Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world is swimming when Damian wakes up. He's laying on a cloud, and everything goes in and out, in and out.

He doesn't recognise the room, or the smell, or anything, but that's okay. He knows that feeling. He doesn't remember drinking any chai, though.

He stays quiet. He's always quiet until Um comes and lets him go. He remembers that. He's supposed to stay hidden.

He gets up from the cloud. Are they on a boat? The floor is moving, and he trips on something. There's pain in his arm, but it doesn't matter. The  thobe he's wearing is thin and iching and–

He falls, and it makes a loud noise. He freezes.

(They'll find him.)

His eyes don't seem to work properly. Everything is blurry and it's hard to focus. His head hurts. It really really hurts. He feels the ground as he crawls, looking for –

There. A crack between the floor and the wall. A hiding spot.

He barely manages to close the door behind him when there's a loud noise outside.

"Pull his IV… still in bed rest… where…?"

He slowly smiles as he lays his aching head against the cold wall. He won. They won't find him.

He listens. There's noise, and screams, and he curls inside himself as someone screams outside. 

"No, don't even THINK about it!"

(This hiding spot is small, Damian-shaped, so they can't get in here. No bad things can get in here.)

"I swear to god, B, Just get out. I'm calling Jay. You really think it's helping?"

Then, finally, the noise is over. Only one person left in the room. They don't get any closer.

Only one person's left in the room, and they call him in a soft tone.

"Damian? Dami?"

He slowly opens the door. Um is the only one who calls him that way.

"Umma?" He whispers. "intahat alloba, Umma? Khalas?" Game over, mom? Enough?

"Ah…" she confirms. He crawls out on trembling limbs.

"hal nahn amnun alan?" Are we safe now?

Um doesn't smell like um. But sometimes it happens. They probably just moved. He crawls into her arms. They feel smaller than usual, but it's hard to think now. Maybe he grew up again.

Something bad happened, he thinks. Something really really bad. He can't remember what.

"ʾāsef,"he cries. Sorry . "ʾanā ʾāsef, Umma." I'm sorry, mom .

He doesn't know what's happening and everything hurts and it's–

It's too much–

Um put him on the cloud again. It's like when he was really small. She hugs him but doesn't say a word.

Something wet touches his skin, and there's a sniff behind him.

Oh

Is Umma… crying?

 Something really really bad must have happened to her. And he can't even help her this time. Maybe that's why he's hurt?

He's on the cloud again. It's hard to think. Everything hurts so bad, it's cold and hot at the same time and his arms really really hurt.

"la 'asheur 'anani bihalat jayidat, mama," I don't feel so good, mommy.

She touches his forehead, ever so softly, and then there's something cold and wet on his face. He reaches out and holds her hand, just holding it. He doesn't know what happened, but he thinks something bad happened. He thinks it was his fault.

"ʾanā ʾāsef, Umma." Heavily falls out of his lips as the darkness pulls him over.

I'm sorry, mom.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

There's a sound, close and irritating, as he wakes up. The room around is dark and full of shadows. There's a monster sitting on the chair beside him.

The beeping noise gets closer and louder, and the monster opens his eyes.

"You're awake," he says. His red eyes look at the monitor. "Good. That's good."

The body on the bed stays silent. The mind inside the body doesn't cry. There's time for everything, he was taught. There's a punishment for any seemingly disobedience.

It's all for nothing, he realizes. There's no escaping from the consequences.

He is tired. 

He has been tired for a very long time.

He hoped it would be the end.

But there's no escaping from the Bat.

Batman let into the room another man, tall and buff. And then another, not as tall and thinner, but still strong.

He won't fight it. There's no use even trying. They are three, he is one and weak. The small room feels overcrowded with all the new arrivals.

Damian doesn't want to know what will happen to him. He gave up. He would take his punishment quietly, and won't give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him cry. 

He keeps his eyes closed and his face neutral. They are dry as he leaves his body, looking from a distant place.

(He's with his brothers. It's a sunny day, and Dickie runs around, laughing and showing them his acrobatics. He nearly trips over Jay, and runs away, laughing at the confused look of the older boy. 

Jay reads a book, basking in the warm afternoon light. His face is peaceful and excited as he gets caught up in the book. He’s fighting to keep reading, as his tired eyes slowly close.)

Something touches his face. Calling him, but he’s not there–

(His oldest brother pushes him kindly, quietly asking him to look at the new app he programmed. There’s a bin full of empty cans by their side. But something cast a shadow over his face. 

“Hi,” his brother says–)

“Just hold on, okay? Don’t give up. Just hold on”.

(“I’m here,” he says. “Why would I leave?”

 and his brothers smile and laugh at the soft afternoon light.)

Chapter Text

Father is out on patrol (and even if he wasn't, hopefully no one would let him by the teen). Todd had to leave due to some violations in his territory, Gr- Richard is still emotionally compromised, and Pennyworth spent the night as Father's technological support. They all left Drake as the current supervisor of the other teen.

Drake had been, hardly, an acceptable associate in this particular situation. Damian wouldn't lower himself into understanding that lesser life form, but given the appropriate circumstances he could be persuaded to hypothesize Drake's motives as an act of kindness. Or weakness, of course. With Drake this is always a possibility.

The security cameras in the room are on a loop, playing a record of Drake sitting by the teen's bed. The room is empty as Damian lets the children in.

They are quiet, but young Richard let out a sob as he sees the teen on the bed. The child runs immediately and carefully crawls into the bed by the unmoving body, hugging his brother closely. Young Todd just nods, staying close to the door - keeping one eye on the hallway and the other in the bed. 

Other-Drake is weak, but manages to get to the seat by the bed. He holds his brother's hand, keeping his eyes on the moving chest.

(Damian looks away from the brothers.)

They are quiet. They've got ten minutes. 

They leave the room as silently as they came.

The only sound comes from other-Drake, who leans towards Damian and whispers in his ear:

"Thank you, for helping us see him."

Chapter Text

He can't breathe.

It's wet. There's water on his face, and he chokes and he can't breathe.

Everything hurts.

Muscles and bones, legs and arms and head. His chest is burning and he can't breathe.

There's a hand on his face, and he is young and there's a hand over his mouth as someone carries him and runs. 

There are flickers, unrelated photos:

Being held over. Strong hold on his back, face pressed down to a shoulder, the fabric scratch.

Shouts and screams. Red and orange and HOT and moving. Loud noises and screams and explosions and someone screams in the distance and he's too young to know they die.

A cave, or a tunnel, or a hidden bunker under the carpet. He's too young to count and seven at the same time and the world is burning and he's drowning as it drip-drip-drip.

He's hiding in the cabinet or in the secret room under the carpet or—

And people scream. People always scream as they die.

(Damian stays quiet.)

Beep

            Beep

                        Beep

The heart monitor is neutral. The electronic tablet by the bed, monitoring the patient's vitals, does not care about the life it's supervising. The numbers are cold, uncaring, changing up and down like it doesn't mean a thing.

The patient's eyes suddenly open. He moves around in the bed, incoherent, as he gets a glimpse at the child sitting by his bedside.

"Hush," the child tells the teenager. "Quit talking." He's already struggling to breathe. There's no need to waste the oxygen he managed to purchase.

The sick teen holds the younger child's hand as he struggles to get his words out.

"There's nowhere to hide," he whispers. "They'll find you. They'll always find you. The only way out is death."

His past haunts him. He knows that.

There are fractures he gets sometimes—like sharp shreds of a broken mirror. 

