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Chapter Text

Nneka checked in with Sara in the Western warehouse to talk about the latest cocaine shipment. Then she texted Hood and Ramon for their lunch order and swung by to pick it up on her way to Hood’s central office.  She was suspicious when Hood texted back requesting four chicken shawarma meals (in addition to whatever she got for herself), but surely it could not be her Bat Kids.  Surely not at 1pm on a Monday afternoon. 

“Why are you not in school?” Nneka scowled at Tim and Stephanie, lounging together like two puppies on the inner-circle breakroom couch. 

“It’s a teacher work day,” Tim said. 

“Yah, babe,” said Ramon. “Sorry I forgot to remind you.”

”I should have checked the calendar,” said Nneka. 

“And we’re here with Jason to gossip,” said Stephanie.   

“Bruce had a new kiddo show up,” said Hood.

“Another one?!” said Nneka.  “Has anyone told Bruce that children are not stray cats?”

“I think Alfred has tried,” said Tim. “But this one is, like, his-his.” Tim opened his eyes wide.

“The old man hit it raw with Li’l Miss al Ghul,” said Stephanie. 

“Less vulgar, please,” said Ramon.

Stephanie pursed her lips and then smiled.  “Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, balls, prick, ass,” she said.

“I appreciate the reference,” said Ramon.  “But, no, that’s fine.  It’s just that saying ‘hit it raw’ and ‘li’l miss’ feel disrespectful to a lady you don’t even know.”  

“Hmm…” said Stephanie, “Is this…chivalry?”

“It’s unclear,” said Hood.  “Maybe he’s asking you to examine your own internalized misogyny.”

“I’m a girl,” said Stephanie.

Nneka scoffed. “If you think girls and women can’t be misogynists, then you should meet my mother.  Or don’t.  But wait.  Wait.  Al Ghul.  The mother is al Ghul? The League of Horribleness that kidnapped you, Hood?”

“Yeah,” said Hood.  “But the kid is ten years old, so this is before that.”

“Hm,” Nneka said.  “I’m still deeply unimpressed.”

“In Bruce’s defense,” said Tim, “Alfred says it was kind of a tragic tale of love and betrayal.  They were engaged.  She got pregnant.  Then she told him she lost the pregnancy and ran away.  Ten and a half years later—boom!  ‘Just kidding.  Here’s your kid.  Enjoy raising him through puberty.’”

“Ouch,” said Ramon.  “I was there when my youngest cousin took his first steps, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.  Just…ouch.”  

“Also in Bruce’s defense,” said Stephanie, “This is what Talia al Ghul looked like ten years ago.” She turned her school laptop to face Nneka and Ramon.

“Ok,” Nneka acknowledged. “Ok.  I would hit it raw, too, if she asked.”

”I didn’t know you were into women,” said Ramon, face carefully neutral. 

“Only the usual amount,” Nneka shrugged.  “But I’m not blind,” she pointed at the laptop.

 “So now Tim’s gotta mouthy pre-teen who’s the heir to an ancient murder cult living in his house,” Hood concluded.

“Ugh,” Tim said, “I wish mouthy was the problem.  The kid stabbed me.”

“What?!” said Ramon. “Are you safe?!  Do you need somewhere to stay?”

Tim shrugged. “I think Bruce convinced him that no murder or maiming was allowed in the house.  The kid’s still creepy.”  

“Poor little kiddo,” said Nneka. “Changing cultures is hard. Does he speak English?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Stephanie.  “Fluently. But with, like, this weird posh British accent.  Why? I don’t think the kid’s ever been to Britain.”

“Yeah,” said Hood.  “Bruce said the kid’s first language is Arabic.  Sara has an Arabic accent.  Damian doesn’t sound anything like Sara.”

“Sara?” asked Tim.

“Warehouse supervisor,” said Hood.

“I thought that was Mat,” said Tim.

“Which Mat?” said Hood. “I employ several Mats.”

“Mateo,” said Tim. 

“Oh, no,” said Hood. “Mateo supervises the Northern warehouse.  Sara supervises and coordinates all of the warehouses and helps Jessica with payroll—since Jessica had a baby and is part-time for now.”

“I think she’s really enjoying part-time and is going to stay part-time for the next few years,” said Nneka.  “Which is good because she and Sara work together well. Both of them seemed kinda stressed before, and now they’re both more mellow.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Ramon, “But I think Arabic has a bunch of dialects.  Sara is from Egypt.”

“Damian is from Pakistan,” said Hood.

“Wait,” said Ramon, getting out his phone and typing in the browser.  “Wait-wait…they don’t…the main language of Pakistan is…” he read from his phone. “Urdu.  And…there’s a bunch of other languages commonly spoken there, but…it looks like Arabic isn’t one of them.”   

“Oh, yeah,” said Tim, “the League of Assassins is in Pakistan, but speaks Arabic. Because they’re a super-insular cult.”

“Yeah,” said Stephanie, with dark amusement.  “I don’t think you’ve quite got the whole picture yet, Ramon.  See, it’s not JUST that Damian is a pop-up baby from a lady who lied about a miscarriage and then dropped her kid off with the father. And It’s not JUST that Damian is a third-culture kid from a country with a wildly different culture.  No-no.  Damian is from the League of Assassins.  Which is basically an insular, apocalyptic cult led by his grandfather.  Like an honest-to-God ‘the fuck is wrong with these people?’ cult. Like, this kiddo has ALL of the decks stacked against him. 

“Oh, no,” Nneka said.  “That poor child.  That kid is fucked.”

“Yes!” said Hood. “Nneka gets it.  And, in addition to what Stephanie said, Damian’s father and current guardian is an obscenely wealthy man who dresses up like a bat and causes brain damage in the less fortunate.  And like, Batman as a dad is…”

“I’m going to hate this so much,” Nneka groaned into her hands.

“You are,” said Hood.  “Batman as a dad is like…one part,” he pushed his voice down into an imitation of Batman’s gravelly bass. “‘You will obey my every tiny whim because if you don’t, you will get hurt and that will break me’, and one part ‘Here, hold this bomb, Robin.’”

“And that always has a good effect on his kids,” Tim said, indicating Hood with Vanna White arms and aggressive jazz hands.

“Although,” said Stephanie.  “That’s only, like, two-thirds of Bruce.  There’s also the part of Bruce that keeps candy in his bat belt for in case there are any scared kids at crime scenes.”

“That is…fair,” Hood acknowledged with a grimace.  “I just haven’t seen that part of Bruce in several years.”

“I hate your dad so much,” Nneka whispered.

Tim frowned and started typing on his laptop.   

Hood laughed.  “You know, I was talking with Maria about that the other day.”

“Which Maria?” asked Ramon.

“My therapist,” said Hood.  “I was telling Maria that I think I hate my dad less because I can do some of my hating by proxy. Like, when everyone but me was like, ‘Batman is a hero,’ I felt like I had to hate him all the time to…kinda…prove to myself that I was justified in hating him.  But since I trust Nneka to be on my hater-side, I can spend less time hating him.”

“Hood.” Nneka smiled. “I am glad to do my part in helping you become a more stable person by hating your father with every single fiber of my being.”  

