Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time he questioned his path was at eleven, when he discovered he was Batman’s son. The second, when he inherited the mantle of Robin. The last, at seventeen. He had always believed he was destined for destruction: as a hero or as the prince of the League of Assassins. He thought he would never stop being what he was: a warrior, a killer, the grandson of the Demon and the son of Batman. But age and experience reshaped his perspective. He met people who lit up his life: a farmer from Kansas, a trio of siblings as different as they were alike, a princess born from clay. Slowly, that fire in his soul—the violent seed inherited from the League—began to fade. And then he believed his mother’s words: “You are so much more than this, my Damian.”

Over the years, he started to live, to enjoy, to let the world in. He discovered something unexpected: perhaps there was something he liked even more than punching criminals—medicine. It all began in the mansion’s library, when a manuscript fell at his feet. It was his grandfather Thomas Wayne’s journal, a meticulous record of medical cases. Reading it sparked a question: could a Wayne be something other than a warrior? He kept the book, studied it, and within those pages he found a possibility: redemption not through destruction, but through healing. That year he was nervous. Nobody seemed to notice—maybe except his best friend, who during late-night patrols caught glimpses of his doubts. Damian feared disappointing the others: would his years of training be seen as a waste? Would his brothers judge him? Would his father reject him?

The first time he said it out loud was to the boy from Kansas, who encouraged him to talk to his father. And so he did. Few times in his life had he been as nervous as that night in Bruce Wayne’s study, under the stern gazes of the family portraits. The words came out clumsy, explaining that he would still be Robin, but that he wanted to study medicine. To his surprise, there was no reproach. Instead of disappointment, he saw joy in his father’s eyes. What he received was a warm, genuine hug. From that day on, Damian Wayne knew he would be a doctor.

Telling his brothers was easier: Dick hugged him proudly, Jason simply placed a firm hand on his shoulder, Tim warned him about how tough the career was—which, deep down, was really a wish for good luck—and Cassandra just smiled. And so, at eighteen, the Wayne heir enrolled at Gotham University.

The path was not easy. Not because of the classes, nor his double life as a vigilante—he had his parents’ discipline and intelligence, plus the medical knowledge from his training—but because of social life. He had learned to get along better with his family and fellow heroes, but outside that circle he barely had a couple of friends. University was different: stares, rumors, detractors followed him from day one. Some even tried to intimidate him—until Jason gave them a lesson.

In two and a half years, he completed what others finished in four. And when the press found out that the youngest Wayne was studying at a public university, and in such an “improper” career for a billionaire, he became the target of mockery and suspicion: they said he paid for passing grades, that his professors were too afraid to fail him, that he cheated. He didn’t care; he was used to public opinion. But among colleagues and professors, doubts persisted—because in Gotham, medicine was no game.

Nationally, the best university for medicine was Gotham’s own. Everyone knew it, which was why thousands applied every year. The reason was simple: nearly all the professors were practicing doctors in Gotham—a city that resembled a war zone more than a metropolis. Among the medical community it was said that one year of practice in Gotham was the same as being sent on campaign in Afghanistan. That’s why the university’s students were considered the most qualified in the country. Staying to practice in Gotham, however, was another story. Of the hundred students who graduated each year, fewer than ten were willing to do their residency in the city’s hospitals. And those who stayed after residency did it out of true love for the city. Of course, the pay was excellent—funded by the Wayne Foundation—and the crushing rhythm of casualties meant Gotham hospitals had 24-hour shifts instead of 36 or 48. The workload was double or triple compared to hospitals elsewhere in the country, so no one objected to the “shorter” shifts for interns.

For all these reasons, everyone treated it like a joke that the youngest Wayne was about to graduate from med school in his early twenties. Mostly because he seemed to come out of nowhere—nobody had known he excelled academically before then. But so it was: Damian graduated.

Graduation was a memory his entire circle wanted to share, so many people showed up that day. The sight of a group of fourteen people so utterly different—ranging from someone who looked like he might mug you on the street, to Gotham’s prince, to the CEO of Wayne Enterprises—was unforgettable for his classmates. Even more unforgettable was the scandal they caused when Damian’s name was called: Dick swung from the chandelier, Tim hacked the school’s screens to display a message reading “Screw everyone who underestimated me”, Cass immobilized one of the hecklers mid-speech with a pressure point hold, and Jon couldn’t stop crying tears of joy.

