

"God damn," he asked, faltering to a stop. "Is he okay?"

"Fear Toxin," the hostess said.

The man looked at Damian. "Oh, shit. Poor kid." He put his hands in his pockets. "Has he had a meal, yet?"

"No, but I don't know if-"

"I'll pay for it," the man said. He looked to Damian. "What do you want?"

There had to be some trap. Some trick. But Damian scanned his words, analyzing it, and found no malice. So, tentatively, voice raspy, he whispered, "Vegetable wraps."

"Done," the man said. He looked to the hostess. "Just put it on my bill." He gave Damian an awkward thumbs-up. "Feel better soon, kid. It wears off after a day or two. It always does." He frowned. "Or you could get yourself an antidote. I'm sure the hospitals have a lot."

"Thank you," Damian said, actually meaning the words.

The man gave him a brief smile before walking off. He headed toward the back of the restaurant, where Damian saw a lady waiting at a table for him.

Despite everything, Damian hoped the man's date turned out okay.

The hostess turned to Damian. "Listen, I need you to stay here, kid. I need you to stay here and promise me you'll let us help you." Damian's expression must have been refusing in some way because the hostess groaned. "Yes, I know you don't want to. My shift is almost over, okay? After it's done, I'll get you to a hospital. Right now, I can get you your food, I just need someone to watch..."

She paused, frowning for a moment. The back, Damian noticed someone get up from their table, mouth open, staring at Damian.

A threat? His instinct asked. A threat, his mind answered. And she was walking towards them. Towards Damian.

Quickly, Damian tried to back up even further, to shrink in on himself. What happened to fighting back? A voice inside him asked. But then the image of Damian snapping her neck flashed through his mind and he decided right then that he was going to stop asking himself stupid questions.

"Hey," the woman said, walking up to the hostess. "What's wrong?"

"Fear gas," the hostess said. "I need someone to watch him."

"Fear gas?" She asked, drawing in a breath. "I can help watch him," the woman said. "We know each other. Met at an art show."

The hostess nodded and gave Damian a concentrated look. "I'll be back with your food," she promised.

The woman gave Damian a smile, sliding into the opposite side of the booth.

The hostess walked off, hurrying past the other people crowding through the restaurant. And the woman opposite Damian gave him a kind smile. "Hey, kid," she said. "Remember me?"

"Honestly?" Damian asked, frantically glancing around the room. "No."

"Listen," she said, tapping his hand. "I need you to look at me, can you look at me?"

The room was full of threats and shadows and people who could see him and call his family and alert them to where he was. The room was Damian's enemy and he never took his eyes off his enemy.

"Come on, you can do it. Give up some control."

Damian pried his eyes away, turning to focus on her for a second.

"There we go," she said, smiling. "I got fear gassed once. Worst day of my life." Her voice was deliberately calming, deceivingly so. Damian shouldn't fall for it. "Now, let's work on breathing, okay?"

"Where am I supposed to remember you from?" Damian asked, because he hated most breathing exercises.

"I was at an art show," she said.

"Oh," Damian said, everything falling into place. "You had the drawing of Gotham."

"I did."

"And the sister."

"Yes."

"How-" Damian heard a clatter and he jumped up, frantically looking around for the source of the noise. Slowly, he let his legs lower him down. "How is she?" He asked.

"She's alright," the woman said. "How are your siblings?"

Damian paused, taking a moment to think. "Happy," he said, throat aching. "I think they're happy now."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"No," Damian said. Between words, he gasped air like it would be his last breath. "It's not. I think I'm a little bitter that they're happy."

The woman looked confused. "Why?"

"Because they're happy without me. And I'm not happy without them. It's unfair," Damian spat. "They should at least be a bit miserable without me. But if they were miserable without me, I think I'd be angry at myself. Because they shouldn't be. They deserve happiness. Even if it's without me. Even if I miss them and they don't feel the same."

"I'm sure they miss you," the woman said. "If you love them so much then-"

Damian frowned. "I never said I love them."

The woman looked at him oddly. "You didn't need to."

Footsteps approached, halting Damian's reply. The hostess made her way back with Jerry following behind her, both carrying trays of food. They slid it onto the table, putting a plate of vegetable wraps in front of Damian and a bowl of ice cream.

Damian frowned at the bowl. "Who's paying for the ice cream? I didn't ask for it."

"Don't worry," the hostess said. "Helen paid for it. She's in the back right now."

"How's it going?" Jerry asked, looking at the two of them. He looked to Damian. "You doing okay? Fear gas is one of the worst experiences of my life."

"We're talking about his siblings," the woman said.

"Oh, don't get him started," the hostess said. "He can't shut up about anyone in his family for the life of him. My brain is filled with all these stupid, useless facts that I really did not need to know."

"They're not useless," Damian said, voice like sandpaper. "They-" He paused, frowning. "I mean, I suppose they're useless now."

The woman shot the hostess an unhappy look. And the hostess raised her hands in apology. "I didn't- I didn't really mean that they- Useless? What!" It was a failure on all fronts. But the attempt was appreciated nonetheless.

Slowly, Damian began to poke at his meal, taking small bites. He didn't want to throw it up, but he also didn't want to eat nothing. Not when someone else paid for it.

"Tell me more about your family," Jerry said. "What are they like?"

The hostess slipped into the booth, obviously taking it as an excuse to rest her legs. But she still leaned forward and listened.

Damian shrunk back when all the eyes focused on him, shoulders hunching. They could kill him if they wanted. Damian knew he was too weak. He had too little sleep, too little food, too little training. He was a sitting duck.

Damian wished he had one of the bats there. It was an irrational thought. They were the people he was most scared of currently. And yet, he wanted them next to him all the same.

"Yeah," the woman agreed. "Tell us about your family."

It took Damian a moment, but he finally choked enough words out. "Well," he said slowly. "My oldest brother is an idiot. But he's kind. Kind enough to get him killed, I think. But he's very strong. So for some reason, he stays alive. The second oldest is even more of an idiot and just as strong. But he's smart in ways you wouldn't expect. And the third oldest is easily beatable in battle, but he is too clever for his own good. And that's what makes him annoying. I also can't ever seem to win against him."

"Fighting in what way?" The hostess asked. "Like... martial arts?"

"Sure," Damian said. "Like martial arts." He almost stopped talking, but it... did feel nice. To talk about his family like they were still his family. "My fourth oldest brother is driven and surprisingly brave. Sweet in ways you wouldn't expect. My father is cold but warm. And he tries his best a lot of the time. My sister should act like a warrior but she acts much too emotional. Too loving for someone of her stature. And my sister- who's not really my sister- is exasperating. She always makes fun of me and tricks me into laughing."

"My brother does that too!" Jerry said. "Every time I try to be angry at him, he always ends up making me laugh."

"It's infuriating!" Damian agreed. "It should be against the law."

"You think that's bad?" The hostess asked. "One time, I was on stage at my High School performance of Annie and my boyfriend made me break character. In front of the whole fucking school."

"He was on stage?" Damian asked.

"No, he was in the crowd! I locked eyes and he made one of those funny faces." She sighed. "It was so embarrassing."

"My sister was in a production of Annie, actually," the woman said. "She still- to this day- uses it as an excuse for why she's better than me. It was twenty-one years ago. She was seven."

And for the rest of the meal, it went like that. With everyone sharing stories, passing them around like pieces of food. Damian learned a lot. Jerry had two nieces, one brother, three mothers and one father. The hostess only had her boyfriend. The woman was never going to have a boyfriend but she had one sister and three best friends.

None of them ever got anything more out of Damian than a small smile, but it was an enjoyable night. A warm one.

It made him forget for a while.

And by the time it was over, Damian had eaten his whole meal, ice cream and all. And he didn't even feel like throwing up.

He thanked them, tasting the word on his tongue. He had been saying it a lot lately. Damian didn't like it. He wished he could take the gratitude out of him and kill it with a machete.

The hostess wanted to take him to the hospital. But Damian knew he couldn't go with her. The hospital was the quickest way to alerting his family about anything. And they couldn't know. They couldn't. They couldn't. They couldn't.

He slipped out when they weren't looking. Erratically dodging stares and hurrying out the front. He'd feel guilty about it later.

-

Later, after everything was done, Damian wouldn't even remember the eighth day.

It wasn't important. Or anything worth remembering. But he did end up throwing up the food. And the rain only grew stronger. People claimed a storm was going to approach.

-

On the ninth day, Damian saw them. They were in the distance, huddled on top of a rooftop, a group of colors blurring together.

His family. 

Well, Damian supposed, they weren't his anymore.

He found a diner and sat at one of their outside tables, craning his neck up to watch them for just a little longer.

They fit so well together, so perfectly. It almost hurt to see them. To see the people Damian loved be so complete without him. But it made sense, they were a family. And if they remembered him- they couldn't, they couldn't, they couldn't- they would hate him for forcing his way in between them.

Damian knew he was selfish for wanting them. But it wouldn't hurt to be selfish just a little longer. Before he gave them up forever.

"Do you like the bats?" A little girl wearing an oversized Signal T-shirt waddled up to him. Behind her, at a close by table, Damian saw two people who were probably her parents sending him an apologetic smile.

"I mean," Damian told her. "Who doesn't?"

The girl grinned. "Exactly! That's why I wanna be Robin when I grow up."

Damian looked at her, staring into her deep brown eyes. Then, he looked back up to the bats. They were beginning to disperse, moving to travel through the city. "Yeah," he said. He was too exhausted to do anything anymore. Too exhausted to flinch when she drew near. Too exhausted to do anything about the shadows that kept growing large. "Me too."

"But my dad said I haveta wait 'till I'm older. Apparently, they're too busy right now."

Damian scoffed. "Busy doing what?"

"I dunno. My dad said they're looking right now. Trying to find someone." She gave Damian one of those wide-eyed, what-do-I-know looks when he glanced her way. The kind only children could perfect. "Dada says no one knows who, but we can all feel it."

-

On the tenth day, Damian broke his ankle.

It was in an alleyway, where he was trying to take refuge from the rain. But the shadows all began jumping out at him, growing into creatures that looked too much like Damian and smiled too much like Ra's. They circled him, surrounding him, suffocating him.

Damian tried to back away, but he fell backward, ankle twisting as he fell to the floor. A sharp snap echoing through the alley.

My ankle, Damian thought, mind cluttered as he inspected his limp foot. I broke my ankle. Richard would be so disappointed.

And perhaps it was that thought that finally did it, the nail in the coffin, the straw on the camel's back. Or perhaps it was just the weight of it all, the reality of everything hitting him.

But Damian pulled himself into a corner, pressed his face into his knees, dug his hands into his hair. And screamed.

The scream was loud and desperate and long and ran his throat raw. Damian's nails dug into his hair. He took a few heaving breaths. He screamed again. And again. And again. Until he couldn't do it any longer. Until his throat was too spent to let anything more than a pitiful rasp escape his lips.

He looked up, eyeing the space around him.

In the background, he heard Timothy scream. Followed by Jason's scream and Cassandra's and Stephanie's. Then, it was Father and Duke.

"No," Damian gasped, watching as the shadows grew wide. His face turned into theirs. They hated him. Hated him. Hated him. It was all his fault. "No. No. No. No."

Damian shook his head, trying to curl in himself. When that didn't work, he realized he had to get out of there.

He pushed himself up, ignoring the pain in his broken ankle as he stood on it. He couldn't force himself to walk straight like he wanted, so he settled for limping. He put as much weight as he could on the ankle without him buckling under the pressure.

Without meaning to, he realized he had begun walking toward the manor. But he couldn't- he couldn't- He couldn't.

So he staggered into the nearest place he could. Crime Alley. The place where his grandparents died. The place where his father became his father. The place where the first tragedy in a series of events that culminated in Damian's birth happened.

Damian knocked on a door near to him, one he barely recognized. A few seconds of nothing passed before it swung open, an old woman peering down at him.

He looked at her, mouth too ragged to say a word.

Then, after a minute of silence, she stepped aside, the entryway clear. "Come in," she said.

Chapter Text

"Sit up, come on."

Damian lay on the couch, watching the ceiling with bleary eyes. It was a soft cream color, like the worn pages of a book. His stomach was aching, hunger itching at his flesh. And yet, at the same time, he felt like throwing up.

Lights were hanging from above, hazy and golden, a halo buzzing around them. Despite Damian being in the same position since he woke up, his mind whirled and spun as if he had just run a mile. Adrenaline spiked through his veins, never giving Damian a moment of rest.

He had arrived at the old woman's home last night and she had let him crash on her couch. His voice- bloodied and raw from the screaming- took the whole night to heal. And even now when he spoke it was still hoarse and clunky. It sounded much worse than it felt though.

When the woman had been startled awake by a noise- Damian hadn't screamed that loudly- she had decided she'd play doctor and try to tend to some of his wounds.

"Fussy, aren't you?" She asked. Was the her name Martha? Damian couldn't really remember. She pressed a cold cotton ball to Damian's forehead, meeting a cut he didn't even know was there.

Damian recoiled, making a loud hiss as he sucked in his breath.

"I don't know a way to do it without the pain," the old woman said, in way of apology.

"I can handle the pain," Damian insisted, his voice broken and fraying in parts that it shouldn't.

The woman tried it again, and Damian remained steadfast, not so much as moving when the cotton grazed his skin. Though, it still burned. Whatever sort of chemical placed on the cotton stinging his skin.

But it was fine. Damian could handle the pain. All of it.

Martha sighed when she lifted his arm, wrapping gauze around it. "What happened to you?"

"A street fight?" Damian tried. He didn't sound as confident as he should have. In his defense, his headache was growing worse. His skull felt like it was being ground into mush.

She snorted. "Must not be a good fighter then, are you?"

Damian glowered. “I’m an amazing fighter.” He thought of training mats and League missions and the way a heartbeat felt when it quickened and when it stuttered.

"Sure you are," she placated. It was soothing in a way that reminded him of Richard. "Listen, Leslie is right down the street, she'll-"

"No," Damian said, forcing himself to sit up. "She'll tell my family."

"Will she now?" She asked. The pressure from the cotton left Damian's forehead. "Well, I wonder what your family would think about you running around Gotham looking like you just got mauled."

“I don’t look like I just got mauled,” Damian muttered.

“You’re right,” she agreed, flashing him a smile. “You look worse.”

Damian scowled, pushing himself away and trying to stand up. His ankle burned and wobbled under the pressure, but he forced himself through it. If he ignored it, maybe it would go away.

He looked around the room, the fog in his vision warming away. It looked plain, maybe a bit homey. It certainly seemed lived in. Photos on the walls and quilts on the couches and flowerpots on the windowsill.

On one of the tables, there was a memorial. A portrait surrounded by candles and incense. The boy in the portrait was mid-laugh, his head thrown back but his eyes open. They were a mix of emerald and olive green. They made Damian sad in a way he couldn't place. The boy looked around Damian's age, maybe a bit older, his smile a startling amount like Richard's. Have I ever smiled like that? Damian wondered.

"Here," Martha said, grabbing a pile of clothes on the couch next to her. "These should fit. But they might be a bit oversized." Damian took the clothes and she moved over to the kitchen in the next room, slipping through the doorway. "What do you want for dinner?"

"I'm not hungry," Damian said. "I ate yesterday." He had. Yesterday he was at the vegetarian restaurant, he had eaten then.

The old woman raised her eyebrow. "Have you?" She crossed her arms. "And what day was yesterday?"

Damian almost felt like scoffing. Was she testing him? Quizzing him? On... the days of the week? “Yesterday was Tuesday,” he said, eyeing her.

"Yesterday was Saturday," she said.

Damian blinked. "What?" He asked. "No, it wasn't."

"Yes it was," she said. She grabbed her phone and showed off the date to him. "Today's Sunday. The ninth."

Was it really?

The old woman- Martha- just shook her head. "I'm making breakfast." She checked the time. "Breakfast-lunch. Any problems with Grilled Cheese?"

"No," Damian said, shaking his head.

"Great." She motioned down a hallway. "Shower's to the left. If you need any help just holler."

-

The grilled cheese was good. Not as good as Alfred's, but it worked considering Damian's current circumstances.

Martha wasn't lying about the clothes fitting him. They were surprisingly snug, if not a bit oversized. Damian hadn't worn clothes that weren't one of the seven different options he had bought for a while.

Damian sat at a tiny dining room table. The couch he was crashing on last night was still in his vision, as well as the door. Small houses always were great to see everything in perfectly. Damian always liked them.

Martha was sitting across from him, a salad on her plate and a wine glass next to it. Damian almost wanted to tell her that it wasn't even the afternoon yet, but then he remembered that he didn't actually care. It was always helpful to remember that sort of thing. It helped sever the bonds that Damian was too much of a coward to cut off.

In the silence, Damian found himself musing about the rock in his luggage. Thinking about it and what all those cracks streaking across it could mean. He was so engrossed with it that when a sharp knock rapped across the door he almost jumped.

Ugh, Damian really needed to get out of that habit. He was an assassin for crying out loud. He shouldn't be startled by a loud knocking on the door.

Martha frowned and stood up, walking to the door. She pressed her ear to the wood yelling out, "Who's there?"

"Me, Martha."

Damian cursed under his breath. Of course.

"Oh!" Martha said, her voice delighted. She moved to open the door, smiling before she even saw the other's face. "Red Hood! Good, you're here. I have a guest over, come on i-"

"No!" Damian hissed, making her pause halfway. She turned, watching as Damian shook his head.

Martha looked at Damian, debating it. If she let Jason in, it would be the end of Damian. Thankfully, after a moment passed, she nodded. "Maybe you should come back another time," she called out.

"What?" The Red Hood asked. "Really?"

"Yeah," she said. "Your reputation proceeds you, honey. The boy doesn't want you here. Problems for being a well-known vigilante, I fear."

"A boy doesn't want me here?" Red Hood asked. "Listen you know I don't hurt kids. I just wanna talk to you- and maybe him- we're looking for someone. And I wanna know if anyone in your little crew has seen him."

"Sorry," she said, shrugging. She did sound a little apologetic.

The frown in Red Hood's voice was practically audible. "Why not? Did he buy drugs or something?"

The old woman turned to Damian, looking him up and down. She considered Damian before she scrunched up her nose. Then, she moved back to the door. "Very possibly," she said. "If I'm being honest."

"Seriously?" Red Hood asked at the same time Damian whisper-screamed, "What?!"

"I'm joking!" Martha insisted, although she sounded arguably less sure than her previous statement. "Now scram, motherfucker. I don't have time for you right now."

If Damian could see the man right then, he was certain Jason was rolling his eyes. "Fine. But once he's gone I really need to talk to you."

"Well," Martha said. "I'll let you know."

She waited a few moments, for the grumble to leave and the footsteps to fade. Before she turned on Damian, her eyebrow raising.

"Now why," she said, stepping forward, "on this green, beautiful earth would Red Hood be looking for you?"

"I don't know why you think I'm the one he's looking for," Damian said, standing up and backing away. His ankle had to go numb at some point, right?

"Don't play with me, kid. I know you're the one he's looking for. So, what did you do? He's never harsh on kids for anything."

Damian almost laughed the idea was so hysterical. He was not going to tell her about the insane magical spell that erased him from everyone's memories. The idea alone was enough to make a tentatively amused smile cross his face.

"You won't believe me," Damian said,

"Try me," she said, crossing her arms. "I've lived in Gotham all my life."

For a moment, neither spoke. "It's a secret," Damian tried. Because there was no way he was actually considering telling her that. What was he thinking? Was the exhaustion getting to him?

"Kid, listen. I already look like I'm about to go senile any minute now," she leaned forward. "If it's as crazy as you claim it is, no one will believe me."

Damian reached over and plucked his bag from the table. "No, I... I can't. I can't tell you." He shook his head.

She gave him a heavy look. "I'm not helping hide a criminal if I don't know what crime you committed. Plus, you look like you wanna tell someone. It'll be a weight off your chest. A win-win."

"I'm not a criminal," Damian said. But he knew if he wanted to stay another night here, he would need to fess up something. "Red Hood's looking for me because I... ran away."

"From your family?" Martha asked. "The one you don't want Leslie to contact?"

"...Yes," Damian said slowly. "That family."

"Why?"

"It's complicated." And he was really hoping she'd leave it at that. After all, wasn't that a good enough answer?

"What's so complicated about it?" She asked. "You make a deal with the devil or something?" She said it seriously, without even a hint of humor. Perks of living in Gotham, people were used to crazy shit. "I knew a girl who sold her soul for petty cash." She paused. "Or were you blackmailed? Cursed never to talk to them again? Threatened with bombs in their hearts?"

When she put all those options out there, Damian's real predicament didn't seem too wild. "I was actually erased from their memory."

"Oh," she said, contemplating his story. "Huh. Haven't heard that one before."

"Great," Damian said, sighing. He unzipped his bag, pulling out the rock and placing it on the table in front of him. He slumped back onto one of the chairs, finally giving out from the pain in his ankle. He held it in his hands, watching as the lights from above streamed through it.

"Can you get their memories back?" She asked, looking at the rock in confusion.

"Sure," Damian said, shrugging. "The memories are apparently stored right in here." He sighed. "But if I do, the world will end."

"Ooh," she said, walking forward and returning to her seat. She downed her wine glass in one long sip. "Yeah, you don't want to do that."

Damian clicked his tongue, making a small, 'tt' sound. "Obviously," he said. "But my brother has it in his head that I'm wrong."

She motioned to hold the rock and Damian gave it to her. She examined it. "He does?"

"It doesn't matter; he's wrong. He has to be. He lives in some idealistic fairytale where-" Damian's voice broke off. "Where I did this all for nothing." He paused, looking off into the distance for a moment. "Where all I need to do is break the rock and the world won't end and everything will be fine."

Damian slumped forward, resting his head on his palm.

"He says that my memories of the world-ending threat are an illusion. Something that isn't real. But I know it's real. It has to be real. If it's not real then... Then I...

He leaned his head back, pressing his palms into his face. He didn't cry but he felt his face twist into an almost-sob.

"I know," he whispered. "I think I've known for a while."

Martha watched him, rock still in her hands. She didn't say anything but Damian knew what a sight he must have made. If she had a greater sense of humor, maybe she would have laughed at him.

His mind was oddly calm. Calm in a way it hadn't been for a month. It wasn't serenity. It was a venomous calm. In the way a snake might be still before it struck.

"Known what?" She asked.

"I'm not stupid," he said bitingly. Too much contempt in his voice. "I'm not stupid. And when Richard... When he told me, it..."

He buried his face in his hands.

"I'm so stupid. I did this all for nothing. Everything I went through was for nothing."

Martha walked forward and offered him a hand. And he took it. "Well," she said. "You could break it now." She offered up the rock. When Damian shook his head, she frowned. "I'm serious. You could-" She tried to split open the rock and a bolt of fear sliced through Damian.

“No!” Damian cried, wrenching the rock away. He hugged it to his chest, heaving for gasps. “No, no, no, no. This was all– Stop it! Stop! I sacrificed everything for a good reason. I did it all for a good reason. I did. I did. I did. It meant something! It was worth something. I'm worth something."

Martha gave Damian a level look. Her steadfast calmness only served to heighten Damian’s anger.

“I– I can’t just… I can’t break the rock. The world would end or– or worse the world wouldn’t end! And all of my family would hate me and all of that would be for nothing.” Tears of frustration welled up in Damian’s eyes, but he pushed them back. He would cry later, right now he had to focus on biting his tongue so hard it bled. 

“Would you regret it?” The old woman asked.

And Damian– still in anger and denial with his heartbeat in the back of his head, pounding like a time bomb– paused. “What?” He asked

“If you broke that rock and the world didn’t end, would you regret it?" She asked.

Damian wanted to say no. Wanted to say he wouldn't regret it at all. But Damian was Damian. And lately, all he could feel was fear. "Yes," he told her. "I think I would. I think I'd feel... bad."

"Because they'll remember you?"

"Because they don't want to remember me. They think they do but they don't. So it doesn't matter if my brother's right, because once they get their memories of me back, they'll regret ever asking for it."

"Look at that rock, boy," she said. "Look at it and tell me no one loved you enough to force their way against it."

Damian almost believed her. He almost did. But a voice curled around his head and hissed in his ear in a shrill, spiky tone that made Damian terrified in a way it really shouldn't have. "They'll hate you for it. They'll hate you for it. They'll hate you for it."

"No," she said. And while her tone was kind, something shifted. Damian watched as her face warped into a sneer. "Of course, they don't want to forget you." Her tone had become mocking, sarcastic.

Damian blinked, surprised at the sudden distaste in her words. He bristled, but any frustration soon curdled into sorrow. And Damian was drowning again. "What?" He asked, getting up and beginning to back away, clutching the rock close to his chest, nails digging into the cracks in the process.

Her voice grew louder, consuming the room around them. The sarcasm was so sharp it felt like it stabbed into Damian. "I said, of course they would want to remember someone as cruel and bitter and miserable and idiotic and monstrous as someone like you."

"What the hell?" He asked, his voice dying as he fumbled for the door.

The old woman had the gall to look confused. Before, quickly, her expression turned back to ridiculing. "What's wrong?" She asked, her voice faux sweet. "Scared of the truth?"

"Stop!" Damian begged. He forced the door open, eyeing her with wide, frightened eyes. He needed to leave he needed to go now. "Leave me alone."

Damian turned and scrambled over his own feet, running as far and as fast as he could. But it took him a while to get away from her, he had to run until his legs gave out before her laughter faded from his ears. Why did he ever trust her? Why did he ever- Why was he so-?

Forcing his legs and his ankle to continue, he found a place near the harbor where no one was around.

He stumbled forward, dropping the rock and the bag on the floor, and let his body collapse. Then, he began to scream.

He didn't scream for long. His voice broke easily, already ruined from the night prior. And he was left once again, lying on the cold floor in a storage shack, wondering when this awful feeling in his chest would disappear.

Damian spent the night almost-sleeping on a barrel's side, forced into such an uncomfortable position his back would ache in the morning.

-

The streets were surprisingly empty, not as many people strolling on sidewalks or sitting in diners. It didn't feel anywhere close to a ghost town- Gotham never did- but as far as desolation went, it was the most Damian had ever seen the city. Maybe because it was morning?

Damian had woken up and made his way out of the shack, bag slung over his shoulder, rock tucked in his pocket. Since then, he had wandered the streets mindlessly.

His ankle- still broken- creaked in pain as he walked on it, and Damian gritted his teeth to keep himself from wincing. 

When Damian was Robin he would travel by rooftops. But now he mostly took alleys, lurking through them like a maze. A wiring that made up the interface of the city.

Eventually, he limped into a large alleyway. Big enough for a car to drive through, dumpsters lining the walls, cutting between two large, long buildings. Damian had to climb the chain link fence- his broken ankle being outrageously unhelpful- to get into it. Which was more painful than it used to be.

He moved deeper in, looking at the floor when-

"Hang on, let's meet up down in this alley. Call the others."

Damian had just enough time to jump into- the closest thing available, much to his horror- a dumpster. He tumbled in, crashing into the bottom of it. Although it smelled vile, Damian was relieved to know that the dumpster was empty.

He reached up and closed the top just in time to hear the thump of someone landing and voices growing near. Not just anyone's voices. Stephanie's and Timothy's. 

"Looking from the skies is easier, though," she said. "We can survey so much."

"Yeah," Timothy's voice agreed. "But we don't wanna all meet up on a rooftop, it's too easy for him to see from far away."

"Since when did you come to that conclusion?" She asked.

"Since now," Timothy said. In that matter-of-fact voice that usually meant he was right and arguing against him would only yield humiliation. "Have you contacted the others?"

"Yeah, they're on their way."

Damian, trying not to make a sound, moved to peek through a small crack in the walls of the dumpster, making out the figures standing nearby. He tried to keep his breathing even and his heart calm, but, despite his efforts, it spiked. Erratic was becoming its own sort of normal for Damian.

The two were in their hero uniform, standing right off to the side of Damian's vision. In Ti- Red Robin's hand was a notepad. The vigilantes conversed for a few more minutes, bland mundanities that washed over Damian, until eventually, other heroes began to arrive.

Nightwing was the first, dropping down from above, with Orphan right behind him. Nightwing landed on the balls of his feet, springing up and wrapping an arm around Red Robin's neck. He grinned and leaned over, looking at the notepad in the other's hands.

"Whatcha got?" He asked, grabbing the notebook to examine what was written.

"Nothing new," Red Robin said, frowning. "We haven't had anything since yesterday."

Nightwing made a small humming sound, handing the notebook back to Red Robin. "Well, we have time. And, you know, we won't even need this if we can get him to break the rock."

"Yeah, but... it's nice to get them, you know?" Red Robin said. "It feels like we're growing closer to him."

"Yeah," Spoiler said. "Hurts like hell but it's oddly worth it."

Damian, as silently as he could, reached down and slipped the rock out from his pocket. He wormed his bag off his back and tried to unzip it as silently as he could in the dark, cramped space. He needed to hide the rock on the off chance they found him.

"Hey, fuckwads!" That was Red Hood, voice emerging as booming footsteps- a pair of them- grew closer.

Damian risked another look outside, watching as Red Hood and Batman joined the group. Somehow, when Damian wasn't looking, Signal had arrived.

"Language," Batman warned. 

And Red Hood, as usual, ignored him. "I have a lead. The kid went to my friend Martha's place. He stayed overnight there. But got spooked around noon and ended up bolting."

"Seriously?" Nightwing asked. "What else did she say? What was he like? Did she learn anything about him? Was he okay? Did he seem like he was on fear toxin?"