 Hood’s face made a strange twitch.

“What?” asked Nneka.

“Um…” said Hood, gaze falling to the floor.  “Uh…I’m going with Tim to family dinner at the manor on Thursday,” he confessed. 

“Hood, sweetheart,” said Nneka sadly. “Family is complicated.  I hate your father down to the marrow of my bones, and also I fully support you going to this family dinner if that is what you want to do. I’m sorry that I didn’t express that second part.  I hate your father, and also you don’t have to hate your father.  You can love him, or hate him, or both, or neither, or sometimes fully one and sometimes fully the other.  And if you ever want me to stop talking about how much I hate him or pretend I don’t hate him anymore, I am happy to do that for you. You don’t owe me anything about your relationship or feelings for your father.”

Hood heaved a sigh of relief, and Nneka started toward him for a hug.

“Wait,” said Tim. Everyone stopped and looked at him.  “What makes the League of Assassins a cult?”

“Uhhh,” said Hood, “A charismatic central figure who demands extreme obedience, unusual amounts of insularity, and you can’t leave if you want to.”

Tim stared at Hood, brow wrinkled with thought.  “Jason…are we in a cult?”

“What?!” said Hood.

“Is the Bat Fam a cult?”

“Uh…I…” said Hood. 

“Central charismatic figure,” said Ramon. “Check.”  He opened his phone and started typing.

“Extreme expectations of obedience,” said Stephanie.  “Check.”

“But not the unusual amounts of insularity,” said Tim.  “Oracle knows all, and Batman doesn’t limit how much she can share with us.  Batman doesn’t limit what we can learn at all.”

“Yeah,” Hood said slowly, “He doesn’t control information in.  But he does control information out.  Protecting our secret identities.”  

“When I was Robin, Alfred did a lot of my medical care,” Tim said quietly.

“Which…” said Hood, “Is good, because you never have to wait.  You get medical care as soon as you get home.  But it also means that authority figures didn’t know how much you, a child, were being injured.”

“Oh, my god,” said Stephanie.  “In one of my classes, they mentioned that broken bones in multiple stages of healing are a major sign of child abuse.  And I thought, ‘Well, then, we’d better never let anyone do a full scan of any of the Robins.’ But I still didn’t put two and two together.”

“And he often doesn’t share information with us,” said Tim.  “He doesn’t prevent us from learning, but he doesn’t tell us what he knows or what he’s going to do.”

Ramon looked up from his phone, “OK, so it looks like researchers don’t really talk about ‘cults’ anymore because they’re really not…a separate thing so much as a flashy part of a much bigger problem.  They talk about ‘high-demand religions’ and ‘systems of authoritarian control’.”

“Well, the Bat Fam isn’t the first one,” said Tim. “The Bat Fam doesn’t have doctrine.”

“Killing is wrong,” said Hood. “Deliberate killing is wrong, even in defense of oneself or others. Even if killing one person could save many others. Even if the person you’re killing has no redeeming value. Even if—“

”We get it, Jason!” said Stephanie. 

“To keep things simple,” said Ramon, “The Bat Family doesn’t perceive itself or portray itself as a religion, so let’s focus on the ‘systems of authoritarian control’.  Which…the BITE model…”

Everyone typed into their phone or device. Everyone read.  

“I don’t like this,” said Stephanie.

“Well, the good news,” said Hood.  “Is that none of the rape ones apply.”

“Yeah,” said Nneka, horror on her face. 

“But…some of the others,” said Hood, “Kinda do.”

“I don’t like this,” said Stephanie.

“Yeah.” Hood put his phone in his pocket.  “Let’s eat our shawarmas and watch something light and fluffy before we get back to work.”

 Nneka resolved to meet this Damian kid. 

Chapter Text

 “So, how was the family dinner?” Ramon asked on Friday.

“Oh…” Hood stretched his legs out on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “Loud and weird, with periods of awkwardly quiet and weird.  As expected. Nobody mentioned that I hadn’t been to the manor in over four years.  Nobody mentioned anything that had happened during those four years.  Bruce barely talked at all. Mostly Dick and Stephanie just talked about internet culture that I’m too old to understand.”

“Dick is older than you,” said Ramon. 

“Yeah,” said Hood. “But Dick spends a lot of time being big brother to Tim and Steph.”

“And the kid?” Ramon asked.

Hood shrugged. “Small. Scowling.  Posture you could use as a plumb bob.  Other than the expression, you could have filmed him at any moment and used the video to teach table manners.  He’s got that Tim perfectionism, but without Tim’s desperate need to please.”

“Hm,” said Ramon. “And Batman’s not suited to helping him loosen up.”

“No, he’s really, really not,” said Hood.

“Maybe we could ask Tim to bring him by sometime?” Ramon suggested.

“Maybe," Hood said. 

“Friday! Friday! Friday!” Stephanie chanted, pumping her sugar-with-a-splash-of-coffee drink as Nneka opened the door to the inner-circle rooms for her on Friday afternoon. 

“Where’s Tim?” asked Nneka.

“Being Tim,” Stephanie said.  “Being all Tim all the time.  Meaning that he’s got a rollicking evening planned of doing homework, tinkering with his spy bots, and refining his argument for Jason that seventeen is an adult so he can totally go back to being Robin on his next birthday.”

Nneka smiled and sighed. 

“Hey, Stephanie,” Ramon greeted as Stephanie and Nneka walked into the inner-circle breakroom.

”Hey Ramon,” Stephanie saluted him with her cup.  She turned to Hood.  “Yo, Hood-man! Congrats!  You went to the manor, and no one died, or punched anyone, or had a screaming meltdown!”

“An unqualified success,” said Hood.

“The bar is in hell,” said Steph.  “So…what did you think of the kid?”  

“He’s an ass,” said Hood.

Stephanie gave him a small, evil smile.  “Hey, sweet baby girl, what did you really think of the kid?”

“I told you!” Hood said, defensively. 

“Hooood-eeeeee,” she wheedled.  “I want you to tell me, in words, what you thought of the kid.”

“If you don’t believe me, then you tell me what I thought of the kid.”

“Ok,” said Stephanie, taking a sip from her drink as she gathered her thoughts. “Ok, you know how people take pics of their cats looking at a Christmas tree? And, like, the cat’s pupils are huge and you look at the cat and can just feel the adrenaline start pumping and the excitement building?”

“When B-man was droning on about all life being sacred and higher standards and blah-blah-blah, again, and that itty bitty kid made that teeny little tutting noise? That’s what you looked like, looking at him. A cat looking at a Christmas tree.”

“That’s me,” said Hood. “Precious widdle fluffykins.”  

“Did you ever meet the kid, while the League of Assholes had you kidnapped?” asked Nneka. 

Hood shrugged.  “Yeah, kind of,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I was part of his rotating staff of bodyguards for a few months, just before I left.  I got to see him in action.  I never talked to him.”

“Why not?”

Hood shrugged.  “We were not…in the same place in the hierarchy.  I mean, I was treated special.  I was Talia’s pet project.  But I certainly had no…authority or autonomy.  And a lot of the time I was there, I was brain damaged or trying to keep it together with the pit effects.  But Damian was the crown prince of the whole shebang. He had authority.”