A sentence in familiar language during patrol

(" No, please, no !")

The rhythm of a poem someone reads during a gala.

A young mother, holding her child closely in the night.

The smell of burning wood and bodies

( HE was so mad for his weakness. Made him sit by the fireplace until his skin got red and there were blisters all over his arm. Made him feed the ancient fireplace and threw in bacon to make him stop gagging and the smell was just like .)

A specific shade of the color green—

( Don't even think about it !)

His past keeps haunting him.

He is five and carried, seven and hiding, nine and he'll never get that smell out of his nose.

(Sometimes he can still smells that.)

He's looking at his ghosts, at the child he once was, and it's almost like a mirror—almost like he could just reach out and get him, get through and warn him—

"There's nowhere to hide," he whispers. Thinking about an underground cage and trying to escape and fire and—

"They'll find you." ( A whisper from a trusted man; a closet's door slammed open;  a grin—"well well well, look what we found here")

"They'll always find you."

Chapter Text

Damian wakes up quietly. He doesn't move, doesn't open his eyes, doesn't change his posture.

He listens.

 There's the sound of flipping papers and a quiet growl.

"Can't believe he still keeps those on paper…"

The scent of Kahwa is strong now. That must have been what woke him up.

"Jaddi…?"

There's a sound of papers falling, and something drops.

"Auch, oh, fuck, shit — uh, Damian! You're awake! That's, uh– that's good. Very good. Yeah. Okay. Uh, how do you feel? Do you need anything?"

"Na'saan," he mumbles. "Jiib li maya?"

"I don't understand," Jaddi says. "Can you say it in English?"

And. Arrg. It's language day. He usually likes language days, but now it's hard. He's sleepy and thinking is hard and—

But Jaddi never lets go just because he's tired. He tries to think in English.

Sleepy is when you dream and when you dream you can fly.

And water goes down in the waterfall, looking like strings from a distance. Water is never alone, so—

"Ta'yer," he tries. "Watar?"

Jaddi doesn't tell him to keep his manners. He's probably in a good mood.

(He tries! But he always confuses English and French, and "s’il vous please" isn't a thing in any language.)

Jaddi brings water in a cup. It has a thing in it he can drink through. And if he un-drinks, it makes a funny noise. And bubbles!

Jaddi sighs.

Oops. This is not proper behavior.

Jaddi's sleeves are green, but something is wrong. He can't figure out why. It's just something in his guts, telling him to be careful.

He should be careful, but there's a warm person by his side, and it's comfortable.

And he's tired. 

"Ta'yer," he says again. Jaddi takes away the glass.

"Then sleep"

(And so he does.)

There's a loud bark, and as he opens his eyes, he's met with bright eyes.

"Mreow?" asks the cat on his chest elegantly.

Damian doesn't dare to move. Try to breathe as quietly as possible.

"Marhaba, Bisi" he tells the unexpected visitor. "Kif Halek?"

The furry bundle of joy just purrs quietly, yawns, and –

Falls asleep on his chest?

(He doesn't dare to move. This is joy. This is trust. This is a promise for a world of pain if he dares to interrupt  them.)

He dreams of being stuck in the dark, as quiet as possible, and the weight of the walls around him.

He dreams of loud alarms and a young voice whispers, "Usqut, Ayuni. Be brave. They'll never find you."

He dreams of being tucked in, and an old voice telling him a story of family, and legacy, and –

Green, green, green.

(He dreams of being locked in a closet, and terror, and the scent of dried blood. He remembers the pain of being held, jumping until his legs give up.

He dreams of a mirror, and tears, and unseeing green, green, green.)

Chapter Text

He wakes to a steady beeping noise. The fabric under his bare arms is soft and doesn't itch. There's the familiar scent of antiseptic stinging his nose.

He listens carefully. There isn't any audible breathing nearby, but that doesn't mean he's alone. It's quiet except for the beeping, and a strange scratching noise.

The window suddenly slams open and his eyes are quick to follow. 

There's a hand, coming through.

(He's in bed, weak; unable to fight.)

The hand gets a hold of the windowpane, and in a second there's a rush of yellow and purple before the person turns to look at him, eyes wide open, and quietly swears:

"Oh, fuck."

"Quizlet?" His good hand automatically rises to his head, the tight grip of her sign name slipping through time and anesthesia, and he nearly takes his own eye out.

But no, that's not her name now. Not since he –

( Batman's voice in his comm: "Deal with the pest." 

"Yes sir"–

Her eyes, wide open as he growls at her. "Where are the rebels?" –

His fingers on her neck, tapping "I'm sorry" –

Blood on his hands, on his knife. There are no emotions in war.

Batman's voice on the comm: "Get rid of it; we’ve gotten all we need".

"Permission to make a suggestion, sir?"

"Granted."

"The pest can still be put to good use as an example. I could damage it, permanently."

"Hmn."

Then the blood, the clinical way his body handles the task. Making sure the body stays in the right angle, that the bloody hands are steady. Making sure that the eyes keep looking center and front, right at the clean mess the blades make. And the body stays focused. The body operates. The body doesn't carefully avoid certain angles, carefully not looking aside, blocking his cameras from seeing her shadow hiding at the ally, and – )

Wait. He's on the second floor. How did she get here?

He was young when Batman fought another man and killed him. It was long before Timmy–

The man had a child. Damian can remember Batman's curiosity when he learned that. But the child was a girl, and blonde, so he lost interest quickly. 

He remembers being a child and hating her, because— 

How dare she? How dare she keep her mom and get her father killed for her and still not be happy?

(Ten wasn’t a good age.)

"Oh, fuck. Shit. This room was s'posed to be empty. Who the hell are you?" She says and she's loud. She shouldn't be so loud. They'll find her, they'll get her, and she only has one—

Why is it so hard to move?

He still gets up and catches her. She's not…

It's hard to focus, but there was something. Why he’s upstairs. The reason she broke in.

(Her shadow isn't here, he notices, and his heart skips a beat. Is it why she risked so much?)

But this house is laced with cameras and microphones, and even if it wasn't, someone could have heard her. ( HE could have heard her.)

His palm is pressed to her mouth, two fingers at her jaw, stopping her from biting him before he can think about it.

 "You are not supposed to be here," he whispers. Her hair tickles his nose and he struggles not to sneeze. 

"I could take out your other eye for this," he reminds her.

He's not – there's something off, and his instincts scream, but he can't think properly. There's—

There's—

(He remembers blue eyes staring right into him.

"You know what it means, to take care of." 

And a promise:  

"I would kill you myself." )

The girl in his arms twitches, about to kick him, but he put his other arm around her neck. Just at the edge of choking.

"Why did you come here?" He demands. "This is not... it's not safe. Why would you do that?" he adds, a soft whisper right in her ear. There's this siren in his brain that won't let him sleep and an itch in his arms and he’s so tired.

(But he's been tired for years. He’s been tired since the day he had to learn there's no escape, not ever.)

There's a sound of shoes on the wooden floor. Not heavy enough to be HIS, but... Damian's brothers were never allowed to have shoes.

The intruder only needs that short moment of distraction to let out a short scream.

The door opens fast.

"Damian?" asks fully clothed, barely harmed Tim. "What—"

And then he sees the intruder.

( Recognition , a part of Damian notices. Could he be the reason—? Are they related?

Damian isn't mad they didn't involve him. He's mad they did such a stupid thing in the first place.)