The family photo from that day now hung in the manor’s main hall: all of them in formal attire, surrounding their youngest brother in cap and gown, holding his medical diploma. That same day was also his first at the Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital—the largest, best equipped, and hardest to enter as an intern. Thanks to Damian’s stellar grades—though the press insisted it was because the hospital bore his father’s name—he had earned a year-long spot.

Bets immediately started circulating. The entire hospital was gambling on how long the “spoiled little prince” would last. Some said he’d faint at the first compound fracture he saw; others bet he wouldn’t even manage to put on his scrubs correctly. A whiteboard in the doctors’ lounge tracked the bets, ranging from “one hour” to “a full year.”

“Who the hell bet on a year?” one doctor asked.

“Dr. Ashworth.”

“Age must really be catching up to him,” another replied dryly.

And there was Damian, getting ready for his first day of internship. His first 24-hour shift. He’d fed his pets, prepared all his Robin duties, and left his room with his backpack. In the living room, Bruce sat reading the news.

“Father, I’m leaving for the hospital.”

“Damian, it goes without saying everything will go well—because with your abilities, I know it will.”

A faint smile tugged at both their lips. Damian left the manor, deciding to take public transport. He disliked the idea, but didn’t want to stand out. Maybe in the future he’d bring his car—though he would never let Alfred drive him. Stepping off the bus, he saw it: the hospital, with plaques bearing the names of his grandparents. He only knew them from stories, but he knew they’d been wonderful people. Finally, he entered the reception. The whispers, stares, and laughter began the instant he set foot inside. He found his way to the lockers without asking—he knew the hospital’s layout perfectly, thanks to missions as Robin. Though it was the first time he’d seen these rooms from anywhere other than a ventilation shaft.

The moment he entered, everyone seemed to distance themselves, as if he were some contagious parasite. He reached his locker, put his things away, and was about to change when he heard it—that stupid voice, he thought.

“Hey, rich boy. Did Daddy buy your spot here?”

Marcus Voss. Son of one of the top cardiothoracic surgeons in the hospital—hell, in the country. Unfortunately, Damian had met him a year before graduation. He was also the same one Cass had immobilized at the ceremony—a memory that still made Damian smile. Either way, Marcus had always been his loudest detractor. Damian rolled his eyes and ignored him. Marcus didn’t stop.

“Uh, and your first rotation is… ER too? Ooooh, I bet the little prince will see some very interesting things there,” he said, reading the board as he snatched away the white coat Damian was about to put on. Damian knew that five years ago, Marcus’s nose would already be broken. Now, he just pushed the thought down.

“Marcus,” Damian finally muttered as a forced greeting, yanking the coat back and slipping it on.

“You know, if Daddy’s boy can’t handle the ER, I can always talk to my father and get you rotated into, I don’t know… dermatology?” Marcus snorted, joined by the laughter of his two companions.

“How considerate of you, Marcus. If you’re so interested in dermatology, maybe you should ask to rotate there,” Damian shot back with his trademark sarcasm, a gleam in his eyes like he’d just scored a victory.

“Ha! Not a chance! Dermatology’s for little airheads—like women, or in your case, spoiled brats.” Marcus snapped, stepping closer, trying to corner him. Damian slammed his locker shut, staring him down with mocking eyes.

“Excuse me?!”

A voice, cold and commanding as a drill sergeant’s, filled the residents’ lounge. Everyone froze and turned. Standing there was Dr. Vivian Larksong, head of the hospital’s dermatology department and a member of the board. Marcus’s face drained to chalk-white.

“N-no, I was just—I mean—” he stammered.

Damian slipped out like a shadow, a half-smile forming as he heard Marcus get chewed out behind him. He kept it until he stepped out of the elevator.

He arrived at the ER, approaching the nurses’ station to wait for instructions. Other interns in white coats gathered too, though they kept their distance. Even the still-pale Marcus joined them. There were four interns in total—one woman, three men.

Their resident soon appeared: a tall, severe man in his forties. Dr. Matthew Ross. He looked each of them over, and when his eyes landed on Damian, he shook his head. Then he turned sharply and began walking, forcing them all to follow.

“Welcome to hell. Out here, your grades and last names don’t mean a damn thing. The only thing that matters is whether you break… or hold.” He spoke as he led them through the crowded corridors. After half an hour of rules and a tour, he began assigning tasks.

“Marcus, minor surgery patients. Harper, with me to trauma. Nguyen, lab results for rounds.” He paused, then added with a note of disdain: “And you… Wayne. Chart sorting. Sit in that office and stay out of the way.”