"Said I needed to find him quick. She seemed really worried for him. And yeah, when I mentioned fear toxin she totally thought that fit."

This was bad. Terrible. Awful. Damian abandoned his quest to unzip the bag and just brought the rock close to his chest, nervously watching them through the crack. This was not good at all. His nails dug deeper into the stone. He needed a way to throw them off his-

"Fuck!" Duke hissed, stumbling forward and curling in on himself. He squeezed his eyes shut as he wrapped his arms around his torso.

Everyone hurried forward, Timothy whipping out his pencil and notepad again, leaning toward the hunched-over boy. Damian released his grip on the rock, peering even closer. What was going on? Was Duke alright?

Duke jolted upward, whatever was previously hurting him vanishing. And he rubbed the side of his head, looking up as if coming out of a daze.

Timothy looked to him expectantly and Duke nodded his head. "Manga," he gasped. "He likes manga."

"Got it," Timothy said, jotting it down in the notepad. He tapped the back of his chin with his pencil. "Is that manga section in the library his? Do you think?"

"Definitely," Jason said. "But, listen, we can unpack that later. We should coordinate this. He couldn't have gotten too far from her place. So we should search around there."

"I agree," Damian's father said, voice gruff. "Spoiler, Nightwing, Signal, Red Robin, take to the skies. Orphan, Red Hood, and... uh... we're going to search from the ground."

"Got it, B," Richard said.

Then, there was a pause. A beat where everyone was silent. As if they were waiting for someone to say something. Then, when nothing happened, they all gave awkward, stilted goodbyes and moved away.

They grappled off in different directions. Except, when Red Robin turned to leave, Orphan grabbed his wrist and tugged him back. It was just the two of them in the alley- and Damian hidden in the dumpster. Damian who was wishing they would leave soon.

Red Robin frowned when Orphan signed something to him Damian couldn't see.

"You're sure?" He asked.

Orphan nodded and walked toward the dumpster. Damian sucked in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut as the footsteps grew near.

The top of the dumpster creaked as it was thrown open and Damian suddenly became vibrantly aware of how terrible this position was in a fight. If Timothy were to try and kill him, Damian would be at a disadvantage. Worse than a disadvantage, he would be as good as dead.

Damian curled into the corner, rock tucked to his chest when Timothy peeked inside.

When their eyes locked, Timothy's face lit up, a wide smile forming. "Damian," he breathed. "You're right here."

The joy in Timothy's expression made Damian shrink back even further. How would he feel once he actually got his memories back? Would he still smile at Damian then?

A voice in his head whispered, no, no, no.

Damian scrambled for the knife in his bag, brandishing it in front of him. "I'll kill you," he gasped, his voice raspy even still, sounding like all it would take is one more word for it to become completely unusable.

It was a lie, of course. But Damian prayed he would fall for the bluff. It was all he had left to use. All he was left with.

Timothy's smile dropped into a frown. He looked over at Cassandra, who was emerging behind him. She tilted her head when she noticed Damian, her eyes narrowing. "Fear toxin," was all she said, looking vaguely guilty.

Why did everyone think he was on fear toxin or something? This was normal. Rational even. Damian had seen the way people under fear toxin acted. He was not acting like them at all.

"I'll kill you," he said again. Timothy didn't look nearly as scared as he should be.

"You have the rock," he said, slowly giving him a small smile again.

"Stay back," Damian hissed out.

Timothy huffed a laugh. The boy hopped into the dumpster, metal echoing when he landed inside. He walked forward, ignoring the knife pointed at him, and crouched down. His voice was soft. "Hey, Damian. Shh, it's gonna be alright, okay?"

Damian couldn't back away any further. He just held the knife out. Timothy didn't care though. He, slowly, tentatively, wrapped his arms around Damian, not caring for the blade pressing up against his chest.

"Wow," he whispered in Damian's ear. "Dick was not kidding about that hair."

"Shut up," Damian said, but it lacked any malice.

"This place smells awful," Timothy said. "How about we take you home, okay? How does that sound?"

"No," Damian said. "I'm not going back. I'm sorry." He pushed Timothy away, dropping the knife and grabbing the rock. "You don't understand. You don't want me."

Timothy shared a look with Cassandra, who was moving closer to them. "Fear toxin," she said. "Not true."

Damian shook his head. "No, it is true. It is. I know it is." The fear inside him had to be right. Damian knew it, he really did. It just made sense.

His grip on the rock tightened and he dug his fingers into the fractures surrounding it.

For a moment, nothing happened. Damian grew worried he was wrong. That his idea wouldn't work. But, as Timothy was pulling himself up, walking over to Damian, he suddenly lurched back, hands gripping at his head.

Damian took the opening, jumping out of the dumpster as Timothy stumbled back, Cassandra to steady him.

"That's what's been causing this?" Timothy asked, voice strained. He shook himself and jumped out of the dumpster, using Cassandra's offered hand for support. "Seriously?" He asked.

Damian looked down at the rock and then up at them. He pressed his nails into the rock again and this time both of them winced. Keeping his nails in the rock, Damian began to slowly back away, prepared to turn and sprint. 

"Damian, listen," Timothy said, obviously struggling against the pain. "You don't have to break the rock, okay? Just- Just come home."

Damian faltered. The offer was tempting, of course it was. "No," he said, voice weak. "I can't." The voice in his head was stronger now. Whispering things about what Damian deserved and didn't deserve. It sounded a lot like his grandfather.

He backed away, and Cassandra moved forward, only to fall short. How strong was the agony? They both looked exhausted, as if whatever affliction happening inside them was debilitating.

Timothy was growing desperate. It seemed to have occurred to him that, with the way things were going, he wouldn't be able to reach Damian in time.

"What about you?" He called out. "You said we don't want you. But do you want us?"

Damian opened his mouth, thought for a moment, and closed it. He shook his head. "I don't matter," he said. "I can handle the pain." Which was a coward's way of saying yes. Wretchedly so.

-

Later, after everything, Tim will recall those words. He will remember them in stark clarity as he clutches the boy's hand, watching as Damian's heart monitor flatlines. 

Chapter Text

One Year Ago:

Thoughts of a Fifteen-Year-Old Boy Bleeding Out in an Alleyway

My name is Damian and I do not want to die alone.

My name is Damian and I do not want to die alone.

My name is Damian and I do not want to die.

My name is Damian and I do not want to-

I do not want-

I do not want to die alone.

I do not want to die.

I do not want to die.

I do not want to be alone.

-

Damian's heart... hurt. It actually, physically hurt. Not in the metaphorical sense. No, his heart actively felt like it was fighting against his flesh and burning a campfire inside his bones.

Sighing and pressing a hand against his heart, Damian leaned back. He was resting against a wall in a backwater alleyway again. It felt like he practically lived in alleyways half the time. Maybe, when the Riddler shot him, he actually did die. And he's just some ghost haunting the city, a shadow of whatever he was before, confined to the liminal spaces between skyscrapers.

Damian let his head tilt back while he briefly imagined what a life as a ghost would be like. Maybe he could visit the manor then, invisible and translucent, creeping through the halls. He could watch his family play board games and strategize for patrol.

While everything was drifting, a cat jumped down from above, landing a few feet away from Damian, eyes wide and green.

The cat- calico- walked up to Damian, not as frightened of him as it should have been. It was purely curious, creeping towards him with the fluidity that only cats ever seemed to possess. Damian tried to smile and reach his hand forward to let the cat know he wasn't going to hurt it.

But, much to his horror, when it grew closer to him, reaching leaping distance, Damian flinched backward, hand curling and slamming into his heart, far away from the cat.

It was... upsetting. Damian being afraid of a cat. It was laughable.

But the feline didn't mind, continuing its walk closer to him. Damian forced himself to remain still steady as the cat approached.

When the cat reached him, it looked up, evaluating for a moment, before it stepped up on Damian's leg. It moved forward, Damian leaning forward, confused at what it wanted to do. Honestly, if it bit Damian's fingers off at that point, he wasn't sure he would mind.

The cat didn't bite off his nose. In fact, it crept toward him before reaching up and licking his nose.

Like Goliath, Damian recognized. Except this time he wasn't bathed in blood with a hundred bodies in his wake. Although, maybe he was just as alone.

"Are you tasting me?" Damian asked, his voice raspy.

The cat gave a slow blink. Damian imagined it saying, "Why yes I am," in some haughty voice. He gave a soft huff of laugh before it licked his nose again.

Damian reached out and examined the tag hanging from its collar. It was an emerald green, its tag a striking silver. He felt the thin sheet of metal between his thumb and finger, reading the name engraved onto it.

"Damian," it read. With a phone number listed underneath it.

It took Damian a beat to realize the name on the tag was the same as his own. And when he did, the thought catching up to him as he was already turning away, he whipped his head back, rereading the name a few times in shock.

"Really?" He asked the cat, looking up to meet its eyes. "That's your name?"

The cat yawned, rubbing its nose on the fabric of Damian's pants. Then, after giving a weird sniff-snort- maybe its way of saying yes- it turned, jumping off his leg, and sauntered off.

And Damian decided to follow it.

-

The cat trailed in and out of alleyways, sometimes taking the streets, sometimes slinking behind buildings. But, with a surprising amount of consideration for Damian, never going somewhere he couldn't follow.

Damian's ankle still screamed bloody murder as he walked on it. Sometimes the pain got so bad that Damian had to pause, taking in shaky breaths, trying to even his heartbeat. The cat would wait for him. It would pause and turn, watching him with an impatient expression. But it waited nonetheless.

Damian had no idea where it was going or what its goal was, but the cat seemed to have a destination in mind. A destination it was determined to arrive at.

It traveled through the city, weaving between buildings and stores, and when it passed Damian's past apartment complex, Damian felt the need to point it out. As if he didn't tell the cat, didn't tell anyone, that memory of him living in that apartment would fade away into nothing.

If he didn't tell anyone, it would be like he never lived there at all.

So, he did. "I used to have a room there," Damian said, pointing at the rundown building even though the cat couldn't see it. "I know it doesn't look too... uh... nice. But it was affordable. I'm still paying rent, even if I haven't been back in weeks. Because my room, it had all these..." Damian trailed off. "It had all these drawings. I'm going to go back for them. Once everything's over I'm going back for the drawings. I have to."

The cat's ears flicked, but besides that, it gave no indication it heard his words.

Damian went silent as a crowd of students walked by them. Damian kept track of the cat, making sure to continue to follow it despite the crowd passing by them.

When they passed by Gotham High, Damian felt his mouth open up again. Thankfully, no one was around at that point, so he didn't look insane.

"You know, I used to go to school there." Across the street was the gold gate that needed to move out of the way for cars to pass through. Beyond that, kids could be seen making their way to classes, backpacks slung over their shoulders. 

The most surreal part about it was that Damian used to be one of them.

"It wasn't a bad school. The teachers cared and most of the kids were nice. But I don't miss it. Well, I don't miss most of it." Damian kicked a pebble in front of him, the rock tumbling onto the empty street. "My brother hated that school. He was really smart, smarter than most people I've ever met. But he hated that school. When I came home one day, all drenched from some sort of- I believe they called it a "prank"- the kids had played, he got really mad. Started yelling at my father about bullying and protection and all manner of idiotic stuff. He's not the type to yell, especially not at my father."

Damian remembered that day well. He had come home, taken off his shoes, and then, the moment Timothy saw him, he was all but dragged into an interrogation. After answering a few- fairly easy- questions, Timothy had given him this look.

He had pulled Damian into a hug, promising him a bunch of unreasonable things and fixing his hair. Before he called someone on the phone and left.

And it wasn't until a few minutes later when Damian had heard him talking to- screaming at- Father.

"It was stupid," Damian said. "And I barely got to hear most of what he was saying. My older brother came over and was drying me off upstairs, saying he wanted to kill them. I don't even know why. No one ever explained why." He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "All the kids had done was push me into the river. And it wasn't even- I mean, they knew I could've fought back... I should've fought back. Hell, I almost did. I could've killed them if I wanted to."

Damian went really quiet for a moment, thinking about something.

"Me and my brother used to hate each other," he told the cat. "I tried to kill him once. Or, I guess twice. I don't know. He hated me because of that for a really long time. And I used to hate him too."

They were long, long past Gotham High at that point, deep in some rural area.

"You can't tell him I told you this, okay?" Damian waited for the cat's tail to bounce in way of agreement before continuing. "I do love him, I think. And I'm... glad I didn't succeed in my attempts. But you can't tell him. He'll be a pain about it."

They began walking on some sidewalk, passing by shops and markets. Damian mindlessly looked through the glass windows, examining the interior of each place they passed.

"That's all to say, my brother and my father's fight was utterly ridiculous. It was about something that didn't even matter that much." Damian rolled his eyes. "The kids ended up relenting after that, though."

They walked by a clothing shop, a red hunting hat displayed through the glass. Damian looked at the hat, almost wanting to laugh at it. There were even ear flaps on it too.

"Who even wears that outside of the wilderness?" He wondered aloud.

Something about the hat was really irritating him. Not even irritating him, it just looked so lonely sitting all by itself in a display case window. Damian almost felt tempted to walk right into the store and buy it. He shook it off, turning back to the cat.

"I'm not a child that needs protecting," Damian said. "But I know they all want me to be. I know they want to-" His voice broke "-protect me. But I don't need it. I don't. I'm strong enough to handle a few sneering children, I know that. And they knew that."

They were walking toward the back of an apartment building, a much larger, much fancier-looking one than the one Damian had lived in.

"I'm not a child," Damian said. "And I... don't want to be. I don't want to be a child. Being a child has brought me nothing. Being a child means weakness. I don't want to- I don't- I don't want to be a child."

A door behind the building was left just a little bit ajar, and the cat nudged it open with its nose, tail flicking as it walked inside. Damian followed in after it, trailing up a curved series of stairs that led all the way to the roof.

The rain was going harder than ever, soaking Damian's hair, jacket and bag. When they reached the top, Damian slid his bag off and let it hang right next to the door, hoping the tiny overshade above could provide some sort of coverage.

The cat's pelt was drenched and they were one, at least, in that regard. Both Damians united in the droplets falling upon them.

The cat kept moving forward, walking across the roof and pouncing on the ledge.

Looking out at Gotham, Damian was almost taken aback by how it looked. Rain in Gotham was its most natural state. As Damian had said before, Gotham was depicted almost always at night and almost always when it was raining. The town was known for being bathed in darkness for being a shadow city. Rain, in all of its miserable glory, only served to heighten Gotham's dreary nature.

In the rain, Gotham was the perfect picture of what everyone thought it was. In the rain, Gotham looked like "Gotham."

Damian turned to look at the cat, rain covering some of his vision. "I like it better when it's sunny," he told the cat.

The feline gave him an odd, piercing look. Before it turned and jumped off the building.

Damian shot forward, hurrying after the cat and frantically looking below, terrified at what he might find at the bottom.

What he did not expect to find was the cat, perched on the bottom of a fire escape, staring up at him.

His body relaxed and he let out a relieved breath.

There was an open window next to the fire escape. And, after giving him one more fleeting look, the cat hopped inside the window, leaving him once and for all, disappearing into a place Damian couldn't follow.

"Oh," Damian said, legs shaking before crumbling beneath him. He dropped to his knees, still looking at the empty fire escape. "You were going home."

He sighed before falling backward, landing with a thud on the floor of the roof. He stared up at the sky, watching as a pair of birds fluttered by him. They were sparrows. A flock of them.

"Fuck," he whispered. He pulled himself enough to push himself underneath the tiny overshade. Then, he grabbed his abandoned back, pulling the rock from it and holding the red stone to his chest.

He stayed like that for a while, knees pressed to his stomach, staring off at the skyline of a Gotham covered in clouds.

Then, Damian pressed the rock to his forehead. It was cold and rough and uneven. And slowly, a sob escaped through his lips, broken and shaky and wretched. 

Damian had barely cried before. Even since he was erased he had only done it six times. And only five times genuinely. And even then, some of them were soft cries. The single tear dripping down the cheek.

Not this one. This one was vicious. Agonizing. Like the sorrow in Damian's chest wanted to rip its way through his skin and tear his flesh. 

Damian let out a sob so guttural, it sounded like a scream.

He dropped the rock, letting it roll onto the floor, and he brought his hands forward, hiding his eyes from the outside world. Maybe if he came home this time, they could pretend nothing ever happened and Richard could dry him with a towel while Timothy yelled at Father and Jason pulled up a movie. Maybe if he came home, Cassandra could bake him poorly made cupcakes and Stephanie could try to cheer him up with jokes and Duke could give him a spare change of clothes he pulled out of Damian's dresser.

Oh, but that wouldn't work, would it?

Even if everything were to go back to the way it was, Damian's clothing at the manor wouldn't fit him any longer.

Damian tried to have his sobs fade out but they just came back stronger.

Then, in a moment of desperation and longing and hope, hope, hope- with the irrational intensity that can only be achieved by a brief moment of clarity slicing through the scrambled mess in his brain, Damian did the unthinkable.

He scrambled for the rock, staring at his reflection in the shiny facets- he looked like a child- before digging his fingers into the cracks.

He split the rock open like an orange, a sharp crackling sound emitting from it, fissures breaking open.

Each piece fell to the ground, so fragile they shattered on impact. And Damian was left surrounded by a million broken pieces, no longer red but a dull grey.

The rock was...

Damian had...

It was all...

Damian's hands began shaking. Whatever moment of clarity that had possessed him disappeared in the haze of panic that overtook his mind.

How stupid was he? Did he really think his family wanted to remember him? Did he really think he could just go home?

How could he do that? How could he break the rock? They must despise him. They must have woken up angry and bitter. Did they even want to find him now? They were probably furious he had forced his way into their life again. They were probably furious he had forced them to remember him.

And the worst part was, Damian didn't have anywhere to go.

He was all alone. His family wouldn't want him now, his old apartment was too compromised, and all his companions were convinced he was ill or Fear Gassed.

Damian pushed himself up, pulling the bag close to his chest, and swinging open the door. He hurried down the stairway, trying to get as far away from the roof as possible.

They hated him. They hated him. They hated him.

The feeling was so visceral that Damian doubled over, clutching onto the railing to keep from falling down the stairs.

His cheeks were damp from both rain and tears as he clung to the rail so tightly his knuckles stung white. His ankle, eventually, gave out underneath him, and he collapsed onto the stairs.

It was over. All of it was over.

And Damian had never been more terrified in his entire life.

-

Dick Grayson woke up in a freezing cold sweat, his heart pounding, eyes wide, brain feeling as if it was breaking apart and remaking itself all at the same time. He shakily brought a hand to his head, running it through his hair as tears welled up in his eyes.

He let out a choked sob, the tears forming into streams, pouring down his face. His face was a picture of horrified sorrow as everything crashed down upon it.

The weight of it- of all of it- was so devastating his muscles were frozen solid. His breath hitching as all of the memories formed inside his head, snapping into place in a way that felt so right.

One word- One name.

That was the only thing in Dick's head right now. The only thing Dick could think about. It consumed him, swarmed him. The name was repeated, over and over again like a mantra.

Dick threw himself off the bed with as much force as he could muster.

He needed to find him. He needed to find him now.

Dick didn't know if he could take another moment- another second- without... without...

He scrambled into the Batcave, uncaring for his Nightwing pajamas and uncombed hair. He couldn't give a shit about any of that. There was only one thing he cared about right then, only one thing that mattered.

Bruce was hunched over the Batcomputer, a furious clicking sound as his fingers danced across the keyboard at a dizzying speed. His monitors were ablaze with so many calls it was difficult to keep track. Dick recognized most of the names- Jason, Steph, Cass, Duke, Barbara- but there were too many to count. All ringing at once, all being ignored by a Batman too consumed by the memories pouring down upon him.

It was a cacophony of noise filling the cave, and yet, it faded into the background. Nothing was as loud as the the beating of Dick's own heart, pounding in his ears.

Bruce turned around and the two locked eyes, sharing a horrified expression.

Dick was still crying. He couldn't stop.

Distantly, the pounding sound of footsteps could be heard. Someone was sprinting to the Batcave. Probably Tim, if Dick had to guess.

Then, among the ringing and buzzing and beating and thumping, Dick said it.

Dick said the name that was plaguing his mind. A name he had said before this past year but never with so much context, so much understanding. A name that was so insurmountable it felt as though it could kill Dick from the thought alone.

"Damian," he choked out. And there was nothing else he could say. No other word that could possibly explain the love and the grief and the agony and the longing and the pain and the love and the desperation and the sorrow that crawled through his heart and shattered it into a million unrecognizable pieces. "Damian."

How had Dick done it before? How had he spent a year and a half- a year and a half- without him? Without his baby brother?

How did he move on with his life as if nothing was wrong? How did Dick not- How did he not remember Damian sooner? How could he have forgotten him so easily?

"Damian," he said again, walking toward Bruce. "Damian, Damian, Damian, Damian. Where is he?" He walked up to the computer, looking at what Bruce was typing. Whatever he was doing it wasn't fast enough. Dick needed Damian here and in his arms now. "We need to find him." Dick didn't care about the desperation seeping into his voice, the gravity.

Dick had failed. He hadn't been able to save Damian. He hadn't been able to protect him. He had failed and failed and failed. And now Damian was probably Fear Toxined somewhere in fucking Gotham scared out of his mind. And Dick wasn't there to help him.

Dick had lost his little brother.

He had lost Damian.

Chapter Text

The storm was violent. Trashcans were knocked over, sidewalks were soaked, gutters were flooded and tables were splayed across the street.

Damian walked through the rain, letting the droplets trickle down his hair and slick across his jacket. His hands, shaky from the cold, were tucked in his pockets. He hoped they would regain some of their warmth.

He lowered his head, reaching up and tucking his hood down farther before returning his hand to his pocket.

His boots splashed through puddles, sending the murky water everywhere.

It had been three days.

Three days since the world should have ended. Three days since Damian should have doomed everyone he ever loved. Three days since Damian had ruined everything all over again.

Richard had been right. Damian had done it all for nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

Damian had said goodbye to his family for nothing. Damian's pain was worth nothing. Damian's sacrifice was worth nothing. Damian was worth nothing.

He had made a mistake erasing their memories and he had made a mistake returning them. The regret curled around him, choking him. He didn't want to face reality. He didn't want to face his family. He didn't want to face their memories.

Sometimes- when Damian spent the majority of the past few days hidden out of the sigh of security cameras, feeling awful and terrible in a way that made his chest twist- he wondered what his family thought.

Damian assumed they must be upset. Richard would probably be a little concerned- it was who he was. But once the mystery was unveiled, Timothy would lose interest. They all would realize it was Damian they were forgetting and the curiosity would die. One or two would keep looking for him, probably out of some misguided sense of accountability.

Honestly, Damian didn't care if they looked for him because they felt responsible for him, he just wanted someone to look for him.

That was why he didn't care about the voice in the back of his head, telling him they didn't want him. At this point, Damian couldn't care less about whether he was wanted genuinely enough. If they were willing to pretend, so was he.

...But then, at the same time, Damian wouldn't want to hurt them just to help himself.

After all, what if they were happier without him?

What if, when their memories were erased, a weight disappeared from their heart? What if the day after, they were all relieved for reasons they couldn't describe? What if there was finally an equal number of seats at the table and enough room on the couch?

Damian could imagine it vividly- too vividly. The exasperation that came from remembering him. The groan of annoyance when every memory returned.

But despite that. Despite the odd intensity of the voice and the images in Damian's head- the type of intensity that sent fear and horror and devastated sorrow seeping into Damian- someone was looking for him.

Someone was looking for him.

The day after Damian broke the rock and the day before the storm, Damian had emerged from a hiding place of shame to a city covered in his face.

Missing posters were hung up in storefronts and on light posts. Photos of him lined the front of every newspaper and every display.

It was horrific. Damian couldn't go anywhere. Every corner he turned, every sign he passed, every billboard placed on another billboard, there it was. Watching him, haunting him, waiting for him.

And they didn't even use the same photo of Damian each time.

Some of them were him in a suit, giving the camera a blank, even expression. Company photo shoots for Wayne Enterprises, most likely. Or family holiday cards. Some were of him in front of a misty, blue background, wearing casual office wear- Yearbook photos- or of him in a crowd, not even noticing the camera- Paparazzi shots.

But some of them... Some of them were personal photos. Photos taken with a phone or one of Timothy's vintage cameras. The kind you only ever see in scrapbooks.

And there they were, displayed on the Gotham Gazette's front cover.

The worst part of the photos was his age. They were all taken when he was fourteen. When he looked so much younger, with shorter hair and cheeks that made Damian realize how much muscle he had lost.

But, those photos were probably the most recent ones of him they had.

Even if it was agonizing seeing how happy he was in them. Living with the Waynes had really made him soft, hadn't it?

Damian shook himself, trying to get the thoughts out of his head. He couldn't be bothered by them right now. He needed to focus on leaving the city... after the rainstorm. He turned and headed to his destination: a small, well-lit cafe, flooded with people.

The cafe was nice, if a bit simple. There were plenty of tables, with friends chatting over coffee and people working on computers.

Damian's entrance went practically unnoticed as he walked in, slinking off to a corner table. All things considered, a cafe wasn't the worst place to find refuge in.

A loud noise from the television in the middle of the cafe rang through the store. The screen showed a newscaster standing in front of an "Exclusive Interview" sign. Damian didn't think too much of it, returning his gaze to his food. But when everyone around Damian, looked to the screen with an intensity Damian had rarely seen from people in coffee shops, Damian glanced up, to see what all the excitement was about.

He winced when a photo of... him appeared behind the newscaster. He had seen that one before, it was one of him with his hair slicked back and his eyes avoiding the camera. His suit was charcoal colored and Cassandra's hand was in his hair.

And then right below the photo was... The name.

Ugh, the name.

Damian didn't want to think about the name if he could help it. The name was the whole reason he avoided looking at the photos and the posters. He couldn't stand the sight of the name placed underneath him. He couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't.

"Shit, they got an interview about Damian Wayne?" The man sitting at the table next to Damian asked. "Has someone found him yet?"

The newsroom transitioned into a space holding a silver table, the news' logo shining in bright, flaring colors in the backdrop. Standing behind the table was Damian's father- as Bruce Wayne- and Timothy- as Red Robin- a newswoman sitting at the far end.

That's strange, Damian observed. They don't usually like mixing civilian and hero identities like this.

And... wow. They looked absolutely terrible. Their smiles were more obviously pained than usual, their hair was barely styled, and their outfit- while expensive- looked terribly thrown together. Timothy looked on the brink of collapse, his fake smile continuously dropping and twisting before he untangled his expression into one of faux joy. And while Damian couldn't see his eyes, hidden beneath the domino mask, Damian's father's eyebags looked atrocious.

It was disconcerning, seeing them in front of cameras looking so thoroughly exhausted, like they've been killing themselves in their spare time.

"Red Robin! Bruce Wayne!" The newslady greeted, voice pleasent. "How nice of you to both agree to interview, especially considering the difficult times your families have fallen upon. Now, I know you've said before in a few article interviews, but for Gotham Daily's watchers, might you mind repeating what happen to Damain Wayne and Robin? I'm sure many of our viewers are greatly concerned."

When Damian realized it was a P.R. thing, he deflated in his seat. He shouldn't be disappointed, he knew that. But he was anyway.

"Not at all," Damian's father said. His voice was starkly monotone, utterly devoid of emotion. Usually, when he was playing Brucie Wayne, he put on some sort of mask. But this time, it looked like he didn't even try. "Around a year and a ha-" He paused, hands gripping the armrests so tight his knuckles went white. "A year and..."

"Exactly one year, nine months, and three days ago," Red Robin said. "There was a magical... entity in Gotham. Damian was a victim of one of its attacks, causing- as you know- the town wide, memory erasure. And Robin, while trying to save him, accidentally got caught up in the magic as well, leaving them both forgotten by everyone. So that-"

"Wow..." The newslady said. "How tragic!" Then, she turned to the camera. "I'm sure I'm not the only one who woke up Tuesday morning wondering about these two celebrities. It was a real shock when I realized they had disappeared for the last two years-"

"One year and nine months," Red Robin corrected, voice small.

"-and no one had even batted an eye!" Her smile grew wide as she turned back to the two of them. "And do you even know what brought our memories back?"

"We don't know," Damian's father said. "But we are working on finding it out."

"And what about the 'magical entity?'" She asked.

"We believe we defeated him," Red Robin answered. And yeah, maybe lying about a magical rock brainwashing your stupid, gullible vigilante partner was probably the best move. Damian could admit to that.

"And where are they right now?" The reporter asked. "I'm assuming they must have stuck together. But why hasn't Robin made contact with you since his erasure? Or since his un-erasure?"

"We're trying to-" Timothy's voice broke and he looked away. "-find him. Them. Find both of them. But rest assured, we will find them, no matter what it takes." He nodded. "We're looking for clues and while we don't know why Robin has been silent, we're assuming that-"

"Do you think he resents you?" She asked, grin never wavering.

Timothy's face paled. "Uh..." He closed his mouth. "I'm sorry... what did you say?"

"I asked if perhaps the reason why he hasn't tried to get in touch is because he resents you," she said. "You guys are superheroes after all, do you think he's upset you weren't able to reverse the effects of the spell sooner?"

"I didn't- I mean- Well-" Timothy paused, and he looked vaguely frightened. Or perhaps the right word was haunted. Maybe sad, he definitely looked sad.

Damian suddenly felt a very intense urge to kill the newswoman with his bare hands.