“And autonomy?” asked Nneka.

Hood sighed.  “No. Not really.  His mother doted on and fawned over him.  His grandfather…honored him occasionally, in a distant and formal way.   Everyone else kowtowed to him and obeyed him.  But he also spent almost every waking moment being trained in one way or another.  I saw him draw a picture once.  Furtively, like he was afraid of what would happen if someone found out.  Other than that, I never saw him play.”  

“Heartbreaking,” said Nneka.

“Yeah,” said Hood. 

“I really, really need to shoot some al Ghuls,” said Nneka.

“You can’t do that, Nneka.  For the same reason you can’t shoot Batman.”

Nneka scoffed. 

Hood’s phone rang on Monday.  Front Door Guard said the contact info. 

“Hello,” he said. 

“Boss,” Josh said. “There’s a little kid here to see you.”

Hood heard an irritated voice in the background but couldn’t make out any words.

“He says he’s not a little kid.  He’s ten.”

“Coming down,” said Hood. “Lead him to the bottom of the stairs.”

Hood thought about making the imperious brat wait for a bit, just to mess with him, but decided against.  He threw on his helmet and jogged down the stairs. 

The kid stood next to Josh, backbone ramrod straight but knees and elbows lightly flexed, as though he was not sure if he was here to pass inspection or to be attacked.  His usual scowl twisted his cute little features.

“Todd,” the kid said, nodding his head. 

“Al Ghul-Wayne,” Hood said, returning the nod with a small smile.    

The kid scowled harder. 

“Come on up,” said Hood. Damian marched up the stairs after him.

When Hood stopped in the inner-circle break room, Damian’s arms briefly hitched up behind him, as though he had started going to parade rest before thinking better of it. 

Damian looked around at the dingy room. “It seems that your operation is not hugely profitable,” he said. 

Hood pulled off his helmet and shrugged.  “Maybe,” he said.  “Or maybe I just have no taste.”

“Have a seat,” said Hood, setting the helmet on top of the refrigerator.  “What can I get you to drink?  We have water, black tea, chamomile, or…uh…” He opened the fridge door to check.  Inside, there was a half-empty bottle of vodka.  “That’s it.” 

“Water, thank you,” Damian said curtly. 

Hood started to fill a glass from the tap.

“Isn’t Gotham city water contaminated with lead?” Damian asked.

“Oh,” said Hood. “Uh, yeah. It is.  In this part of the city.  Nneka got special filters for all of our locations.” He pointed at the filter. “She said we were making too much plastic waste with all the bottled water we were going through.”

Damian nodded. 

“Ice?” asked Hood.

“No ice, thank you.”

Hood poured some trail mix into a bowl and pushed it toward Damian. 

“So, what brings you here?” he asked.

“I wanted to see Father’s failson.”

Hood laughed.  You little shit, he thought, affectionately.

“Well, here I am,” he spread his arms. He grabbed a handful of trail mix and started munching it.   The silence stretched.  Damian crossed his arms.

“I hear that you are the reason Father will not allow me to accompany him on missions.  I’m just stuck behind with Tim, using toys to feed Father information.”

Toys, thought Hood.  Tim’s creepy, insectoid spybots had never put him in mind of toys.

“Yeah,” said Hood.  “More or less.”

“I suppose this has to do with your pathetic death?” Damian asked.

Hood shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Not all of us are as weak as you,” said Damian. 

Good, good, let the hate flow through you, thought Hood.  

“True,” he said. 

Damian drummed his fingers on the table.

Aw, kid, thought Hood.  Your mama taught you better than to let me know you’re irritated like that.  And his heart hurt a little.  Damian must be under extreme stress, to let his League training crack like that.  But of course he was.  He had had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week, and it was not promising to get better any time soon.  Hood wanted to scoop Damian up and read to him about Alexander.  But Damian would not appreciate that.

“You kill,” said Damian.

“Sometimes,” said Hood.

“Father did not make you weak, in that respect.”

Hood sighed.  Aw, fuck.  This kid desperately needed validation, moving from one black-and-white, authoritarian hellhole to another.  But he also needed love, and Hood was sure that Bruce loved this child with his whole heart, as shitty as his way of showing it was.  Hood did not want to tear down Damian’s relationship with Bruce. 

“Your father and I disagree on some things and agree on others,” Hood finally said. 

“Hmph,” said the kid.  “What do you agree on?”

 Hood folded his arms behind his head and looked at the ceiling, “We agree…that most people are important.  Even people who aren’t strong, or brave, or especially talented.  Everyone matters.  Everyone deserves to be safe.”

Damian scowled.

Shit, thought Hood. Maybe I went too far the other way.  Ra’s al Ghul surely taught this kid that most people are expendable, and only the extraordinary matter.  And Damian was surely getting enough of “Your grandfather, whom you were raised until last week to practically worship, is evil and wrong about everything” back at the manor.   

Ok, validate.  Validate.

“What do you think?” Hood asked. 

“I think you and Father are fools,” said Damian.

“Oh, we definitely are.” Hood grinned.  “So you shouldn’t take our word for it.  Think about it for yourself.”

Damian scrunched his face at Hood in…confusion?  And maybe disbelief?

“This has been…interesting,” he said.  “I need to return to the manor.”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” said Hood, standing.  “Do you want a ride?”

“I can navigate the bus system by myself.”

“I know you can,” said Hood. “I was just offering in case it might be more comfortable.”

“Thank you for the offer, Todd.” Damian said with a stiff nod.  “I will see myself…home.”  And there was just the barest twitch to his face, just the tiniest hint peeking through the cracks.  In another kid, it might have been sobs. But not this kid. 

“Ok,” said Hood. “You’re welcome to come by anytime. Well. Anytime before curfew. Which is sunset.”

After Damian was gone, Hood put on his domino and walked the two blocks to Mrs. Martinez’s house with a giant pack of diapers.  She had a new foster baby he wanted to see, and twenty years of foster-parenting wisdom he needed to tap. And then he texted Alfred.  

Chapter Text

Hood’s phone rang through his helmet’s sound system.  He saw that the call was from Alfred and immediately turned his motorcycle toward Wayne Manor.

“Hello, Alfred,” he said. “What can I do for you?”   

“Hello, Master Jason,” Alfred said, sounding shockingly flustered.  In the background, Hood heard screams and thuds.  “We are having a slight situation at the manor.”

“Be there in fifteen, Alfred,” said Hood.

Damian was screaming at Bruce.  Bruce was roaring at Damian.  Dick was pleading with them both to stop.  The bat cave added its own echoes, giving a nightmare quality to the whole scene. 

“I’m getting tired of your disrespect!” Bruce yelled so intensely that flecks of spit shot from his mouth. “I sometimes feel like I’m talking to a wall!”

“And I sometimes feel like I’m listening to a raging, controlling madman!” Damian screamed.  He picked up a stapler and hurled it at Bruce. 

Hood was glad to see that Damian still retained some level of control.  If he had truly, completely lost it, he would not be throwing blunt objects. 

“Ok,” Hood said to Alfred. “You get Dick and Bruce out of here.”