Damian wondered what the man had against him. Being underestimated was one thing—this was personal. Still, he couldn’t disobey. He hated the hospital’s chain of command, but there was little he could do.

The next six hours passed that way—though he really finished the task in three. While the others came and went with coats stained in blood, Damian sat in the office like a piece of furniture. Finally, it was lunchtime. He regretted not packing food; most of the cafeteria offered meat, so he settled for vegetables. Hunger didn’t bother him—he’d gone days without eating before—but the whispers did.

“Did you see rich boy’s face? He’s just here for show.”

“Hope Daddy donated enough money to pay for the hospital towels.”

“And that he doesn’t kill anyone.”

They thought they were whispering. For Damian, with his razor-sharp hearing, their words were painfully clear. He finished his salad, clenching his jaw tighter with every bite, every click of his teeth ringing in his ears. He left the cafeteria radiating anger—so much that everyone seemed to feel it. He made his way to the rooftop, unseen, and once alone he slammed a fist into the wall, cracking it. He needed to vent the frustration and helplessness inside him.

He had always been proud of his roots, of being the prince of the Al-Ghul, the son of the Bat. But now those roots brought more trouble than advantages. He sighed up at the sky. That’s when he heard footsteps climbing the stairs—slow, steady. He didn’t move; he’d been there first, after all. But he hoped no one noticed the crack in the wall.

From the doorway, an old man appeared—slow steps, a cane, gray hair and glasses, hunched but steady.

“You’re keeping me company tonight,” the old man said in that voice of old age.

"I can leave if I’m bothering you,” he added.

“No, no—stay… I can’t deny you your rightful place.”

Damian was already fed up: his father owning the hospital wasn’t a reason for everyone to treat him with that kind of sarcasm. He turned his head, slightly indignant.
“Sorry I’m my father’s son,” he replied, sarcasm thick in his voice.
“I’m glad you are; after all, you also inherited your grandfather’s will.”

The mention of his grandfather pulled him out of his thoughts; no one had mentioned him in all that time—nor did the press seem especially interested.

“My grandfather?”

“That’s right. He liked to come up to the roof when he felt overwhelmed too.”

“You knew my grandfather?”

“Knew him? He was my partner. Allow me to introduce myself: I’m Doctor Henry Ashworth. A pleasure, Damian.”

A memory surfaced: in his grandfather’s notes there were entries consulting with a certain Dr. Ashworth. Damian didn’t know what to say; it was strange that someone would have even a little faith in him, some context beyond his father. Still, seeing the old man, he couldn’t help wondering—if his grandfather were alive, would he be like this?
“I see,” he managed after a moment of thought.

“Doctor Ross can be resentful, and let’s say your father didn’t leave a good impression on him back when they were studying medicine.” Damian had forgotten that his father, before becoming the Bat, had taken semesters of different fields to broaden his knowledge; he’d never considered that any of his father’s former classmates might still be around.
“I don’t blame him; with my father’s temperament it’s hard to take me seriously,” Damian added. He meant Bruce’s public persona—the shallow, foolish image everyone knew; yet inside, he cursed those who despised his father, because if they only saw everything he did behind the scenes…

“I know both of you are more than that; I know because your grandfather didn’t leave such a small legacy. I’m convinced that if you keep at it, little by little you’ll prove your worth to everyone. But anyway, I suggest you go down soon—the lunch hour will be over and I don’t think you want more problems,” he said. It was true: in a few minutes everyone had to report to the nurses’ bay. Damian headed down quickly, not without giving the old man one last look.

As soon as he hit the emergency floor, he noticed an unusual amount of activity, like people were preparing for something. He glanced at the screen where the news were reporting a gang fight that had been interrupted by the Red Hood, leaving dozens wounded who would be taken to their hospital. He sighed under his breath; every day he understood a bit more why his father got so exasperated.

The problem, by that point, was that the hospital was understaffed—only 40% of the required personnel. There were never enough doctors or nurses in Gotham because everyone preferred to flee to other cities. In fact, on that wing of the hospital there were only three emergency medical interns and seven residents in total rotating shifts, all of them expected to handle up to 300 patients a day. Now, with an event like this, that night there were only the four residents, their on-call intern and fewer than ten nurses. Everyone prepared for the worst, rushing with gauze and blood, waiting for the ambulances.