"Stand down, soldier," he commands. "Looks like we have a new subject for the poisons."  His holds his expression blank and stern, allowing only the hint of a cruel grin. The young boy looks properly scared.

Good. If HE would see them, it would be easier to—

"What the f—" Tim says, and it's really starting to get to be too much. They don't have a lot of time, and if they don't hurry, HE will be there, and things will get so much messier.

"Move, soldier," he tells his brother. His eyebrow twitches as he takes a deep breath. It's okay, trust me, do as I say.

There's a rush, someone else running.

"What happened? The alarms just—"

"No, stay back—"

And HE shows up at the doorstep.

"Father," he acknowledges, respectfully.

(He is silent. He is stone. He is a machine, and no emotions should ever interfere with his calculations.)

He kicks the pest's legs until it falls down. Then he kneels to the ground, putting his weight on its back.

Unfortunately, he can't find any of his blades. He settles on putting his fingers on the back of its throat. It would take some strength, but he could do it in seconds.

"I could take off the eyes," Batboy offers. "Or the tongue? As an example. Of course, we could go with the classic ear-cut, keeping only the eyes, so it could witness the horror of every passerby."

Batboy is cruel, sadistic and eager for pain, just like his father. Batboy is delighted by the painful screams and laughs as his victims cry. Batboy kills and tortures on command (sometimes even before). He is the Bat's right hand, and doesn't show any mercy.

Batboy survives—

And, sometimes, so do his victims.

Chapter Text

Batboy doesn't look up. Batboy isn't being disrespectful towards his superiors.

There's a small box, at the back of his mind, where he stores everything that isn't Batboy.

(He puts a lock on it).

He doesn't breathe. He doesn't move. There are three ways it could go – he just needs to stay quiet and let Father pick the right one.

( There's a pattern — given time, Batman will always choose pain)

It's not his choice. None of it is up to him.

All he has to do is to stay quiet.

Batboy doesn't look.

(Batboy listens.)

There are four different patterns of breathing.

There is the steady beating of his heart.

There is a fifth person, walking down the hall, shouting as they go:

“Sup, B? Tim? What’cha looking at? Oh, don't tell me. Steph hurt herself trying to surprise y'all again ? For fuck sake, Steph! I told you not to –”

The unknown stops at the doorstep.

“Umm…. B? Is there anything you wanted to tell us? And, for some reason, couldn't tell us despite the fact we both had our phones during the weekend?” The unknown's voice holds a warning.

“Hmn,” Father answers.

“Hi, Duke,” says Timmy's voice. “How was your weekend? I'm fine, thanks for asking.”

“Good to know, now what the hell?”

“Meet Damian from a parallel universe,” Timmy sounds tired. “As you can see, it’s going amazingly well.”

Batboy raises his head.

And can't help but stare.

“What?” asks Renegade. “Do I have something on my face?”

There's —

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

(" You can't let them get you," the dark silhouette said. "You can NOT be caught alive. No matter what. Understood? ")

Timmy doesn't wear shoes.

Renegade and Quizlet aren't supposed to be here .

(Quizlet isn't supposed to be without her shadow)

And… HE isn't like that. Isn't quiet. Won't let them talk to him in such disrespect.

( Batboy carefully doesn't think about being disrespectful. Doesn't remember those first months, years, before –)

Batboy kneels, and refuses to think. Only prepares himself to go through this simulation.

Whatever it takes.

(It won't be the first time, or even the tenth, his own mind is used against him.)

“Damian,” Father's voice demands. “Let Stephanie go.”

Batboy obeys. 

( There's just a second, when he considers twisting her neck before– but it won't be any help now. )

He gets up and delivers the pest to Father. A soft tap on her neck is the only thing off protocol he allows himself. Others may see it as a threat, as a reminder that he could kill it any time. He hope she'll see it as it is:

I'm sorry.

Batboy follows them. He stands in an appropriate position, two steps behind Father, slightly to the left. They go down the hall, and Tim-with-shoes keeps talking to Re– the unfamiliar intruders. He can hear them, some sort of explanation about the multiverse and —

(This could be true, he thinks. A very persuasive scenario, at least.)

Then they stand by the hall, near the dining room, and Shoe-Tim tells him to stay back for a second.

(The newcomers doesn't respond when he twitches, or as he knocks his fingers against the wall.)

“So, we got a surprise for you!” Timmy's voice sounds forced. Dishonest. “Guess who's up and feeling better?”

Qui- the girl then pushes him into the room. “I think that's our cue,” she stage-whispers.

He takes the scene in, carefully. There is Shoe-Tim, with a big mug. There's a tall man, that for some reason reminds him of Dickie. There is Timmy, his Tim, with a careful look and shoulder-length hair. He's wearing clothes, and his eyes keep scanning the room in a steady pattern. In the corner, he can see Jay, seated by Dickie who is speaking with another child. 

They all look safe. Unharmed. Untouched.

(He would take it as a good sign, if he didn't know better. Changes are never good, and things aren't always as they seem.)

There's a second when everything is like a dream. They all turn to see him, Jason smiles, relaxed, and Dickie's face beams as he calls “DAMI!”

There's a second, and then a knife flies over the dining table and hits the wall right beside his head.

“ You .” 

Timmy's voice is sharp and full of pain. “How DARE you?” The thin child stands up, signaling his brothers to stay back . 

“After all – after everything, I can't believe you just–”

The older boy stands at attention, waiting for his orders. There are higher authorities in the room, and the power dynamic is unclear. Is he supposed to punish the teen, or should this chore be done by another?

The tall man takes a stance.

“Hi, hi– Timmy, relax. What happened? What's wrong?”

“What's wrong?” Tim asks dryly and turns to look at Damian. “I don't know. What do you think, Tamer ?”

Damian chokes. “Pet.”

“Don't “Pet” me.” The younger's voice is filled with rage as he faces Damian. “ And look me in the eyes, you fucking liar. Even Jason has more balls than you. You just left us. On our own.” The knife held closely to the older's throat, and his other hand holding the older one's shirt.

In the background, Jay gasps.

“You promised, ” Tim accuses. “Remember? Together, or none at all . This isn't your choice!”

“I hate you,” he continues quietly, almost whispering into his brother's ear. “I hate you so much, I'd kill you myself.” He turns around, keeping his knife steady.

“May I be excused?” The younger teen asks and doesn't wait for an answer. Just turns back, puts the knife back on the table, and leaves.

Chapter Text

“So,” Father starts, ominous and darkly. “Did you really think you could escape me?”

He can't help the laughter bursting out of his mouth.

Father looks slightly confused.

“Di- did you see the l-look on his face?” Damian says. “The- the ‘oh, don't hurt him, no, please'?”

He laughs. This is hysterical. He can't help it. 

He laughs, and the tears stays inside.

“Well,” Qu- the girl says. “Look like you're always the drama queen, Tim-bit. Am'i'righ or am'righ?” 

The table is still quiet.

“Righhht,” she says. “So, someone has forgotten to mention the new developments. Ahm ahm Tim? B-man? I'm talking to you, by the way. You suck. Anyway, I'm Steph, Stephanie, or Brown if you're a baby–”

The young kid near Dicky growl with rage. “How dare you! I'll –”

“Yeah yea, we all know you're habby-stabby, kiddo. Keep up, I'm try'na get some introductions done.”

Father looks at him with suspicion in his eyes. But also curiosity.

“Explain yourself.”

“He's mine,” he spits. “You said I could teach him– he's mine, but you touched him.”

Father's touch is soft over the bruises.