Hood sauntered to the chair in front of Bruce’s computer and sat down.  By then, Alfred was moving Dick and Bruce toward the stairs with murmurs and soft prods.  Damn, the old man can still move fast when he wants to, Hood thought.

“Coward!” Damian screamed after Bruce’s retreating back.  “You’re just leaving because you know I’m right!”

The door to the bat cave closed.  Damian whirled.

“You!” he shouted at Hood.  “What are you doing here?!”

“Alfred called me,” said Hood. 

“Nobody wants you here,” Damian sneered. 

Hood shrugged. “Alfred did. Probably there are other people who don’t.”

“Go on back to your little drug ring, petty criminal.”

“Not yet,” said Hood. 

“Who do you think you are to barge in here now?”

Hood thought about this.  “That’s a fair question.  I am…a guy who’s well-rested, and recently fed, and cares about you, and is capable of being calm right now.” 

He might have been exaggerating a little bit on the “well-rested” and “recently fed” part, but he felt reasonably calm.  Thank you, Mrs. Martinez.  And he was certain that he was better rested and fed, and more calm, than the walking stomach ulcer in the black bat suit. 

“No, you don’t,” snarled Damian. “You don’t care about anyone in this house.”

Hood thought about this.  “Well, I think I do,” he said. “You’ll have to judge me by my actions.”

Damian’s hands were curling and uncurling.  

“Bruce treats me like a child!” he said.

“That’s gotta be incredibly frustrating,” said Hood. “You haven’t been treated like a child for years.”  Poor baby.

“He hides things from me!” said Damian.

“That’s Bruce,” said Hood.  “He’s always done that to us, and we’ve always hated it.  It sucks.”

“He demands respect that he doesn’t give,” said Damian.

“You are so right.” Hood nodded.  “That’s exactly what he does.” Ok, maybe he was getting a little too into this validation thing. 

Damian scoffed. “What, you’re not going to tell me that I should empathize with him?  That I’m pushing him away?”

“Who told you that?” asked Hood. 

“Alfred.”

Hood sighed. “Alfred is not always right.”

Damian scowled at him suspiciously. 

“I mean, empathy is good,” said Hood.  “But you’re in an extremely stressful situation, and Bruce is the adult.  I’m sure you will empathize with Bruce when you can.  There’s no point in trying to force it when your brain is just too overwhelmed right now.”

“My brain can do anything, Todd.”

Hood sighed again. “Your brain is wonderful, Damian.  But it’s still a human brain.  And those have limits.  This is a shitty, shitty situation you’re in.  It’s not fair.  Everything was changed on you, and you have no control.  Bruce loves you so much, but he’s a deeply flawed person and sometimes kind of a shit parent.”

Damian stared at Hood, with that familiar bend to his limbs that said he was ready to fend off an attack or flee. After a minute, he sat down on the floor, knees to chest, arms wrapped around his legs.  He started breathing with slow deliberation. God, he was so small.

 Hood waited.  And waited.  He pulled out his phone and started playing a game. 

“I hacked his computer,” said Damian.

“Yeah?” said Hood, putting his phone back into his pocket.  He waited for Damian to continue. 

“That’s pretty impressive,” Hood finally said.

Damian uncurled a little bit and lifted his chin.  

“Yes, it is,” he said. “I found his file on me.”

Oh, shit, thought Hood. 

“He was stupid enough to write down why Mother left me here.”

Hood scoffed.  “He shouldn’t have done that if he didn’t want you to find out,” he said.

“Exactly!” said Damian. “It said that my mother had been told that I was to be Grandfather’s heir, but in fact he was raising me to be a…vessel.  When I was big enough, Grandfather was going to…erase me, somehow, and put himself inside my body.”

“Fuck that fucking piece of shit in human form!” snarled Hood. Please don’t let Alfred have heard me. 

Damian looked shocked.  Fuck, thought Hood. So much for staying calm. 

A smirk ran across Damian’s features before his gaze fell to the floor and his face went slack. 

“Mother brought me here to protect me,” he said quietly. 

Hood nodded.

“It wasn’t a punishment,” said Damian.  “It wasn’t because…because I failed her.”

Aw, fuck, Hood thought, arms aching for the little boy in front of him.  Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, he ordered himself. 

“Mother loves me,” said Damian.

“Yeah,” Hood said, knowing it was true. “She does.”

“Mother is a good mother,” said Damian.

“Mhm,” Hood lied. 

“Everyone hears that I’m from the League of Assassins—which isn’t even their real name!—and thinks I have some horrible, tragic backstory. I hear Father’s minions talking about me, and I hear Father talking with his flying friend.”

“Yeah?” said Hood.  How, he wondered, do you eavesdrop on Superman?

“They think that the League beat me or starved me or put me in solitary confinement or something like that. And…no!  Mother would never allow that! Nothing bad happened to me!  Dick’s parents died in front of him. You…well, lots of bad stuff happened to you.  Tim’s parents hated him. And my mother cuddled me and told me that I was the hope of humanity and would one day lead the world.  She never even yelled at me.  She never lost her temper with me.  When I disappointed her, she would just say, very calmly and quietly ‘You can be better than this, and yet you choose not to be,’ and leave the room. That’s it.  I was never even punished as a child.  Never!  For anything! And everyone acts like being brought to this desolate hellscape was some kind of generous rescue!”

“That’s so shitty of them,” said Hood.  “What was your favorite part of the League?”

“The…sense of glorious purpose.”

“Hm.  I get it, but I’m not sure what I can do about that.  What was your favorite regular, everyday part of the League?  Like…your favorite food or drink or toy or something.” Oh, right, he thought.  This kid didn’t have any toys when I saw him in the League.  Had he ever?

“My favorite thing…” said Damian, and stopped, thinking.  “My favorite thing was something I never noticed until I came here. The weather.  How dry it was.  The average annual rainfall there is 340 to 440 millimiters.  And Gotham is 1000 to 1300 millimiters. Nothing ever got rained out, there.”

“Yeah?” said Jason. Not exactly what he asked for. Jason could not control the weather. But he could listen. 

“I liked how you could see the shadows of clouds traveling over the mountains” said Damian. “It’s too flat here.”  

Jason nodded.

“The mornings were so peaceful and quiet,” said Damian.  “I dressed for the day before bedtime.  My clothes were all comfortable enough to sleep in. Mother would gently shake me in the morning.  She helped me with my shoes when I was little or pointed at them for me to put them on when I was bigger.  Then she took my hand and led me straight from my bed to breakfast without speaking. We ate breakfast together every morning while watching the sunrise.  If it was warm, we would eat outside and listen to the insects and the birds.  Sometimes, on special occasions, we would eat dinner the same way.  Just the two of us, outside, at sunset, not speaking much.”

“I bet you miss your mom a lot,” said Hood.

Damian nodded.    

Hood waited.  And waited.  And waited.

“I am hungry,” said Damian. 

“Yeah,” said Hood.  He checked in with his body.  “Me, too.”