Damian joined his fellow interns, who lined up behind their resident as the sound of sirens drew closer.
“Well, this is the moment of truth. If anyone dies, I’ll make sure they never touch a coat again,” he muttered. Everyone glanced at Damian briefly.

Suddenly the doors flew open. Screams, sirens—the ambulances dumped more than a dozen severely injured people. Blood everywhere: open fractures, amputations, some with exposed organs; the room was one long chorus of pain.

Damian watched his colleagues’ faces drain almost to the color of the floor. One began to tremble, the woman backed against the wall, Marcus vomited in a corner. Even Dr. Ross wavered—this was more than they’d expected that night. Damian simply waited for orders; he was used to scenes like this—he’d seen worse. *At least I’m not using the bazooka,* he thought, remembering Jason. Finally his resident stepped forward.
“I need gloves, gauze, two IV lines and all eighteen monitors running NOW!” The staff looked up and sprang into action.

He took charge of a patient with massive hemorrhage while improvising a tourniquet. To his right another patient was wheeled in with his arm nearly hanging off, held only by skin and tendons. Blood spurted everywhere. Ross stood frozen, hands still pressing another wound, unable to let go. He looked at his interns: all petrified, eyes wide, breathing fast—no one moved. It was as if collective shock had turned them into statues.

“Can I help or are you going to send me to the office?” Damian asked, not trying to offend. Ross had no choice.

“Attend to the patient with the amputated arm,” he said curtly.

Damian stepped forward. His expression was oddly serene, almost unnerving amid the chaos. He pulled on gloves quickly, grabbed gauze and forceps from the auxiliary table and moved to the stretcher.
“I need compression here,” he ordered in a firm voice.

No one reacted. He took the forceps himself, clamped an artery that was spraying blood and stopped the hemorrhage within seconds. The silence around him was absolute, broken only by the patient’s moans. Damian looked up, unnervingly calm.

“If you’re going to stand there and watch, at least pass me more gauze.”

The nearest nurse obeyed immediately. It was the first movement in the group; little by little others began to come out of their paralysis, though all watched him with a mixture of fear and awe. There was no time to rest. Just as he finished that case, a young woman came in stabbed in the abdomen, her skin torn and her entrails showing. Marcus ran out to vomit again; another intern covered his eyes. Damian, in contrast, took a deep breath and reached for gauze with surgical calm.
“Local anesthetic. Now.” His voice cut through the panic like a blade. He bent over the wound, controlling the bleeding, issuing orders as if he’d spent years in the ER.

The next case was worse: a man with third-degree chemical burns across his torso and arms, skin hanging in shreds and the smell of charred flesh filling the room. Ross stepped back, visibly nauseous; Damian didn’t so much as blink.
“Remove clothing… carefully. Don’t rip off anything that’s stuck. Wet gauze.” He said it with a chill-inspiring calm. The screams continued. A child was brought in with his leg torn apart, the femur white as ivory protruding through bloody skin. The mother screamed hysterically; Ross was attending a gunshot wound to the head; the interns hesitated, unable to approach. Once again it was Damian who bent down to the little boy.

“Look at me,” he said to the child in a soft voice that contrasted with the chaos—similar to the voice his brother used when he was small. “Breathe with me: one… two… three.” While talking, he fashioned a splint from wooden slats and bandages, securing it with quick, precise movements. The child, still with tears in his eyes, began to calm. The silence around him was heavy. The other interns stared with a mix of disbelief, shame and fear; Ross could hardly accept what he was seeing. Damian—the youngest, the scorned one, the son of that empty-headed man named Bruce Wayne—was running the ward while everyone else shook like puppies.

When a lull finally came, Damian stepped out of the ER. He was covered in blood from head to toe: his uniform in tatters and his face smeared red. He sat on the concrete bench by the main entrance. Now everyone avoided him—for other reasons, perhaps fear or disbelief

“What the hell happened in there?” Damian asked. Red Hood—Jason—stepped out from the shadows.

“A gang fight in a chemical plant. I stopped them before they caused a spill, and now the area’s under my control.”

“Was it necessary to use explosive rounds? It took me hours to pick out the little fragments,” he muttered angrily.

“You know, you’re starting to sound more like Bruce every day,” Jason said, lighting a cigarette.

"Take that back!” Damian threw a pen at his face.

“Alright, alright. I hope you shined in there.”

“If I find out you did that on purpose I swear I’ll rip your balls off,” Damian snapped.