“Oh, Damian,” his father's voice is almost fonding. “I should have seen that earlier. You did get something from me, after all. Didn't you?”

The soft hand holds his jaw tight, bruising. “Don't ever try to take away my things, child.  Do. You. Understand?”

There is no real way to answer, but Father understands.

“However,” he says. “It could be good practice for you. Suitable. Every child needs a pet, isn't that what they say?”

He's in his room. Or, the room they told him to stay in.  There was… something, probably, between the time Timmy left, and the here-and-now. But he can't recall it. Can't remember what happened in between.

(It's dark now, but it was lunchtime before. He moved. His body hurts, but not in a way that suggests he was punished or rewarded.)

His brothers are not in the room, but neither is anyone else.

(It doesn't mean that he's safe. It doesn't mean he isn't being watched and listened to every second.)

He is still wearing clothes. He can still feel the tiny grain he put in his underwear, so no one has undressed him when he was off. It's a good sign that those claims might be true. He carefully lean forward, and–

Yes. 

He can still feel the small package Timmy sneaked into his shirt.

He doesn't look at it. Doesn't open yet, not before he enters the closet and closes the door. It's dark, and he feels the dots on the fabric. Trying to make sense of the hidden message.

The shackles are loud as they fall on the floor, and Damian immediately kneels to an appropriate stance. His fall has nothing to do with his faint, or the fog in his brain.

“I shall hold you responsible for everything the kid does,” Father warns. “But you'll have your chance, little tamer.”

“Yes, Father,” he says. “Thank you, Father.”

He doesn't know what he just agreed to.

He carefully doesn't think about the real betrayal behind the calculated words.

Doesn't think about the real statement hidden in the lies disguised as truth.

He carefully doesn't think about long, painful nights, when all his brother had for comfort was his abuser. 

Doesn't think about a child holding tightly to the very hands that burnt them, quietly begging not to be left alone.

He doesn't think about teaching him the twitch-and-pinch. 

Doesn't think about a quiet promise, the only thing he could give, in this unequal exchange.

“The only thing I have in this world is my life.” He tells the kid whose life depends on him. This is a threat and a promise, one the child doesn't understand. Not yet.

“It’s yours.”

It's a two-faced blade, he knows. But this is all he has to offer.

His wrists hurt, his mind is numb, and there is concrete where his heart used to be.

He is alive, for now. He is alive, despite all.

(And as long as he survives, so will the young boy on the second floor).

The night outside the window is cold and dark. There's a tray with food in his room he doesn't remember eating.

(He can't lose time. Not now. Not again.)

HE got Jay years after –

Years after Alfred –

After the trunk of The Car got new locks from the outside, so no one could escape it.

He is quiet as he thinks about the words his brother used, trying to make sense of the message. Jason and round things is one obvious thing. Left and On are harder. He hopes he got it correctly.

That Car doesn't have locks. He checks from the inside, just to be safe. 

It opens. 

For the second time in a decade, he's hiding in The Car on his way out. He's hidden in the back of the car as it starts moving, hoping this is not a mistake. Hoping what his brothers tried to show him was right.

(He doesn't hold his breath.)

Chapter Text

He waits several minutes after the car stops before getting out of his hiding place. 

It works. 

Part of him still thinks it's a trap. But it doesn't matter. He made a promise, long ago, and would keep it for the rest of his life.

( “It's yours” )

He gets on the roof and takes a moment to assess his surroundings.

It's weird. This Neighborhood is familiar and unfamiliar in the most disturbing ways.

The Bank is here (Orange, not blue.) The domed building on the corner is a public library. 

(He doesn't think about the graffiti of The Bat he sees in his way. Or other symbols and figures he sees, almost recognized.

He passes over a neon sign of something called “bat burger” which… shouldn't be such a surprise, given how much Americans love branding.

He's two streets from the station when the light shines. The massive beacon that was designed as a warning.

Brace yourself. The Bat is coming.

He speeds up. If they noticed HIM , then it means something bad already happened.  

They won't risk lighting it up unless it's clearly Bat related, in one of his bloodstained nights.

( Filled with lust that would leave his brothers with –)

He gets near. Prioritizing safety and hiding over speed.  It's unthinkable to be caught by the Bat now.

There's someone on the roof. 

(Is that–? What is he doing out of safety?)

There's someone on the roof, and he can't imagine why.

Then he doesn't have to imagine. A dark figure falls from the sky, followed by a smaller, brighter figure dressed in colors of blood and flames. A warning.

(He can't help the stab in his heart as he sees the green. The mockery of his family's color.)

He gets closer, close enough to hear the man as he speaks.

“... All missing girls, ages 11-15, not sure if –”

The rest of the sentence is lost to a truck horn.

“ – photos and information on the file, as usual.”

( He doesn't feel betrayed as he sees Gordon cooperate with the Bat. He doesn't. )

The Bat and his demon leaves.

Batboy enters the roof.

I'm sorry , he doesn't whisper to the man as his fingers lay on his throat. 

The man falls.

Batboy disappear.

Robin and Batman nearly arrive at the Batmobile when the comms come to life in the public channel.

“Code 30!” Oracle all but shout. “B, we got a code 30 at the police station. You and Robin are the closest.” Officer needs help - Immediately. 

They change their direction immediately.

“Confirm.” Father replies. There's something strange in her voice. She isn't mechanical and uninvolved as usual. “Details?”

“It's d–” she takes a deep breath and starts over.

“Gordon on the rooftop. Unfamiliar suspect. OV. Possible 151. 207, sus enter station from roof.” 

On View; Advocate killing/injuring officer;  Kidnap , Robin translates to himself.

“Patch me in, O,” Red Robin says. “Video?”

“At yours.” There's a moment of silence, and then a silent breath.

“Oh, shit.”

A tall, dark figure moves in the shadows of the station. It's the night shift, and they are always understaffed. In the rush of phones and filing, no one notices the predator among them. No one notices his prey either.

No one, but the small camera, searching for a glimpse of hope.

The archive is quiet and dustier than usual. 

Gordon's body lay heavy on his shoulder, but Batboy can't stop until they reach a safe place.

In the near-darkness, his gloved palms carefully search behind the closet. Carefully tapping the familiar pattern, then twist the knob before moving to the staff room and closing the door behind.

Where is it –?

Uh, there.

The mark is dustier and less used, even compared to the first time Cobb showed him that entrance.

The underground path is dark, but he walks it with the familiarity and experience of years. It is dusty, and the door in the third corner cracks like it hasn't been used in years. 

(He hates the hope that slowly starts crawling into his heart. Stab with dirty claws and refuse to leave.)

He puts the man on the ground and stops for a short break. It's possible he didn't have to lift or run so much. His brother always told him not to ignore his health. 

He'll just. Sit here for a while. Just until Gordon wakes up. Or his hands stop feeling like loose noodles. Just a couple of minutes.

“I managed to get the info from the GPS,” Robin's comm burst to life. “sending you. They are currently static.”

“Why are they at the library?” Brown asks, confused.

“I'm more worried about how they got there unnoticed.” Drake tries to think out loud. “Maybe if– no, but then… hmm. Vi..? Banana? Maybe…” his distracted mumbles fill the comm.

“I need to check something, tell you if it works.” Drake finishes and turns off his microphone.

Batboy doesn't lose consciousness. Not unless it is a special punishment.

Batboy doesn't sleep or lose time during his work. 

Batboy is dedicated, sharp, a living weapon forged by a firm hand.

Batboy doesn't lose consciousness. 