"That's- It isn't-"

"I'm just asking!" She said, waving the air and laughing. "I mean, after all, it's sort of the bats fault that this happened, isn't it? No one was with Robin when he tried to save Damian Wayne, so it's entirely possible this could have been prevented had one of you been there." She shrugged. "I'm not saying he blames you, I'm just giving some possible theor-"

"No more questions, please," Damian's father said, cutting through the interviewer's words. "Both families have been working hard to-"

"No," Red Robin said, shaking his head. "It's fine."

The newswoman perked up, looking at expectantly.

"I'm gonna find him," Timothy said, staring at the woman and then looking resolutely into the camera. "And if he hates me for not remembering him sooner that's fine. I'm going to find him and I'm gonna make it up to him and I'll bring him home if it's the last-" the newscast had to cover his next words with a sharp beep. "-thing I do."

"If you have any information at all," Damian's father added. "Please contact us. The reward has doubled since yesterday for anyone who has found Damian or Robin."

And then the news segment moved to a different reporter, looking off nervously off camera before talking about Gotham crime rates in the last few days.

Damian almost rolled his eyes. This whole thing was childish. He wasn't some missing person to be wept over and worried about. He wasn't worth the interviews and the posters and the articles.

"They're a mess," the man at the table next to Damian muttered. "I mean, they're beside themselves with worry."

The guy next to him grabbed his forearm. "They are. I saw them in patrol last night, it was brutal. They didn't so much as give the criminal a second." He took a bite of his croissant. "I was getting mugged for the second time this month and Orphan just took the man out with one hit. She dropped down, knocked him out, and then asked me about Damian Wayne."

"Something similar happened to me too! I was in the middle of my run when I saw another bank robbery. Signal and Red Hood popped in, stopped the whole thing, tied them all up, and began asking around

"Oh!" A girl said, joining in. "I heard about that. Yeah, they're not sparing any time to hold their punches. But, on the bright side, crime's been at a crazy low recently. None of the criminals are willing to risk it since they're all in a terrible mood. It's just better to let them focus on locating Robin before trying anything."

"And why would that reporter ask that question?" The first man wondered.

"She must have heard about what happened in the interview with Dick Grayson and Duke Thomas. I don't know if you've seen it but it's really sad. I have a little brother at home, so when..."

Damian stopped listening at that point, turning his auditory attention to the two women sitting on the other side of him. Both of them were sharing a cup of pink lemonade with two straws. 

"Maybe they're kidnapped," the first woman suggested. "I mean, something has to be keeping them from going home."

"Kidnapped?" The other one asked, laughing. "No way. Have you seen the reward amount? I'd turn him in at that point. I wouldn't need to work a day in my life."

"Yeah," the first woman said, also laughing. "I'd honestly kidnap him myself at this point. If all it takes to get that penthouse in New York is stealing some some rich boy off the streets, I'd do it in a goddamn heartbeat."

"I mean," the other said. "There are people looking for him. Like droves of them, searching all across town. But Gotham's a big place. It's difficult."

Damian stood up, chair screeching backward. He tucked his hood down again and walked out of the cafe, back into the rain.

-

When the storm cleared, Damian walked out from underneath the overpass he was resting under.

The clouds were muddled, coloring the sky and the surroundings a deep, dull gray. The security cameras seemed to have doubled since the rain- and a few newspaper stories confirmed that more were set up by the Bats despite the downpour.

Which made Damian's job, of avoiding the cameras, even more difficult. He was hungry, and freezing, and he kept jumping at every little noise and he couldn't do this much longer.

His foot was bent, tilted just a little off, and it made a weird clicking noise when he walked. He was sure it had something to do with his ankle, but he honestly had just gotten used to ignoring the pain at this point.

Shivering, he tried to burrow deeper into the jacket. His body had been aching lately, filled with pain he didn't know the location of. Something was wrong with him, he knew that much.

Damian passed by another missing poster, pausing halfway through his step.

Usually, when he saw the poster, he ducked his head and walked even faster. But this one...

Damian reached over, ripping the poster off the lamp, glaring at the picture on it.

The photo wasn't bad, it was just that... Damian didn't remember the photo. Not that he didn't remember it being taken- although that was definitely a possibility from the way Damian looked off-camera- but in the sense that Damian didn't recall the moment.

At all.

He didn't remember what was going on when the photo was taken, or what was happening, or why someone was taking the photo.

There was a hand slung over the fourteen-year-old Damian's shoulder, the owner cropped out of the frame. Damian was leaning back, looking up at them, smile creeping on the tips of his mouth. His eyes were alight, looking at the person with such...

It was disgusting, Damian decided. Disgusting, sad and pathetic. It was outrageous that such a thing would be caught on camera.

But it gave Damian this sensation of home that was nearly impossible to shake. It warmed him and made him want to walk straight back to the manor and collapse into someone's arms. Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe.

It was a dangerous feeling. The kind he was warned against.

"Poor kid," a man said, making Damian jump. He must have walked up to him while Damian was too busy looking at the poster. "I mean, imagine waking up and finding out that everyone forgot all about you. And you're all alone." He stared at the paper in Damian's hands. "I'd miss my family."

"Yeah," Damian said, swallowing. "I would too."

"They really care about him," the man said, crossing his arms and leaning even closer to the photo. "They really do."

Damian folded the paper into a square and slipped it into his pocket. "Yeah," he said, looking away. "I hope they find him."

"I hope he finds them."

Damian gave a mumbled goobye and walked off. The man turned and kept strolling down the sidewalk.

Damian passed by another missing poster. His green eyes- midway through a scowl- pierced through him from the paper alone. And he stopped, turning to look. 

Slowly, he reached out and tore it from the lamppost. He ran a thumb along the edge of the paper.

He didn't remember that photo being taken of him either.

-

Damian had made his way to the harbor, pocket full of missing poster photos of himself. He walked along the empty docks, ocean lapping at the edge of the platform. He rung his hands, staring at the walls, searching for cameras.

Lately, every passerby seemed to be looking for him, every civilian was looking around, lazer-eyed, trying to locate Damian in the crowd. Damian had hidden from multiple groups of people who were trying to find him, all seeking the 'reward' or whatever his family had put out.

He had to give it to them; it was a well-executed plan. They got the whole town in on it.

Damian paused halfway through his thoughts, steps slamming to a halt. He turned over, leaning against a wall. He coughed up a scary amount of blood, eyes wide.

Well, Damian thought, pulling himself back up. That can't be good.

He straightened and kept walking, turning into the side of a store, and running a hand along the wall. He walked deeper into the back area between stores. He was just thinking about the hospital nearby when a voice rang through the empty area.

"Boy Wonder, the talk of the town, fancy seeing you here."

Damian whipped his head around, glowering when he noticed Leslie. "What are you doing here?" He asked, backing away. He glanced around, trying to see if any of the bats were there. Damian didn't want to see their faces. The disappointment. The anger.

Her eyes softened when she looked at him. "Your family has been looking for you," she said. "You're a very difficult boy to find."

Damian shrank away from her. “So?” He asked. “Maybe they should leave me alone. Alone. Alone. Maybe they should just leave me alone. I'll be okay. Okay. Okay." He staggered back, expression growing more frightened. “Please. Please, just--” 

“Damian, listen to me,” she said, her tone serious. “Can you listen to me?” 

“I’m listening,” Damian snapped, moving away when she walked closer. 

“You’re under the effects of Fear Toxin. And this is all new, alright? It should have worn off weeks ago and the fact that it hasn’t is... worrying, Damian. It really is. And- Listen. You’ve gone through a lot already. And your... ” She paused. “Your heart, Damian. It can’t take it.” 

"My heart's fine," Damian said. The sound of the ocean was growing louder, overwhelming. "Fine. Fine. Fine."

"You were shot in the heart, Damian. Do you really think a toxin that's designed to make you feel fear... you know, the thing that's notorious for making your heart beat faster." She sighed. "That toxin could kill you if it keeps going. And if it's the toxin that-"

"Did you tell the Waynes?" Damian asked. "About- About the Riddler?"

Leslie gave him a pained, exasperated expression. Like she wanted to hit him over the head with a metal bat. "No," she said after a moment. "I haven't told them... yet. I don't think they'd take it well. And they'd probably blame themselves. Which, neither me nor Barbara can afford to have happen right now. They're already too in their heads about this. If I told them, it'd just add to the guilt even more."

She looked him up and down. For a moment, her expression was calculative.

"You'd fit right in with them." She gave a fond sigh. "Your family is this one insane, little group of people who all love each other and take it out on the rest of us. You know, when I was-"

“You’re stalling,” Damian realized, the betrayal of it seeping into his bones. He felt cold. “You alerted them I’m here, they’re- They’re coming. You tricked me.” 

“Damian,” she said imploringly. “You’re killing yourself. You’re going to die.” 

“No,” Damian choked out. “No, no, no, no. You can’t do that. You can’t do that.” 

"That's the Fear Toxin, Damian. Don't listen to it."

"What do you know?" He sneered- because it was the only thing he could do, it was the only thing he felt safe in. "What the fuck do you know about me? Just leave me alone, you all don't have to put on this performance for the cameras-"

"Cameras?"

"-to lie to my face that you care. I'm sorry I broke the rock, okay? I know I shouldn't have. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. If you don't want to remember me, you don't have to! I'll make it up to you. I'm sorry. I'll make-"

"Damian Wayne."

Damian froze. In the corner of his eye, he noticed a syringe in one of her hands. He knew she probably had a sedative in it or something.

"Wayne," she said again, and he flinched. Wayne. Wayne. Wayne. Wayne. Wayne. "Look at you, you're scared of a last name."

"I'm not-"

"You're terrified of being called a Wayne. Why? Are you scared of..."

"I'm not scared!" Damian said, stalking up to her. "I don't deserve the name. I just don't. It isn't mine anymore. I gave it up. And the world should have ended. I gave it up and the world should have ended and my family isn't my family and I need to get out of here before they arrive."

"Or you can wait," she said. "You can wait and they can show up and they can bring you home."

"Yeah... no." Damian said, watching as a shadow in the distance began growing closer at an alarming rate. He noticed his old apartment complex just a block or two away. "Sorry." And then he took off running.

-

Arriving back at the apartment complex- gasping for air, ankle burning, everything inside of him screaming in agony- the landlord jumped, looking at him with an almost-fear.

"You!" He said. And it was both an accusation and a revelation. "You're Damian Wayne."

"I am," Damian said, trying and failing to show any sort of reaction to the last name. "Listen, I just need to get something from my room and then I'll leave, okay? Just keep quiet until I'm gone."

"I need to tell them," the man said, already reaching for his phone.

"No!" Damian said, hurrying forward and grabbing the man's wrist. "Just give up the reward money, alright? Just wait five minutes and then you can call them. Please, for once in your life just have an ounce of human decency."

"This isn't about the reward money," he hissed. "They'll kill me if I don't tell them."

And he seemed... genuinely terrified.

Huh.

"Kill you?" Damian scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous."

The man looked baffled. "I'm not! I'm being serious!"

"Just... please?" Damian asked. He mustered up a fake waiter-smile to give the man. He made his voice small and pitiful, looking up with sad eyes. "I really just need five minutes." Damian hated doing this. He wanted to punch the man at least ten times over.

The man looked nervous, but- much to Damian's surpise- he relented. "Five minutes," he said gruffly. "And you better swear on your life you'll get me some of that reward money."

"Uh, sure," Damian said. Why was this man so convinced Damian was going to get caught?

Still, Damian didn't waste a second lingering. He scrambled up the stairs, hurrying as fast he could to his floor, before he sprinted down the hallway. He needed to get to his room, grab his notebooks, and leave as soon as he could.

Opening the door, Damian felt his heart stop. It sounded like an exaggeration but he swore it grew difficult to breathe.

His room, his apartment was... empty. Vacant. Plain. His drawings- all his drawings that used to line the windows and walls and floor- were gone. They had disappeared, vanished.

His drawings of everyone. Of everything. Of each member of his family. Of memories he kept close to his chest. Of notes scribbled down with facts and pieces of people he loved that he wasn't willing to forget.

And they were all gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.

How could Damian lose his family a second time?

But, while Damian's drawings were gone, leaving the room bleak and dull, the apartment was filled with other things.

There were Post-It notes on doors and walls and objects. Notes scribbled down about this and that. The handwriting was always different, each time. And they were everywhere.

"Empty," the Post-It on the cupboard read. "No crumbs. Ever used?"

Another one was over the closet. "No clothes anywhere. Did he take them with him?"

In the bathroom, the glass shards were all swept up into a pile, with a sticky note next to the broken mirror. "Little brother okay?" It asked.

And as Damian looked at all these sticky notes, reading them in fascination, he noticied something he hadn't before. Right next to the door, hiding just outside of his vision pror, was...

His drawings.

Damian rushed forward. They were all here, taken off the walls and separated into piles, stacked onto a tiny corner table. Damian let out a breath of giddy relief.

He picked up the drawings, making sure they were all there. The family photos that Damian had drawn from memory, the individual sketches of his siblings and his father- both in costume and out of it- the ones of his mother smiling and his friends all posing.

He pressed the stack to his chest, letting his head drop and a small smile form on his face. They were here. His drawings were all here. They weren't his actual family, but Damian could make do.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a small red light.

Looking up, he found a tiny black box, resting on the edge of the table.

Damian had grown long acquainted with Timothy's obsession with surveillance. Richard had claimed it made the boy feel safe knowing where everyone was. And for that purpose alone, Damian had humored him.

He knew Timothy had trackers in their uniforms and most of their clothing. And he had cameras planted throughout the manor, the penthouse, Richard's Bludhaven apartment, Jason's hideouts and anywhere else the majority of them spent their time. It wasn't a secret in the family, everyone knew about it.

Whih was all to say, Damian knew what Timothy's cameras looked like.

He crushed the object in his hand, watching as tiny, plastic specks fell to the floor like snow. Then, he escaped through the window.

-

Damian caught the camera but he missed the trackers hidden in the drawings. The paper thin trackers sliped among the stack because they understood their little brother more than he was willing to admit.

Though, on some level, Damian must have known. He must have felt the weight when he carried it out. At least a little bit.

Chapter Text

Before a rock is broken, before nearly four years' worth of memories are returned, before Dick Grayson's life is unaltered and set back on course two years too late, he found his little brother- who he didn't remember being his little brother- sitting behind the back of an abandoned liquor store.

Although Dick didn't remember him fully, there was always that burning feeling in the back of his chest. No matter where he went or what he did, that feeling never found a place.

Not until all the memories were returned and it crawled its way through his ribcage and turned into an uncontrolled flow of tears.

But that doesn't happen for a month.

Right now, Dick is holding his breath. He is watching the kid who's both his brother and not his brother in baited anticipation.

You saw how this plays out.

If Dick could have coaxed Damian back to the manor, maybe things would have played out differently. Whether that would be better or worse doesn't quite matter. Damian would still be an entity the world couldn't remember. The family would have all that love and still nowhere to put it.

If that future were to take place instead of this one, it would go on differently. Damian would lie when they asked him questions about their memories.

That's almost all he would do. He'd falsify the past, whisper words he didn't believe about events that never happened. He'd refuse to break the rock, holding onto a fragile hope that maybe- maybe- if he told them they used to love him it might actually come true.

The fear toxin might be treated early. It might get treated late.

Damian would spend his nights mourning for what they used to be while still craving them for what they were. It would kill him a little, it would.

He would spend the empty hours running over the lies he had said, memorizing them and repeating them over and over again. Trying so hard to make sure he wouldn't falter. That he could keep up the facade.

And he'd feel so guilty. He'd let Dick cry into his hair, let Tim fall asleep holding him, let Steph play board games with him, and let Cass try to understand him.

When he broke the rock, he would run away. He'd run and run until he couldn't stop running. And by then he'd be long out of Gotham, in some backwater town he wouldn't know the name of.

But they would find him, they always do.

Dick didn't know any of this. He didn't know that future. He just knew he failed as he watched Damian leave his vision. And he tries to squash the festering sadness that took over when the hope and the elation all crumbled away.

And as he wrangles his hands out of the handcuffs, he wonders when that boy will ever stop running.

-

The Batcave had been turned into a cluttered mess. Tim's whiteboard of madness- different colored markers all scrawled across the hurricane of notes. If it was a proper bulletin board, Dick was sure red string would be strung all over.

Dick was itching to leave the manor, to spend every moment out on the streets, searching for the kid. The feeling was so vivid with so much urgency it scared Dick. Was he really so willing to tear up buildings and streets in pursuit?

"So, you met with him?" Duke asked, turning to Dick. "And he... handcuffed you to a fence?"

"Anything new?" Jason asked eagerly. "Find out anything?"

"Not really," Dick said. Even though the answer was yes, I learned that I miss him a shit ton. "He, uh, cut his hair."

Cass blanched. "Cut his hair?"

Distantly, Dick was aware of how ridiculous it was they cared so much about this kid changing their hair. About fixated everyone became on every change. But he was much too focused at the moment to even bring the thought to the forefront of his mind.

By the time he finally recalls it again, he will have his memory back and its ridiculousness will be long, long faded. He'll find it much more reasonable with context.

"His haircut is... it's not hideous," Dick said. "It's just... different." Something felt a little off about it. Not right. But then again, something felt off about the kid's long hair too. 

So maybe no matter what happened it was bound to make Dick feel off.

"I should add that to the whiteboard," Tim decided, standing up and walking toward his precious whiteboard. First, it was the rock and now it was the whiteboard, the boy was grasping, obsessing over things to a degree that was concerning. It was concerning for a few reasons, but one of them was because Dick felt the same way too. He wanted to cling to something, to take all these emotions he didn’t know what to do with and focus them somewhere.

Bruce looked away from the computer, frowning in thought. "Anything else?"

Don't mention the rock. "He thought I was a hallucination."

Duke frowned. His pencil's eraser was half bitten off. He had a habit of chewing on the back of pens and pencils. "Hallucination?"

"Yeah. I don't..." Dick sunk into his seat. "I don't know." He crossed his arms. "He seemed really..." Dick sighed. "Something's wrong with him. Maybe it’s the rock. Maybe your theories are right, Tim."

"Well, something's going on with him," Tim said.

Steph stepped forward to look at the whiteboard. She crossed her arms. On it was every single piece of information they had collected all compiled in cramped, tiny handwriting that took up the entire board.

Dick had everything on it memorized- they all did. But it wasn't enough.

It wouldn't make up for actual memories.

"I don't know, maybe that's just how he-" Steph paused, midway through trying to speak. She wobbled for a moment before she hissed a quick, "Fuck" and then she was on the floor.

Cass and Tim hurried forward, helping stabilize her and move her up. She leaned against them, gasping for air as everyone else gathered around her.

Her eyes were closed and a pained laugh slipped through her lips.

Then, she jolted upward, the sheer force of it having Tim and Cass release her. She staggered backward before orienting herself.

She blinked, looking around the room, dazed.

For a moment, everyone just watched. Then, Bruce broke the silence.

"Steph? What was that?"

"Oh my God," she said, looking up at them. "I- Oh my God." She ran her hand through her hair. "Holy shit."

Jason leaned forward in his backward chair, head on top of the backrest. "What's wrong?"

"Damian," she said. "I remember him." Then, quickly after, but not quick enough to stop everyone running forward and Jason kicking away his chair, "Not fully. Just a little bit." She frowned. "Oh God. He really- He really..." She shook her head, eyes wide as whatever new information she was given processed through her head.

Dick, however, couldn't find it in himself to wait. "He really what?"

"I don't know. I was... doing something with him. With, uh, papers and markers. We were drawing something." She paused. "He likes to draw."

Now that Steph could stand in her own right, Tim pivoted away, quickly adding the new information to the board.

"You should probably transfer it to a notebook," Jason offered. "Carry it with you."

"Ooh," Tim said. "Good idea. I'll work on that."

"Make me a copy," Jason said.

"Hang on," Duke said, walking over. "I want one too."

Dick focused on Steph. He doubted any of them needed a notebook to remember any of these. "Do you remember anything else?"

"No," she said, voice dry. But she still looked deeply lost in thought. "I just... I- I don't know."

"Okay," Dick said. And that time he did an exceptional job at making sure no one could hear the disappointment in his tone. "That's alright."

"Is this going to be a one-time thing?" Duke asked. "Or will it be, like, reoccurring? Will we all get magic memory moments? I'd be okay with that."

"I just don't... know what caused it," Bruce muttered.

Steph let a sigh go through her body, she leaned against Dick's side. Dick wrapped an arm around her and rubbed her shoulder. She seemed sort of drained by all of that. Which made sense. Dick would be surprised if she wasn't tired.

But, there was something in her eyes. Some new founded determination steeled her gaze.

"I know," Tim agreed. "I mean, we still have the rock, right?"

Dick exchanged a nervous look with Cass. "Okay, so... Uh, remember when you came up with your ultimate plan to fix this and it involved giving Damian the rock?"

Tim stared. "You gave him the rock?"

Jason groaned. "Yes, we did. You said it was okay, so we gave the kid the rock. Just recently. When Dick found him. He slipped it into his bag."

"You gave it to him?" Tim repeated.

"Tim, that's what you wanted to happen," Bruce said.

"I lost him?" Tim asked. "He's gone?"

"It," Dick corrected. "And no. Damian has the rock. Which is what you wanted. Because you don't actually feel this way about the rock, alright?"

Tim gritted his teeth, looking off into the distance. "Right," he said. "The rock doesn't matter. Damian's safe. He'll be okay. Once we find him."

Later, everyone will remember those reassurances. Those words Tim whispered to himself that were proven so terribly false.

Then, Tim realized something. He turned to Bruce. "He didn't break the rock yet."

"No shit," Jason mumbled. "Why would he? He thinks the world is going to end."

"I told him it wouldn't," Dick said.

"Well, something's going on with him," Tim said. "I mean, like I said before, the rock could be causing a lot of the emotions inside of his head to heighten and freak him out a lot more just like..." Tim trailed off. He finished his sentence with a freezing tone. "Fear Toxin."

Dick froze. "Fear Toxin?" It made sense.

"I'm not saying it's right," Tim said. "Just the symptoms show similarities. But if it was Fear Toxin it would have faded by now."

"Well," Cass said, exchanging a look with Steph. "Not. Necessarily." She sighed. "New strand. Thought destroyed. Maybe not all. Since he was... there. Maybe he had..."

"Fuck," Steph said, walking forward. "You don't think...?"

Cass shrugged.

"Wait, you mean that Fear Toxin you made us all do those reports on?" Dick asked, horror growing. He had read all about it. At the time, he was breathing a sigh of relief they had managed to destroy all of it. "Damian has it?"

"Possibility," Cass said.

Dick briefly imagined killing the Scarecrow in a million different brutal ways. Then, reality knocked on the edge of his vision and he instead changed the fantasy to be about mutilating the man beyond recognizability. "Oh," he said.

"So you're saying that Damian is slowly dying to the most intense batch of Fear Toxin that's been made yet?" Jason asked.

Jason had read the reports too. They all had. Bruce had wanted them all to see the danger that could have happened to Steph and Cass when they went on a mission without telling him.

"Not unless we get him an antidote," Dick offered. The idea of actually... making an antidote with nonexistent Fear Toxin was a problem for later. Now, they needed to find him.

"Yes!" Duke said, jumping on the suggestion. "An antidote!"

"So we find him," Steph decided. "We find him and get him to break the rock and then we bring him home."

-

They wouldn't suggest bringing it to the press or making missing posters or setting up cameras until the memories were back and all their emotions were felt so much more viscerally, so much more overwhelmingly, where nothing mattered but Damian, Damian, Damian.

But they were all thinking it.

Their rationality was pushing those ideas back, convincing them that those things were unneeded. That they didn't know the kid that well.

Which is hilarious.

Because this is not any sort of rational situation.

If this was any sort of rational situation, someone would have stopped them and made them think this through. Pointed out they barely knew the kid.

But if this was a rational situation, the rock would have been left on that shelf in the Batcave for years. It wouldn't have been picked up until years after Damian's death- or, if he had survived, years after he finally came to terms with his loss and moved away.

And, even then, it wouldn't have been broken or investigated. It would have been thrown in some garbage dump a few months later.

Where it would've eventually been tossed to the sea. Consumed by raging waves. The rock would float to the bottom resting there for years and years.

Each family member would die without their memories, only having old, long-faded emotions to keep them company. They would still miss him, even in the final minutes of their life, they just didn't know it.

The thing is, it isn't the memories slipping through some barrier. It's the residue that's left. The memories are taken and stored inside the rock, and all that remains are the instincts left behind. The habits that can't be broken. The repressed subconscious emotions that were conditioned to be felt.

But, in the end, everything fades.

But not enough. Nothing fades enough.

Things linger. They pause at the front door. They stutter in front of a vegetarian restaurant. They run their hand over new sketchbooks for a second too long.

And so, rationality was not a key part of this equation. Honestly, in the face of love, it rarely is.

-

Commissioner Gordon was not happy to see them. He was begrudgingly accepting of the details of Damian's appearance, jotting them down in a notebook half-heartedly.

Duke and Cass were currently covering the streets. Tim and Steph were focusing on making sure the escape routes were closed off. This meant Dick and Tim- and Bruce- were all stuck with the wonderful job of getting the police involved.

Not that Dick didn't like Commissioner Gordon- he loved the man. And he and Bruce were crazy good friends.

And yet, he had a tendency to be...

Reasonable.

"And this kid is uh... relevant to you how?" He asked.

"Does it matter?" Jason asked. They were in Gordon's office, in their vigilante outfits. Red Hood, Nightwing, and Batman. People were peeking in through the windows, mouths open in small, surprised circles. "He's important- that's what matters."

"Is he a threat?" Gordon asked. "When we apprehend him should we-?"

"No," Dick and Jason said at the same time.

Jason stalked toward Gordon. "If you so much as fucking touch a hair on-"

Dick put a hand in front of Jason. "What he's trying to say is that he is not a danger, he is endangered. He's- Fear Toxin."

"Fear Toxin?" Gordon asked, eyebrows raising. "But Scarecrows been in Arkham for-"

"We know," Dick said. "He's still in there."

"And if I get so lucky, I'd pay him a visit," Jason mumbled. "But we have bigger things to focus on. And we need-"

A searing headache scorched through Dick's skull. He fell to the side, collapsing onto Jason.

His mind felt like a million bright lights shining their way from inside his brain. They were burning the skin inside out.

And then he heard laughing. There was a kid in his arms, except- no. He was currently collapsed on the table, legs giving way as Jason tried to tug him up, asking him questions that if Dick didn't know better he'd say they were almost even worried.

But there was a kid in his arms. And he was looking away, off at a shining light- a television screen.

The kid wasn't laughing, Dick was. He was laughing at something on the TV. How he knew this, he had no idea.

The weight in his arms- the kid- shifted, leaning into him. Dick kissed the crown of his head and whispered soft sweet words. Words Dick could no longer make out.

Everything was blurred.

His vision was disoriented, the background was dulled. The only thing in focus was the twelve-year-old kid in his arms.

He said something indiscernible. And then the kid laughed- a small laugh, a little huff of air. And Dick felt joy worm through his chest.

And then he was back in reality.

He pulled himself up, the room dizzy around him. He staggered for a moment, held upright by Jason, before he shook his head, everything going into focus. Jason shook him a little examining his face, frowning.

"What happened?" He asked.

Bruce stepped forward, helping Dick regain balance. His expression was tight with concern.

"Another one of those memory... things," Dick said.

"Oh yeah? What was it this time?" Jason asked. And although the wording he used sounded relaxed and casual, Dick could see the tension in them, the curiosity, the eagerness.

Jason wanted the information just as much as Tim did- just as much as the rest of them did- he was just a little better at hiding it.

Dick pretended to think, watching Gordon out of the corner of his eye. The man looked confused, startled by the sudden collapse of Nightwing. But, the thing with Gordon was that he was usually used to being kept out of the loop.

Not by Dick's own volition, but by Bruce's. The man had trust issues, even with his closest allies.

Dick then returned to the memory. Although he couldn't even focus on the TV he still was able to know that they were watching-

"He likes documentaries," Dick said.

"Documentaries?" Jason asked, and Dick could see him filing away the information. "What kind? True crime? Animal? Science?"

Commissioner Gordon rubbed the bridge of his nose. He sighed. "I'm so sorry. Who likes documentaries?"

"Just a friend," Dick dismissed, and from the look Gordon gave him, the man didn't believe him one bit. "Back to what we were saying-"

"You just collapsed," Gordon said. "Maybe we should-"

"No, it's okay. Really," Dick said. "Anyway, it would be great if you could work on helping us locate this kid. Just tell some of your high-ranking officials and your patrol officers."

Commissioner Gordon gave Bruce a helpless look and the man nodded. "Do what they say," he said gruffly. "It's imperative we find him soon."

-

More and more of those tiny little memories happened. Tim recorded them in a notebook. Tim and Cass saw Damian again. They went very quickly from excited to hopeful to devastated. He slipped through their fingers like water or soap or a dream.

They gleaned more information, though. More moments would happen when they fall short in the middle of sentences, headaches blaring through their mind.

The notebook's list would grow long and detailed. But it would never be enough until they had it all back.

They kept searching, every patrol, every waking hour.

And then, Damian would meet a cat. And he would make a decision. He would break a rock.

And then, once their memories were returned, that burning feeling that had been caged and locked away in the back of their chest would be released. And it would explode into a blaze. Akin to a volcanic eruption or a forest fire.

The feeling that used to be dulled and muted, hidden away and forced to loiter without context, became free. And all the pent-up emotions of so many things will be vicious and powerful and heartbreaking.

The memories had returned. And with them, rationality was thrown out the window.

-

When Tim woke up, he was in a cold sweat. For a moment, he didn't do anything.