As they climbed the steps out of the bat cave, Hood groaned internally.  He was going to move back into the manor for a while—maybe even take some time off from work and let Ramon and Nneka run things for a while.  He was going to be in the manor the next time this happened.  He was going to be there for Damian, as he had not been there for Tim.  And it was going to suck so, so much. 

Chapter Text

Damian walked up the stairs like a child, posture loose and sloppy.  Hood guided him into the kitchen, noticing too late that Bruce, Dick, and Alfred had already gathered there.  The child slipped away, leaving the little soldier doll behind.  Perfect posture.  Every movement studied and controlled.   

“I apologize for my behavior, Father,” Damian said, bowing his head. 

Bruce looked at Damian and then at Hood, shocked.  “Um, yeah,” he said.  “Do better next time.”

Hood wanted to facepalm.  No. More than that.  He wanted to have his own screaming meltdown.  He wanted to throw things at Bruce.  Probably not sharp things.  Probably.

You were just as bad as him!  You are the adult!   

He grabbed a plastic bowl, tossed some snacks and a bottle of water in, and handed it to Damian.  He snagged an apple and steered Damian out of the kitchen and up to his bedroom while crunching the apple.     

“Give me just a minute, Kiddo,” he said. “Start on your snacks.”  He slipped from Damian’s room to step into his old room.  His shrine.  The monument to who he used to be.  He shuddered and narrowed his focus to his apple and the bookshelf. 

“Hey, Damian,” he said, tossing the apple core into Damian’s trash can as he strolled back into the kid's room.  “Do you mind if I read to you for a little bit?  Today was kind of a hard day, and reading out loud sometimes helps me calm down.”  It was at least half true. 

Damian squinted at him, suspicious.  

“Ok,” he said.

“Could you help me pick which book?" Hood said holding up two worn hardbacks.  "They’re both fantasies. They both include kinds of magic and creatures that don’t exist in our world.”

“This one,” Hood said, holding up one of the books for inspection, “Is about this guy who just wants to stay home and be comfortable, but he gets dragged off on an adventure to rescue a stranger’s home from a dragon.”

“And this one,” he said, holding up the other “is about a girl who doesn’t like her brother very much, but still goes to rescue him when he gets kidnapped by fairies.

Damian’s eyes flicked back and forth between the books.  “The one with the girl,” he said.

Hood settled into a chair with a reading lamp nearby, and started to read, “Some things start before other things…”

He meant to pause and make the kid brush his teeth when he was finished with his snack, but Damian was nearly nodding off over his snack bowl.  So Hood just took the bowl, helped the kid lay down, and tucked him in.   Damian’s eyelids fluttered closed.  Damn. He looked like a little angel. 

Good job, evolution, Hood thought, smiling.  Making kids look so precious when they’re asleep so we don’t eat our young.

He left the book on Damian’s dresser, heaved a sigh, and went down to the kitchen.

“How did you get him to stop?” Bruce asked.

And Hood knew, from long experience with Bruce, what he was really asking.  How did you get him to obey you?  Which was the wrong question. 

“I was very calm and quiet and non-confrontational, validated whatever I could of his feelings, and tried to listen at least twice as much as I talked,” said Hood.

“And that made him stop?” Bruce looked at Hood as though maybe he was speaking in code. 

“No,” said Hood. “That gave him a safe space to vent his feelings until he had done so as much as he needed and could stop himself.”

Batman shook his head.  “He’s so willful.  He fights me at every turn.”

And that makes you feel out of control and afraid? Hood considered asking.  But…he could not.  He could not say that to Bruce without letting a note of condescension in.  Maybe he and Dick could scheme to get some of the information Bruce needed into his thick skull.

“How did you get him to apologize?” Bruce asked.

“I didn’t,” said Hood.  “That was pure League training.”

Bruce winced. 

You should have apologized, too, Hood did not say. 

“Hey, kiddo,” said Hood, looking up from his omelet as Damian padded into the kitchen the next morning.  Hood had already declared the kitchen off-limits to the rest of the household for the morning.  Alfred had taken it with surprising grace, simply moving some snacks and drinks into the dining room.   

“What are you hungry for?  I can make you an omelet.  This one’s spinach and feta.”

Damian squinted at him and shook his head.  He went to the pantry, pulled out some bran cereal, and prepared his bowl.  Then he brought it back to the counter and took the bar stool next to Hood’s. 

“I think I’m gonna stay at the manor for a little while,” Hood said casually. 

Damian looked at him with wide eyes.

“Just to help you and Bruce get settled in.”

Damian scowled at his cereal.   He slowly shook his head several times.  “I don’t need a babysitter,” he muttered.

“You don’t,” said Hood.  “But Bruce might.  Just for now.  Just while all this change is happening.”

Damian ducked his head to hide a quiet laugh, then twisted his mouth to the side with…concern? Confusion?  

“I’m not going to be staying long-term,” said Hood. “Maybe a month or two.  I wanted to let you know what you could expect, and I want you to know when I move out that it’s not a…that nothing bad happened.  It’s just the end of a plan.  And I’m not going to be done with you when I move out.  I’ll be visiting you, and I’d like you to visit me.  And I’m always just a phone call away.  I’ll give you the numbers for my two best employees, too, just in case you ever need help and can’t reach me.  They’re nice.  They’ll help you, and then they’ll help you find me.”

Damian stared at his cereal.  He nodded. 

“You OK, Kiddo?” Hood asked.

Damian nodded.  He opened his mouth as though to speak, shut it again, and swallowed.  “Words are hard,” he said. 

“Oh,” said Hood.   “When you’re tired?”

Damian nodded. 

“Ok,” said Hood, gently patting Damian’s back.  Damian flinched, then leaned into it.  Hood made a note to tell all of this to Damian again when he was more awake.

“Hey, Jason,” said Dick, catching Hood in the hallway.  “Thank you so much for coming to save our asses.  I’m sorry we weren’t handling it well ourselves.”

Hood shrugged, “It’s fine.  I had resources you didn’t.  I have experience with ‘problem children’ from working at the shelters and with the street kids.  I have an expert for a friend who helped me out.  Speaking of which, she recommended a couple of books and articles that we all need to read.”

“Sure,” said Dick.  “I’ll read’em ASAP.  Anything else I can do to help?”

“Well…” said Hood, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m gonna move into the manor—” Dick gasped. “—For a month or two to help with the transition.”

“Oh,” Dick said faintly. 

“I’d appreciate you reading those materials when you have time, but I think more urgently I need you to give Tim and Steph some extra attention.  Damian’s going to be taking a lot of my attention away from them, and I know that living with Damian is hard on Tim.”

“Can do, Little Wing.” Dick grinned.   And then Hood had to hustle off before the sheen in Dick’s eyes got to him. 

Hood spent the rest of the morning coordinating the next two months with Nneka and Ramon.  They planned out what Hood could do while Damian was at school or asleep, what he could delegate, and what they could delay until he had more time.

A couple of days later, Hood shook Damian awake.  He had wanted to make this a surprise, but he ultimately decided that the kid had had enough surprises lately.  That was just as well. It meant that Damian could show Hood just how Talia had woken him, so that Damien knew he was safe, and Hood did not wind up with a face full of steel. 

Damian opened his eyes. Hood held up the take-out bag so Damian could see it. 