Yet, he sturtles at the sound of changing breaths.

“I know you are up, Gordon.” He says.

“Well, it seems like you got me at a disadvantage,” the old man says pleasantly. “You know my name, but I don't know yours. Is there a name I could call you?”

This… this isn't what he thought. It's not. It's not what He should say. It's not –

Batboy doesn't understand.

(He remembers: misunderstanding equals pain.)

He doesn't answer.

The man breathes camly. 

They just sit.

Just a minute. Just a minute, and it'll be over.

Just a minute, and–

He can't help the quiet gasp coming out of his throat.

“Why do you cooperate with Batman?” He asks firmly, refusing to think about the man he's interrogating.

“Why wouldn't I?” The man sounds truly confused.

Batboy... doesn't understand.

“After everything he did,” his voice breaks. “After everything… why? Why would you help HIM ?”

The man stays quiet for a while.

"What do you mean?"

"You know! You were there - I saw you! You know what he did! You know !"

Batboy's breath is even and controlled. It doesn't come out, shortly, like some sort of a pathetic child.) 

"Okay," the man sounds almost... soft ? "I believe you. But it seems that I struggle to remember what you were talking about. Could you please tell me what happened? What did he do to you?"

“You don't remember.” 

There's a younger voice speaking, unrecognised. “You don't remember. You. You don't– What do you remember?”

The voice is a male, young adult or older teen.

“I remember many things,” the man replies. “What do you mean?”

“Like– like, can you remember your daughter's name?” The voice from before says again. “Do you remember your wife? Any other family?”

There's a strange, repeating sound in the dark.

“I remember my daughter's name, yes. And my wife. Why?”

He tries to think back. Any details that might be–

(“You don't have to live like this, kid,” a mustache comes behind the corner. “I can get you to a safe place.”

“No, you can't.”)

“You had a sibling,” the voice continues. “who died as a kid. What was his name?”

(“You can't save everyone,” said the same man years later. “But you can remember their name.”)

“How did you know about Emma?”

(“My mom died in that car crash. We always thought it's a boy, so she only prepared a name for a boy. They buried her and the baby together. But I called her. Everyone deserves to have a name.”)

“You told me,” says the same flat voice from before.

Chapter Text

Oracle is still coordinating them when there's a loud noise and she's quiet.

“I have to answer.” And she disappears.

But her line stays open, and in the distance, Robin can hear her voice.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm at work, but on my way out.”

“Yes, I can be there. Sure. What…?”

“I love you, dad. Just. Just know that.”

“Red, can you get to the watchtower? Anyone? I need to go. Now.” There's a sharp edge to her voice.

“Red Robin? Red Hood?” She asks again.

None of them answers.

“O, this is Spoiler. I can cover for you,” another voice on the comm. “Signal asks if you want a driver.” the unsaid question - do you need backup?

“Why is he out?” Oracle asks. “But… Yes, I would appreciate it.”

“Five at yours. Buckle up, Spoiler out.”

“Copy. Tell him to come in civvies.”

Robin isn't sure what to do with all that.

“Batman, I know where they're going. Do not follow me. I repeat - do not follow or get closer in any other way. Do you understand?” Her words are stern, like she wouldn't take no as an answer. “If you do…. If you get him hurt… I swear in everything that's holy. I'll tell Agent A.”

There's a sharp breath on the comm. This threat would terrify even the bravest soldier , Robin knows.

“I know what I'm doing. Just… stand by. Just stand by, alright?”

Batboy… Batboy doesn't know much. Batboy doesn't remember. Batboy doesn't want to know. Knowing means being able to tell if tortured.

( He remembers: little redhead. Pale face and tears. Closet door as he put his finger to his lips 

(a warning.)

Not thinking about all that he heard. What they planned for her.

He remembers: acid on his tongue as he reports back ‘this room is clear, Batman!’

He remembers holding the scalpel over the man's restrained body, knowing too well it could be his last day.)

But the man here claims to be different. The man here –

(He thinks about Shoe Wearing Tim, and his ridiculous story. He thinks about… someone like Him , but not hurt. He thinks about Timmy. Shouting and screaming and not showing respect and… 

And still not punished?

He thinks about kids allowed to have knives.

He thinks about waking up, still wearing clothes.

He doesn't understand it. He can't.

But he'll try, if this is what his brothers ask from him.)

This Gordon is familiar but different, and he needs to know what's happening. 

Batboy doesn't like it, but there's one place they could go. One place they could get without having to get above the ground, but still make Gordon feel comfortable.

But this could –

(He won't leave any child in danger.)

“Call your daughter,” he tells the man. “Tell her to be home alone, and I'll explain.”

Robin knows what Oracle said. But it's his alter, and therefore his responsibility.

And she didn't say anything about him not coming. Only Batman and Nightwing.

(Or that's what he plans to tell Richard.)

"You should call her," Batboy says. "You should call her, if you bring a stranger to her home. It's not - it's not safe. It's not okay to bring someone else. She doesn't need to be afraid. Not in her home. She needs - she needs to be safe." He says.

"Alright," says the old man. The nearly-almot-but-not.

(Is it a trap? It must be, but it doesn't matter. He promised. He'll walk this road to his destruction.)

"Hi, honey," says the man. "Yes, I'm going home soon."

"Tell her," he says. They don't have much time. "Tell her you're not alone-"

"Yes, I'll be home soon. Just called to let you know, I'm bringing in company. No worries."

"Alone," he says. Sudden fear in his mind.

(Being caught and children and a nanny guarding their young charges and all painted red, red, red.)

"Tell her- she needs to be alone." Batboy doesn't bite his fingernails. But no one said anything about palms with bloody crescents. 

"Tell her babysitter to go home, if she has one. Or friends. Tell her to be alone now. Just her."

(He thinks: the closet in her room was big enough to hide her. The basement, the same house, should have the hidden gateway to the tunnels under the -)

He keeps losing time as they go through the tunnels. It's familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, and just - 

He just wants the world to make sense, please.

He keeps losing time, and the next thing he's pushing back the owl at the entrance to the sub-tunnel leading to the–

When Robin arrives at the location to watch the Gordons' house, Nightwing is already there. 

Of course.

But his brother doesn't tell him to leave.

( As if he could have made him .)

Nightwing just moves aside a little bit, and quietly offers him his binoculars.

Tt

Robin has his own, of course.

But the sentiment is… nice.

There's a young woman sitting on a wheelchair in the kitchen. There's a young woman with red hair in the kitchen, and only as she looks at the man behind him, scared but trying to hide her fear, Batboy recognises her.

( Pale face, red curl, wide eyes and quiet quiet quiet .)

"You are old," he whispers. "I don't... I don't understand. I don't."

He just.

He doesn't understand

He's just-

        He-

           There's-

From that distance, Robin can see something happening in the house.

“Something's happening,” Nightwing whispers by his side, unnecessarily.

“I know you're there,boys,” says Oracle in the comm. “It's okay. I think he's having a dissociative episo-”

“I'M COMING INTO THE KITCHEN, BARBARA!” come loudly through, and she stops talking.

Robin can hear Gordon, the older one, sigh loudly.

“Are you okay, dad?” Orac- the younger one asks, carefully. “What happened?”

“He didn't hurt me,” answers the smoke filled voice. “He knew some things… but he didn't hurt me. I thought he was delusional, at first, but I don't know anymore. He knew things I didn't tell anyone.”

There's silence.