He just let it all wash over him. Everything. Anything. All of it. Every memory correcting itself like splinters being torn out of skin. Then he dragged his hands to his head, gripping his hair as, slowly, tears began to form.

Soon, his crying grew louder. And until he was in a ball, knees to his chest, hands scrunched in his hair, sobs racking his body as he gasped for breaths between each one.

Because he was right.

Tim was right, isn't that just devastating?

-

Steph was caught halfway through a patrol. She had just landed on a building before her legs gave out from underneath her.

Memories. Realization. Understanding. Horror. Sorrow.

The first thing she did was call Bruce, pushing the tears out of her face as the phone rang. It didn't pick up. She gave a muffled scream in agitation, fumbling to pull her screen into focus.

She furiously tried to rub the tears out of her eyes, concentrating on her phone.

The next ten minutes she would spend obsessing over every inch of what was there and what wasn't. What used to be something else.

Photos that used to be empty were now filled with his face. Contacts that didn't exist before popped up when she searched for his name. She looked through the messages, the photos, the evidence of his name. All the old articles had gone back to how they used to be.

But what mattered most wasn't just the stuff that was there, but also the things that weren't.

Every photo she had was dated nearly two years ago. The most recent one was June 30th- not last year, but the year before that.

Steph called Cass this time.

The conversation was an exchange of a few words on both sides. In fact, the exchange was of the same word, repeated by each party.

-

Jason stopped midway through a streetfight. He staggered back, the criminals he was in between beating up staring at him in confusion.

The memories forced their way back into his mind, all streaming in at once, flooding it with every interaction that had been previously rewritten. Jason blinked, not even acknowledging the men in front of him. He could only think about Damian. About every moment- every instance- every- every-

And then he screamed.

The fight very quickly became a slaughter. With a clenched fist and a wicked kick, he took each man down until he was standing among a clutter of bodies. He heaved for air, boots stained with blood as he stared at the ground.

Then, he whipped out his phone, nerved fingers clicking through the numbers. He pressed it up to his ear, still staring at the floor.

It rang and rang until voicemail came on.

"Fuck!" Jason hissed, slamming the phone into the ground. It shattered on impact, but Jason couldn't care. He would usually avoid it, but he just could. Not. Care. "Fuck you, Bruce!" He said to the phone, screaming again through gritted teeth.

He reached into his other back pocket, grabbing his spare. Bruce always made sure they had spare phones on them.

Clicking the first number that popped up- the one he had saved- Jason put it on speaker.

It rang once before it clicked on. Jason could hear Dick's breathing on the other end. He sounded like he had just been crying. Or he was crying. For a moment, neither said a word.

"Damian," Jason said.

"Damian," Dick replied. The next thing Jason was doing was running out of the alley, kicking bodies out of his way as he went.

-

Cass was perched on top of Gotham City Museum, watching the moon. When the memories returned they hit her like a gunshot. She staggered back, landing with a thud on the ground of the roof.

She stared at the stars.

The world churned in front of her. Readjusting and snapping back into place. Forming back into the way it was supposed to be. The way where everything made sense.

When Steph called her, she only needed to say one word. And then she took off for the motorcycle.

-

Duke threw up into the sink. He paused over it for a moment, pupils dilated, eyes wide.

He gagged and then threw up again.

Finally, Duke stumbled back. He gasped for air, looking at the walls of the bathroom.

"Shit," he muttered, squeezing his eyes closed before blinking them open. This couldn't be real. The past two years couldn't be real.

But it was.

It was. It was. It was.

Spinning on his heels he scrambled out of the building. His car was parked right outside and he jumped into it. Sliding the stick into drive and slamming his foot on the gas pedal.

-

Alfred stopped halfway through cleaning the dishes, the plate in his hand dropping and falling to the floor. It shattered into broken chunks. But although Alfred was standing right above it, it wouldn't be cleaned up for a few days.

-

“Cameron!”  

Cameron was startled awake when a hand was slammed into his chest. He curled in on himself, groaning. "What is it?" He asked, forcing his eyes open.

The room was still dark, not an inch of sunlight creeping in it. Cameron frowned, pushing himself up.

He looked around, vision adjusting. “What time is it?” He muttered.

“Damian!” Rose said, turning to him and shaking his shoulders. “Damian!”

Cameron titled his head. “What about him?” He asked. 

“I just figured this out,” she said. And she genuinely sounded shocked. “Damian Wayne. Damian... Wayne. Damian's a Wayne. He’s a fucking Wayne.” She paused for a second. “I drove Damian Wayne home from work. Cameron, why the fuck was he working at Gotham Pets Emporium? Why the hell did his brother buy Gotham Pets Emporium? Why didn’t we recognize him? Why did no one recognize him? Why did...” 

Suddenly, the weight of her in the bed disappeared, and the patting of her feet on the floor, circling, could be heard. 

“He never went home to Wayne Manor. He just went to some apartment. His own fucking brother didn’t really recognize him,” she said. “When Duke Thomas came in, he didn’t... I mean, they knew each other. But I didn’t get the vibe that they knew each other. And when Tim Drake-” 

Cameron pulled himself up, giving Rose a confused look. “Wait, hang on. You might be right. He really--” 

“I am right,” she said. “So, what the hell is going on?”

-

Inside a gas station, a man who was stuck there for much too long scrolled on his phone. He was reading the news, looking at the photos broadcasted on top of articles.

He sighed, looking up above at the ceiling.

Damian Wayne... Really?

At first, he won't believe it. Then, he won't stop thinking about it. Sometimes things make more sense in hindsight.

That kid- lonely and miserable and a little crazed- and Damian- aloof, distant, constantly dissatisfied- were not the same person. Damian had a manor, he had a family, he had a glare that could kill. But, the man supposed, he had only seen him in interviews.

He leaned back, crossing his arms. And he thought about it.

It had been so long, he couldn't even recall most of their conversations. All he knew was that the boy's face had stuck with him over the year, for some reason. Or maybe he knew the reason now. Maybe that mystery was solved.

He will worry for the kid. He will.

Later, when an out-of-breath Dick Grayson and Cassandra Cain hurry in, asking him a million questions, he'll tell them everything he knows. And when they ask him to help them in searching for Damian, he'll agree.

He'll do it because he can see the concern and the panic and the need for information. They were trying to seek out and find as much as they could. They had a feverish desperation. The kind he's seen on people before.

The kind he's seen on Damian before.

-

Dick ended the call with Jason. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, which was about the same as the tears free-falling down his cheek.

Damian. Damian. Damian.

He tried to rub them away- failing ultimately- and walked to a computer. Quickly, he began to type Damian's name.

Damian. Damian. Damian.

One by one, articles began popping up. All were written long ago, their dates making Dick feel sick to his stomach. There were no new ones. No one had realized it yet. Or maybe they had and didn't understand the magic behind it.

The fucking magic.

Dick wanted to kill the thing that made this all happen. He wanted to strangle it with his bare hands and watch the light fade out of its eyes.

But that wouldn't be enough. Would anything ever be enough?

He kept scrolling absorbing every article briefly before moving on to the next.

It was all evidence of Damian's existence. Evidence that didn't exist before but now was shining like a lighthouse.

Tim threw himself into the Batcave, still in his clothing from the day before. He was crying too, but there was determination in his eyes. Which was great, because currently all Dick felt was hopelessness. 

He was holding a notebook, hurriedly writing something in it.

"Look at this!" Tim said, in an unreasonably accusatory tone. He shoved the notebook into Dick's face. The kid's hand was moving it around too much for it to come into focus. Dick had to step back and take it out of his hand.

On it was a bunch of notes. Notes that now- in light of everything- were silly. Useless.

'He likes drawing,' said one. 'Was Robin for four years,' said another. 'Raised in the League, joined us at ten years old.' 

They were such basic facts. Things they should have known inherently.

And yet, a month ago, they were new information.

But that wasn't what Tim wanted Dick to look at. It was the fresh scribble underneath it.

'One year & Nine months.'

Dick swallowed. Please don't be what I think it is. He rubbed away another tear and fixed his gaze on Tim's bleary, red eyes. "What is this?"

"I did the math. It was one year, nine months, and eleven hours ago. Five P.M., July 8th." Tim walked forward. "He was right here. Right here! In the manor. In front of me."

"In my arms," Dick muttered with wide eyes, voice breaking. "And we let him go."

"We let him go!" Tim snapped. "How could we do that? How could we do that?! I should have- I should have done more. If I had fought him- like fought him, fought him- I would have won. I know it. I know it. I know it."

Dick was furious. Each and every time he had let the kid go. He let him run off like he was nothing. Like he wasn't Dick's little brother.

And the worst part of it all was...

"Fear Toxin." Dick's throat was dry. "He has the Fear Toxin. Damian has the lethal Fear Toxin."

Tim's eyes widened, his expression perfectly capturing Dick's feelings.

But before Tim could say anything, the door to the Batcave opened- the latch from above- and Jason rushed into the area. 

"If I have to tear down this whole entire fucking town to get back that brat, so be it," Jason said, boots thumping on the floor as he walked. His eyes were just as red as Tim and Dick's. But he radiated pure anger. "What sort of fucked up, shitty-ass magic spell is this? How the hell did we forget about the pipsqueak for two whole fucking years? Who did this again? Some bastard rock? Who the fuck do I kill then?" He took a deep breath that didn't seem to help him at all and cast his glare onto Bruce. "Well? Got any smart ideas? How do we get the baby bat back?"

The thing with Jason was that he wasn't actually angry at them. He was furious, yes, but with himself. Dick couldn't even blame him for that. He felt the same way.

Dick had a feeling Jason was going to remain enranged until Damian was found. And then his rage would deflate like a balloon.

Bruce didn't say anything, he just shook his head, still staring at the screen. Dick didn't know what he was doing. He wouldn't find out until later that Bruce was already thinking about the press. That he was finding ways to manipulate the P.R. situation into something advantageous.

"Guys," Duke said. Dick looked up, the boy had just entered through the door leading to the manor. He was out of breath, wearing a pained expression. Lifting off the ground, he flew over to the group, landing next to them. "Damian was-"

"We know," Jason muttered. "Fuck. We know. So what do we do about it?"

Duke frowned. "We need to find him as soon as possible."

Jason blew the bangs out of his face, wearing a bitter expression. "Great fucking plan. I'm sure it'll be easy." The sarcasm in Jason's voice showed more of his frustration than Dick was supposed to see "It's not like he's a skilled assassin, high on Fear Toxin, making him paranoid and terrified of us specifically."

"We don't know if he's terrified of us specifically," Tim said. Despite what his words claimed, his voice betrayed his fear. He didn't believe a word of it.

Dick was taken aback a moment, turning onto Tim. "You think he's scared of us?" He asked. "What?"

"Well, he was scared of me," Tim said quietly. "When me and Cass found him. He was saying all sorts of stupid shit about- About- And he was so scared."

Dick remembered the way Damian had looked at him in that alleyway. The way he was so haunted. How did they not realize it was Fear Toxin sooner-? Dick stopped in his traps.

"Why the hell did he think I was a hallucination?" Dick asked. "Why did- What?"

"The Fear Toxin," Bruce supplied, still locked onto the computer screen. "It creates hallucinations of some of the victim's worst fears."

Dick had a very cold feeling in his chest. He both desperately wanted to know what Damian's hallucination of him was about and yet he was also terrified of the prospect. "What did I say to him...?"

"You didn't say anything," Jason spat. "It was the fucking Fear Toxin."

Dick buried his head in his hands. "I should have protected him. I should have been there for him. I should have found him and-"

A loud screech echoed through the Batcave, the waterfall parting to let a motorcycle speed into the cave. It screeched to a sudden halt. Steph and Cass jumped off, hurrying over to the middle. They looked just as awful and miserable as the rest of them.

"Holy shit," Steph said, running up to them. "Holy shit."

"Memory," Cass said. "Threatened to erase. We. Us. We threatened to erase."

Tim's face paled. "We almost erased his memory. Oh my God, we almost erased Damian's memories of us. We almost-"

Dick shook his head, feeling sick. They nearly- Oh, he couldn't even think about it. The idea that Dick had almost... erased Damian's knowledge of him. That he had gotten so close to burning the slate clean, taking away his little brother's memories. That he had... Dick could imagine it so clearly, the future they had almost created. He

Tim cut himself off, shaking his head. "No, no. We find him. We find him then we deal with everything else."

But his body was still tense, and Dick could tell that he wasn't over it. He could tell the idea was still swimming around in Tim's head like a tumor, making a home in there. Dick could tell the fear was going to stick.

Because, honestly, it was still whirling in his mind. He couldn't give up on it, the idea was so devesting.

And yet... there was so much in it, so much going on. It got lost.

But it would resurface later. It would become its own nightmare for him. Something that would haunt him almost as much as the thought of Damian dying.

Everyone took a moment, filing it away for later. In the same way that something nagging would itch at the back of your mind with wrongness, it would linger in the back of their head.

Then, Cass spoke up. "Later," she said. "Later."

"It's Damian," Duke said. "He's our little brother. We know how he works."

"Right," Dick said slowly. "No, you're right. I do know how he works. In a few days, he's going to go back to his home- apartment. He's going to go to his apartment. He'll go to at least say goodbye. We'll go to his apartment and leave a decoy camera for him to destroy and then we'll plant a tracker in something we know he's going to take. Like a sketchbook or- or a pet of some kind. If he has one."

"I'm setting up press appointments," Bruce said, sighing and standing up. "The people are going to be confused, so we'll give them an explanation. And then, we can give out a reward for him. For anyone that locates him." He flipped through the computer, oddly relaxed about the whole ordeal.

No, relaxed wasn't the right word. Empty was.

Bruce paused, turning to look at them. He looked immeasurably tired. "And, uh, anything else you could think of."

"We obviously need missing person posters," Steph decided.

"Oh! And Barabara can check the security cameras," Tim said. "And we can go install more of them. Everywhere in the city."

"We already made sure he's in Gotham, right?" Duke asked. "And we cut off all the escape routes. So, if we're able to get the public looking for him too... we can trap him. Corner him."

"Find him," Dick added.

-

In ten minutes, everyone would spread across the streets. Some of them would be installing cameras, others hunting the grounds, a few would be off making posters, using connections, trying every single method they could think of.

-

Dick Grayson cannot outrun time. He will never be able to escape the ever-present creep of days passing by.

Dick Grayson cannot do many things. One of them is to say- in full truth- "That's my little brother, Damian. He's fifteen years old." In fact, Dick will never be able to say it and have it be true. There will never be a day when Damian is fifteen and Dick thinks of him as a little brother.

And yet, the world must move on.

Chapter Text

Talia was drifting. She was surrounded by warmth, asleep in her bed in the League base.

Everything in her life was perfect and as it should be.

She was warm and safe and tired and comforted. And she was almost about to finally get some rest.

Then, a bolt of coldness shot through her heart.

She gasped, jumping up in bed and looking around wildly.

And then, she screamed.

-

It was exactly how he remembered it.

Dick walked in, feet slowly dragging across the floor. He looked at the shelves, the walls, the posters with bright colors smeared across them.

He sighed, letting the muscles in his body droop down. He went to sit on the bed.

He was in Damian's room.

The room that used to be a guest room.

Not before Damian arrived, but after. After the rock, after everything.

Dick remembered walking into it on some days, without a reason to back it up. It was a habit he couldn't entirely quit. Whenever he couldn't sleep, and he was at the manor, he would wander into the room, before leaving immediately after. They found Titus curled up in here on several occasions, always miserable when Alfred had to drag him out.

And yet, the moment the memories returned, the room went back to how it used to be. As if it was always there to begin with. Filled with his daggers and his books and his stuffed animals.

Damian's phone was resting on the bedside table. Dick shifted over, picking it up.

They hadn't found Damian yet.

They had searched all night. They had gotten their memories returned to them early, around three in the morning. And they hunted for Damian until ten. Or until some of them crashed out from exhaustion.

Bruce had already started the campaign for Damian. He had set up press releases, and already talked to journalists. Damian's face was being put up on billboards and printed out on signs. Bruce had money and he was throwing it everywhere he could. Anything that could get more eyes on this was bought.

It was much more different from his usual, moody approach of: no one can know anything about us ever in a million years.

Either way, no matter the reason, that was what Bruce was doing. And everyone was incredibly on board with it. Tim was deep in the public relations wasteland- even if he spent every moment he wasn't working on P.R. setting up security cameras around the town.

Dick knew Damian would hate it. His face flooding every inch of the city. He would find it frivolous and quite frankly an idiotic waste of your time in these perilous moments, Richard.

But it didn't matter.

Dick would do whatever it took to bring Damian home.

He sighed and looked around the room. He was itching to do something. Something that would bring him closer to finding Damian. Something that would make it so he was one step closer to having his little brother in his arms.

Then, he stood up. He slipped Damian's phone into his back pocket and began to search.

No one had gone into Damian's room yet, they didn't want to see it like... like this. Dust on the shelves and drawings half-finished. They didn't want to see it be so empty, so desolate. Dick knew Tim wouldn't even set foot in here until Damian was in it.

But Dick was the opposite. He wanted to consume the room. To take every inch of it in.

It proved Damian was real. That he existed. That he wasn't an implanted memory, that this was how things were supposed to be.

Dick began to search. He looked all around the room, rummaging around. He was trying to find clues, yes, but also information. He had his memories back, and yet he still wanted to learn more.

That desire for knowledge remained.

He still wanted to learn more about Damian. Despite.

Duke passed by outside, glancing in sparingly but halting when he saw Dick. He looked away, adverting his gaze from the room.

"I know," Dick said, pausing his search. "It's frozen in time."

Briefly, Dick wondered if Damian would even want the room when he got back. Briefly, Dick wondered if the clothes in the dresser even fit the kid anymore.

The answer to the first was yes, and the answer to the second was no.

Then, he followed Duke out of the house. They walked to the car in silence, both of them already in their suits.

They had an interview to do today. And then, tomorrow, it would be Bruce and Tim. As long as these interviews went well, as long as they followed the script, they could get half of Gotham on their side, helping them look for Dick's brother.

But Dick didn't want just half of Gotham looking. If they were going to find Damian, he needed everyone looking.

-

The Batcave was silent when Bruce walked down, empty and devoid of any life form. Barbara was working back at her computer as Oracle, scanning through camera feeds and checking algorithms. Tim, Dick, and Duke were preparing for their incoming interview, Cass and Jason were scouring the streets, helping out with search parties, and Steph was getting in contact with Leslie.

Apparently, the woman had seen Damian during the time he was erased. Although, she wouldn't say for what reason.

The Batcomputer began to ring, the phone icon showing up on the screen.

This was the sixteenth time Bruce had been called in the past ten hours by the same person. And this was the first time he actually picked up.

"Talia," Bruce greeted, letting the phone click on.

"Beloved," Talia said. Her voice lacked any warmth; it was all malice. "Would you mind telling me what the hell happened to my son?"

And Bruce explained it. All of it. He thought it would help to make sense of all the conflicting feelings, all the old memories returning. But, somehow, it made her even angrier.

"I leave my son in your care and you- you lose him?!" She asked, indignant and furious. "I cannot understand the-" she broke off, talking very quickly in Arabic in what Bruce could only assume were some very intense curses. Finally, when she finished, her anger caught itself, and her voice became restrained again. "You're supposed to be the best detective in the world. And yet you cannot locate a fourteen-year-old boy?"

"We're trying to find him," Bruce said. "We are tr- we will find him."

Her voice was cold. "I don't believe you, beloved. What I do believe, is that you will fail my son once again. You have four days before I free myself from my responsibilities and come to Gotham to find him myself."

Bruce didn't get the chance to speak before the phone clicked off shortly after.

He nearly called her back just to ask her to come to Gotham sooner. To tell her they didn't care how they found him, they just needed to find him.

But he was interrupted by a message from Tim. One that caught all of his attention.

It read, in all caps: "DICK INTERVIEW PROBLEM!!! GO WATCH LIVE BRODCAST. GETTING SOMEONE TO TURN IT OFF!!"

-

The news station was crowded, filled to the brim with people all having someplace to go and something they needed to do. And yet, people immediately scuttled out of Dick's way as he walked through. Like there was some bubble around him.

Dick had seen this before when grieving mothers or sobbing celebrities walked straight through crowds of reporters. People seemed to tell when not to push, when someone was unstable, on edge, nearing devastation.

Tim walked right next to him, full focus on his phone, where he was texting and planning and doing a million things at once. Duke was off somewhere else, finishing up with the costumes and makeup.

The two of them headed toward a small corner tucked off to the side and stood there, Tim still doing something on his phone.

Finding Damian had consumed Tim's life. He spent every waking minute moving the ball forward, trying everything he could, talking to someone, setting this thing up, attempting to make that happen. He was trying to find Damian like his life depended on it.

Finding Damian had emptied Dick's life. He spent most of his moments wading through memories, mourning for the time he wouldn't get back, wishing he had Damian in his arms. He was trying to find him, yes, but it was with a slow drag that came from the sorrow weighing down upon him. He wanted to go faster, he just couldn't bring himself to.

He was drowning, losing himself to the tides and the waves of an unforgiving ocean.

"Do you blame me?" Dick asked.

There was a roaring in his ears. The sea was surrounding him.

Tim looked up from his phone. He met Dick's eyes and for a moment there was nothing but the distant background noise of chatter.

"No," Tim said. "Not at all. It's my fault, not yours."

"No," Dick said. "Tim it's not your fault at all. You did more than the rest of us combined. If you listened to me then we would still wouldn't have-" Dick cut himself off. "It's not your fault at all," he said. "I should have listened to you."

"Well, it's certainly not your fault either," Tim said. "There wasn't anything-"

Dick cut him off, the truth burning its way through his skin. "Yes, there was. Tim, he called me."

Tim blinked. "Huh?"

"The day Damian disappeared, less than an hour before he was gone... he called me. He called me and he told me a rock was following him and then he hung up and I- I tried to get to Gotham in time. But I failed. I fucked up. I didn't make it. I didn't fucking make it, Tim. And-"

A woman walked up to them, grabbing Dick by the forearm. She smiled at him and Dick couldn't care less. "We're going live in two minutes. This way."

She led Dick to the main stage, away from Tim.

The boy moved to follow, but she shook her head and pushed him away. She took Dick to the set, a plain- if not domestic-looking- setup. There was a soft brown couch positioned off to the left, titled to face an office table and chair off to the right. There was a short, sleek ottoman right in front of the couch, a potted plant placed on it.

The lady directed him to the couch, where soon, Duke was quickly joined next to him. The man interviewing them walked over and briefly introduced himself before sitting down in the seat facing them.

He gave a television-ready smile, one that Dick could pinpoint and Bruce could perfect.

Duke leaned next to him as the makeup crew came over to powder the man's face. "You remember the interview questions?"

"Are you kidding?" Dick whispered back. "Bruce made me memorize them."

Someone in the back yelled, "Camera's are on in three-"

The makeup crew scattered.

"Two-!"

The interviewer patted down his shirt and turned to the camera.

"One-!"

Dick and Duke both faced the camera lens, and in the shimmery, fish-eyed reflection Dick saw his own face. Eyes rimmed red, hair quickly combed by the makeup crew, smile looking like-

Dick tore his eyes away and looked to Tim, who was standing right behind the cameraman.

He was sure his grin faltered, expression briefly portraying a moment of sorrow.

But it wasn't his fault. He just...

He had no idea his smile would remind him so much of Damian.

"And we are live!"

The interviewer gave the screen a loud laugh. "Hello and welcome to the Gotham Griller! I'm your host tonight, Becker Bekket, and today we have two very special guests!" He turned to the two of them. "Dick Grayson and Duke Thomas are here to give us some updates on what happened to Damian Wayne!"

Dick made sure to keep his grin wide. "Yes, of course. Thank you for having us, Becker."

"It's my pleasure," the man said. "Now..." He glanced down at the cue cards in his hand. "I believe it was yesterday when suddenly a large amount of confusion about Damian Wayne's whereabouts began popping up online. What is the cause behind this?"

"There was a..." Dick faltered, struggling to come up with the words. "Magical entity."

Duke nodded. And the kid jumped forward into Bruce's preplanned explanation. About Robin trying to save Damian from a "creature" and its... weird magic blast, the world forgetting both of them at once when Robin got caught in it too.

He explained everything. Or, 'everything' if you don't count all the things that were lies.

They had to do it to protect their identities. To protect Damian.

It was already an interesting story. But for Gotham, it wasn't... abnormal. As much as it hurt to realize this, the only thing that made Damian special to the public was that he was the son of a billionaire- or was it trillionaire?

Whatever. The thing was that people were mildly interested. And while it was already being stuffed down people's throats, they needed something to hook them. Something to get everything looking for Damian.

Because, sure, most people would have an eye out for Robin. But no one would ever find Robin.

Damian didn't have his uniform.

So to get as many eyes searching for Dick's lost brother a... spectacle was needed.

Duke continued through the speal. Concluding the whole speech with, "So, while to many of you, it may just feel as though you were just considering him for the first time in a few years-" Dick hated those words. Considering. As if Damian was just a fleeting idea. "- he was actually erased from all of your memories until yesterday night."

The newsman nodded understandingly. "I'm so sorry for your losses. And your family forgot Damian as well?"

"Yes," Dick said. His own voice scratched against his ears. "We all forgot about him."

"We're trying to get in contact with Batman," Duke said. "We're hoping, since Robin is missing too, we can make a joint effort to find the two of them with the bats helping out."

"And who could we blame for this?" The newsman asked. "Who's the villain at fault?"

And Dick smiled. He smiled so wide it crept up his face like Joker gas. He refused to look at either Tim or Duke- a bit too worried about their reactions- and instead looked straight into the barrel of the camera.

"Personally," Dick said, keeping his voice light and airy.

This wasn't the answer the interviewer was looking for, but Dick was sure it was the answer he'd want.

"I blame Nightwing for not saving my brother."

For a moment, everything froze.

Duke stilled next to Dick, the usually jittery boy coming to a complete halt.

The anchor's face stopped in the middle of a fake-interested smile.

The silence was enough to burst an eyedrum.

The interviewer faltered before an even wider- more genuine- smile took over his expression. "You do?" He asked, voice hungry.

"Yes," Dick said, even as he felt Duke shift uncomfortably next to him. "Honestly, there was just so much he could have done. We call them superheroes and for what? They can't even save the people that matter most. They're useless."

The interviewer leaned forward. "And what about Nightwing specifically?"

"I just mean, we all say he's so great, yet he let Robin jump recklessly into danger. He couldn't save Damian, he couldn't save Robin, he couldn't save anyone."

Dick leaned back, making sure to keep his face open and relaxed.

"I did some research and found out that he was closest to the scene when it was happening. He was the only one who could've reached him in time. But he was too slow, he didn't try hard enough."

The reporter titled his head. "And how did you-"

"Is that really a man worthy of the title of superhero? Someone who couldn't save his own br- friend? The point is simple: He could have prevented all of this. But he didn't. Because he's a failure and a fraud."

"A fraud?"

"Yeah," Dick said. "A fucking fraud." He watched Tim wince behind the camera and hurry to a lady standing behind the camera, one with a clipboard and a headpiece. "I don't forgive him and honestly I hope Robin and Damian don't forgive him either. He made a mistake and he deserves a consequence for his actions."

"A consequence?"

"Yes. Something needs to happen. He's a superhero. His whole thing is saving people. And when someone fails at what they're supposed to do, there are consequences. Prices to be paid.

"I'm curious," the reporter said. "Do you not consider losing Robin to be a justifiable enough consequence?"

And Dick paused. "What?" He asked, voice growing small.

"Isn't losing his friend an awful enough punishment?" The man asked. "I mean, that sounds awful to me. We know that Nightwing and Robin cared about each other a lot."

"Well-" Dick hadn't considered that. "What about-"

"And we're off the air!" Someone called out, cutting Dick off before he could finish. The lights dimmed a bit and a woman stepped out. "We're cutting this interview short." Dick watched as she discreetly pocketed a few hundred dollars.

"What?" The interviewer asked, looking around, confused. "But it was just getting interesting! Do you know how many viewers we lost?"

"Just getting interesting?" Duke asked, turning on the interviewer, bordering on annoyance. "What do you mean by-"

Dick patted Duke on the shoulder before standing up. He stretched, giving Tim a nervous smile. Oh, how that boy could glower. His expression, stormy and confused, followed Dick as he walked off the stage.

-

One year, eight months, and one day ago.

The car wasn't starting. Dick groaned, running a hand through his hair as he pressed his foot against the gas again.

Finally, it rumbled to life.

It was a thirty-minute drive to Gotham, and Dick had wasted five minutes of it trying to get his car to work. Damian seemed distressed when he had called Dick earlier, and he really needed to get to Gotham soon, to figure out what was going on with him.

But that didn't matter much, what difference would five minutes make?

He took off down the streets, knowing the route by heart.

Right now, Dick doesn't realize the severity. Right now, he's only mildly concerned. He's obeying speed limits, occasionally calling Damian again, stopping at red lights. He's being- honestly- a bit rational about the whole situation.

Dick will be three minutes away from reaching Damian when everything will pause. He will blink and look around at his surroundings, confused as to why he was driving to Gotham at all.

He will assume he just wanted to visit his family and pull up to the manor. He will walk inside and spend dinner with Bruce and his three brothers.

And when there is a knock on the door he will peek out to check who it is. He will see that it is a boy he doesn't recognize and have a short conversation. He will watch as the kid walks away, before turning back, the conversation fading from his mind.

He will voluntarily walk away from the person he was- just hours prior- chasing after with all his might.