“And you look so docile in the hospital.”

“Were you spying on me?!”

“No… well, not just me.” Damian realized maybe even Cass in Hong Kong knew about how his day had gone.

“I hate you guys.”

“Aww, I love you too, Dami.”

“Shut up.”

After a chaotic night in the emergency room, Damian remained standing effortlessly while his colleagues collapsed. At dawn, the disaster subsided, but the looks he received changed: they were no longer mocking, but fearful, a reflection that reminded him of his past as a murderer, something he was no longer proud of. After 24 hours on duty, he returned to the mansion, where Alfred cared for him as always, and slept for just a few hours before returning to his routine.

When he went down to the Batcave, he ran into Dick, Tim, Jason, and Steph, who greeted him with jokes about his “debut” at the hospital, revealing that they had hacked the cameras to see him in action. Amid the teasing and disguised affection, Damian accepted a challenge from Tim in the training area; fighting with his brothers felt much more natural than facing the fear of inexperienced doctors. That familiarity reminded him that, beyond his role as an intern, his other comfort zone was still that of Robin, in the midst of combat and chaos.

That night, with Bruce back and after listening to everyone recount his medical exploits as if they were a reality show, the family went out on patrol again. There was an open investigation into Black Mask that had yet to be resolved. That night, they raided several of his henchmen but failed to gather any more information. Damian was able to get some sleep before having to return to the hospital.

Chapter Text

A gun was pressed to his head — everyone’s eyes widened like saucers. He recognized that weapon: a Remington 870 Tac-14. That was when he knew: the kidnappers were idiots. Didn’t they know about the uncomfortable recoil when firing? Or how long it took to reload? The only thing in their favor was how flashy those guns were, which had everyone crouched in the ER. Sure, they weren’t a bad choice for hunting, but if they expected to take a hospital with them… well, they were definitely incompetent.

Damian could have dodged the shot, disarmed the man in the black hoodie, delivered a solid kick to his chest and left him unconscious — but there were too many people around him.

Minutes before those would-be terrorists showed up in the emergency wing trying to take the hospital and negotiate, the ER had seemed calm for a weekend night. Marcus had dared to do the one thing you shouldn’t do in an emergency room: halfway through a meal he proclaimed, “What a quiet night.” To no one’s surprise, half an hour later the ER filled up — all minor, unrelated complaints, but every bed occupied. “It could have been worse,” Damian muttered through his teeth while suturing a hand wound — a grave error. Like an invocation, twelve men in black with masks burst in with firearms, holding everyone in the ER hostage.

Ross already knew what to do; it happened more often than anyone liked. In a firm voice he ordered the interns to get down on the floor and the patients to stay in their beds. Damian obeyed, watching his colleagues panic, cry, and tremble as they knelt; he thought about how easy it would be to disarm them all and knock them out, though it would be messier without his suit and gear. But again he knew he couldn’t — doing so would throw away years of hiding his identity.

The emergency wing was silent, broken only by the muffled sobs of some patients. The armed men watched every corner. Suddenly, a sharp sound cut the stillness: a little girl began to cough violently, clutching her throat.

“Mom…!” she whimpered, barely audible. Her voice was choking off as her throat closed. The little girl’s skin broke out into irregular red patches, her lips turned purple, and every breath was a desperate wheeze. Her mother tried to lift her, frantic. He knew instantly: anaphylaxis, a severe allergic reaction.

“She’s choking…” he whispered to his colleagues, who didn’t react. He looked to Dr. Ross. “Anaphylaxis,” he added, pressing the point to his resident.

“Congratulations, I’ll put a star on your forehead later,” Ross replied under his breath.

“Aren’t we going to do anything?” Damian asked.

“Have you noticed we’re surrounded by armed criminals?” Ross said with some exasperation. Of course Damian had taken the hospital’s extreme-case training — of course he knew they were supposed to be passive hostages until Batman, or the police, arrived — but he, better than anyone, knew that would take time. He decided to trust that time would magically shorten; he decided to wait. But he couldn’t.

Damian saw everything: the panic in the girl’s eyes, the cold sweat on her brow, the spasmodic rise and fall of her chest — she had maybe a couple of minutes. He acted without thinking, trying to stand amid his colleagues’ incredulous stares and his resident’s mixture of anger and worry.

“Wayne, down!” Ross managed to scold. One of the terrorists trained his rifle on the group, sharp.