Robin can see Nightwing, whispering in what seems to be an intense argument. He doesn't even bother feeling offended. This is below him. He is focused on his alter and the Gordons and nothing else.

“I don't think it was a coincidence, that he got there after I turned on the big light.” Gordon SR breaks the silence. “He seems like a very intelligent young man. He was scared, but still insisted I call you so you won't be surprised by a stranger in your home. Though it seems he was under the impression that you were a child. He kept asking why I collaborated with Batman, insisting he was evil.” He sighs again.

There's something warm in his arms and he is hiding in the back of an unfamiliar closet and he is young and old and there's whispers outside, and he doesn't understand.

He doesn't

He can't

There's just -

“I won't ask you … this … what…” Robin's comm says. “I don't know what Batman did to this kid, but he won't get anywhere near him.” The last sentence is loud and clear.

It's quiet for a second.

“Kid should stay here tonight,’’ he says. “He’s exhausted, and I don't think you could move him at this point. I'll go get him a blanket.”

From the distance, Robin can see a young woman holding a mug, and an old man kneeling, wrapping a blanket around an unmoving figure.

“They'll be okay,” Richard says from behind him. “You can go back home now. He seems to pass out, and we'll keep an eye on the house through the night. He won't hurt them.”

Robin doesn't reply. He doesn't speak a word of his thoughts during the ride back to the manor. He doesn't share it as he puts his equipment back in place.

As Damian heads to his room, he only does a pit stop to update the children.

Other-Tim just nods at the report, thoughtful, and quietly thanks for the update.

He knows that this Tim cares about his brother, but the unasked question is still keeping him up

(But will they hurt him?)  

Chapter Text

He wakes up in a cage.

It is pitch black, and the walls are closing on him, and he can't hear any of his brothers.

He is in a cage.

That's his first impression.

But something is… not right about it. He isn't naked, or cold, or sore.

In fact, there's something soft wrapped around him. 

He is warm.

And as he carefully listens, he can hear distant cars, and birds, a dog bark, and 

Steps getting closer to his containment place.

There's a sudden noise, like banging a head against the wall. But softer. Not as loud. 

( Did someone just… knock ?)

“Kid?” A deep voice says. “Are you up? I won't come in, but there's food if you want some.”

Then there's the sound of dishes, an electric beep, and liquid pouring down.

Right. He remembers. He's with Gordon.

(Last night is lost, and he just start to understand there are pieces he needs to collect. He think they were in the tunnels, for a while. In the underground city. But it was dusted and dark and abandoned.)

He is located in a wooden box, he realises. and as he explores his surroundings, his fingers stumble on an uneven line. He pushes it, just to try, and

It opens.

Oh.

The lights are on, and it's blinding. He loses precious seconds blinking. Precious time that should be taken to assess his environment. 

( Tools and weapons and enemies and exits and–)

“Good morning,” says Gordon. “How did you sleep?”

“I did not,” the denial is immediate just like upcoming punishment.

He freezes as he realizes who is he talking to.

But the man doesn't frown at him. The man doesn't tell him to take off his shirt.

The man just nods and asks if he wants coffee or tea.

( Is that a trick question? Is it a euphemism? Is it something he's supposed to know, or answer in a specific way? To completely refuse ?)

He doesn't answer. And then it's too late, too bad because he doesn't reply and–

“I have coffee, we got a machine for that, just last year! I didn't think its worth the money, but Babs got it for my birthday. And you know what? She was right. It does make a good start for the day.”

There's a soft chatter coming from the other man. The man doesn't look at him, just staring at his cup of coffee. 

He didn't notice . A part of him think, slowly relaxing.

“I’m making myself a sandwich. Just bread and jam. Would you like any?”

It's an easier question. It's food.

“What would you like for that, sir?” 

Gordon take a sip from his cup. Stalling.

“You wouldn't believe me if I'd say nothing, would you.” The man says. it's a statement, not a question.

He doesn't disrespect that with a reply.

“I'll make you a deal,” Gordon says. “You will eat, and then I'll ask you two questions, and you will have to answer.”

“But what if I don't know the answer?” he asks.

“Then simply say so,” the man replies.

“So, our deal is a sandwich for two questions?” The kid clarify. “And I can say ‘I don't know', and won't be held accountable for any of my answers?”

“You can also say that you don't want to answer,” the man adds, helpfully. “But yes, that pretty much sums it up.”

“Very well, then,” says the child. “I accept.”

They shake hands, and the man brings in the sandwich, as promised. The kid finishes it in a few bites. Preying into the bread as it's the first thing he ate in days.

“Ask your questions, then,” he says, wiping his sticky fingers.

Gordon put his mug on the table. It has a “world's best dad!” On it.

The man look at him over the table and asks, “do you have a safe place to stay in?”

(A memory - a younger version of that man, who asked a younger version of him: “are you safe at home?”)

“Nowhere is safe,” he says. “No place can ever be.” 

(“Safety isn't a variable,” answered the child.)

Chapter Text

Damian wakes up before his alarm, and makes his way down to the dining room thirty minutes prior to his usual time.

Alfred is already there, of course. As well as one of the Tims. That shouldn't be an obstacle.

“Alfred,” he announces. “I require transport.”

“I am happy to see you so excited about education,” the butler says dryly.

“I also require an ‘off-school permission’ or what other name Americans may call it,” he adds reluctantly. 

“I see,” the butler raises an eyebrow. “And what, pray tell, is the reason for that, young master Damian?”

“I have an important issue to discuss with Gordon,” he says.

Timothy Drake takes a sip of his coffee and gets up from his seat. “Yeah, I figured you'd like to come with us. Grab something to eat, we're leaving in ten minutes.”

His hands aren't shaking. They aren't.

The man on the other side of the table asks: “Yesterday, when we… spoke, you sounded convinced that I cooperated with Batman, and that he's evil. Can you tell me more about it?” 

He should answer. That was the reason he came here in the first place. That was the whole thing about finding Gordon. He wants to answer, but the words wouldn't come out.

There's a knock on the door, sharp and repetitive. Then the bell rings.

Drake jumps out of the car the moment Pennyworth stops.

Damian hesitates for a second.

“Thank you for the ride, Pennyworth,” he says stiffly and closes the door behind him.

Drake has just rung the bell when he arrives. 

“No,” Gordon's voice says from the intercom.

“Good morning, Gordon,” he greets her formally.

”–Why are you here?” she demands. He just looks at the camera.

“Augh. Fine,” she agrees. “Wait there for a second.”

There's a short buzz and the door opens. Gordon's in a strange position – her legs are bent under her chin, and her… back part is held high. Then she pulls up her upper body, and he notices the hand on her wheelchair frame.

She kindly nods at Tim as she pulls off her breaks, and rolls in their direction.

“How are you, Baby Bat?” She asks quietly. 

Tt . He should never have let her use that childish nickname.

(But it was a different time. With Father gone, and Drake in the wind, and Richard nearly tearing himself apart trying to fit into a suit he didn't belong in, a city he didn't want, worrying about wayward siblings that didn't need him and raising a child he didn't ask for).

“Stop it,” Gordon pulls him down by his tie. “You aren't a burden. You are a gift, and we are happy to have you in our lives.” She whispers in his ear.

He fixes his tie and says nothing.

(But it does help to ease something inside of him.) 

“What happened?” Says Gordon.

And

(He can't say it. He isn't sure what to say. There is too much to say and nothing is specific.)

“It's –” he starts, whispering.

( “Pathetic,” Father says in his head. “Don't mumble, child. Answer when I ask you!”)