-

The car ride was neither silent nor loud. No one said a word. But Dick put on music.

When they got back to the Batcave they were greeted by a disgruntled Bruce and a wide-eyed Steph.

"Dick," she said, her voice a mix of horror and disbelief. "Why the fuck would you-"

"It was smart," Bruce said.

"What?" Tim asked, turning on him. "Not you too."

"It was. It stirred up drama around this. It made an intriguing story even more interesting." Bruce didn't seem happy as he said that, just solemn. "They'll probably ask us questions about it in the interview tomorrow. We'll make them sign a contract about what they can or can't say, but they'll probably still slip something through."

A chair turned around and Leslie looked at Dick appraisingly. "Bold move, kiddo."

"Thanks, Leslie," Dick said.

"Not a compliment. Just an observation." She looked at them all before barking a short laugh. "God, you're all fucking messes."

"We'll deal with that after Damian," Dick said. "Did Steph inform you of the Fear Toxin?"

"Yep, but I wanna ask you a question about-"

"Woah," Duke stepped toward Dick. "Don't change the subject. You just blamed yourself for Damian's situation live on national television."

"I blamed Nightwing," Dick corrected. "And it was a Gotham-based show."

"The whole country watches Gotham Griller, Dick. And blaming Nightwing is still the same as blaming yourself."

"Well, the more people that see it, the better. Maybe Damian's out of the city, we'd want people in Bludhaven to have their eyes open too."

Tim sighed. "Duke, drop it. One, Dick's right. It was helpful. And two-"

"He went off script," Duke said.

"Dick always goes off script," Bruce said. And Dick nearly laughed at the graveness in his voice. As if he personally had encountered such moments many times- which, while true, didn't make the gravity of his tone any less funny.

"And two," Tim said. "I have a really good idea about what sort of 'consequence' for his actions, Dick can receive for this."

Pulling up his phone, Dick found multiple articles already sprouting up. All of them documenting the anger from one of Gotham and Bludhaven's most beloved celebrities to one of Bludhaven's most beloved heroes.

And the internet discourse surrounding it seemed to be a media storm in the making.

Dick wondered if Damian would see it. Dick wondered if Damian had a phone and if he was getting glimpses of everything.

"Oh yeah?" Dick asked, looking up. "And what would that be?"

"You'll have to wait and see," Tim said calmly.

Dick shrugged, turning his attention back to Leslie. Secretly, he was hoping if he changed the subject smoothly enough this would all be forgotten in five minutes tops. "What did you need to know, Leslie?"

"I need to know why he was scared of you," Leslie said. Which was not something Dick wanted to be answering right then. "He freaked out about Barbara telling the rest of the Bats when he was at my clinic."

"He was at your clinic?" Dick asked. Somehow, he felt like he knew this, and yet it slipped through his fingers during everything. "Why? What happened? Is he okay?"

"It's unimportant," Leslie said. "We'll save it for a different time."

"No, this is the perfect time," Tim said. "What happened to Damian? Why would he need to go to your clinic? When was this? What was wrong?"

"Why," said Leslie slowly. "Was he scared of you?"

Tim froze. Then, very slowly. "Probably, um. Probably the fact that we... Uh..."

Steph's turn to try. "We threatened- well, not threatened. We didn't know at the time that- uh- that Damian-"

"We almost erased his memories of us," Bruce said. And there it was. Plain and simple. The man's voice didn't even waver.

"Yeah..." Tim's voice added away. "We almost erased his memories. And, if that had happened, then none of this would have ever..." His voice broke. "We'd all... live the rest of our lives never knowing Damian and he'd never know us and I-"

Dick felt shame and fear coil in his gut.

Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But it doesn't matter, we didn't."

"We didn't because he worked with the fucking Riddler to escape us. Escape us. Us. Us. He wanted to escape us. He was terrified of what we would do to him." Tim threw his arms out. "We backed him into a corner! We forced his hand to work with a dangerous criminal. Who knows what could have happened to him after he left?"

Leslie stood up, looking vaguely hesitant. "Okay. So, about that-"

"Not now, Leslie," Bruce dismissed, earning himself a scoff from the woman.

She paused, hesitance leaving her face. She shrugged her shoulders and sat back down, looking nearly unbothered but still a little pissed. Later, Dick would realize that to satiate her anger, she would bite her tongue on information she knew they would want to hear.

It was one of those sorts of bitter things. If he didn't want to hear what she had to say, she wouldn't say it. Leslie was a stubborn woman.

"Let me take you through what would have happened," Tim said. "We would have dragged him to the Justice League headquarters, given Martian Manhunter full access to his memories. We would have told him, 'Oh just erase all the ones concerning us. Make him forget he knew us and make him forget our identities and then we would drop him back in the city. All alone. Without anything."

"I don't want to talk about this, Tim," Bruce said, looking away. His face was shadowed and his brow was furrowed.

"Well, suck it up. We have to. Because we would have left Damian all alone without even most of his fucking memories- thinking that he had a family to go back to." Tim crossed his arms, but not in the way where he was acting judgmental but in the sense that you could tell he was trying to hug himself. "What fucking family, Bruce? We could have done something, we could have-"

"You think I don't know that?!" Bruce asked, turning toward Tim. "You don't think I spend all day thinking about that? But I can't. I can't let it affect me. We have to focus on finding Damian, and then we can worry about What-ifs.

The thing about Tim and the thing about Bruce was that they were, for being people who weren't even blood-related, so terribly similar. They both lived their entire life in money, they both were so incredibly smart, they both were crazy obsessive, they both operated the same way, almost thought the same way- it was uncanny some days.

"Enough," Leslie said. "Valid points on both sides, blah, blah, blah." She looked at Tim. "The reason he was scared of you was because you threatened to erase his memories?"

Tim ducked his head, shame on his face. "Yes."

"So we can assume that's probably the fear the Fear Toxin is targeting," she said. 

She was wrong, but it was a good guess.

"Which means, when you find him, your first step- after making sure he can't harm himself or others- is to assure him otherwise. To fight against the fears. He won't listen to you, but it is one step closer to helping him let down his guard."

She paused, thinking.

"I'm going to outline a plan for you all," she said finally. "I'll write it down and then you have to make sure to follow it. This Fear Toxin is more unstable than anything I've encountered in the past. There's no telling the sort of effect it's going to have."

"How long until it's ready?" Steph asked.

"I don't know. Give me an hour or two."

"Great," Tim said, turning to look at Dick. "Ready to go to Damian's apartment?"

Excitement thrummed through Dick's bones. "That's next on the list?"

"Yeah, just gotta find Jason and Cass."

They moved to leave- there was only so much time in a day and they really needed to get through things quickly- before Leslie stopped them.

She held up her hand to say a few parting words. "I pray for all of Gotham's sanity that you find that kid sooner rather than later."

Dick smiled at her. "Thanks, Leslie."

"Again, not something worth thanking me for. I'm saying that for all the poor criminals coming to my clinic, I've had double the work lately. With all the violence going on. You guys really need to work on... not brutally damaging the people you're fighting."

"Oh," Dick said.

"Now, when you find the kid, I'll be waiting right here for him." Her final words were probably in some attempt at a joke. "I'd hate to find out what would happen to the criminal underworld if he were to die."

From the spike of fear that immediately built in the room, Leslie must have realized that was not the right thing to say.

"Not that it's likely he's going to die," she added quickly. "Because you'll find him in time."

"Right," Tim said slowly. "We'll find him in time."

-

When they met up with Jason and Cass and told them about the newscast, they both burst out laughing. Dick couldn't decide if that hurt his ego or helped it.

-

The building looked like all it would take was one swift kick and it would crumble apart. The bricks lining the outside were half-chipped off and covered in moss. It gave Dick both the sense that the building was filled with rats and also protected by nature itself.

But Jason and Tim didn't spare a glance at the building, just walked straight in.

Dick, however, trailed a little behind, he dragged his gaze across the walls, the concrete, the way the hinges creaked, and the way certain floor boards dipped into the ground.

He wanted to see the building where Damian had spent the past year living. 

He wanted to prove to himself that it was nothing compared to the manor. That this place was awful and hideous and sickly and made Damian shudder every time he walked through it. He wanted to prove that it was never warm enough during the winter, that it was never cold enough during the summer. That the stairs were too exhausting to climb and the bed made him stiff in the shoulders.

It was selfish. Because he did want Damian to be happy. He didn't want the kid to be left alone for nearly two years without any comfort- without Dick.

But, he also didn't want Damian to be happy. He didn't want to re-enter Damian's life and find out his little brother was better off without him.

It made him feel like an awful person. But he couldn't help it. He couldn't help it.

He and Cass followed Tim and Jason, flanked by Steph and Duke.

This really was a one-man job. But they all wanted to see the place Damian had been living, all wanted to find his living space, get a glimpse into the life he had without them.

So there they were, all crammed into the walkway, clumping together like a set of cells or a high school clique.

"You know the landlord, right?" Steph asked. "So getting in will be easy."

"I don't know the landlord," Jason said. "I just checked him out a month or two ago when Cass wanted to spy on Damian."

"For good reason," Cass said, turning her nose up when Duke gave her an exasperated look.

"So you've never talked to him?" Dick asked, examining the interior walls.

"Nope," Jason said, popping the 'p.' "But, I asked around. He used to deal with kids before I came around. Chickened out and apparently took up real estate." Jason shrugged.

"If I found out he tried to sell to Damian, I'm bashing his skull into the ground," Steph said, high-fiving the hand Jason offered her.

They turned the corner and entered into what was probably the ground floor of the building. There was a man behind the reception desk, looking at his phone idly while his fingers tapped on the table.

"Hey," Jason said, making the man look up.

They had decided to all go in their hero uniforms, a just-in-case measure. In case they needed to jump into action. So when the man looked up, he was greeted with the sight of six vigilantes all staring him down.

The man eyed the group of them warily. "I don't do business with bats," he said.

"Ooh," Jason said, walking forward. "Well, tough luck. 'Cause you're about to." He motioned to the chair facing the front desk. "Mind if I sit?"

"I do, actually," the man said. He sighed, "I assume this is about Damian Wayne? Listen, no. I never saw Robin or anyone else enter his apartment, alright? If Robin was ever here, I’d tell you. But he wasn’t, okay? Now you can leave me alone."

"We want Damian's room number, actually," Dick said. "You wouldn't mind giving it to us, would you?"

The man scoffed. "I said I don't do business with bats."

Duke's brow furrowed. "But you just-"

The man ignored him. "You're not getting any information out of me about anything more. Especially not about that brat. I made a p-"

Cass reacted before any of them were given a chance to. She stormed forward, grabbing the collar of the man's shirt and slamming him into the wall behind him. The chair was knocked over in the process, skidding to the floor.

A knife was in her hand and pressed against the guy's neck before anyone knew anything was happening. Before the word brat had even registered in Dick's head.

"Wha-?" The man asked, the knife digging deeper into his skin.

"Listen," Tim said, voice deceptively calm. "Just tell us his room number and we'll be gone. We just want to check for clues. Okay?"

"Why the hell do you care so much about some fucking brat? I told you Robin wasn't here. If my clients see a bat by their-"

"If you call him a brat one more fucking time, I'll shoot you in the throat," Jason said, fury in his eyes.

The man glared, but he didn't say another word.

Dick walked forward, wrenching the man from Cass's grip and throwing him onto the floor. He dug his heel into the man's shoulder. "Just tell us where his room is," he said, ignoring the man writhing below him. "You can't stop us- even if you tried. He's also a huge clue to figuring out where Robin is. And, so help me, I will go through this building room by room until we get there."

The man still didn't speak.

"Red Hood," Steph said.

"Got it," Jason said, pulling the gun out of his holster and shooting the man in the arm. That earned them a scream of pain from the landlord.

"Red Hood!" Duke berated. "He's innocent."

"Uh, he's a motherfucking bastard. That's what he is. Now tell us the room number..." Jason glanced at Duke before adding on a, "please."

Finally, the man began to say something useful. "Three hundred..."

"Hm?" Tim asked. "Three hundred what?"

"Three hundred... a... and seven."

"Thank you," Dick said, exasperated. "And has he come in since everyone's had their memories returned?"

The man remained quiet.

"Red Hood," Dick said. "Break his arm."

"Wait!" The man said before Jason had even taken a second step. "Okay, okay. He hasn't. No."

"And you'll tell us if he does?"

"Yes. Yes! Now let me go, please."

Dick shrugged, stepping off the man. The landlord jumped up and he took toward the back of the room, eyeing them frantically.

Tim walked up, whispering something in the man's ear before going back to the group. The man's expression, as Tim whispered, shifted from angered and humiliated and in deep, deep pain, to fear.

"Okay," he said, nodding his head at Tim. "Yeah. Okay. Do whatever. I don't- I don't care."

And up the stairs, they went. Traveling up until they reached the third floor.

-

They followed the doors, looking at room numbers, until they arrived at the door. Damian's door.

"307" the sign on the door read. Below it was a 'do not disturb' sign. Which almost made Dick laugh.

Tim got to the door first, forcing it open- not even caring for the frail locks on the other side. He moved to walk in, obviously in tense anticipation, but then he just... stopped. Tim froze, staring into the room with his mouth open.

"Holy shit," Tim muttered. "Holy fucking shit."

Dick hurried forward, letting the room wash over him.

It was... overwhelming.

Drawings upon drawings lined the walls, some colored, some half-finished, some just barely sketched out. And they felt... oddly sacred.

Walking into the room, he ignored the baffled remarks traded by his siblings. Most of which consisted of scattered curse words and dropped jaws. Carefully, Dick reached up to touch a drawing of... himself.

He was wearing his Nightwing uniform but his mask was off. He was looking to the left, smiling at something.

He looked up and staring down was a collection of him. Just different poses, different expressions, different levels of rendering. Some of them he was in a suit and some of them he was in pajamas and some of them he was in his vigilante uniform and in some of them his hair was messy and in others it was well combed and he was always looking away, never fully facing the viewer, never looking ahead, never looking at Dick, never looking at Damian.

And it wasn't just Dick. Each member had a section, a portion of the wall dedicated only to them and the drawings of them.

Tim pulled a sketch of him from off the wall, looking at it with large, watery eyes. Dick could see the kid's hands shaking. Just a little bit.

Everyone had their own set of drawings, and there were family portraits, drawings of Bruce, sketches of Talia, there was a painting of Jon.

There were lists too, put next to the drawings. Things that talked about what sort of food they liked or what shows they watched. It was all in some vein attempt to remember.

While they were all forced to forget Damian through magic, Damian was forced to forget them through time. And yet, he was still trying to hold on.

There were things scribbled on notes, a collection of all the nicknames they had called Damian over the years. Each one written down carefully, as if Damian missed being called them. As if he missed those "imbecilic excuses not to say my proper name"

There were photos of the whole family, clustered together. Those were the worst. Damian had a whole collection of them. Different scenery, different placements, different backgrounds, different expressions.

And yet, none of the photos- none of them- had Damian drawn inside.

They couldn't help it, they all began collecting the drawings, taking them off of walls, and sorting them into piles. They moved around the apartment, examining things with vigor.

The cabinets were empty- without any crumbs or wrappers or any implication that food was stored there. The bed was desolate, the markers had almost all dried up, the closet was empty and without clothing.

But they kept searching. They found other drawings. Some of Titus and Alfred, some of a random cat titled: "Kat the Cat." There were sketches of Gotham and paintings of nature, it was like Damian had tried to fill his life with as much art as he could. 

"Look at this," Dick muttered, pulling open a sketchbook. It was unfinished- the most recent drawing out of all of them- and it was of Dick. Except, it wasn't Dick. It was something that began to twist.

There was no smile on his face, his expression was cold. Unfeeling. He glared down at the viewer as if they were the scum of the earth.

The eyes were the most detailed part, the only part of the drawing that looked actually finished. The rest was more whisps and pencil lines than anything.

It made him feel sick. Physically sick. He slowly put the paper down, walked into the mini kitchen, and threw up in the sink.

And then he began to cry.

"Ah shit," Jason said, moving to help hold Dick up. "Don't cry on me now, Dickhead, we all need you for this."

"I know," Dick said. "I know."

He and Jason went to look at Damian's drawings of Red Hood for a while until Steph called them both from the bathroom.

"Guys," Steph said. "Come over here."

Dick had no idea what he was about to find when he walked into the bathroom, but he certainly wasn't expecting... this.

Shards of glass were all scattered across the floor, dried blood visible on the white bathroom floor. Clips of hair were scattered on the ground, the mirror in front of the sink broken beyond repair.

"Well," Jason said, looking at a dagger resting on the floor. "At least we know where he got that terrible haircut from."

-

They all wanted to take the drawings back to the manor with them, and Dick did too. He really fucking did.

But, after spending hours in there, looking at the drawings, scouring the room for clues, saying they needed to check the closet again as an excuse to hide the fact that they were crying, Dick knew it needed to be done.

When Tim found the only drawing where he wasn’t looking away, he spent a full hour sobbing into Dick's shoulder. So, not only did they need the drawings to stay in the apartment, but it was probably a bad idea to bring them home, even if they didn't plan on using them as... uh... "bait."

He stacked the drawings together, Tim sliding a tracker in between the papers. No one had dry eyes at this point, everyone devastated by what they had found, what they had seen.

Why? Why? Why? Why?

Then, Tim placed a fake camera next to it as a decoy.

"Do you think he'll come back for it?" Duke asked, rubbing his eyes and looking at the stack of papers.

"He will," Dick said with more conviction than he was actually feeling.

-

Dick watched Tim and Bruce's newscast. The reporter did end up asking questions she wouldn't have asked had Dick not made his... proclamation, yesterday. But Tim handled them really well. Hell, he was probably more P.R. trained than Bruce at this point. 

Dick wondered what Damian would've thought about it. Wondered what he would've thought about all of this.

He watched the newscast and then he cried into a pillow. And then he picked himself back up and went off to roam the alleyways by the docks.

-

Rose stared blankly at the television screen, watching Red Robin explain in more detail the facts that all began to blur together.

"Damian Wayne..." she said slowly, letting the idea wash over her. She laughed, her tone dipping into hysterical. Then she buried her head in her hands, taking a deep, shaky breath. She looked back up, watching as Bruce Wayne began to speak.

Damian was a Wayne. Damian was a person who had been forgotten by the entire world. Damian was someone who had been all alone and left on the streets, looking for a job.

Every moment, every time he gasped for breath or flinched when something nearly hit him or drew a beautifully complex sketch of a Wayne family member- it all shifted into context. It all made sense.

Rose had worked with Damian Wayne. Bruce fucking Wayne's son. Dick Grayson and Tim Drake's brother. Rose had worked with him. She had teased him and driven him to get his haircut and to go to the grocery store. She had waited in line with him at a laundry mat and had gone out with him at dinner celebrations for Cameron's raise.

They had been co-workers. He had crashed at her house for a few days before freaking out over her lizard and eating her pizza. She knew Damian Wayne.

That was insane. Unreal. It didn't feel real.

Cameron noticed the television and walked over, slumping down in the seat next to her.

He tilted his head, looking at her."Are you thinking...?" He asked, waiting for her to fill in the gap.

"That Damian is Robin? Uh, yeah. Have you met the guy? There's no way that kid isn't."

"Okay," Cameron said. "Good. I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Sucks we can't tell anyone though," Rose muttered. "You think he'll still remember us when he goes back to being both a celebrity and a superhero?" Even though she knew it, saying out loud made it sound even crazier. Damian. Being both a Wayne and a Robin. How fucking crazy.

"I don't know," Cameron said. And he picked up one of those missing person fliers that were left in their mailboxes. It had Damian on it, his face all scrunched up in a scowl. But it was one of those scowls you know he didn't really mean.

It was much higher in resolution than some of the other photos. His hair was shorter than Rose had seen it in person, but it was around the same length it was before Damian was erased. He was wearing some sort of vest, something oddly Victorian about his attire. And he was looking straight down the camera and scowling as if he had a personal grudge against the photographer.

"I think," Cameron said, placing the missing person poster back on the coffee table. "I think he'll remember everything."

-

When they got the notification that Leslie had found Damian, Jason was the closest. He usually worked on the ground, but for this, he sprinted across the rooftops. Combat boots thumped from one building to the next.

When he landed in the alleyway, nearly out of breath, the location of Leslie's signal still ringing in the phone on his hand, all she did was shake her head.

"Which way?" He rasped. "Which way did he go?"

Leslie pointed off in some direction, a street crowded with people.

Jason took off, pushing people out of the way to follow what little semblance of a path he was given. But after thirty minutes of searching- after thirty minutes of frantically looking through the flowing mass of bodies- he found nothing.

Jason let a stream of curses flow from his mouth as he pounded his fists into a wall.

His knuckles came up bloody but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He walked into a secluded area, letting the blood follow his steps like a trail in his wake. And then he screamed.

-

When Barbara saw the tracker Tim had slid into the pile of drawings move, the first thing she did was call Dick.

-

"Damian took the... bait," Barbara said, hesitation audible. It did feel a little weird to call beautifully drawn photos of themselves, 'bait.' But that's what they were. And Damian took them He- while under the effects of the strongest fear toxin created yet- went back for the drawings of his family.

Then, the rest of the sentence caught up to Dick. Damian took the tracker. He took the tracker.

They could find him.

"Can you give me the location?" Dick asked, already beginning to pace. He didn't have a location yet, he needed a location, a location, he needed a location. He was already notifying everyone else, walking in circles on the rooftop he had been in the middle of perching on.

"Sending it over to you now," Barbara said.

"How far away is he?" Dick asked, still pacing as he waited for it to send.

"Well... You guys can find him tonight."

Dick sucked in a breath.

Tonight.

They could find him tonight. Dick could have Damian home tonight. Everything would be whole again tonight.

Tonight, tonight, tonight.

Dick's phone pinged and the location of the tracker was delivered. He was three minutes away. At most. Three minutes away from Damian. Three minutes away from making it all right.

And this time he wouldn't turn back.

Chapter Text

"You have to tilt your head a little," the hostess said, rummaging through a mess of clothes.

"Like this?" Damian looked in the mirror, keeping his smile wide and tilting his head.

The hostess looked up and laughed. "Wait, never mind. It looks even worse. Definitely don't do that." She walked over to the mirror, manually tilting Damian's head. "Just like that. Only a little bit. Now, smile with half-teeth. See? Perfect. Now say something charming."

Damian dropped the expression. "Charming?" He asked, scoffing. "What sort of nonsense would even constitute as charming?"

"Compliment them in some way," the hostess said. "I don't know. Just try to imagine a four-year-old in a suit trying to speak professionally. Embody that behavior."

"You want me to act like what?"

"Adorable," she said, walking back to her stack of clothes. "Is that a better word? You're what- fifteen? People find that charming."

"Shush," Damian hissed. "My identification says seventeen."

"Ugh, yeah. But no one believes that. Jerry only does cause he's an idiot."

Damian snorted. "Indeed he is."

The music shifted in the landreymat, and a song began blasting. The sound of a woman singing in a language Damian was too busy to translate filled the space.

The hostess gasped, looking over at Damian and grinning. She pointed up, probably referencing the music.  "My native tongue."

"Really?" Damian asked.

"Yeah. Moved to Gotham when I was ten." She laughed. "Nice town."

Damian frowned. "No one moves to Gotham. You're either born here or forced here, and the only reason you don't leave is because something ties you here that no other town has. So, why did you come to Gotham?"

The hostess gave him an amused smile. "My dad lives here. He moved here long before Batman and the Joker and all that fun stuff. So when my mom died, I got shipped over here."

"Oh," Damian said, feeling guilty for prying. He was too trained on suspecting everything and, 'looking for fallacies.' As his father had put it. "And your dad's the reason you stayed? You're nineteen, right? You can leave whenever you please."

The hostess shook her head. "No, it's not my dad- although, he's alright. Not the best father. I'm staying for my boyfriend. And he's staying for his sister. And she's staying for their mom. And-"

"Their mom is staying for their dad's grave?"

"Bingo!" She said, taking all of her clothes out of the dryer and into her basket. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow. Wish me a proposal, won't you?"

"I wish you a proposal," Damian said dryly. Because she got mad if you didn't respond with that.

-

Damian let out a breath, watching the white puff of air float up into the sky.

He clutched the drawings closer to his chest, ducking through the alleys. Puddles splashed as he dashed through the shadowed, tight spaces.

There was a low whisper in the usually quiet. A rumbling. It was as if Gotham knew that something had changed, that the tides in the city had churned a new perspective. Damian had been able to recognize Gotham's mood after spending so long in between the walls of buildings.

The Waynes and the bats were sort of a key stone of Gotham. When they shifted, the town moved with it. Lately, the city had been suffocating, miserable. Security cameras had popped up everywhere, with everyone walking the streets having one eye on their phone and one eye on the sidewalk. Everyone was searching for something.

And now, the town had something different inside of it. A precursor to what was to come. Damian might even call it hope. The way a choir sings about a sunrise on a battlefield.

People were moving with purpose now, talking with others as news alerts pinged on their phones. There was a low but growing chatter in the air.

"Look at this. They're all moving in the same direction. Do you think they found him?"

"Wait, they're moving this way."

"Oh, shit. We have to get out of here. I don't want to get between them and-"

"Come on. This way! This way!"

Damian held the drawings closer, the paper crumpling as he did.

Fear was becoming the norm. Damian hadn't known a moment of calmness, of serenity, of comfort, for months. He stared at the buildings.

He really didn't want to see his family. Didn't want to see their faces. What would be plastered on their expressions? Disappointment? Exhasperation? Annoyance? Would they want him back for appearances' sake, or would they slip him a hundred dollars? Would they tell him to leave and make a life away from them? Would they see this as an oppertunity or a chore?

Or would they hate him? Hate him, hate him, hate him, hate him?

Damian didn't know. He just missed them. He didn't want to see his family because he wanted to see his family.

Because the next time he saw them... that would be the last time. The last time he could see them and pretend they loved him, at least.

Damian missed them. And he had spent the past two years pretending they still existed. Talking to Rose and Cameron like he had a home to return to. Explaining to a woman terrified by Fear Gas that his family was as real as her.

He just needed to get over this awful sickly feeling. The feeling that made him jump at any noise, that made him scratch his arms out of nervousness, causing his nails to draw blood.

Then, with puddles splashing in the background, a set of people stormed through the alley. Damian slipped out of sight, watching them from the corner of a wall. They were wearing the sort of gear that could be seen on Jason: guns, combat boots, fingerless gloves. They were talking in loud voices, making large gestures to enunciate their words.

"-ob. It really is. I mean, why the hell does the boss want us to do this sorta shit?"

"Literally. It's like trying to win the lottery. The chances of us finding him in this giant-ass city are next to none."

"Right? Like, it's not gonna work. Stupid fucking brat. And we're gonna have to turn him into the boss."

"Yeah, but would you really wanna try to deal with the Waynes while they have the bats on their side? Like, I'm not taking that risk. They've never fucked around when it comes to one of them. I mean, you heard what happened with Jessie yesterday, right?"

"Jessie's always been a big mouth. He makes one wrong comment about Damian Wayne, and suddenly-"

The one talking froze, his gaze zeroing in on Damian like a predator. And quickly after, the rest followed suit. 

"Holy shit," the man said, stepping forward. His hand went to his gun's holster. "You're Damian Wayne."

"Not a Wayne," Damian hissed, trying to be menacing. It failed. He appeared more like a frightened child than anything intimidating. His drawings were held so tightly they crinkled against his clothing. His shoulders hunched in on himself as he backed away into a wall. "Not anymore. Not anymore. Anymore. Anymore."

The group advanced, and Damian couldn't go any farther. He was trapped.

"If we split the reward money," the woman wondered. "How much would we all make?"

"Reward money?" The man asked, laughing. "Are you kidding? If we have the kid right here, what about hostage money? They're desprate for him, they'll probably pay shit more if we ask."

"Should we even risk that? I don't know what I would do with that much money." The woman said.

The man pressed Damian's shoulder into the wall, stopping him from moving. He then trapped Damian in a headlock,

"Let go of me," Damian bit out. Then, maybe out of pure habit, he said, "I'm fine. Let me go. Stop. Leave me alone. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm okay. Leave me alone." Like he was just some damn broken record, an echo in a canyon.

"What's he holding?" The leader asked. This was his first time speaking, his voice instantly causing the other two to turn to him. He peered at the papers. "What are those stupid things... drawings?"

He reached to grab them, and Damian screamed. "No! No! No! You can't have them. You can't have them!" He tried to shake them off, frantically thrashing and clutching the drawings as close as he could.

"Can someone shut him up until the boss gets here?" The leader asked. "Black Mask is gonna want to be the one to exchange Damian Wayne."

Damian struggled as the first man moved to restrain him fully. His bit out words ragefully, "You insolent, arrogant, gaudy excuses for-"

A hand was clamped over his mouth, and Damian's insults turned to muffled gibberish. If he was in a better state, he could have fought them off. But he hadn't eaten in a week, and he hadn't slept since Monday, and every part of him was aching and screaming, and he felt like he could die any minute. If he was in a better state... Damian kept saying that, but he hadn't been in a better state for a while. He hadn't been able to fight off the Riddler, he wasn't able to fight off the henchmen. Was this who was now? Was this all he'd ever be?

Still, Damian tried to free himself. But it was to no avail.

He screamed through the hand. He screamed and screamed until tears began to form.

And for the first time in a long time, Damian was back on the battlefield. Except this time, he wasn't Robin. He had no mask to hide behind. He was just Damian. And he was useless and weak. And he couldn't even save himself.

He couldn't even save himself.