“Nobody move!” The trembling hand aimed the shotgun at his head. That’s how it came to that moment, cursing his luck and confirming his kidnappers were useless.

He clenched his fists. If he waited, the girl would die there, in front of everyone. And he would never allow that — that was why he’d entered the residency, why he’d changed his life. He’d deal with the consequences later. He rose slowly, letting his white coat billow like a flag of defiance.

“Either you let me pass,” he said with an icy calm that contrasted with the tension, his colleagues shifting from panic to fear and confusion, “or when the person we all know will arrive gets here, you’ll be responsible for a dead child — and we both know he won’t take that well. You decide.” The tone he used in the last sentence was courtesy learned from his mother; she used it for death threats. That he now used it to save a life sounded almost ironic.

The terrorist hesitated, confused by the tone and his expression that showed no feeling; the other men also seemed to sense the heavy aura because they didn’t move. Damian didn’t wait for an answer. With a quick move he slid beside the girl, felt her neck and pulled an auto-injector from the crash cart.

“Calm down, little one…” he whispered, plunging the needle into her thigh. “Breathe, just breathe… it will pass.”

Air slowly returned to the girl’s lungs, between gasps and sobs. Her mother broke down in tears and embraced her.

Damian straightened, eyes fixed on the terrorist who’d tried to stop him. A few awkward seconds passed in silence. Every gaze — patients, doctors, and terrorists — conveniently landed on him. Reflexively he hugged the girl, shielding her head from the shards of glass that had gone flying; through his right side someone had finally arrived, the man everyone expected — Batman, or rather his father — accompanied by Red Robin, or rather Tim, who shot him a playful look. He did nothing, focusing on stabilizing the girl while checking her throat with a tongue depressor. In the background the fight between the bat and the terrorists took place, but to him it sounded more like background noise than a real battle.

In less than an hour the hospital had returned to normal — the magic of Gotham: everything could rise from the ashes. When things were under control, Ross called him aside, away from the rest of the staff. He looked at him in silence for a few seconds that felt eternal, his gaze a mix of fear, bewilderment, and anger. Then he spoke in that deep voice he used not as a doctor arguing but as someone who had spent years watching life slip away in a hospital.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, Wayne?” he snapped, not even giving him time to open his mouth. “We had armed men in the wing, hostages, and you decide the best idea is to stare them down. Do you know the difference between a hero and an idiot? The first one gets home alive.”

Damian stayed silent, jaw clenched. Of course he knew the difference, but he also knew he was neither hero nor fool — he was a vigilante; that was his essence, and no matter what career he chose he couldn’t avoid that ingrained spirit. Ross sighed, containing his anger, rubbing his face.

“That said… the girl is alive because you didn’t hesitate. What you did was reckless, imprudent and totally against protocol — maybe even suicidal and a bit psychopathic — but it’s also what saved a life. I won’t deny it.”

He stepped closer, his voice lower and sharp.

“That doesn’t exempt you from responsibility. You’re going to write a detailed report of your actions, present it to the board, and accept the consequences. And next time you’re given an order, you follow it. Clear?”

Damian swallowed; the reprimand burned, but he’d had worse scoldings and punishments in his vigilante life — maybe he felt more anger than pain. Still, he felt relief knowing he hadn’t let anyone die; only for that feeling could he resist replying with the arsenal of comebacks he had in mind and instead said curtly,

“Yes, doctor,” he answered, dry.

Ross nodded once, brusquely.

“Good. Now wash your face and get back to the wing, you’ll be filing charts while we decide what to do with you. And Wayne… don’t put us in that position again.” Finally he said, urging him out of the office.

Damian stepped out of the office with a mix of raw emotions. He felt anger. Why punish him when he’d done what a doctor was supposed to do? What sense was there in letting someone die just to follow stupid protocols? But he also felt doubt — doubt about fitting into the system that being a doctor meant, doubt about whether he’d made the right choice. Maybe he was only cut out to be a fighter. Maybe he should never have changed paths. He didn’t feel comfortable in the hospital: it was his third shift and no one dared talk to him. He ate alone, the nurses avoided him, and the doctors preferred to give him a task that would occupy the whole shift rather than try to teach him anything.

He sighed and slid down against the wall, the emergency stairs beneath him. He’d sneaked to a place where people’s eyes would leave him alone for a while. He understood why Jason smoked; he would have liked something to do while he organized his thoughts. He felt someone approaching but decided not to pay it much mind — they didn’t seem to have bad intentions.