Damian had slept in sweatpants and a long-sleeved jersey shirt—outdoor-appropriate clothing, but comfortable for sleeping.  Hood pointed to Damian’s shoes, and Damian slipped them on. 

Hood walked to Damian’s window and squatted down.  Damian climbed onto his back, clinging as securely as a baby monkey.  Hood stood, opened the window, stepped out onto the ledge, and grappled up onto the roof.  It might not have been the smartest thing to do this at the manor, but Damian’s window faced away from the road and was obscured from the neighbors by acres of trees.  There was very little chance of them being seen. 

On the roof, Hood handed Damian a water bottle and veggie pierogi, then grabbed a chicken and mushroom pierogi from the bag. 

They watched the sun rise.  They listened to the birds and the insects.  And then Damian climbed back on, and Hood lowered them back down to his window. 

Chapter Text

Hood stayed at the manor full-time for a month.  And it did, indeed, suck so much.  Bruce almost never initiated conversation with Hood, but Hood kept catching him lurking in doorways, staring at Hood with an expression of tragic longing. 

“I feel like I’m constantly attending my own funeral,” Hood complained to Nneka and Ramon.  “He looks at me, and all he sees is the kid I’m not anymore.”

Everyone in the Bat Family read The Explosive Child and the articles about managing a meltdown…except for Bruce.  Steph read by repeatedly opening the book to a random page and reading that one page, but eventually the majority of the book got read. 

Alfred was a master at passive-aggressive reading.  It was hilarious to see him following Bruce into a room, sitting down, holding the book up so that the cover could easily be seen by all, and turning the pages more loudly than Hood had known was possible. 

Hood and Dick strategized and ultimately distilled what they needed Bruce to know down into two mottos: “kids do well if they can”, and Nneka’s motto of “evolution, not revolution.” Bruce, of course, struggled with both.

“I never backtalked like that when I was his age,” Bruce grumbled. 

“Master Bruce,” said Alfred, “when you were his age, you got mad at me for making you eat broccoli and snipped up my favorite scarf with scissors. Perhaps you just don’t remember what a little snot you were. You wanted to be good, but being a child is hard.  Kids do well if they can.”

“I never snuck out of the house at his age,” Bruce growled.

“I could do four backflips in a row at his age,” said Dick.  “Could you?”

Bruce glared at him.

“Maybe,” said Dick. “Different children have different behavior because of different nature and nurture, not because some of those children have poor character. All kids want their grown-ups to be pleased with them.  Kids do well if they can.”

“I never hid knives in my bed at his age,” Bruce groaned.

“Yeah, I feel like being raised in an assassin cult might have something to do with that,” said Hood.  “He probably doesn’t feel safe without the knives.  And scolding him isn’t going to make him feel any safer.  Kids do well if they can.”

 They tried to watch The Lion King together, but Damian had a meltdown when Mufasa died, getting more and more upset until he was hysterically screaming horrible things at the assembled family members.  He really had a knack for finding the weak spots in a person’s ego and then pressing on them with all of his might.

“The only reason you don’t kill,” he screamed at Bruce, “Is because you know that deep down you are a murderer.  And if you ever start, you won’t stop. Murderer! Murderer!  Murderer!”  

“Kids do well if they can, kids do well if they can…” Bruce muttered to himself, putting in his earplugs. 

“W-I-N” Dick finger-spelled to Hood behind Bruce’s back.

Bruce, of course, catastrophized every tiny act of disobedience or rebellion.  He always had. 

“He has to learn to do what I say, or he won’t be safe!” said Bruce.

“Yeah…this is why I don’t let you have minor Robins anymore,” said Hood. “It’s not developmentally appropriate to expect kids to obey perfectly all of the time, and that’s not safe in the field.  Which is why kids shouldn’t be in the field.  He’s not gonna die if he tries to skip his homework occasionally or gets whiny at bedtime.”

“I have to get through to him!” said Bruce. 

“OK.  He’s ten.  You have eight years to get through to him.  Raising a kid isn’t about making sure that he always obeys you immediately without complaining right now. It’s about creating a safe place and setting a good example so he can make wise choices when he’s an adult.  Evolution, not revolution.”

“I’m trying everything Jason and Dick say,” Bruce said to Alfred, “But Damian’s getting worse.”

Alfred shrugged, “Master Bruce, I know it’s hard to hear this, but I think that’s a good thing.  Damian has been through an extreme change, with his mother abandoning him with people he does not know, in an entirely different culture.  He, understandably, has a lot of feelings about that.  And I think we adults are improving and making a safer place for Damian to express his feelings.  So now he’s expressing all of them. Eventually, he will learn to express and manage his feelings without melting down.  This is a process.  Evolution, not revolution.”

Bruce nodded, taking a deep, shaky breath. 

“I know it’s hard, my boy,” said Alfred, patting his back. 

They made progress as a family, slowly.  Evolution, not revolution. 

After a month, Hood spent a Monday night alone in his apartment. 

“Are you sure?” he asked Alfred.

“I’m sure, Master Jason,” said Alfred.  “We’ll probably be fine, but if he has a meltdown I’ll call you. One way or another, it will all work out in the end.”

Hood barely slept that night, and he was relieved to find both Damian and Bruce looking none the worse for the wear when he returned to the manor on Tuesday. 

He took Damian with him to his apartment the following weekend.  He had been hesitant to do so, worrying that the new location would upset Damian’s tenuous grasp on emotional regulation.  But it was a blazing success.  Bruce and Alfred were calmer, better parents on Monday after a break from Damian.  Hood and Damian dealt with Bruce better after their own break.  So Damian’s weekends with Hood became a family custom. 

Hood started slowly peeling himself away from the manor until, by the end of the two months, it was only Thursday that he would be there.  Thursday was Hood’s special day for Damian and Tim. Hood would drive his motorcycle to the manor, pick up a car, and then pick Damian and Tim up at Gotham Academy.  He would spend the afternoon playing video games with the boys until Damian had his weekly meltdown.  It seemed that he saved up his feelings from the week until Hood was there and he could safely release them.  As unpleasant as the meltdown itself was, it made something sweetly painful twist in Hood’s chest to know that he was Damian’s safe space.  The entire household would put in earplugs and Tim would retreat to his own room to do homework while Damian screamed himself out and then crawled into Hood’s arms for comfort. Then Dick and Steph and Barbara would join the household for family dinner. 

Hood would spend Thursday night at the manor.  He had chosen a different bedroom, next to Damian’s, and transferred all of his old books to the new room.  Everything else from his old room stayed there or got bagged up by Hood and Alfred to be donated or trashed.  Bruce was not invited to help and did not offer.  He did occasionally lean against the open doorway with his patented look of tragic longing.  Alfred finally snapped at him that staring was rude, and Bruce wandered off to the cave.    

Once Damian felt secure in having Hood all to himself for the weekend, and Tim promised to follow the rules, Damian allowed Hood to invite Tim along for their silent rooftop breakfast on Friday mornings. 