But he did keep a tight hold of the drawings. Even as his body slowly grew limp, the fight draining out of him as his muscles grew sore, he made sure not to let anyone take them.

"Ugh, we're gonna need to knock him out," the leader grumbled, giving Damian a disgusted look.

If there hadn't been a palm covering his mouth, Damian would have stuck out his tongue. But he had to make due with what he had. And instead opted to lick the back of the first man's hand.

The first man cursed, pulling his hand away only to immediately slam it back. It burned Damian's skin, and he was sure there would be a mark remaining for a little while after. "Stupid piece of shit," he hissed, glaring at Damian. "Why the fuck is there such a large amount of crash on this kid's head, anyway? Who'd ever want him that much?"

"Just remember it's alive." The woman said, dialing some number on a phone in her hand. "They Waynes want him alive. Therefore, the boss wants him alive."

"I know," the first man said. "I'm good at keeping people alive. He's just being difficult."

"Then, knock him out like I said," the leader argued. "Just stop complaining about it."

"Hey, if you think it's so easy, you try to knock him out without doing any damage." The man tightened his grip on Damian like a boa constrictor. Damian wasn't frail. But... if he was, he would find that he had begun having trouble breathing.

"You can do damage. Just keep him alive," The leader said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

And that was what led to Damian's head being bashed into a wall.

Pain coursed through Damian's skull, pounding like the most intense version of a headache Damian had ever had.

He blinked his focus into vision. His into focus vision. His... His vision into focus. Everything was spinning, churning into bright, piercing lights. Damian could feel the blood seeping into his hair.

Damian gave a pained gasp, letting one hand go free to claw at the man's arms as he was pulled off the ground. "You should be ashamed of yourselves, you pathetic... pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, pathe..." Damian lost track of the insult. Mind swirling as his vision blurred with tears. "I hope your crops all wither and your paint dries slow and you-"

And then the man's grip on him released. And he fell to the ground, Damian crumbling to the floor with him.

The man began screaming, clutching a set of bullet wounds on his side.

And his screaming, in turn, caused Damian to scream. He scrambled up, blood from his hair dripping down his face. Whatever shot the man was hurrying through the alleyway, feet pounding on the floor with startling urgency.

But the the people- the other ones that weren't screaming- had their confidence quickly replaced with pure terror.

Damian did not have the time nor the courage to figure out who the hell was behind those bullet wounds.

So, he turned around and ran.

He ran and ran and ran and ignored every pain inside of him.

His ankle that was broken from a few weeks ago, clicked and burned, sending pangs through his leg. He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the pain begging him to limp and hobble away instead of sprinting. 

He stumbled into a building- too disoriented to see what it was for- and furiously ran to an elevator. It was secluded, it was empty; it was safe, safe, safe, safe, safe.

He glanced back once.

When he was inside, he began furiously pushing one of the buttons. Roof access. He needed to get out. Get out. Get out. Escape. Escape. Escape.

And then the door closed.

Damian was alone inside the elevator.

The walls were all silvery mirrors, reflecting Damian's face. Damian hadn't looked in a mirror since he had...

He reached a hand up, choking on air as he ran his hand through his hair.

Everything was closing in on him. The walls slowly pressed against him until he couldn't breath. And he couldn't even gasp for air. And his skin suffocated him and drained the oexagyn out of him until he was just a transluent corpse, still holding onto drawings that were probably long smudged.

And then the elevator pinged, and the doors slid open.

Damian gasped, taking in the air. Before he stepped out onto the desolate rooftop, finally letting himself limp.

The cold wind whipped his hair, sending chills down his spine.

He looked around frantically, making sure he was safe.

The rooftop was vast, large. There were air vents and storage closets and crumpled up cans discarded off to the side. Damian could see it being used by repairmen on hot days when the sun was high and the air was warm.

But there was nothing warm about tonight.

The sky was dark and gloomy- no longer raining, just resting in a perpetual misery. And there was a low chill settling over everything.

Damiam stumbled forward, shivering just a little. He bit his tongue, scowling as he tried to ignore the cold.

He looked over his shoulders, just to make sure no one had followed him. But no one had.

Which was good.

Damian didn't know why it was good. He didn't even know why he was running anymore.

He just knew the feeling of the hallucinations. He couldn't remember what the figures had said. What anyone had said.

Damian couldn't remember much of anything right then. He just knew here was cold and the manor was warm and his wrist were burning and his family's smiles were kind and that everything felt like he was slowly drowning in a lake filled with murkey, dirtied water.

And then he was back in reality.

Because, in reality, his family was better with him carefully cropped out. They were happier with his room emptied and his chair gone and every item of his missing.

Damian had hoped that he could become someone worthy of going back into their lives, but that hope had crumbled. Damian had tried to be perfect, but he had messed everything up. He hadn't acomplished that, he hadn't acomplished anything.

He had fallen short.

And now they remembered him, and they were probably trying to find him just for the formality of it.

Damian was doing them a favor.

And maybe he loved them. Maybe he did. Maybe if the world was really going to end and all it took was Damian leaving to fix it, he would disappear in a heartbeat. Maybe he loved them enough to leave them, and maybe he missed them enough to die a little. Maybe these drawings were all he had and all he would ever have and maybe he just needed

Maybe all he felt was the wind and the air and the feeling of tears forming in the edges of his eyes, cold and bitter and tasting like saltwater.

Maybe there was nowhere left to-

"Damian?"

Damian stilled, slowly turning to find the owner of the voice.

Standing across from him, on the edge of the roof, gasping for air as he stepped forward was...

It wasn't Richard. But it was something like him. It was a husk, a carved-out space of air, a person who looked like Richard but couldn't be- couldn't be- couldn't be. It couldn't be Richard. Richard wouldn't have came for him. Richard wouldn't be looking at Damian with relief and sorrow and hope and-

The creature stepped forward, and Damian flinched back.

Distantly, he realized he was trembling.

Slowly, more shadowy figures began to appear, each jumping onto the rooftop after the other. They were cornering him, trapping him. And each figure- each creature- looked like...

They found him, they found him, they found him.

Damian bit his tongue, trying to remind himself not to run to them, not to collapse in their arms like some lost child. His arms, wrapped around the drawings, drew in closer, and the shaking in his body turned violent.

Slowly, a smile smile appeared on the figure-that-wasn't-Richard's face. It was soft and hopeful, and it made his entire expression look at Damian like he was... like he was... Like Damian could be...

The figures all shifted, inching closer to Damian. Each of them looking at Damian like he was some sort of wild, rabid animal. Not-Richard even had his hands out in a placating manner, in the way one might try to calm down a rabid beast.

But while they were treating him with cation, no one was looking at him with fear. Instead, in their eyes, Damian found...

He was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of trick.

Then, the figure that looked like Timothy took a step forward, holding a piece of paper in his hands.

Maybe it was head injury, but the world began to blur. For a moment it wasn't a piece of paper. For a moment, Timothy was holding a menu and looking up at Damian like he was nothing. And then that moment passed, and Not-Timothy looked at Damian like he was something.

"Hey, baby bat," he whispered, giving Damian a nervous smile. "Found you."

Chapter Text

Six Years Ago.

"Damian, please," Dick begged, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Can you just try to be civil?"

"Civil?" Damian hissed, turning on his heels. "My apologies, Grayson. I'm sorry I needed to restrain myself to fit in with your circus of idiots. Especially when you only invited me there to set me up for a humiliating failure in front of those fools you call siblings."

Dick sighed, looking so terribly sad. “If you would just give us a chance-"

Damian spun on his heels, spreading out his arms. "What chance, Grayson? You keep trying to force me into this- this hierarchical collection of strangers."

"It's called a family, Damian. And whether you like it or not, you happen to be part of it."

"I am part of Father's family, not yours. And Father is dead now. Nothing ties me to you or those imbeciles anymore."

Dick groaned. "Damian, come on. Just try. It's not difficult, okay? You don't have to love us. You don't even have to like us. But you have to try, please, at least just-"

"No!" Damian snapped. "I refuse."

One day, they're both going to love each other more than either could possibly imagine. But today is not that day.

Dick crossed his arms. "Why are you being so difficult? I'm asking for thirty minutes of your time. Thirty. Three-zero. Nothing more. I just want to keep this fa- I just want to make sure nothing falls apart."

"Do it without me. I know you want to."

"We want to do this with you. We want- I want you to be a part of this. I want you to want to be a part of this."

"I will never want to be part of this 'family,'" Damian hissed. "Never."

Say what you will about Damian Wayne, but he was nothing if not accomplished in eating his own words.

-

Damian froze. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to respond. He didn't- His mind faltered. It blanked, everything inside of him dissapating until he was staring at the group of people slowly inching towards him, absolutely dumbfounded.

Like an absolute imbecile.

They were here. And they were looking at him with recognization. If Damian asked them for his favorite color, they would know. If he asked them when his birthday was, they would know. He could tell them stories and they would know how they ended.

They knew him. They were here and they knew him.

Damian wobbled, his legs begging to give out. His ankle had gone numb a while back, and he knew the moment the adrenaline rush faded, he would be left unstable. He reached up to rub the blood off his face with the underbelly of his wrist. He felt a little whoosy, an odd- almost high- lightness filling his skull. He felt dizzy, tilting a little.

His family- no, not his family.

They couldn't be his real family. His real family wouldn't be looking at him like this. Damian knew it- knew it- knew it- knew- kn- knew. Knew. Knew. Damian knew it.

But whoever they were- a test, a challenge, a vegance, a piece of revenge, another stone to land on his body and slide down his skin- they looked nervous. Their poses had shifted into something anticipatory, ready to pounce if he tried to run.

They had fanned out, Jason and Stephanie each moving to block the door the elavtor- Damian's only way out besides grappling or freefalling. Niehter of which he was in any sort of posisition to do.

They were eyeing him as if he was a rabid animal. As if they were scared for him and scared of him. Not scared of what he could do to them- he could barley stand. But perhaps scared of what he would end up doing to himself?

All Damian knew was that everything was over.Damian didn't have to run anymore. He had lost. He had lost, and it was over.

It was time for Damian to give in. For him to walk to them, let whatever fate they had decided come true. It was over. If they wanted to ship Damian away, he'd let them. If they wanted to let him wander the house like a ghost, he'd let them. If they wanted to erase him again, take their memories of him away, he wouldn't bite back.

Damian had found that love made things bearable. He could miss them all he wanted, but he loved them too much to try to force himself into their life when he wasn't wanted.

But there was something in him conflicting.

A double-think.

Damian both knew these people were his family and didn't. There were two stories in Damian's head, two different realities, each more terrifying than the other.

Damian couldn't make sense of which was what and what was which.

In most ways, Damian's course of action made very little sense. His brain too high on the effects of a gas so pervading and damaging to fully process what was going on. He was too deep in the terror, too confused, he wasn't making sense of the situation in the way that he would have been had he been sober.

But, despite that, he still had some courage left in him.

In some ways, this was impressive. Most people would have either- in some blinded haze of not realizing where they were- tried to run away, right off the building, or they would have immediately given in.

But Damian pushed down the aching, near-overpowering fear and stood.

Because there were two stories going on in his head. One where everything was over. And one where he could save just one last thing.

"No," Damian said, the first word slicing through the silent, anticipatory tension. "You can't have them."

A beat of silence.

Then, a very confused, "What?"

"You can't have them," Damian repeated. "Can't have them. Can't have them."

Not-Jason leaned back to look at the others in the group. "What the fuck-" Damian flinched at the volume of his voice- earning him a lot of concerned looks- and Jason lowered it considerably. "-are you talking about?"

Damian's vision was unfocused as he muttered, "I won't let you take them."

"Woah," Not-Richard said. "We're not going to take anyone, Damian." His voice was soothing and melodic.

It had to be a trap. A ruse. Richard wouldn't be this soft with Damian. Not like this. Why would he ever act like this?

"Why don't you just come over here, mkay?" He asked, reaching a hand out. "We won't take anything or anyone. I just- We want..."

"No," Damian said. "I have to protect them."

Richard and Cassandra both shared a glance of utter confusion.

"Okay," Duke said. "Well, why don't you tell us who you don't want us to take, and we'll make sure we don't take them?"

"No, you will. You will. You'll take them and- and take them and then they'll be gone and I'll have lost them again."

Richard tried to take the tiniest step forward, something slow and carefully, and yet Damian jumped back. He tripped over his own footing, falling to the ground with a thud. He gasped and jolted up, collecting his fallen drawings back into one shaky stack. This included the tracker Timothy had planted; he scooped it up and hid it back in the pile.

And then it was Damian's fath- Bruce's turn to try to inch closer to Damian.

And Damian responded by screeching, "Stop! Don't come any closer! Don't come any closer!" He brought his knees up to his chest, protecting the drawings. "I won't let you take them."

"We're not taking anything," Timothy promised.

And Damian just stared at him, expression uneasy. And bit by bit Timothy's expression crumpled from something desperate into something crestfallen. For a moment he just looked absolutely destroyed.

-

If Damian's eyes weren't flickering frantically in every direction, he would have been able to assess Timothy's body language. To see how much he wanted to reach for Damian, how much every inch of him was screaming to wrap his arms around the boy.

The memories hadn't made any of the burning feelings go away. If anything, they heightened them to something unbearable. To something that couldn't be ignored at all.

-

Damian stared up at the not-family-but-also-family and he knew it was a losing battle.

"They're all I have left of them," Damian pleaded, voice raspy. "They're all I have left."

Then Jason approached. "Dami. You're gonna have to take a few deep breaths. Can you do that for me?" His voice was mellower than Damian would have expected from him, but one look at his stance and Damian knew he was preparing to pounce on Damian. To tackle him like a man trying to catch a runaway cat.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no." He shuffled away, shaking his head. His breaths were growing uneven; the blood from his skull was drying in his hair.

Jason stepped forward again, "Damian, don't do this. I know it's scary as fuck right now, but you have to trust me. You've always-"

And then Jason stopped, pausing mid-step, before slowly moving backward, away from Damian.

Damian tried to push himself away from the group again, but when he reached his hand out behind him, he caught air.

He sucked in a breath, nearly teetering over, the group all jolting forward before Damian managed to regain balance. The adrenaline pumping in his veins so loud and blaring already that it never even spiked. Not even when he looked back, seeing the edge of the building giving way to a bustling road below it.

Not even when he understood that if he had moved back any farther, he would've died.

Damian was already too scared to grow even more terrified.

Damian returned his gaze to the Not-Family, who seemed at a loss for what to do. They looked like they were teetering, halfway to running to him and halfway to backing away, scared of sending him off the cliff at the slightest noise.

"Damian, sweetheart, why don't you come over here, okay?" Richard's voice was steady and kind but it betrayed his nerves. "Just step away from the ledge."

"No," Damian said stubbornly. "You'll just take them and destroy them and- and- and- and- and- And I can't." His voice cracked. "I can't let you do that. They're my family."

"What?" Timothy asked, blinking. "No, your family's right here. We're right here."

"The drawings," Cassandra observed, voice low. "Us."

The realization rippled through the group, the majority of them wearing conflicted expressions. Most of their faces, already shadowed in sadness and horror sharpened in concern. Damian just frowned in confusion.

He didn't understand why they were acting so desperate, so devastated. They weren't looking for him out of obligation so they must not be real. They couldn't be real. Damian wouldn't let them be real.  

They were another trap crafted to make him lose everything. They were another thing the world was throwing at him, another thief to pry his family from his weak, shaking, pathetic, powerless hands. But Damian wouldn’t let them. He had one thing— one thing— left. 

And without them, Damian would be all alone. 

They were the only evidence that Damian was ever a Wayne. That Damian ever belonged at all.

Or, Damian supposed, they used to be the only evidence. Now, the evidence was plastered on every billboard, every sign, every television screen. It was broadcast on full, proud display to all of Gotham.

Proud. 

Damian almost felt himself begin to relax before he jumped up again, something bright and firey and full of fear coursed within him.

He bit down on his tongue in the moment of shock, feeling the metallic taste of blood fill his mouth. He was beginning to feel lightheaded like the world around him was floating.

Damian's father bent down on one knee so they were on even eye level. "Damian," he said slowly. "We won't hurt your family, okay? In fact, if you come with us we can bring you to your family- your real family."

Damian scoffed. "Like they'd want me." How stupid did he think Damian was?

"Why the fuck would you think that?" Jason asked, voice somewhere between angry and outraged, but at what, Damian wasn't sure. "Who told you that? Why would you believe them?"

Damian didn't know how to respond to that. 

"Fear Toxin," Cassandra said. "Lies."

Timothy took a step forward, but Damian didn't move.

"Please don't take them," he said. "They're all I have left of them."

Jason stared at Damian with a conflicted expression, flickering between outrage and dismay. "No- But- They-"

"What if you could have the real thing?" Stephanie asked. "Wouldn't you want that?"

"I can't. And that's..." Damian swallowed. "Okay. This is the next best thing."

Jason snorted at that. "Yeah, okay," he said bitterly.

Damian narrowed his eyes. "I'm serious! Do not- Do- Don- Do not discredit me. They're as close as I'll get to having them back and I refuse- I ref- Refuse to let you steal them."

It was Richard's turn to inch closer to him, again Damian didn't move.

"Well," Duke said, voice carefully calm. Everyone's voices had managed to walk the line of serenity well enough to disguise the raging storm of anger and sorrow and longing within them. "What if your family wanted you? What-"

"Stop lying," Damian hissed. "Stop lying, stop lying, stop lying, stop lying. Just stop!"

And stop they did, they all paused, watching him cautiously. And for a moment there was silence. Just the sound of Damian's ragged breath and the faint shouting of people below.

And then, a gust of wind.

Something sharp and powerful, enough to send the drawings in Damian's hands- shaky and frantic and jittery- flying off the roof, splaying over the city like confetti.

And then everything stopped.

Everything stopped.

Everything stopped.

It was over. Over. Over. Over. Over.

It was over. Over. Over. Over.

It was over.

Everything was over.

Damian was over.

Everything stopped.

He crumbled, staring as they all danced in the air, drifting away and away and away and away and away and away and away and away and away and away. 

And then Damian screamed.

He screamed and he screamed and he screamed and he screamed.

He screamed like the world was ending, like the sun was falling, like a spear was pierced through his chest and his body was burned alight. Everything inside him had shattered into something broken and violent and so... so sad.

Every single moment when he had bit down the longing and swallowed the sorrow burned and built up in the back of his throat.

Damian’s scream turned into a sob— mangled and broken and quivering— until he forced it back into a scream.

It was over. Over. He had lost them. He had lost them.

"No... No!" Damian tried to reach for them in some feverish moment of desperation, scrambling toward them, the city below him at the back of his mind.

But before he could tumble off the roof, someone rushed forward, wrapping their arms around Damian. They were trying to say something to him, something comforting that was trenched in sadness. But their words were lost in the shortened breaths and erratic screams.

“No, no, no," Damian said, struggling against the arms, trying to reach for the drawings, already long disappeared to the city below. "No!" He sobbed. "No... I can't... I can't..."

The arms around him were tight and Damian's strength was all depleted. But he tried anyway, still fighting against, hand outstretched as the last of the drawings disappeared. And then he went limp.

He collapsed in the arms, the battle long over.

Just a mess of limbs, sobbing in whoever's arms were holding him. He let them pick him up, slowly carrying him away from the edge, still whispering soft things in his ear. 

The voice was growing more clear, becoming more familiar. The love and the desperation and the care in it seeping through even if the words were unhearable.

But Damian was too busy drifting.

"They're gone," Damian whispered. "They're gone. I lost them again. Again. I'm all alone. They're gone. Gone. Gone. I lost them. How could I do that?" Tears had begun dripping down his face. 

Whoever was holding him had pressed him against their chest, hugging him as if he could disappear any second.

Damian sobbed again, letting his head drop.

"How could I lose my family again? Why can't I- Why can't I-?" He broke off crying.

"Dami." There was a voice in his ear, warm breath pricking his freezing skin. "We're here. We're right here." The person holding him tightened their grip as Damian began to thrash. "I'm right here. You're okay. Please, baby bat. You're okay."

Damian didn't respond. He just kept crying, his head dropping. "I want... I want..."

"Yeah?" A different voice asked. This one was too eager, too willing, too curious. "What do you want?" There had to be some catch. But the voice seemed fully earnest, fully willing to fulfill whatever request left Damian's lips.

"I want…" My family. A do-over. My family. Everything to go back to the way it was. My family. Home. My old life and my new life. My family. Home. My family. My family. 

He sagged in the stranger's arms, letting everything leave him. He wasn't scared anymore. Somewhere deep inside him, the fear had recognized something and fled.

But he was sad. It was a deep, blistering sadness. It scorched his body and froze his skin. He was drowning. Damian was drowning.

"I want my family back," he muttered. 

His vision was blurring, everything becoming bright colors all intersecting.

“I do— don… know if I told you about them. They— they’re… they, uh…” What was his cover story, again? “Died a few years back. That’s all.” He hummed, trying to remember all the details. “It was in a fire— no, wait, was it a boating crash? Car accident?” His mouth felt dry. “They're gone now, but it's okay. I don't care." He sucked in a breath, already crying again. "I don't care."

An exchange of horrified expressions was shared outside of Damian's vision. 

"Damian..."

“I said I don’t care! I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. Just leave me alone. Just… leave me alone. Alone. All alone.”

"Damian, I'm right here."

Damian was turned to face the person holding him, facing a Richard so similar to what he remembered. To what he could draw inherently with his eyes closed.

But the expression was different than he remembered it being. There wss tear tracks down his cheeks, deep eye bags, red lining the eyes, hair uncombed. He looked like a worse version of the Richard on the T.V. a few days prior. Except from this distance Damian could tell it wasn’t makeup. It was real.

This version of Richard looked exhuatsed, miserable, terribly heartbroken. And yet, he smiled at Damian, something both sad and giddy.

No... this... This wasn't really Richard.

This wasn't really Richard.

This wasn't-

Was it?

"You're gone," Damian said, but the emotion was dulling, replaced by something else.

"No," Richard said slowly. "I'm not.”

”You’re gone.”

”I’m here.”

”You…”

”I’m real.”

”You can’t be.”

Richard grabbed Damian’s shoulders. “I am.”

“Prove it.”

“When you were ten I tried to have you play charades with us and you couldn’t last eight minutes before proclaiming us a circus of idiots and storming off to your room.”

”I… do not remember such an occasion,” Damian said, sniffing.

”I call bullshit,” Richard said, giving Damian a rueful smile.

Damian almost laughed.

It was really Richard. It was Richard. It was Richard. It was Richard.

Damian always knew from the beginning but he never really knew. Not with the certainty that he did then.

And why did he feel so certainly that it pierced through the clawing terror of the toxin? Who’s to say, really. Who’s to say.

“Baby don’t cry,” Richard whispered, voice turning panicked again. He wiped off tears Damian hadn’t realized had begun to form. “Please don’t cry. I’m sorry. What’s wrong?”

Damian dug his nails deep into Richard’s arms, hanging on as if they could be parted any minute. Richard grabbed onto Damian too, holding him both tightly and delicately. A paradoxical way of sorts.

Damian kept a tight hold of Richard, breathing growing heavy, eyes growing wide.

When Damian pries himself away, the boy's nails will have dug deep enough to draw blood. Dick Grayson will live with the scars of a kid desperately trying to hold onto him for the rest of his life.

"You're here," Damian breathed. "You're here."

"I'm right here."

Why was Richard here? Why did he chase Damian all the way? Why would Richard—? Why—? Damian couldn’t figure it out. He knew he should but he just… couldn’t. He was flailing.

Damian shook his head, body beginning to shake. His family was here why was he still so scared? Why was he so cold? Why was he-?

Damian shrunk from Richard, pushing himself away. They were here, they were real, but what would they do? What would they want from Damian? Erase his memories? Erase their memories of him again?

No, no, no. They were here and Damian had to make them stay.

He tried to say something, but his words all tumbled over each other, he turned and coughed out blood, eyesight focusing and unfocusing until the world blurred. "Wait," he said, shaking his breath. "Wait, no, no, don't- please don't-"

"Don't do what?"

"No, please, I want to remember. Please don't- I want to remember them- you. I want to remember. I want to remember. Please, just let me stay. Just stay. Just-"

Richard looked sick.

Damian felt something sharp and thin slide into his arm. A tranquilizer he realized far too late. 

“No…” he gasped. “No, no, no. Don’t make me fall asleep. I don’t— no. No. I don’t wanna go.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Timothy’s voice was in his ear. "Okay, Dami? You're not going to go anywhere. We got you. You're safe. You're okay." His tone held distress and regret boiling inside of it.

“No… You'll leave. I need to stay awake. I need to stay awake. Awake. Awake. I have to make... I have to make sure that..."

"It's going to be okay," Richard said. "I promise."

"I'm sorry," Damian gasped, his grip on consciousness loosening. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I made you remember me. I'm so sorry. Please don't go. Please don't leave me. I'm sorry I forced you to- I'm sorry. Please don't leave me here."

Jason's next words were muffled, lost to the blurring haze that overtook Damian's mind.

"I know it was selfish to- to break the- I know it was selfish. I'm sorry. Please don't leave me. I can make it up to you. I can... I can. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

And then he drifted down. The world around him growing dark. Everything became stone and Damian was left, sleeping for the first time in days.

Everything became stone.

Damian floated like a drawing in the sky.

Chapter Text

When Damian woke up, he was in a room.

There was nothing in the room except windows looking out into the stars and a pristine white table in the center. Sitting upon that table, glowing ever so slightly, was a rock.

-

Tim had been staring at the drawings for hours.

He was at Damian's bedside, crouched over, papers in his hands. He was trying to do anything- everything- except think about what had happened just hours prior.

It made him feel ill. Just thinking about it.

The way Damian screamed, the way he begged. The way he didn't really process half of what was going on.

Tim couldn't think about it without shaking. Without wanting to hold Damian and never let him go. Honestly, if Tim could wrap Damian up in a little prison of blankets and keep him in the living room of the manor, he didn't know what he would do. But he did know that he would at least consider it somewhat heavily.

Jason was in the corner of the medical room, head in his hands. His sighs trembled through the room.

Tim never heard him cry, but whenever Jason looked up, rubbing his face, his eyes were rimmed red with tear tracks on his cheeks. 

Duke was next to Jason, asleep on his shoulder. He seemed to be having a nightmare, face twisted in agonized concentration.

After Damian had collapsed, Duke- the only one who could fly- zipped off the roof, collecting as many drawings from below as he could. He needed to work quickly, to make sure any of the sketches with confidential information were found before a citizen found them.

If Bruce were acting... normal, he would have been prepared to give Damian a whole speech about secrecy and identities and a whole bunch of shit.

But Bruce wasn't acting normal. He was silent. He wasn't in Damian's room at all. He stayed exclusively outside, either pacing or looking in like a lost dog.

Which... out of all the things Bruce could be doing, acting normal was probably the worst option.

Tim knew for a fact that if Damian woke up and Bruce began lecturing Damian on how he should have been 'more careful' or whatever, Dick and Jason would lose it. Honestly, Tim would lose it too. He was pretty sure at least half of them would all but rip his head off.

Don't get Tim wrong, Jason was definitely going to lecture Damian. And Dick was too. Oh, Dick was going to lecture Damian's ear off. The majority of their points could be summed up pretty easily as: Why didn't you come find me and tell me and let me take care of you?

Dick could be very whiney quite often.

Currently, Dick was holding Damian's left hand. He was halfway on the bed, asleep with his head next to Damian's. Steph was talking with Leslie in the back, saying things Tim couldn't decipher. 

They had shifted since the beginning. Originally, Dick had been hugging Damian's head from the back of the bed. He petted the boy's hair and kissed the kid's forehead, singing Damian these soft, mumbled lullabies. But Leslie had kicked him out of that chair, hurrying to put a breathing mask on Damian. 

Tim had Damian's right hand. It was warm, comforting. 

Cass was next to him. She had begun looking over his shoulder at the drawings. Tim had been looking at them for hours.

There was one drawing- one drawing- that Tim kept coming back to. He kept looking at it near obsessively. 

It was of him, sitting at a restaurant table, menu in hand. He was looking straight into the viewer's eyes- the only one where Tim looked straight into the viewer's eyes. And his expression was dull. Uninterested. He looked at the viewer with apathy.

It almost bordered on hatred. Distaste.

Just looking at it made Tim sick to his stomach.

He didn't know what to make of it. Was it the Fear Toxin warping Damian's perception? Was this really how Tim looked at him when he didn't remember Damian? Was this... Was this really what Damian thought?

Tim thought about Damian's final words as he was losing consciousness.

"Oh, Damian," he muttered, holding the hand even tighter.

Damian had actually woken up a few hours ago, before Leslie had finished with the antidote. It was… not something Tim would ever want to experience ever again. Ever. Again.

-

Five and a half hours ago.

“Let me go! Let me go! Let me–!” Damian thrashed and screamed, struggling to escape. Jason held him down as Damian yelled and begged and pleaded and wailed, throat growing sore. 

“Come on, kid,” Jason grunted, struggling to keep Damian steady as another one of the boy’s screams echoed through the room.

Leslie got a syringe of a sedative ready, but hissed in an attempt of trying to keep his arm still.

Cass took the syringe, grabbing Damian’s arm and pressing it on the bed.

“No!” Damian screamed, writhing in pain. “Please–! Please don’t go!” His eyes were glazed over, wide in fear, alight with horror. He had begun crying too.

Dick hugged Damian’s head, petting the boy’s hair. 

“Sorry, little brother,” Cass said, voice quivering. “Shh, shh. Okay. Will be okay.”