“Tough day?” a young, sweet voice broke the silence. Damian, sitting on the floor, looked up. It was a young woman with black hair and brown eyes, maybe twenty-two.

“I suppose you could call it that,” he said, surprised by the interaction; usually when someone found him, they left.

“After the show you put on in the ER, I expected nothing less,” she replied, letting herself drop to the floor at the other end of the stairwell.

“If you want to make fun of me, there are easier ways — though you’ve got guts doing it face to face,” Damian muttered, with that air of indifference that characterized him.

“That’s why nobody talks to you, always on the defensive,” the woman said, rolling her eyes. Honesty was refreshing in a place where everyone spoke behind each other’s backs. Damian just sighed and straightened. The conversation suited him.

“I’m just straightforward. I don’t see the need to beat around the bush,” he answered.

“Well, you should at least try once in a while if you don’t want to spend the whole residency alone. You’re odd a lot of the time.”

A bag of chips was tossed without warning. He’d already predicted the move seconds before, so he caught it with his hand.

“Oh, good reflexes.”

“What’s this?”

“Looks like the promise-to-be-late needs to open her eyes. Organic chips. I haven’t seen you eat all day.”

“And this is supposed to be…?”

“A gift, a peace offering, a tribute — call it whatever you want. But eat. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you barely nibble in the cafeteria.”

“And watching people isn’t considered weird?” he asked.

“The whole hospital has its eyes on you. Ignoring you would be the weird part.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Here we go again with your defensiveness.” The girl rolled her eyes, sighed, and stared at him. “Let’s say you remind me of someone.”

“So you’re here talking to me just because I remind you of some stranger?”

“Yes.”

Again, her honesty shifted his thoughts. People usually reacted to his questions in different ways: some got angry, some intimidated, some mocked. But unoffensive honesty was rare. He gave in. What harm could there be in accepting the food? He opened the bag and started eating.

“I’m Damian Wayne. I’m in the residency,” he added; he knew everyone knew him, but it felt odd not to introduce himself.

“Amira Alavi, nursing social service,” the girl replied.

They fell silent for a few seconds as they ate their snacks.

“The fact that you don’t eat lunch… is it because the food doesn’t meet your rich-kid standards, or another reason?” she asked with no decorum.

“The hospital offers little non-meat food. I don’t eat meat.”

“Ah, that explains it. Maybe if others knew, they’d stop calling you a picky rich kid.”

“Maybe if they minded their own business they wouldn’t call me that.”

“Maybe if you remembered you’re in the hospital system you’d understand why no one can just act on their own.” Her words echoed in the stairwell. Damian said nothing.

“And why can’t anyone just do what they want?” he asked, not trying to offend. The question was genuine; if he wanted to fit in he had to understand how others thought.

“Well, haven’t you figured it out? One person alone can’t do everything — unless you’re Batman, which we aren’t. For something as complex as saving lives to work, many people have to function like the gears of a clock. That’s how a hospital is: from paramedics, orderlies, nurses, doctors, lab techs… we all look out for each other and work together, knowing one another. You can’t go through life doing whatever you want just because cooperation wasn’t demanded of you before.” She said it in a neutral tone, as if explaining the meaning of life to a small child.

Damian leaned his head against the wall. He felt like he’d had this conversation before. He remembered arriving at the mansion and taking on the mantle of Robin, how at first he didn’t know how to work as a team and made mistakes because of it. He’d long since learned the importance of teamwork, but his mind seemed to have confined that lesson to his vigilante life only, isolating the idea of being part of a mechanism from ordinary life. Maybe that was the root of his inability to fit in socially.

“I see…” he limited himself to say.

He expected a scolding or something more. People usually got mad when someone responded so briefly to such an expansive explanation. But Amira simply kept eating, calm. Her phone buzzed.

“Oops, I think they’re calling me. See you later, rich kid,” she exclaimed, standing quickly to head into the hospital. Damian raised a hand in farewell. After finishing his snack he stretched, thinking about her words. He’d try to understand them more deeply later. Now he had a report to write and had to return to the office. He dragged his feet, dreading the bureaucracy.

News about the hospital spread like wildfire; by the end of his boring shift everyone knew how he’d ignored protocol and, again, about the peculiar calm with which he’d acted — without fear, without hesitation. On the walk home Amira’s words echoed: “like the gears of a clock” — were people like that? He didn’t know.