Damian and Tim and Steph had a standing invitation to Hood’s workspace on weekdays after school.  The boys would often take the bus down to the Bowery, getting off a stop early at Steph’s high school.  Then the three would walk together to Hood’s central office.   Ramon started keeping a wider selection of snacks in the break room for the kids.  Nneka started inviting Steph along for her monthly shopping date with her sister Adanna.  Stephanie was applying to colleges as a pre-nursing student.  Adanna, a nurse, had helpful advice for the process. 

The family was evolving nicely.

Chapter Text

After much, much, much arguing, Tim convinced Hood to let him back on Robin duties for eight hours per week, starting on his seventeenth birthday.  Hood was nervous. He really did not want Tim in the field at all, and “no more than eight hours per week” would be a lot harder to enforce than “never, ever, ever.”  But Dick was on board, and Bruce seemed more willing to follow Hood’s rules after seeing the improvement in Damian. 

“This year is a trial period,” said Hood.  “If you go over your time limit, or get injured, kidnapped, endangered, or do anything I’m uncomfortable with, you’re off the field until you’re eighteen.”

Tim scowled at him.  “Anything you’re uncomfortable with?  Am I supposed to read your mind?”

Hood thought. “OK. That’s a fair point.  Um…Bruce, Dick, Barbara, and I will make up a list of written rules for keeping you safe—or, as safe as possible.  And I’ll show the list to Nneka and Ramon and get their feedback, too.  We’ll revise the list as necessary.  If you break a rule, you’re off the field.  If you do something stupid that’s not on the list, there’s no consequence except that it’s added to the list.  If you do something wildly stupid that we didn’t put on the list because no rational human being would ever do that, you’re off the field.  If you get hurt or kidnapped, even if it’s not your fault, you’re off the field.”

“What does hurt mean? If I get a cut on my hand, am I off the field?”

“If…” said Hood. “You know what? I don’t know.  I gotta think about it, talk to the others. I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Ok,” said Tim. “So…which argument convinced you?”

And Hood did not say None of them.  I’m just going to lose my goddamned mind if you don’t shut the fuck up about it.  I am a bad person with no willpower, and you broke me.

That would not be good information to give Tim. 

Watching Tim go into the field and leave him behind was hard on Damian. Hood had to move back into the manor for three weeks to help manage the increase in meltdowns.  It was less painful than the first time he moved back.  Bruce even initiated four conversations with him over the course of his stay.  And he spent far less time staring at Hood as though he was a walking grave memorial. 

At 8:45pm, the Bat Fam got a text from Batman. 

Robin hit by car.  At Gotham General.  In surgery for internal bleeding. Using masked identities.  Robin is 18. 

Red Hood immediately turned his motorcycle toward Gotham General.

Robin is eighteen? Hood wondered.  No, he’s not. And then he realized.  If Robin was a minor, then the hospital would probably have a legal obligation to confirm his true identity and the true identity of his guardian.  They might still have that obligation for an adult, but would probably not call the police if Robin left before being released in order to conceal his identity.  Bruce would send a cash donation to the hospital equivalent to his best estimate of the cost of Robin’s medical care.  Nah.  Bruce would send them a shit-ton of money, enough to cover the care of Tim and everyone else in his wing of the hospital. 

What was I thinking, letting Tim back into the field while he’s still a child?! Hood berated himself. 

Batman was slumped in the waiting room, staring at nothing, wandering alone in his own personal hell of terror and guilt.  It took Hood a long time to bring him up close enough to the surface to find out what happened. 

It was the stupidest thing.  The fucking stupidest thing.  It had been a quiet night, so Robin and Batman had taken the time to walk a little old lady in the bad part of town home from babysitting her granddaughter.  Robin had offered the lady his arm, and Batman trailed after.  He had fallen a little behind, and Robin and the lady were almost halfway across the street before Batman left the sidewalk.  A drunk driver crested a hill at a ridiculous speed, and Robin had just had time to pick the lady up and chuck her at Batman before he was hit.  It was bad.  It was so bad.

Hit by a car while walking at a sedate pace on a crosswalk with the light at 8:15pm on a Tuesday night, accompanied by Batman.  Red Hood wanted to laugh and to cry. 

Fuck you, universe, he thought. 

Stephanie showed up in her Spoiler costume, although she had not been cleared to return to the field since she had agreed to leave. 

“Any news?” she asked.

Hood shook his head. 

“I’ve grown,” she said, sitting down.  “This thing is too tight.”

“Sorry,” said Hood.  And then they sat in silence. 

A man in scrubs was standing in front of them.  Red Hood had not seen him arrive.  He was speaking. 

“…surgery went well.  He lost a lot of blood, but we did not have to do a transfusion.  We did have to remove his spleen.  This will cause some issues with his immune system, so he will have to be careful in the future, but he should be able to live a long and full life. You can go up to the PACU on the third floor to see him now.”

Batman cried, briefly.  Red Hood and Spoiler held him.  They walked together to the post-anesthesia intensive care unit.

In the elevator, Spoiler texted the Bat Fam.  Robin stable.  In PACU (3^rd floor) for splenectomy 2o internal bleeding. No transfusion.   

Hood texted Nneka and Ramon, who would want to know. 

We’re coming to visit tomorrow, Nneka texted.

I don’t know if that’s a good idea.  He’s here as ROBIN, Hood texted back.

So? We’ll be there as associates of RED HOOD.  

In the PACU, Robin’s costume and mask were gone.  He was in a hospital gown.  The only thing protecting his identity was a lie. 

Red Hood stared at his alive little brother.  He memorized the curve of Tim’s chin, the hint of pink at the end of his nose, the shape of his lashes against his skin.

Robin’s chin, Robin’s nose, Robin’s lashes, Red Hood reminded himself.  He could not slip.  He could not tear the tissue-thin lie.

Nightwing arrived in the PACU shortly after they did.

I bet you’re not supposed to have this many visitors in here, thought Hood.  But Nightwing was…Nightwing.  He had the body of a god, a smile like the sun, and the charm of a king’s mistress.  Of course they let Nightwing in. 

“Oracle wanted to be here,” said Nightwing, “But…” He shrugged. 

Oracle’s costume was the clock tower.  If she showed up at the hospital, it would be as Barbara Gordon.

In less than an hour, Robin’s eyes fluttered open.  He glanced at the assembled members of his family before settling his gaze on Red Hood.

“I’m sorry I got hurt,” he slurred, eyes welling.  “I tried not to.  Please don’t take Robin away from me again.  Please.” And the tears spilled down his cheeks.

And fuck, Red Hood was weak.  “It’s OK, Baby Bird,” he said. “I know you were careful.  It’s OK.  You can still be Robin.” 

Nightwing squeezed Hood's hand.  

On the way back to his apartment, Hood saw that he had three missed calls from Alfred.  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

He called back immediately. 

“Thank you for returning my call, Master Jason,” said Alfred.  “Damian is missing.”

Fuck!

“Doesn’t he have trackers on him?” asked Hood.  “Trackers are Bruce’s love language.”

“Damian finds them and removes them,” said Alfred. 

Hood snorted as he turned toward his central office.  “That’s because Bruce can’t sew,” he said. “Let me get to my base and see if I can track him. I…might have picked up some of Bruce’s neuroses. Call you back in five.”  