“Why do you work for him?” he asks. “How could you help him?” 

I thought you were good , he doesn't say.  

“They are in the kitchen,” Barbara says. ,”Tim, I need to talk to you for a second.

Damian doesn't wait for them. As he approaches the kitchen, he can hear a conversation from inside  

“Like when you find homeless kids you can sell him?” 

“Sell him? I don't know what do you mean.”

“I saw you - I saw you with him! You gave him that. You told him. You said kids, and young, and –”

“It's a case. We are working on locating and hopefully rescuing those poor kids.”

Damian take his chances and catch a look at the kitchen.  

The teen sits still.

“Rescue?” that voice is familiar, in ways Damian refuses to consider.

(It's the same voice he heard when Richard told him that Father was alive. The same tone when Mother told him he is going to live with his father. Good and scared and refusing to believe.)

“Gordon is right,” he steps into the kitchen, staring right in his alter's eyes. “Batman is focused on reducing crimes and preventing atrocities.  He even refuses to take lives.”

The alter manages to keep his face mostly unphased. Only the smallest hints to clue his shock, seen merely to the highest trained eyes.

“Batman doesn't kill?” He softly whispers to himself.

But Damian hears him. “Indeed. Despite how… ineffective it might be in certain cases, Batman doesn't kill.”

Should he add to it? No. This seems to satisfy the alter.

“Good morning, Damian,’’ Gordon says, looking surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Gordon says his name.

But… no, he refers to the other one. The (alter? Other?) equivalent of this dimension.

Dickie liked him , he remembers.

Batman doesn't kill , said the child. And that is ironic and painful and something in his chest is aching.

What a great liar this one is.

But the little one seems to believe it. 

And Gordon doesn't disagree. So it might be – ?

“Did you come here with Dick?” Gordon sighs. “Babs mentioned  she told him about our house guest, but I didn't think he'd come here so soon.”

“I didn't come here with Richard,” Little One says stiffly. “Drake wanted to check on– he is in the living room. He had something to talk about with Barbara.” The only give away sign is the way his eyes often move to the older one.

Gordon just sighs.

Then Tim-not-Timmy walks into the room, still talking.

“...Thanks for letting him stay, that was –”

Tim looks at him and smiles, “good morning. How did you sleep?”

“You know each other?” Gordon asks.

“Umm, yeah. He's Dami's cousin, just staying with us for a while. We were so worried yesterday before Babs called Dick–” 

“I am from another dimension,” he stops the lies. “Bat- He killed my family and took me as his apprentice when I was a child.” 

He can't stand it – he can't lie to Gordon. Not after all. Even if this Gordon isn't the one he failed.

(They are not so different, after all.)

He can feel Tim's irritation from the distance. Eyes staring holes in his back. But he only has eyes for one person.

“But the Justice League rescued him,” Tim adds in the background. “And, uh, they know Bruce has space so he took him in, so–”

“I helped him torture you,” he stops Tim's bubbling. His words are quiet, as he doesn't dare looking away from the man.

Gordon chokes on his coffee. “G, kid–”

“I have your blood on my hands,” he tells him. “When they stopped him , I held a knife, ready to take you apart as painfully as possible.”

Do you hate me now? He doesn't ask. Do you fear me now? Are you willing to take me down like a mad dog?

(He doesn't want to hear the answer.)

Damian starts to think he should have stayed behind. That he shouldn't have entered this conversation between the teen and the man.

Maybe if he stayed behind, Drake wouldn't open up this can of vipers.

He steps on Drake's foot. Hard. He can feel Drake flinching in pain, but doesn't make a sound. He doesn't look at the other kid - his eyes are focused on the teen and the man sitting by the dining room, an empty dish between them.

“That doesn't sound like you wanted to hurt someone,” Gordon says, breaking the heavy silence.

“Does it matter? I have your blood on my hands,” the alter mentions again, unnecessarily. “Do you fear me now?”

Gordon just sighs, covering his face with his hands. “Yes, but it doesn't mean you're unworthy to be treated properly.”

“Will you let me kill you?” The alter continues. 

(And Damian can hear the unspoken question beneath it: Will you stop me? Will you kill me, if necessary? )

“I won't let you hurt anyone,” the man promise. Then sighs again.

“But I'm gonna need way more caffeine in my bloodstream before properly deal with more of it.”

Gordon's left hand move forward, searching. But he doesn't find a thing. Damian watches as his face slowly turns into confusion, as he searches for his mug, then surprise as he raises his head and notices Drake guilty expression.

“Oops?”

Chapter Text

He leaves with them.

He didn't tell Gordon everything, but he already took so much of the man's time.

(He thinks about asking to stay.)

He thinks about delaying the punishment. He thinks about stalling, but the the man has a job, and the the girl isn't a child, and the price is already high. Staying behind after such a clear order would be–

Besides, he can't risk that anger being taken on his brothers.

This isn't The Car.

(Of course not. It isn't HIM .)

They let him take the front seat. The Kid and Tim exchange words in the back during the short ride to their school.

(He doesn't think about the implications of school. Of education. Of outsiders views and the cost and–)

He is focused on his breathing. In. Hold. Out.

Again.

In. Hold. Out.

Again.

In. Hold. Out.

Again.

In. Hold. Out.

Again.

In. 

Something warm touches his fingers.

He automatically grabs it.

Out.

“I allowed myself to pack something for you, in the chance you haven't gotten a proper breakfast,” says a familiar voice.

In.

There's a

Smell

In the car.

There's something

Warm

In his hand.

He lift it up to his mouth.

It's warm.

And… salty?

Out .

He looks at it. A circular baked figure, yellow-brown, flat. 

(A memory: old man by his side, heavy gloves on his hands, pulling out a pan from the hot oven. A voice, safe, saying “Careful, dear.”)

In.

“You're Alfred Pennyworth,” he says. His voice doesn't shutter.

“Yes,” replies the old man. “I am.”

“But you are not the one I used to know.” He continues. 

“I'm afraid not,” the old man gently replies. 

He can remember now.

This isn't the first time they met. Struggling to put together the fever memories, he remembers

“Alfred,” he said – and there was sickness and the scent of bile and everything HURT. But Alfred was there. 

He remembers the feeling of defeat, knowing there's no outrunning. 

He remember a familiar voice. A loving voice, and a soft hand on his forehead.

He remembers a sad voice, and knowing he failed, and sadness.

He remembers tears.

(" I'm sorry, Baba," he said to the man he killed. "I'm sorry I couldn't save him. That I couldn't keep them safe. I'm sorry I killed you. I'm sorry I failed you." )

He remembers asking about hate. About blame. About weakness.

(" You are NOT weak, child," )

He remembers wounds, old and new, and broken promises and silence that flood the room. 

(" I have failed, and I have broken my promise. After everything you did. You kept your promise to me, you died trying to get me out, and I couldn't even keep my promise to not do that again .")

“It was you,” he realizes. “When I woke up. When I was sick. You are the one that was there, weren't you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was a dream,” he quietly says. I thought I got to see him again, he doesn't say. And the disappointment lays heavy in his guts. 

“Why?” he can't help asking.

“Why have I been there? Well, of course I'd care for you, dear boy.”

“No,” the betrayal is acidic, burning through his tongue. “Why did you save me?”

Why wouldn't you let me die? He doesn't ask. Why can't you leave me? Why can't you let go? It's natural selection, after all. Survival of the fittest.

(He never fit in.)