At the words ‘little brother,’ Damian froze. He paused, breath shaking, still long enough for Cass to slide the syringe into his arm.

But a few seconds later, he began to move and fight, his actions sluggish from the drug. “No…!” he said, shaking his head as the chemicals took effect. “Please don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Kill me. Kill me. I need to see my family again. My family… again. Again. Again. Agai…”

And then he went limp. Jason let go of him, exhausted. He bent down on the left of Damian’s bedside, pressing his forehead into the kid’s chest.

The only time in the day and a half that Damian had been in the medbay, Tim left. He walked over to the kitchen, where he crumpled to the floor. He returned to Damian's room, where Jason was on the bed next to Damian, hugging him and muttering things into the boy's shoulder. Promises, probably.

Tim just sat there, watching Damian's face, his chest rising and falling.

Damian was alive. He was alive and Tim had him back in the manor. He was safe now. Tim could make sure he was never alone, never scared, never sad.

Tim could keep him safe.

They just needed to make it through this. And then Tim could keep the kid safe and make sure he never disappeared again.

-

Damian looked around nervously. 

He felt... calm. For the first time in weeks. There was no fear coursing through his bones, no pain in his flesh. He felt fine, actually. No gun wound in his head. No blood dripping down his face. His ankle was angled at a normal degree...

"What is this?" He asked, scrambling up into a defensive position. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the surroundings. "What's going on?"

"It's a second chance."

Damian startled, searching for the source of the voice. "What? Who's there?"

The rock hummed and Damian turned to face it, face contorting with realization. "I am offering you a second chance."

-

Dick woke up screaming.

He reached forward, scrambling and frantically searching until he found Damian's body. He tugged the boy forward, holding him to his chest.

Once he had Damian back in his arms, Dick let himself collapse. He breathed out a shaky breath, his whole body shuddering.

Leslie sighed. "Please step away, don't damage his IVs."

Dick looked up at her with big, wounded, puppy-dog eyes. 

Leslie groaned, but relented. "You are all insane. Fine, hug your barely breathing baby brother. I'll work around you."

Dick looked across the bed to where Tim was shuffling through drawings. Dick didn't know how Tim did it. How could Tim stomach looking at all those drawings? Dick couldn't. He couldn't look at the drawings where he was happy and smiling. And he couldn't look at the ones where he was passive, blank, almost unhappy. 

He didn't know which was worse. Damian trying to remember them as happy and kind. Or the Fear Toxin warping it so all he could see was them as cruel. 

They always made Dick so devestated. He wanted to reach into the past and cradle Damian and make sure he was never alone. Never alone. Never sad. Never without Dick by his side.

Dick never wanted to lose Damian. Never wanted to let Damian disappear ever again.

Especially not for... two years.

Fuck. Two whole years.

"He's so old," Dick whispered, feeling his heartbreak all over again. Every time he remembered Damian's age, it struck him through the heart like a burning arrow all over again. He died and came back to life every time he remembered it.

"Sixteen," Cass said, looking at Damian with a saddened expression. "Missed his fifteenth birthday."

Dick stared at her, feeling his eyes widen and his jaw go lax. "Missed his... Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. We missed his birthday. We missed his birthday..." Dick burried his face in Damian's shoulder.

"It's been one year, eight months, four days, eighteen hours, forty-seven minutes," Tim said, voice dead. He sniffed after it, rubbing at his eyes. 

Steph gave Tim an odd look, and Tim just shrugged. His eyebags were deep.

"I did the math."

Everyone continued to talk as Dick absentmindedly rubbed at the wounds at his arms. They still hurt whenever Dick touched them, but he couldn't stop. They were evidence of Damian's existence.

They were the aftermath of a lonely boy, high on Fear Toxin, trying to hold onto the thing he kept losing.

That was the thing. Damian kept losing Dick but Dick kept losing Damian. 

Dick wondered, almost mourningfully, what would happen if Damian got erased again. What sort of story would Dick makeup to explain the scars on his arms? Would he believe it? Would he still feel the same way about it?

Ever since they got Damian back, it felt like Dick's brain was making up for lost time. All he could think about was Damian.

-

"A second chance?" Damian asked warily. "At what?"

"Another restart." The rock shouldn't have a voice, but it did. It sounded like Damian's grandfather. With that tone he used whenever he was talking to Damian's mother.

"You mean..." Damian paused. "I erase their memories of me again?"

"But this time there's no end of the world. No ploy. It's just you and me and a possibility."

-

Bruce stood outside the medbay. He hadn't entered it since they had rushed Damian there. 

All of his kids were cramped in there, probably driving Leslie crazy. Alfred was going in and out, bringing everyone food and helping Leslie with anything medical. Out of all of them, Alfred seemed the most put together

Bruce sighed, shaking his head. He needed to do something.

To think about something other than Damian. Other than Damian, lying on that bed. Other than Damian, crying and screaming and running away. Other than his son, begging them not to leave, trying to grasp onto Dick’s hand as he lost consciousness.

Bruce slunk away, moving to the study.

He had to stay calm. Strong.

He couldn't break. He had to be a voice of reason. A pillar in the storm.

But the walls, lined with books, promised secrecy. And all he could think about was the short, gasping breaths of an unconscious Damian.

Bruce let his head drop and silent tears fall.

An hour later, Alfred knocked on the door. "Master Bruce," he said. "I believe you would want to hear this."

-

"You could be anything," the rock promised as slowly, Damian reached down to pick it up.

Don't give in, he told himself. It's just bait. "Anything?"

-

"Okay," Leslie said, taking out a clipboard. "Here's his injury report."

Bruce and Alfred entered from the back, everyone shooting him questioning glances Bruce pretended he couldn't see.

"Bruce Wayne," Leslie said. Always so hostile. "How nice of you to join us."

"Couldn't miss this," Bruce said, keeping his voice steady. He took a seat at the front of Damian's bed. "Continue, please."

Leslie nodded, turning to her clipboard. She winced as she reread everything written down. Which... was never a good sign. "He sustained a pretty heavy concussion due to the blow to his head," Leslie said. "You wouldn't happen to know the origin of the head injury, would you?"

"It was these fuckers who work for Black Mask," Jason said, crossing his arms.

"What happened with them?" Leslie asked.

"Unimportant," Dick said. "They were dealt with, and I don't think they'll be able to walk... ever. So, we don't need to worry about them. Damian doesn't need to worry about them."

Leslie looked at Dick for a second, nodding slowly. "Okay, alright." She turned back to her clipboard. "The Fear Toxin badly damaged his brain's communication. He might develop some problems with speech and communication. Specifically, verbal fluency and retrieval of dictated words." She sighed. "I don't know how long this will last."

"Really?" Steph asked.

"Well, Fear Toxin is effectively a drug. And Damian is young. So to be exposed to something like that for such a long period of time..."

"My fault," Cass whispered to the sleeping Damian. "Sorry, little brother."

Tim frowned. "Will he be okay?

"Well, most likely it'll decline. It shouldn't be anything too serious. He may end up suffering from some after shocks of PTSD due to the damage it takes on his brain, having been on edge and scared non-stop for weeks. But, I think only time will tell." She moved on to the next item. "There's severe malnutrition throughout his body, he'll need a lot of vitamins for the next weeks."

"Severe?" Bruce asked. All he could think about was how pale and thin and sickly Damian looked. 

"Yes. It seemed to be going on for a long while, but after the Fear Toxin, he barely ate at all. Luckily, he doesn't seem too heavily dehydrated." She sighed, face twisting. "As for his ankle, it healed incorrectly. He'll need a brace- maybe crutches- and a lot of physical therapy."

"Okay," Dick said, already doing the math in his head. "Okay." He swallowed. "What else?"

"Um..." Leslie sucked in a breath. "So, after the gunshot wound, his heart is still stru-"

"I'm sorry," Steph said, holding up her hand. "Backup. Um... gunshot wound?" 

Leslie froze. "Shit. Shit. I forgot to tell you all about that, didn't I?"

"Forgot to tell us about what?" Bruce asked.

"So," she said, fingers tightening on her clipboard. "Don't be angry." Their expressions– ranging from blistering concern to edging on fury– really didn’t help. “But… Around a year ago, there was an incident, and Damian got shot. In the heart.”

"Shot in the heart?!" Tim hissed, glaring at her. If he wasn't so focused on holding Damian's hand, Bruce was sure he would have jumped up at that point. Most of them were focused on holding onto Damian, making sure he was real through physical touch. But if that wasn't a concern, Leslie would have had a whole crowd of furious siblings surrounding her.

Luckily enough, they remained just faces alternating between devastation and worry- when looking at Damian- and confusion and outrage- when looking at Leslie.

"Why didn't you tell us?!" Bruce asked. 

"Who shot him?" Cass asked at the same time.

Leslie closed her eyes. She took a deep, calming breath before she said, "The Riddler."

The room promptly exploded. Everyone was talking all at once, a cacophony of noise. It was all loud, panicked voice. Everyone discussing everything at once.

"We let him leave with the Riddler, and then he got shot?!" Dick asked.

"I'm going to kill him," Jason said. "Shove his stupid question mark cane straight through his fucking heart."

"We should have kept him here," Duke said. "Not let him escape when he was- Oh my God, oh my God."

"Stab," Cass said. "Let me stab Riddler, please."

"I let him almost get killed?" Dick asked. "Why couldn't I have protected him?"

"Quiet!" Bruce said, voice booming through the room. Honestly, he was way too shaken to unpack any of what Leslie had just said. So he was deciding to ignore it until Damian woke up. "I know Leslie has Damian pretty deep, but too much noise could agitate him. Right, Leslie?"

"Well," Leslie said. "If I did my jo- I mean, yes. Definitely. Let's all be really quiet... for Damian's sake."

Everyone returned to a state of muffled, bitter sulking. Most of them returned to hunched positions around Damian.

There were so many plastic chairs lined up around his bedside, it might as well have been some sort of therapy circle. 

"You can't blame yourself," Leslie said. "You had no memories."

Dick kept his gaze on Leslie. "Dami nearly died. He nearly died. He would have died, and no one would have known or- or- cared about him. And it's all because we treated him like a monster and let him leave with the fucking Riddler-"

Tim propped up his elbows, letting his chin rest on Damian's hand, encased within his own. "My vote is we never let him leave the manor."

"Yes!" Dick said, nodding to Tim. "Yes, I like that idea. I agree. Just for the first few years or two."

Leslie rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I'm assuming you guys are joking."

"Wait," Steph said. "How do you know it was Riddler?"

"After he was shot, Damian was brought to my clinic. I didn't remember him either, but I still treated him and helped with his heart."

"Wait," Bruce said. "So you knew about this earlier and you didn't tell us?"

Leslie's expression wasn't nervous, but she did step back. "In my defense, you were being a bitch."

Jason looked up. "How the hell is that a good defense?" It would have been more threatening if he hadn't been whispering his anger while he stood on the back of Damian's bed.

"Okay," Duke said, ever the meditator. "Is there anything else we need to know? Specifically, nothing you've been keeping from us."

"I haven't kept anything else from you, but there's one more thing I think you should know about." Leslie adjusted her glasses. "We think he had a run-in with hallucinations prior to Fear Toxin. Most likely due to blood loss because of the gunshot wound. But we're uncertain if that's the root cause of the hallucinations."

Leslie took a deep breath.

"And after that, everything else should be just a flesh wound. I don't believe I missed anything."

Jason sat back. "Well," he said. "Looks like the demon brat's gonna be on bedrest for a while. I'm sure he'll love that." It was trying to be a joke, but it fell flat. Jason's face crumpled soon after he said it, contorting into an almost sob.

"Trust me," Leslie said dryly. "After seeing him high on morphine, I can promise you he won't mind it as much as you think he will."

-

"But what if I don't want to be anything? What if I want to be me?" Damian asked, carrying the rock toward one of the windows. Maybe if he threw it out, it would leave him alone forever.

"Please," the rock said, almost laughing. And now it really sounded like Grandfather. "Nobody wants to be you."

-

Tim frowned. "Morphine? What do you-?"

And then Damian's heart monitor began to beep. Everyone looked up, watching the abnormal spikes paired with the flashing red light.

Leslie ran over, dropping her clipboard. She ran to the back of the bed, pushing Jason out of the way as she stared at Damian in confusion.

-

"This is a trick," Damian hissed, shaking his head. "This is another trick. There's no redoing anything, is there?"

"It's not a trick," the rock promised. "It's the truth. You can start over."

-

Leslie cursed as Damian's body began to quiver. And his short breaths became mangled gasps for air. 

-

"But, I want them. I want them the way they are now. With their knowledge of me. With their memories of me."

-

"Hang on," Leslie said, hurrying over. "This doesn't make any sense... I... This shouldn't be happening. He should be too out of it to be having a nightmare."

-

"Do you really think they want you with their knowledge of you?"

Damian faltered, scowling. "I..."

"Well, do you?"

-

Leslie leaned down, hurrying to inject something into Damian. She called out for Steph to get something before turning back. Sweat was dripping down the side of her head. She narrowed her eyes in concentration, praying that Damian would make it through this.

-

Damian gritted his teeth. "Do I really have to be forgotten to be loved?"

"You tell me."

-

Everyone had a million questions, all scrambled and tangled in the back of their throats. Will he be okay? Will he be okay?

Did we fail him again? Are we going to lose him again? Will we be unable to save him again? Again? Again? Again?

"His heart's not holding up," Leslie said, voice shaking. She turned to the rest of the Bats. "I can't tell if he's regained consciousness or not. But I need at least one of you to talk to him. To try to calm him down."

"Can he hear us?" Jason asked, stepping forward. 

Leslie looked panicked. "I don't know! I don't know. But we have to try."

-

"All you have to do is close your eyes and imagine your heart going still. That's it. And everything will restart."

-

And then, without any sort of prompting or forewarning or any sort of preparation, Damian flatlined.

Chapter Text

Seventeen hours before Damian flatlined, Zatanna made her way into Wayne Manor.

She had been there before, only for small occasions or after slipping her way out of the Batcave. Usually, its walls were pristine and its floors were clean, and if you traveled through it long enough, you might catch a stray yell or have two boys fighting over a controller slam into you.

But today it was silent. Not a soul in sight. 

She walked through a kitchen, trash piled on top of the garbage can. A broken plate was still on the floor, and caution tape lined the doorways to keep the dogs from coming in. 

Was it worth it? Knowing the Bats' identities?

Not by a long shot. The paperwork needed was extensive, and the fact that you were the one Constatine sent to deliver terrible news was even worse.

Seriously. Zatanna knew how protective the Bats were of their own. And Robin was the youngest out of all of them- even if he didn't always act like it. If she told them what was going on, they might not be able to take it.

"Ms. Zatara," a voice behind her said.

Zatanna turned, smiling at Alfred. "Alfred Pennywise. Nice to meet you."

"I'm afraid there is nothing too nice about today," Alfred said, voice solemn. "Forgive my bluntness, Ms. Zatara. You said you had important news?"

"Yes, if any of the bats could come and talk to-"

"Sadly, none of them will be in any position to come to you right now. Master Bruce is not in the mood to talk. And the rest haven't left his room, and I doubt they have any plan to. Follow me, I'll take you to them."

Alfred led Zatanna down a long hallway, wooden doors and family portraits lining the walls. Most were the same, but one in particular caught her eye. She paused in front of the painting, one of the whole family. The kid was in there too, tangled among the bodies in the photos. 

Just how powerful was that spell?

"In these paintings, was he...?" Zatanna trailed off, staring at the kid. He looked straight ahead, face blank, if a bit disgusted. He had an even- and nearly agitated- look. As if this whole thing was beneath him and he was fed up with it, his anger was cold and stale and manifested in a stone gaze. 

"He was replaced by a table," Alfred said. "And I assure you, he doesn't always look like that. Between you and me, after a few years, he only scowled for photos and strangers."

Zatanna watched an expression flicker over the butler's face before he turned and walked away. Quietly, she followed.

Walking into the medical room was like entering a sterile work environment. A sterile work environment that housed a set of on-edge, worried, grieving superheroes that Zatanna didn't know for certain could win in a fight against her, but it was definitely not something she wanted to figure out. 

"Zatanna," Tim greeted as she walked in, offering her a small, pained smile. It didn't meet his eyes.

"Red Robin," she greeted in return, even if he was out of his mask. "You look awful." And it was true. He did. They all did. But her eyes were drawn to the limp body in the middle of the chaos, a point of calm."How's he doing?"

"Well, he hasn't died yet," Leslie said wryly. She was off in the corner working on some sort of IV pack. "Although his heart's not too happy."

At Zatanna's confused expression, Dick chose to clarify with a curt, offhanded, "I am going to kill the Riddler."

Zatanna just gave a small, polite smile and nodded her head like she understood what he was talking about in the slightest.

In the silence that followed, Leslie began to work on some machine, brow furrowed as her fingers worked with wires. The kid's breaths were slow, his chest rising and falling in a circular motion.

"He's Robin," Cass said, breaking the silence with the small, simple statement. As if it were of great importance that Zatanna knew the obvious fact.

"Yeah, I rem- I remember." Zatanna didn't know what to do with her hands, so she just crossed her arms. "I remember."

Trying to break the silence, she noticed a sketch in Stephanie's hands. She tried to give her a small smile. "That's a gorgeous drawing."

Stephanie snorted. "No, it isn't. It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. Look at it."

She held it up, and Zatanna saw no flaws. It looked like a family portrait. The same ones she and Alfred had passed. "I can't see what's wrong."

Stephanie sighed, shaking the drawing a bit and bringing it closer to Zatanna's face. "Look!"

And that was when Zatanna noticed who was missing. "Oh."

Tim looked away. "He didn't even sign his name on that one."

Zatanna gave an awkward nod, backing away. For a moment, they resumed the stilted silence weighing between them. 

Slowly, she stepped toward Robin. And, like she had sort of expected, the room reacted viscerally. As if her just being near Damian constituted a threat worthy of the sharp, dangerous glares sent her way.

Jason stood up, eyeing her cautiously. And Dick pulled Damian closer to him and farther away from Zatanna.

Tim stood up, walking between Zatanna and the body. She noticed his hand remained on the covers, touching the kid's leg as if to assure himself that Damian was still there. He gave Zatanna a wary look, sparing glances back at the boy.

"I'm not going to hurt him," she said.

"We... know," Tim said, and it didn't sound like they knew at all. "Just, uh, maybe it would be better if you kept your distance. For now."

Zatanna couldn't help but smile and shake her head at the protectiveness. After what they had been through, she doubted they'd let anyone near Damian for at least a few months. "It must be difficult losing a family member for so long," she said, stepping away, the family slowly relaxing again. "Especially since all that pain has only been festering."

"What do you mean?" Steph asked.

"Well," Zatanna pursed her lips, struggling to figure out how to explain it. "The rock's magic was strong on the physical world. But in the mental world, it was flimsy at best. So you've been feeling the grief even when you didn't know it. It was muddled and muted, but it was there. And now you're both feeling all those delayed emotions at once, as well as still feeling the aftereffects of all those feelings you've been experiencing the past two years."

For once, the bats were at a loss for words. If Zatanna didn't feel bad for them, she might have relished the moment.

"So, very subconsciously, you knew what was going on. Even if you consciously had no idea. And so you're still feeling aftershocks of that." She shrugged. "But, I'm sure once he wakes up, you'll have somewhere to channel those emotions."

"Is that what you wanted to tell us?" Steph asked. 

No. "Um... maybe."

Cass narrowed her eyes. "Maybe?"

"Well, Damian was not the only one to be contacted by the rock," Zatanna said. This part of the information discovered should be safe to share. "I believe the rock was going after important heroes. It tried Superman and Wonder Woman. But it didn't work."

"Didn't work?" Duke asked.

"Well, they both recounted similar experiences. Being in Justice League Tower, a red rock threatening them with the end of the world unless someone sacrificed their memories."

"But we never forgot them," Steph said. 

"No," Zatanna agreed. "Because-" Zatanna took a deep breath, she doubted any of them were going to like this, "-they tried to fight the rock."

A brief pause. "Fight it?" Tim asked, looking up at her.

"Yes," Zatanna said slowly. "They attempted to reject the idea they were faced with. They both recall thinking things like, 'this can't be true' or 'there has to be a loophole' or... 'I don't want this to happen,' 'there must be some way out.' Ecetra, ecetra."

"So you're saying Damian's stupid?" Jason asked, venom in his voice.

Zatanna shook her head. "No, not at all. Superman and Wonder Woman didn't recognize that it was a fabricated world. But they didn't want it to be true. And because of that subconscious rejection, the rock wasn't able to properly work its magic without full permission. Damian might have surface-level rejected it. But somewhere inside of him, he wanted to believe it, wanted it to be true. There was no absolute rejection. At the very least, he accepted it without a huge fight."

"He accepted it," Dick repeated, conflicting emotions passing over his features. "He..."

Zatanna stood, watching them nervously. Thankfully, none of them were trying to kill her. Probably that was why she was better to tell them this than Constantine. 

"Get out," Jason snapped.

"Leaving," Zatanna said, grateful for the excuse. She stood up and moved toward the door.

"Wait!" Dick called out, making her pause and turn to look at him. "Would Damian... reject it now?"

"I don't know," Zatanna said. "It's been two years. He might feel differently."

"Well, he won't be given that same choice again, right?" Tim asked. "The rock's dead. Damian destroyed it."

"Right," Zatanna lied.

And as she walked through the marble hallways, she convinced herself that the family couldn't help Damian anyway. He was either going to wake up or he wasn't. The rock was either going to come back again or it wasn't.

After all, Damian was its only tether left.

And if the kid let it, the rock would take him down with it.

She just hoped Damian knew he had a choice. Or, if he did, that he made one he wouldn't regret. 

-

The rock's glow cast an eerie red light over Damian's skin, making him feel like he was walking straight toward a gateway to hell. 

"All you have to do is close your eyes and imagine your heart going still. That's it. And everything will restart." The rock's voice was filled with promises and lies. But Damian didn't see the lies. He wouldn't, not until after he had made his decision.

Damian gritted his teeth.

He was a wounded dog, pawing at the bars of his cell. Or he was a bird with one wing in a cast. Maybe he was a fish in a pond. Either way, he was caged. Trapped on all sides. 

He was offered a reset again? A moment to start over?

Damian would lose his family again, he'd go back to base one. He'd never go back. Not like he was able to last time.

"What do you say?"

Damian swallowed. He had a million conflicting questions, none of which he had the answers to.

It felt impossible to be known and also loved. It felt impossible to be more than what he was. To be a Wayne again. Part of the whole he was separated from.

But he had been forgotten for so long. He was used to it. And there was comfort in it. Because the alternative was so much worse.

The alternative was the great, haunting fear. Of Damian being known and split open, his brutal, ugly insides displayed. Of having someone see every part of him, the killer and the traitor, and the cruel, biting boy, and then deciding he wasn't worth loving. It made sense 

Damian felt the world cave in under him.

And then, something happened that had never happened before.

Damian Wayne was utterly, incomprehensibly, unfathomably terrified. Terrified of what his family thought, what his family would do, how they would feel. 

But that's not the thing that has never happened before. In fact, Damian had been terrified quite a lot. Before being erased- although he denied it then- and long, long after.

The new thing, the thing that had never happened to Damian before, was that- despite the terror- Damian gave his answer anyway.

"No."

Everything froze.

Nothing could be heard but a dull, faint beeping in the background and the splashing of water, lapping at Damian's feet.

Damian stood still, the lights in the room flickering out. Until there was no light except the faint glow of stars from the windows and the red shine from the rock.

The rock's shimmer dulled. "No?"

Damian felt fear burn through his body. He was back on the manor's front step again, hand two inches from knocking on the door. "No." He held steadfast. "I won't go back."

The floor of the white, empty room had been gaining water. It was up to Damian's ankles as he walked back, shivering just a little. But he didn't change his mind. Didn't come closer. He glared and set his jaw and repeated:

"I want my family."

The rock's frown was audible. "And what if they hate you? What if they reject you?" The rock laughed. "What if everything falls apart?"

"I have to hope," Damian said, setting his jaw. "I have to hope. I love them."

"Hoping is imbecilic."

The rock's voice had changed. Somewhere down the line, it had stopped sounding like Grandfather and begun sounding like Damian.

Damian looked at the floor for a moment.

"Imbecilic..." He laughed. "I suppose it is. Hoping is stupid and imbicilic and outrageously unintelligent." Despite himself, he smiled a little. "I'm an idiotic, foolish, daft, half-witted moron. Is that what you want me to say?" He threw his hands out. "Well, it's true! It's true! I let my irrational heart take hold instead of using my brain like my grandfather wanted. I gave up logic and reasoning and everything important in the face of a group of people who are outrageously unimportant in every sense of the word. And yet, despite that, I pick them every time. I'm the stupidest person you've ever met."

Damian stared at the rock. He gave a soft laugh, not breaking the gaze. He wasn't sure if the rock had eyes, but if it did, he hoped he was meeting them.

"I'm the stupidest person you've ever met. Now, send me back."

The rock was very silent. Until it spoke again, still with Damian's voice. "No."

"No?"

"No. You're not going back. End of your story. End of my story." 

Damian stared. "No. No, no, no. You can't do that. You can't do that. I need to see them again. I need to see them again." He waded through the water, back towards the rock, fire in his eyes. "You can't do that."

"You miss them? Pathetic."

"It is," Damian said. "It's pathetic and stupid. We've been over this. What's even happening out there right now? My family must have me, right? I must be home right now. They can help me."

"They do not want to help you."

"I don't believe you," Damian said, determined. "Now, tell me. What's happening out there right now?"

"Well, currently, you're dying."

Damian paused. "What?"

For a brief moment, everything went silent. 

A vacuum sucked away every noise, ever color, every detail from the space around Damian. And then, he was struggling to breathe. For a very real moment, he dipped out of the space and into a place where he was very warm, very not alone, and very much losing air.

And then suddenly, he went back, gasping for breath as he stumbled back, the water around his knees parting when he did. 

The rock didn't seem to notice this, continuing to talk. 

"Usually, it's difficult to kill a person without permission. Near impossible for me. But your heart was just so weak already. It wasn't much-"

"Dying?" Damian breathed. "You're killing me?"

"Well, you killed me first."

"But you're not dead, you're right here. That's not the same." Damian just wanted to go home. "You can't- You can't do this!"

But despite his bravado, he was unsure. He faltered, glancing around the room.

"You can't do this," he repeated, voice much weaker. "I've studied aliens before. Doesn't your type need permission? That's why you lied to me at first? There has to be some way I can say no. There has to be a way."

Damian trudged forward, through the water- now up to his waist- and moved back to the rock. He placed his hands over the cold stone. It didn't feel real. It felt like sandpaper.

"There has to be a way out. I don't want this. I don't accept this."

"Just close your eyes."

Damian stood, rock in his hands. He was frightened.

So, unimaginably frightened.

But he knew what he should do. What he needed to do. What he wanted to.

This time, the rock broke like glass.

It fell to the floor, and Damian paused to wonder if it didn't work. If he was still trapped there.

But then, the water stilled. And for a moment, serenity fell over the room. The red glow was gone, casting Damian in shadow. And piercing through the new darkness overtaking the room was a sharp, searing pain.

-

Damian jolted up with a gasp. His lungs burned, eyes wide.

He felt around frantically, latching onto white, heavy sheets that were lying over him. He was in a bed. Hospital, maybe?

Damian's hand flew to his heart, grabbing the shirt fabric above it and clenching it tight. He could feel its beat. His shirt was... familiar but also not.

It was made of cotton, and it smelled like...

Jason's T-shirt hung over his body, making him feel small and invisible. It made him still feel like a child. 

Then, gathering his bearings, he listened. There was a faint humming in the background and a steady beeping of a heart monitor. But besides that, the room was deathly silent.

Damian released his hand on his shirt and moved it to his cheek. His skin was cool to the touch, his fingers shaking as his palm pressed against the side of his face. 

Damian frowned, bringing his hand into view. He was still hunched over in the bed. His hand never shook. But there it was, trembling despite Damian's best efforts to calm his muscles.

He sniffed, looking up to evaluate the room. 

He froze at the crowd of strangers all huddled around the bed, awkwardly frozen and watching him like hawks. Their hands jerked for him before pulling back, as if a single touch would shatter him. There was concern and worry and fear and hope and relief and joy and so many emotions Damian couldn't name in their eyes.

At first, they were strangers. And then his brain registered.

And everything caught up with him. 

All the memories of the past few weeks descended upon him like a hurricane, overwhelming and unstoppable. They remembered, they remembered, they remembered. And they were here. They were here and they remembered, and they were looking at him like he was worth something.

His family remembered him. Oh, God, they remembered him. 

Damian felt tears build up behind his eyes before pouring over, streaming down his face without any sign of stopping.

Someone broke free from the tension that had made everyone go still, wrapping their arms around him. It took Damian a minute to realize it was Timothy.

The boy had Damian pressed to his chest, crying into his hair. He had begun whispering apologies hurriedly to him, broken and frayed by his sobs. 

Damian returned the hug just as fiercely, crying into his shirt.

And then the rest of the family was stirred into movement, joining the hug until Damian was surrounded. Warmth. Warmth. Warmth. All Damian felt was warmth.

Their voices were muddled and loud and happy and worried and everything all at once.

He was remembered, he was known, he was home, home, home.

Damian was finally home.

It was the easiest decision he had ever made.

Chapter Text

Damian's heart monitor flatlined.

For a moment, no one said a word.

They all stood, frozen halfway through motion, as the loud, dull drone of a never-ending beep registered in their brain.