At dinner that night everyone pointed out how stupid he’d looked being a hostage to low-level criminals; he, in turn, scolded them for not arriving sooner. At the table were Bruce, Tim, Duke and Damian.

“If you’d gotten there faster I wouldn’t have wasted my precious time on a stupid report just for saving a kid,” he grumbled angrily.

“Do you know B still hasn’t developed teleport tech for us, unfortunately?” Tim offered.

“Excuses.”

“Better tell us who your new little friend is,” Tim jabbed with that teasing tone he used to annoy his younger brother. Damian glared.

“Didn’t you say you’d stop watching the hospital cameras?” Duke chimed in, confused.

“You’re a damn cheater,” Damian kicked the chair, moving the table.

“Guys,” Bruce finally interrupted, having only eaten quietly until then. Both stopped but eyed each other like they were about to fight. “Tim, stop using the hospital cameras as your entertainment program,” Bruce asked; Tim simply leaned back in his chair.

“Thanks, finally someone coherent!” Damian replied. Silence stretched a few seconds while everyone ate.

“Damian, you need to be more careful; if people start to suspect there will be problems,” Bruce added, taking a glass of water.

“What did you want me to do, leave a kid to die from an allergic reaction?”

“No, but didn’t you trust we’d arrive?” he asked in that paternal tone.

“Believe me, I only dared because I knew you’d arrive before things got serious.”

“Then you should’ve waited a bit longer; if you’d let them shoot you…” The subtle change in tone didn’t go unnoticed. “It’s not appropriate,” Bruce replied, with the voice of someone who knows what it’s like to lose a child.

“Tsk. Seems after so many years I still don’t live up to everyone’s expectations in trust,” Damian finished his food. He was tired, but more than that, overwhelmed by everyone reprimanding him. Damian was in his room, at his desk maintaining some of the tools he used as Robin. Duke peeked in the doorway with an expression between doubt and camaraderie.

“Can I?” he asked.

“Go ahead. I’m not as territorial as I seem,” Damian murmured without taking his eyes off the text. Duke sat in the chair opposite him.

“Rough day?” he asked, unsure how to begin.

“Is that how extroverts start conversations?” Damian snapped, closing the book.

“What?” Duke looked puzzled.

“Well, at least that gives me to understand someone besides Alfred values privacy. Weren’t you watching the cameras?”

“No… I felt it would be invading people’s privacy too much…”

“That’s not the family style,” Damian relaxed a bit, finally looking at Duke. Contrary to what one might think, they were good companions — not the sibling bond he had with the other Robins and Cass, but there was respect that his brothers often forgot. Duke connected with him because both were clear in their intentions; sometimes he compared him to a cousin, especially when he’d occasionally drop by for dinner after patrol.

“You know, when I arrived here… I felt I didn’t fit either. Everyone already seemed to have a role: Dick the perfect older brother, Jason the rebel, Tim the genius, and you… well, you were mini-Bruce with a sword.”

Damian barely raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t need to remind me. You didn’t fit anywhere either — what’s this recap for?”

“I’ll get to the point,” Duke continued calmly. “It took me time to understand I didn’t have to be like them. Not like you. Not like Bruce. What I needed was to shape myself so I could function with you. Be part of the team without losing what made me… me.” Damian look at him sighing.

“And what does that have to do with me? I appreciate the confidence, I guess…”

“Damian, you look… frustrated,” Duke said, hoping not to anger him; he’d always noticed how he hated having his weaknesses pointed out.

“I think I am,” he replied, if that feeling had a name maybe it was that. Duke widened his eyes slightly — it was rare for him to accept opinions so easily.

“I just want you to know you don’t have to be like the rest to fit in; rather, find your way to be part of the system without losing yourself,” he added. Damian stroked Alfred, the cat, who’d jumped into his lap.

“You say it like it’s easy.”

“Believe me, it doesn’t seem easy.” A brief silence. Finally Damian tilted his head slightly.

“Thanks. I guess… I appreciate the advice.”

Duke raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Was that… a ‘thank you’?”

“If you say it out loud I’ll take it back.”

Duke laughed as he walked to the exit; before leaving he grabbed one of the knives from the table. “Nice edge. Perfect for cutting cake.”

Damian look at him a bit annoyed. “Put it back, Thomas.”

“Yeah, yeah. Calm down.” Duke left the knife in place, still chuckling. “One day you’ll learn to joke without threatening homicide.”

“Maybe that day will never come,” Damian replied with a slight smile.