Hood unlocked the office building door with shaking hands, stowed his motorcycle inside, and sprinted up the stairs.  He paced while his computer booted up. 

He pulled up the tracker software and saw Damian’s little green star almost on top of his own little red star. 

He called Alfred back.  “Hey Alfred, his tracker is close to me.”

Alfred gasped and let out a shaky breath.    

“I’ll text you when I see him, and call you back after we’re done talking, which might be awhile.”

“Very well, Master Jason,” Alfred said  

Damian was curled in on himself on the roof of Hood’s central office.  Hood took off his helmet and walked noisily toward him.

“How is Drake?” asked Damian. 

“He’s fine,” said Hood.  “He had to have his spleen removed, but he’s going to be fine.”   

“Good,” Damian murmured.

“Alfred’s worried about you.”

Damian scowled. “He shouldn’t worry.  I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” said Hood.  “But it’s after your curfew, and you don’t usually leave without telling anyone.”

“I…was homesick.”

“That sucks,” said Hood. 

“Yeah,” said Damian, very quietly. 

“Well,” said Hood, “I know you need something, but I don’t know what it is.  I’m going to text the fam and let them know that you’re safe. And when you’re ready, you can tell me what you need.  If you don’t know what you need, let me know, and I can list some options.”

Hood sent the text and responded to the family’s many questions as best he could. Damian was still silent, so Hood started answering work texts and emails. 

“Father’s birthday is coming up soon,” said Damian. 

Hood put down his phone.  “Yeah?”

“And Alfred needed a distraction.  He asked me to help him make a cake.”

“Mhm?” Hood waited.  And waited.  He picked his phone back up.

“I made a desert for Mother once, a couple of years ago, for her birthday,” said Damian.  “She said she once ate baklava while on a mission and liked it, so I made her that.”

You’re such a sweet kid under that Kevlar exterior, thought Hood.   

“Yeah,” said Hood.

“The cooks didn’t know how to make it, and the League library didn’t have cookbooks, and it sounded hard, so I started to prepare months ahead of time.  I had to finish a mission extra-fast so I could slip into the town’s library and find the recipe.  And then I had to finish other missions extra-fast to leave time to steal the spices and sugar and white flour.  I learned to roll the dough paper thin.  It was hard.  The first one I made was so ugly that I snuck out at night and left it on a peasant’s doorway so no one would see it.  And then I had to steal more ingredients.  But my efforts got better.  Not…great, but better.  They were still kind of lumpy and uneven, no matter how many times I tried.  But it was the best I could do, so I made it, and brought it to my mother on her birthday. And she…”

Hood looked over at Damian and was shocked to see the kid’s eyes wet and his lips trembling.  Damian pulled his hood forward so that Hood could not see his face. 

“She..uh…” the kid sniffed. “looked at it and…uh….said,” the kid took in a deep breath and let it out again. “‘You can be better than this, and yet you choose not to be.’ And then she left the room.”

“Damn,” Jason breathed.  “Damn.” He wrapped an arm around Damian’s shoulders and felt the kid cry, although the only sounds that emerged from his hood were sniffs and tiny squeaky noises forcing themselves through tightly closed lips. 

“I stole a candy bar for my mom once,” said Hood.  “Catherine, the woman who raised me, not the other one.  I guess I would’ve been about eight. She took a bite and told me I was the best child anyone could ever hope to have, and she was so lucky to have me.  And then she made me eat the rest. Catherine was really kind to me…when she was aware of me.”  Hood let out a sigh.

Damian leaned into him and sobbed.  Hood held him and rocked him for a long, long time until he quieted. 

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad,” Hood murmured. “They may not mean to, but they do.  They fill you with the faults they had.  And add some extra, just for you.”  

“What’s that?” said Damian, wetly. 

“It’s a poem, called ‘This Be the Verse’, by Philip Larkin,” said Hood, digging a pack of tissues out of his pockets and handing one to Damian.  “Not a very cheerful one, I’m afraid. I’m sorry that your mom did that.  You deserved better, kiddo.”

Damian blew his nose and shrugged.  “She was right.  I should not have presented her with something that was not perfected.  I should have realized that I was wasting my talents on something that I would never perfect and given her something else. I’ve tried sculpting, and it’s the same.  No matter how hard I try, it’s never very good.”

Hood pulled a water bottle out of another pocket and handed it to Damian.  Damn, he loved his pockets, even if they made laundry day a bitch. 

“Yeah, but…childhood isn’t for doing things perfectly.  Childhood is for making mistakes and finding out what you’re good at and what you enjoy.  I mean, to some extent, life is for that.  If you liked making baklava, then it shouldn’t matter if it’s lumpy.  You should keep making it.  And anyway, moms—parents—are supposed to…be a little blind to their kids’ failures.  If it’s not hurting anyone, then your parents should think that most of what you create is wonderful. Even if they have to force themselves to think that way.”

“They should lie to their kids?” said Damian.

“Mmm…not exactly a lie.  Just a way of choosing to see the world.  I mean, if a toddler hands you a scribble, you tell them it’s great.  And, obviously, the scribble is not great art.  But it is great that you get to see this toddler passing through the scribble stage, and learning what a scribble is, and enjoying the feeling of the crayon in their hands and the power to change their world in a small way. It’s great that this toddler thought you were important enough to see their scribble.”

“I am not a toddler,” Damian huffed. “I do not scribble.”

“Yeah, but Damian.  You’re a kid.  And even when you’re not, you’ll still be a human.  We’re not supposed to be perfect.”   

There was no response from the little hooded figure.  Hood sat up straighter, stretching out his upper back without disturbing Damian from where he was slumped against him. 

“Alfred said,” the kid whispered.

Hood went still.  After a few seconds, he prompted, “Yeah?”

“Alfred said that it is a privilege to watch me grow into whoever I’m going to be.”

Hood smiled. “Look, I’m not on the ‘Alfred can do no wrong’ train with Dick and Tim, but Alfred is dead-right there.  It is a privilege to watch you grow into whoever you’re going to be. And it doesn’t matter if that person is who Batman thinks you’re going to be, or who Alfred thinks you’re going to be, or your mom, or Dick, or me, or anybody. It’s a privilege. I’m excited to see how you turn out.”

“What if I turn out to be nothing? What if I do nothing, achieve nothing, make nothing better?” asked Damian. 

“You won’t,” said Hood. “And also, you will not do everything, and achieve everything, and make everything better.  You will do some things, and achieve some things, and make some things better.  And it’s okay if those don’t seem like big things to other people, or if it feels like you’re achieving less than others do.  It’s okay if you don’t feel like you’re achieving a glorious purpose.  Most humans don’t, and they still have value.”

“Hm,” said Damian. “When will Drake be home?” 

“It should be just a few days,” said Hood. 

“Good,” said Damian. 

“Yeah,” said Hood.

They heard the thrum thrum of an approaching helicopter, and watched an air ambulance pass over them toward Gotham General.  

“I love you, Kiddo,” said Hood, kissing Damian’s hair.  “And I like you, too, exactly as you are.”

There was a long silence.

“I love you, too, Todd,” Damian whispered.

The End