No word was spoken, except for a soft rasp, an attempt at speaking when the body was too shell-shocked to allow it.

Technically, Damian's heart was only stopped for fifteen seconds. And technically, in those quick, simple fifteen seconds, barely anyone did or said anything. And yet, for the family in that room, it lasted a lifetime.

-

Tim felt himself freeze over, a loud roaring in his ears. This isn't happening. This isn't happening. How can I fix this? I need to fix this. I need to save him. I need to save him. This isn't happening. This isn't happening.

Denial is something that comes easily to Tim Drake. But, unlike other times before, there was no evidence to back it up. There was nothing to justify his refusal to the situation except hope. Tim Drake, without any justification, hoped that he was right. Hoped that this reality was false, like he had never hoped for anything else before. 

Now, as said before, Tim Drake is always right.

But he doesn't know that yet.

-

Dick had his body go rigid, when he saw the heart monitor drop into a thin, straight line. He felt numb. And his arms didn't go lax, no, they tightened. He wrapped his arms around the kid's shoulders, tugging him as close as he could. He held the kid in an even more overbearing hug, as if he could protect him. As if he could still protect him.

His head dropped, resting on Damian's head. In the final ten seconds, his breaths began to turn ragged and short.

They had just gotten Damian back. They had just fought against world-altering magic to find him again. And now they were going to lose him? Just like that? With the drop of a hat?

Dick felt a wail build in the back of his mouth.

-

Jason's spine snapped straight like an arrow. He stood, jaw tightened so intently it might grate his teeth.

There was a deep fire beginning to build in his chest. He felt like the world had just turned inside out, and he was falling down a deep, long rabbit hole. He felt lost and helpless and so utterly confused.

And then he felt angry. It was a fireball of rage. Angry at the rock for taking the memories, angry at Leslie for not saving Damian, angry at Bruce for not figuring it out sooner. But ultimately, he was most furious at himself. For failing Damian. For being useless and weak as the kid died in front of him.

He would remember all those feelings, anger and sorrow and devastation, cascading upon him like a hurricane, for the rest of his life.

-

Bruce was about to lose another son. No, not only that. He was about to lose this same son for a third time. And this one was going to be permanent.

Bruce was going to watch his son, whom he had lost for two years, slowly drip away, heart monitor coming to a long, flat line. Heart monitor slowing down and stilling and beeping, and all the energy and love in the world couldn't seem to revive it.

-

Fifteen seconds were enough for tears to form and spill, and for everyone's bodies to gear up to live through hell.

For fifteen seconds, Damian was dead, and everyone knew nothing would ever be the same ever again. For fifteen seconds, they were forced to live in a world with a worse reality than Damian growing up without them; a reality where Damian never grew up at all.

For fifteen seconds, Damian was dead. For fifteen seconds, the bats relived the unimaginable, intangible, unspeakable pain from the past two years all over again, all at once, all together.

For fifteen seconds, something broke in their hearts, and this time they all knew why.

-

And then Damian woke up.

The sixteenth second had just begun when he jolted forward, hands flailing in front of him. The people around him flinched back on instinct.

But the moment they recognized what was happening, they rushed back.

Damian was alive. Damian was alive. He was breathing and gasping, his hand grabbing at the heart of his shirt- Jason's shirt- eyes wide and frantic. And he was alive.

Hesitant, and then quickly feverish, joy flooded the room, the elation contagiously vibrant.

Tim didn't register most of it after that. He reached forward, tugging Damian into his arms and pressing him into his chest. As if, by the sheer act of strength alone, he could push Damian past the barriers of skin and consume him whole.

He was faintly aware of Damian hugging him back, just as fiercely, just as longingly. But by that point, he was already sobbing into Damian's hair. A new wave of relieved joy overcame him.

Damian was crying too. The rest of the family was moving toward them, stumbling over each other until the boy in Tim's arms was surrounded by everyone, all holding him and hugging him and crying.

And, for the first time in two years, Tim Drake felt complete.

-

Damian was stuck between worlds. Like he was both alive and dead. In the past and in the present.

To think that there were days when he thought Richard would never spare a glance in his direction again. To think that there were days when Damian thought he'd only see his family through distance and television screens.

The majority of the past two years have had Damian finding himself so alienated and separated that he couldn't fathom the idea of being known. Of waking up in a room full of faces that knew his name.

It felt like a dream. Like Damian just needed to pinch himself, and he would wake up in his cold apartment room, tiny and cramped and alone.

But no, he was here. He was crying on Timothy's shoulder, the room swarming around him, the fear that used to live inside him gone without a trace.

The feeling of comfort, of safety, of love had replaced all that fear. Damian had spent the past months not knowing even a hint of it. And now it was everywhere. Now it was overwhelming. He felt spoiled with it. And he began to melt underneath it.

Limbs growing lax, bones turning to putty. He just let himself hold and be held and cry and everything wash over him.

But after what felt like hours of crying and hugging, when Damian was so tangled in limbs he had trouble discerning which were his and which were others, the fallout came.

It was a universal truth in the manor that for every failed mission, there was at least one long lecture.

"-Tell us? We have DNA tests and money and resources." Father rubbed his temples, his eye bags so deep and his pupils so crazed. "Did you think we'd throw you out? That we'd attack you if you told us the truth?"

"No," Damian said. And it wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth. It was something more complicated, hidden between the lines.

Then, slowly, Damian's father bent down and looked Damian level in the eyes, reaching up to cup the side of his face. And in a small, sad voice, he whispered, "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I... I don't..."

"Because you would have kicked him out," Timothy said bitterly. His arms were wrapped around Damian, and they hugged him even tighter. His voice dripped with a sharp self-loathing that nearly stabbed into Damian. It felt like being dunked into icy water, the shock of it unbelievably jarring. "We would have erased all his fucking memories."

Timothy let his face dip into the side of Damian's head. And for a moment, the room went silent.

Then, Damian scoffed. "As if you'd actually have gone through with any of it. Please, Timothy, don't lie. You're all cowards."

"Cowards, huh?" Richard asked.

"Mhm," Damian insisted. "You don't have the strength to do it."

-

If it mattered, Damian was right. If they had gone through with it, if they had brought Damian to Justice League tower and gotten Martian Manhunter to pay a visit, they would have found, to their horror, that they couldn't go through with it. They wouldn't be able to let themselves. 

-

Richard kissed the crown of Damian's hair absentmindedly. "Well, you're right," he decided. Even though he didn't know for certain. "We wouldn't do that. But, if you were honest with us-"

"Fine," Damian said. "Next time I'm coerced by a magical alien that looks like a rock into giving up everyone on earth's memories of me, I'll be sure to let you know."

"Damian, this is serious." Duke frowned. "You almost died. You flatlined and got dosed on fear toxin, and you got shot in the heart."

Damian paused, looking up. "How do you know I got shot in the heart?" He looked at Leslie and then back at the Waynes- back at his family. "You weren't supposed to know about that."

"You were gonna keep that from us?" Jason hissed.

Damian turned up his nose- a difficult action to perform when you had multiple people clinging to you as if you might disappear, but it was an action he performed nonetheless. "It was not relevant."

"It almost killed you, Damian," Stephanie stressed. "Twice."

And the part that no one said but everyone except Damian was thinking: It was because of us.

"It was a year ago," Damian insisted. "I barely remember it." That was a lie, but it wasn't false at the same time.

"I was... You almost died while I was in Gotham, Damian," Richard whispered. "I should have known. I should have been there. I should have been there for all of it." 

"Yes," Damian agreed, sinking into the man. Because it was true, he wanted Richard there. He wanted his family there. "You should have." But it was okay that they weren't. Because they were here now.

Richard cooed at that, his previous bitter attitude vanishing in an instant. 

"A year ago," Timothy muttered, frowning. "What else happened that you're not telling us?"

"Nothing," Damian insisted.

"We're not trying to be suspicious," Duke reasoned. "We just want to know. You're my little brother. You were gone for two years. We just got you back. We want to know what you did. What you were up to."

"Tell," Cassandra said, poking Damian's cheek.

And Damian glared, but he did tell. He said a lot of things. About strangers and jobs and cats and drawings and apartments and vegetarian food.

And they, in turn, told things that had happened in their life too.

The thing about years is that a lot can happen in one, but also nothing can happen in one.

And when they started talking, well, it felt like nothing had passed. As if there was never even a second of separation.

"...And then, while trying to stop the bomber, Bruce crashed into Steph's favorite clothing store, and so, she's running after him, the bombers running after him," Duke said, wide smile as he finished telling the story. "And then-"

"They ran into each other," Damian finished.

Duke paused. "...Yeah. How'd you know that?"

"I saw it on the news."

"Lie," Cassandra said, not even looking up from her book.

"Fine," Damian said, exasperated. "I might have been following you guys for a little bit. For a day. Maybe. At most."

"So you were stalking us?" Timothy asked, laughing into Damian's shoulder.

"Not stalking," Damian hissed, embarrassed. Even though... yeah. It was probably stalking.

"What I'm hearing," Jason said. "Is you missed us."

"Nope," Damian said, shaking his head. "No, no, no. No. No."

"It's okay," Richard said cheekily. "I much prefer you being with us than stalking us."

"Sappy," Damian grumbled.

"Sweet," Richard corrected.

Damian glowered. "My life was perfectly adequate without you all in it, I merely sta- followed you for pure amusement. Nothing. Else."

"You didn't really prefer that life over us, though, right?" Timothy asked, a surprisingly anxious tone in his voice.

Which was not what Damian expected him to say. But something that somehow warmed him. Maybe it was the idea that they weren't as different after all. They had the same fears. Maybe that meant they had the same wants. "No, never."

Stephanie's expression broke into one of those giddy grins that was half genuine and half exaggeration. She hugged Damian tighter, singsonging about how "Dami has a soft spot, Dami has a soft spot."

-

The night was quiet. Damian felt everyone's breath at different uneven paces, everyone holding him as he tried to steal as much of their affection as he could. Like a robber in a building that knew the cops were going to be called.

There was urgency.

But the moon was golden, it warmed Damian's face as everyone seemed to have gotten the first good night of sleep in ages.

There was the sound of rustling off to the side, and instinctively, Damian's eyes caught onto it.

Jason's shadow stood, his eyes glimmering in the moonlight. Focused squarely on the bandaging around Damian's heart.

"If anyone tries to shoot you again I'll fucking kill them," Jason promised quietly.

It felt like an oath. And Damian had to return it with some sort of understanding. Some sort of kinship.

"If anyone tries to take away your memories again I'll... fucking kill them," Damian said in return. Jason's grin was enough to rival the sun.

-

It had been a few days, and Damian knew he should have gotten over this feeling days ago. And yet, he still holds it tight.

There were sleeping bags lining the floor- most unused, as a lot of them either slept sitting by the bedside or in the hospital bed with Damian. And their clinging hadn't disappeared either. They still acted as if they let Damian leave their sight or touch, he'd die and crumple into a corpse of skin and bones.

Which was good. Because Damian was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion that if he looked away, his family would forget about him in a snap.

They spent most of the days talking. Sharing stories or asking questions. Damian didn't say much, but their questions dragged long tangents out of him. About his life or his thoughts. It should have been scary, the skill with which they got him to open up. But it wasn't.

Usually, the room was an overjoyed environment, and the energy was always excited or giddy or relieved.

But sometimes it grew sad. Like sad, sad. Like the ceiling had turned into clouds, and Damian felt their faces grey, no one meeting his eyes.

Like they were ashamed of him. Or of themselves. It didn't happen often, only when Leslie brought on the injuries while she was working on helping heal them, or when he got the pile of vitamin pills that Damian refused to take. Or when Damian repeated words. That one was an odd one. Damian didn't know why; it must have brought back some bad memories or something.

And it had happened only once when Damian had mentioned his age. Because after that, Damian quickly learned not to do it again.

They were arguing over something- it probably had to do with Damian's fake ID and alcohol, and it just slipped out.

"I'm sorry for being concerned," Duke said in the least apologetic tone Damian's heard. "It's just he is a fourteen-year-old kid, so the idea of-"

"Sixteen," Damian corrected. Because he was used to upping his age by two years, and also because it was the truth.

The room froze, as if that tiny, fleeting remark was worth the end of the world. Richard's grip on Damian tightened- almost unrealizing in their strength- and Damian winced.

Richard immediately let go, as if Damian's skin had burned him, and stood up, the warmth on Damian's side gone. "Shit, I- Shit."

Damian shook his head. "No, it's fine- I-"

"I'm sorry, Damian. I'm so fucking sorry. I- Fuck. I need to leave. I can't-" And then Richard made no move to exit. There were tears at the edge of his eyes that he kept trying to hide from Damian. "I don't want you to see-"

"Oh, get back in there," Jason muttered, giving Damian a long look as he pushed Richard back toward the bed. "He's seen you cry before. And besides, you wouldn't be able to leave anyway."

Richard slumped on the side of the bed, clasping Damian's hand. It was not as overbearing as it had been moments prior, the fear of hurting him and the fear of losing him both so strong they collided at once.

And Damian knew that the reason why he couldn't leave- why he could barely go long without clinging to Damian- was because he was scared. Of losing Damian. They all were. They all held onto him as if he might disappear the moment they didn't. As if they would lose him again.

Damian was always being held by someone. Someone always had his hand or his arm or had him on their lap or was playing with his hair. Hugging him and kissing him and a bunch of other childishly named things that Damian never had in the League.

And Damian found he really didn't mind. He might have even craved it. Craved that feeling of belonging after so many years alone. It felt great. It felt special. It felt like Damian meant something to them.

So no, Damian didn't push them away or say no. He just leaned into it and accepted it and let himself believe that it could stay like this forever.

"I just want to say," Timothy said, breaking the silence. "I never got to say this until now, but... My crazy-ass conspiracy theories were totally right. And you all should have listened to me."

"Yes, yes," Jason said. "You were right, whatever, whatever."

"I want a full-length apology," Timothy said, grinning. "Written out on cardstock."

"Like hell you're getting a full-length apology." Stephanie snorted. "You were right about one thing. If anything, you should be-"

"I think I deserve it, for all my hard work-"

"Hard work? Dami did all the hard-"

"-if it wasn't for me we'd never-"

"-Oh, shut up, you little-"

Damian bit down on a small laugh. He had forgotten how natural it felt to lie down and listen to his family. Even if they were arguing about something that wasn't really worth arguing over. Damian looked over at Richard.

Richard's eyes were so sad. His hands were shaking as they held onto Damian's. Just a little bit. He was close to crying, scared to hurt Damian, and scared to let go of Damian.

Softly, Damian held onto one of Richard's hands in return and squeezed.

Richard gave Damian a tired smile. He mouthed 'I'm sorry' and Damian just shook his head and squeezed Richard's hand again.

A lady had told him he was kind once. And Damian didn't believe her then, and he didn't believe her now, but maybe he was starting to. 

Richard mouthed, 'I'll make it up to you.'

'What?'

'These past two years. Everything you missed. I'll make it up to you.'

And Timothy and Stephanie were still talking very passionately, but they were holding Damian very carefully. So he just nodded his head, slowly drifting away. So tired he couldn't stop himself from smiling back.

And unlike other times when he had fallen asleep, all he felt was safe, safe, safe.

-

Leslie watched them with an amused expression.

The family was huddled around Damian, everyone holding him in some way. They had taken over the very-much-for-single-person-use-only hospital bed.

Tim was clinging to Damian like that boy was a goddamn lifeline. Dick was holding him around the shoulders, resting his chin on Damian's head. Steph had one hand and Duke had another. Cass stuck to one side of the bed, head resting right next to Damian's. While Bruce stood in the back, watching with as close to a smile as that old man could ever reach.

Jason sat at the foot of the bed, glaring at the room around them. Although whenever his gaze traveled back, it softened, considerably so. He was a guard dog. But Dick kept tugging him over to where the rest of the group was, and he kept going over.

And yet, the oddest part about all of this was that Damian was reciprocating it. All of it. He was holding on just as fiercely and desperately.

Leslie had tried to coax one of them away- Cass- to help her with some task. She had made a reasonable offer, and just as Cass's hands were loosening, Damian grabbed her sleeve, tugging her back.

In a sharp moment of vulnerability, Damian gave his own weird, mismatched version of puppy-dog eyes. 

And after that, it was impossible to pry anyone away from him. Not Dick or Steph or Duke or Jason. Not Bruce or Tim or even the animals curled up at the foot of the bed.

Which was fine. Leslie could do the work on her own. Not like it'd be useful or anything to have a second pair of hands.

She smiled to herself as she put away a bottle of medicine. 

-

There was something off with Damian.

Ever since the memories had come back, they had been at the forefront of Steph's mind. She remembered Damian so fucking vividly it was almost impossible not to see the difference.

And it wasn't his usual reserved self either. Where he spoke like an eighty-year-old gentleman fresh out of an English estate. It was a different type of reserved where he would give these plastic smiles out of the blue- that tricked no one, by the way. Like, seriously dude. No one was buying that crap.

But it was worrying all the same.

So Steph did the only thing she knew best.

"Why the hell didn't you stay as a dishwasher?"

"Because being a waiter pays more?" Damian asked dryly. "I don't know. I just think the man felt sorry for me."

"Aww, is little Dami getting pitied?" She asked, laughing.

And the Damian she knew would have scowled and said, "Yeah, right. If anything, you should be pitied for that terrible outfit." And it looked like he opened his mouth to say just that, but his resolve stuttered, and what came out instead was nothing.

Steph knew that Damian was in there. And she hated the idea that he treated them the way he would treat strangers. So blandly. Like he had been sandpapered down.

And Jason felt the same way, because he kept trying to annoy Damian with Stephanie. Tried to get him to crack and talk freely for once. 

And sometimes Damian would give a sharp response... and sometimes he would close in on himself even further.

But somehow, Steph had convinced him to let her braid his hair. To which she was doing a fucking fantastic job with, thanks for asking. But where she was able to get him to break 

"Your hair looks like a mauled corpse," she commented.

"Your face looks like a mauled corpse," he snapped back. But she knew he didn't really mean it. And he had a small smile on the edge of his lips. 

Steph laughed at that. And after a minute, Damian laughed too. Softer and more hidden, but still a laugh.

And it sounded like magic.

-

"I'm fine," Damian hissed at Timothy.

"We're just being safe," Timothy reminded. "If there's any magic residue left in you, I- we will want to know."

"You're just an obsessive freak," Damian muttered.

"I'm also just an obsessive freak," Timothy agreed.

Damian glared at him because that was not how he was supposed to respond. And Timothy just stuck his tongue out at Damian. 

"Okay, boys," a voice said, and the door to the room opened. Zatanna walked in, looking around. "Just you two?"

Over the two weeks, the family had slowly grown more okay with letting other people watch Damian. They didn't all need to be in his room at once, and were slowly letting themselves leave to do other things.

That didn't mean they didn't spend the majority of their time in Damian's room. More often than not, they were in there playing board games or talking. But if they needed to go out to the store, they left. And they usually returned with gifts and food and other stupid things Damian didn't need and definitely accepted with chagrin and distaste.

But according to the fools, all that mattered was that he accepted them nonetheless.

And he was never even alone. There were always at least one or two people in his room at least. And everyone still slept in there together. And besides, Timothy had his cameras and tracking devices sewn into the hospital gowns.

That's all to say that, yes, it was only them because Damian had kicked everyone else out.

Richard, Jason, and Cassandra all left together, mentioning they had this errand they had been meaning to take care of. Steph and Duke were at the mall, and they had promised to get him a 'cool' jacket. Which meant something hot pink. And Father was helping Alfred with dinner.

Timothy was only here because he had set up an entire computer setup and had refused to be kicked out.

"Damian," Zatanna greeted, walking into the room. She winced at his haircut, causing Timothy to snicker. "It's... been a long time. Is your hair-

"Yes," Damian agreed. "It has been a long time. Let's get this over with?"

Zatanna nodded, walking over and muttering a spell under her breath. "Secart laever." She held her hands out, a burst of wind filling the room, her eyes beginning to glow. A few seconds later, everything relaxed; whatever spell was cast had disappeared. "You're all good," she said eventually. "I found nothing."

"Nothing?" Timothy asked. "So he's safe?"

"Yes," Zatanna said. "The alien is either dead or it has a portion of itself on Earth destroyed. It's unclear to me whether it was a single entity or an offshoot of one. Either way, I am not the person to ask."

"Dead?" Damian asked, trying not to sound scared. "I could have killed it?"

Timothy hummed, running a hand through Damian's hair. "Dames," he said softly. "No one cares."

"Father does."

"Then Bruce just won't have to know."

"But-"

"Damian, you've seen Jason. That man cannot reject his kids. He can get angry at them- which, he won't because he won't have to know- but he loves you too much do shit about it."

Damian frowned, but he didn't protest any further. "Hm. Fine."

Timothy grinned, and Zantanna clicked her heels together. "Damian, how was the... experience after you broke the rock?"

"Dreadful," Damian said plainly. He shrugged. "I was under fear toxin and had like, more broken bones than I realized." I also hadn't eaten in two weeks.

"No," she said slowly. "I mean, after they had gotten you asleep. How was... that?"

"Oh," Damian said. He knew what she was talking about. The room, the water, the rock, the deal, the conversation. He didn't want Timothy to know about that- he didn't want anyone in his family to know about it. "It was fine."

"Hm," she said, looking at Damian for a long moment before nodding her head. "What you experienced was the rock trying to kill you. But it was severely weakened, that's why you were able to fight back against it."

Timothy stared at Zatanna. "That's why? The rock was trying to kill him?!"

Zatanna paused halfway out the door. "One thing before I go," she said, ignoring Timothy and looking straight at Damian. "The boy next to you traveled halfway across the world to beg me to tell him about the magic in that rock. Before anyone knew you were missing at all."

"I didn't beg-" Timothy began to protest.

"So, next time you want to get yourself killed, know that these people loved you without even knowing you existed. You weren't a person or a concept or something lost, and they still managed to care about finding you." She shrugged. "And that's pretty impressive. Very few people can say they were loved before they were known."

And with a sharp turn, she was out the door.

-

"How was I supposed to know he was a Wayne?" Riddler asked, leaning back. "If I knew, I would have ransomed the hell out of the brat."

Jonathan Crane nodded his head, playing with a strand of hay. "It's all fucked up. If I see that Wayne kid again, I'm finishing the job you started. He's the reason they destroyed my best batch of toxin."

"Yeah," the Riddler said slowly. "Yeah. I mean, he's all everyone's been talking about and if-"

A clatter interrupted them.

The Riddler turned around, trying to see who had interrupted them, a snarl on his face. It fell once he saw the figures.

"Oh fuck."

-

"Check," Cass said.

Damian frowned at the chessboard, teeth gritting together. "Check?" He asked. "Where is-"

The door opened, and Alfred walked inside. This was one of those moments where everyone was in the room, huddled around the bed. Timothy and Richard were having an intense argument about whether pop music from the 90s could still be considered 'pop.' All while Damian was having the most frustrating game of chess in his entire life.

"There are people at the door with demands," Alfred said, his voice tired.

"Demands?" Bruce asked.

"Yes," Alfred said. "They're asking for master Damian."

"What do they look like?" Damian asked.

"One of the girls has a poorly drawn cat T-shirt and-"

"Oh," Damian said. "Yeah, I know them."

-

Rose stormed into Damian's room, face furious, with Cameron scrambling right after her. She pointed an angry finger at Damian and growled, "You motherfucker."

Damian just stared.

"When were you gonna tell us you were the Wayne Family's secret forgotten child?" Rose asked, hands on her hips. "Because I had to figure it out from the fucking news. The news!"

Cameron looked less angry and more impressed. "Crazy-ass situation. Kinda epic, though."

"No," Rose said, turning on Cameron. "No." She looked back at Damian. "And why pick minimum wage? Why minimum wage? You're Robin, you have like a bajillion and ten different skills you could have used to get you a better job than minimum fucking wage- also, you're Robin. Can we talk about that? I'd love to talk about that. You're fucking Robin. What the fuck?! That's, like, a double reveal? Like you just slapped me across the face twice! Also, why the hell did you pick minimum wage?"

"I'm not Robin," Damian said evenly.

"Don't even think about lying," she said, shaking her head. "You backstabbing, lying, manipulative, son of a bitch!"

She looked over to Damian's father, as if just realizing he existed. "No offense to you. Or your ex. Whoever she may be." Then, much more shyly than she had talked to Damian before. "Also, hi, Mr. Wayne. I'm a huge fan. I own your biography, and I based a character in my comic book after you."

"You did?" Damian asked, blinking at her. "Who?"

"Bill Inair, the billionaire," she answered, shrugging. "Duh! It was obvious."

"It was not obvious-"

"I'm sorry," Richard said, giving them a sheepish smile. "But, uh, who are you two?"

"Oh my god," Rose said. "I'm so sorry. You're Dick Grayson. I'm standing in front of Dick Grayson. Damian told me so-"

"She's Rose," Cameron said, stepping in. "And I'm Cameron. And we're Damian's friends. Co-workers. Friends?"

"Nice to meet you two," Richard said. "I wasn't aware that Damian..." Had friends? Worked minimum wage? Helped Rose draw a fifteen-cent comic in his free time? "Talked about me."

Oh. Out of all the ways for Richard to finish that sentence, that was the worst one.

Richard looked over at Damian, grinning a stupid fucking grin. "You talked about me."

“I didn’t talk about you,” Damian lied. “I’ve never talked about any of you.”

"Um, lie," Rose said. "All he would ever talk about was you guys. He never used names, but he would go on and on. All shift it was, 'my brother did that,' 'my sister can do that.' He gushed about you guys so much. Like shut up."

Damian hid his head from the burning shit-eating-grin gazes that had made their way onto him from his family.

"We should have lunch," Stephanie decided. "You should tell us everything Damian said."

"No," Damian hissed, his face red. "No, she should not."

"Well, Damian still needs to make it up to me for lying." Rose crossed her arms.

"Okay," Damian sighed. "How do I make it up to you?"

"I want an autograph. Not from you. From your brother." She nodded over at Timothy, who looked more amused than anything else.

"From Timothy?" Damian asked, unimpressed. "Really?"

"Hey, I saw one of his autographs sold for, like, a hundred thousand the other day," Rose said. "I could do a lot with that sort of money."

"Ugh, fine," Damian said. "Timothy will give you an autograph."

"'Hey Tim, wanna give this random girl your signature?' 'Sure, Damian! Thanks for asking!'" Timothy mocked.

"Is your whole family as snarky as you?" Rose asked.

"You'd be surprised," Damian muttered. He leaned onto Timothy's shoulder, the man laughing when Damian prodded his cheek with a pen.

Rose grinned when Timothy gave a quick scribble on the piece of paper she provided. "How was it?" She asked, maybe as a way of conversation. "These past two years. Without Damian."

"Oh," Timothy said, looking at Damian. "Best two years of my life."

Damian scoffed and rolled his eyes, looking away.

-

What Damian didn't see was the bitter shake of Tim's head after he turned away. The way he looked at Damian with a fond smile.

Rose and Cameron took their leave after that.

"Crazy," Rose said as they got in the car.

"What's crazy?" Cameron asked.

"It's crazy how much the Waynes love Damian. I mean, I knew he cared about them, but they really do... They really do."

-

"The malnutrition," Leslie whispered to them, when Damian was fast asleep in Cass's lap. "His body's pretty weak, and it's not getting better. He's having difficulty eating a lot, which is hindering the pills. He probably had a small diet he stuck to, so that's causing it."

"So, wait," Bruce said. "How do we fix it?"

"Do you think he'd be more willing to eat in a safer area?" Leslie proposed. "Like outside of the room?"

"Yeah," Dick said, "We can do that. If you think he can leave bedrest, we were meaning to have a family dinner."

-

It was three weeks in, and Damian felt sick with love.

Leslie said he should be able to move around, but he had to be careful and slow. And that he would need crutches for his ankle. Damian just nodded his head dumbly, too focused on the fact that his family was still right there with him.

They just cared so much. It should have made him repulsed or something, but he just felt drunk and happy and giddy and hopeful.

Hopeful that maybe this could all work out for once. 

That maybe Damian could finally belong here. Everyone seemed to think so.

Richard hooked an arm under Damian's and helped pull him up. He was talking excitedly, explaining that they were going to have dinner with him downstairs. The family was already down there, helping set everything up. How great it would be to get out of this stuffy hospital bed. 

Damian was paying attention, but he also wasn't. Because his mind was thinking about chairs.

"Do you want me to carry you?" Richard asked, voice teasing.

"I can use crutches, Richard," Damian scoffed when what he really wanted to say was: Maybe.

But he leaned on Richard and let the man support him as they slowly walked out of the room.

-

There were seven seats.

That was the first thing Damian noticed.

Well, seven seats plus Alfred's right next to Father's.

So, eight seats.

Damian counted them the moment he saw the table, almost hungrily. Maybe because he was looking for confirmation, maybe because it was instinctive at this point.

"Ready, Dami?" Richard asked as they neared the table.

"My seat is missing," Damian said, trying to make his voice as unemotional as possible.

That might have made it worse, though.

Richard froze, looking up at the group. In a few seconds, he did the same math Damian had just done, his face paling. 

Timothy hissed a, "shit" as Duke hurried out to drag a chair from storage in.

It was awkward and stilted, and everyone had a sad expression on again.

But not Damian. Because he was focused on the table. On how wrong and empty and oddly spaced it looked until Duke slid on that ninth seat. On how different it looked.

Damian could only think about how that chair made the table complete.

And the family didn't know it, but that was the best present they could have given him.