From the corner of his eyes, he can see the hands on the car's wheel. White with tight grip. Holding on at the 10-2 position.

And for some reason, staring out of the window makes it easier to speak.

“I'm a failure,” he tells the butler (so different, but so similar to the man he betrayed.)

“I failed you,” he tell to the car window. “I failed to keep my promise. I failed everything I did. I even failed– I couldn't even kill myself.” he spits out in disgust.

He keeps side-watching the hands on the wheel. 

He won't resist. He won't try to escape the punishment.

(He just wants to know it's coming.)

But the hand stays on the wheel, a perfect 10-2 position as before. The hands stays on the wheel as the car slows down and park at the side of the road.

“You are not weak, master Damian,” says the man. And the tone is sharp enough to cut diamonds. “Nor are you a failure.”

Oh.

“I haven't known you for a long time,” the old man continues. “But I can see the amount of love and care you have for your siblings. The way you managed to take care of them, during impossible circumstances. I have never met my alter, your Alfred, but I believe I would be talking for both of us as I say it.”

And those hands are no longer on the car's wheel. But they don't hurt him neither.

There are soft, warm hand on his fingers, and another hand heading over for his face–

( He won't look away from the fist .)

–gently holding his face. Warm and soft and not hurting.

“I can't speak for the man you knew,” he says softly. “But I can only imagine the pride and love he would feel. You aren't weak, child. You have gone through some of the worst things a person can experience, and you made it through. You survived.”

“But I almost didn't. If I wasn't such a failure –”

“That wasn't a failure,’’ and he can't help freezing at the man's sharp tone.

“That wasn't a failure,” says the man again, softly. “You are so, so brave and powerful. You succeed to stay alive for this long.”

He hates the sting in his eyes. The way it feels like weakness when his eyes are wet. 

But something inside of him breaks when the old man touches him softly and says:

“You didn't fail dying, dear boy. You succeeded in living.”

Chapter Text

Previously:

“But I almost didn't. If I wasn't such a failure –”

“That wasn't a failure,’’ and he can't help freezing at the man's sharp tone.

“That wasn't a failure,” says the man again, softly. “You are so, so brave and powerful. You succeed to stay alive for this long.”

He hates the sting in his eyes. The way it feels like weakness when his eyes are wet. 

But something inside of him breaks when the old man touches him softly and says:

“You didn't fail dying, dear boy. You succeeded in living.”

He's still crying when they drive through the big gates, and Alfred parks the car by the side road. It's quiet, but he lets those tears fall and his body shakes as his not-grandfather just sits in the car, giving him time and space and —.

A couple of tissues are shoved into his hands, and he blows his nose and tries to erase every sign of his weakness.

(The old man on the other side of the car doesn't acknowledge it, though he isn't fool enough to mistake it with ignorance.)

“Thank you,” he says when all is done. His eyes might be red, but that could be blamed on lack of sleep. There's no visible sign of tears.

The old man nods, and slowly drive to the front door. Leaving him to face the consequences on his own.

**

There's a loud scream the moment he enters the hall, and then something is thrown in his direction.

His mind takes a second to catch his body, as he stares into an eight year old beam of light.

“Dami!!!” Screams the kid right in his ear. It takes all that he has to not throw the kid away. 

Then the child starts crying, and every previous thought is erased by the desperate need to make him stop crying and stop everything that made him cry.

Dami settles over holding the boy on his lap, helplessly trying to hush him. He can feel the boy's tears on his skin, as they soak through the fabric of his shirt. The child is unconsoled. His little fingers claw at his brother's shirt and neck, hard enough to bruise, refusing to let go.

“Hush, child,” he whispers. “I'm here.” But he doesn't let go of the kid, holding the way no one held him since Umi- 

no.

(Dami holds the child, and for a moment he can pretend there's someone to hold him back.)

They are sheltered in their own little sphere. Preserved in the amber as the moment, or maybe days, pass in this liminal space. But then it's over, and he has to look out of their bubble.

Jay's there, standing in the corner. His eyes are wide.

“He missed you,” he says. “He was really scared.” 

I was scared , Dami hears. And he doesn't let go of the kid in his arms, just moves him to a position where he can hold him with one arm.

Then he lets the other hand go. Reaching, but not forcing. An open hand, like a sunflower facing the sun. A quiet invitation.

( Do as you like )

And Jay takes it. Hesitating for a moment, staying away, but then there's another set of arms wrapped around his body, and he rubs the back of another kid, and they hold him strong enough to almost fill in the gaps.

(This is the reason he can't let go, he remembers. Those are the reasons he keeps going. Filling his cracks with paper and hiding his pains in concrete. He's there, so they could have a wall to lean on.)

There's the sound of a door closing behind him, and in a second he changes his hold — grabbing the sobbing child by his collar. His other hand go up from the kid's back.. A heavy arm on a small shoulder, no longer rubbing his back, but still a reminder 

( I'm here) .

A proper position, no weakness allowed.

From the corner of his eye, he sees a dark silhouette and –

“Hello, Father.”

The rain is pouring as they leave Gotham Academy, and Damian just wants to get to the car without any tiresome small-talk.

“So, what did you think about him?”

The question is random, and could refer to anyone. But knowing Drake, he's still thinking about the alters.

“Tt,” Damian doesn't answer. “What’s there to think?”

This isn't a safe place for this discussion. The parking lot is full, and there are people all around.

But he is trapped in this conversation due to the unavoidable circumstances. Having an “early dismissal” day means the unavailability of Pennyworth's services.

Therefore, the unfortunate event of Drake “taking the wheels”, as Richard would say, of their unpleasant return.

Drake lets him be, and the silence continues as they enter the car.

Drake doesn't look at him, focused on the car, but restart the conversation as he starts driving.

“Well, I would appreciate your help with understanding him. You probably have a better understanding of him than I have.”

Tt. Of course, Damian doesn't say. But Drake has acknowledged him as the superior source in this case, so Damian should probably indulge him.

“He's not evil,” he lashes out. “Fa– you all act like he's evil, just because he's me, but he's not! ” And–

He shouldn't lash out like that. He shouldn't be so sensitive about it. It's not him. It's just –

It's –

“I don't think he's evil,” Drake says.

“You— you don't?” Damian doesn't stutter. It's a road bump that made him repeat his words.

“I think B had been… prejudiced in his reaction. And it was wrong. But I saw how the kids looked at him, or talked about him. And I think they know what happened better than us.”

This isn't agreement. It isn't disagreement. And for some reason, that makes it feel too real.

“They are all scared of him,” his mouth spits. “They look at him, and they act as if he's the worst thing that could ever happen to a person.”

( They look at him, and they hate. He doesn't say. And those are things he can't tell anyone else. He can't say this to father, for obvious reasons. He can't tell this to Todd or Pennyworth, who only see him as a mere child, and therefore incapable. He would tell Richard, but

“ We'll keep an eye on the house through the night."

Still echoes in his head)

Drake, though , he keeps thinking. Drake never looked at him and let prejudice interfere with reality.

For better and worse, he always judged Damian by his actions. All the way back from the start and the murder attempts (and he knows now, how foolish it was).

Damian doesn't like to think about the first days. Doesn't want to remember there was something before the moment Richard gave him the suit and explained to him what it means. The suit and the name and the family it came with.

He doesn't like to think about the way it felt right . Victorious. Like the real bird, pushing away the cuckoo from the nest.

(Back in those first months, he never thought about the fact that it isn't the real child bird that pushes away the unwanted one.)

“I don't think they thought about you, when they took him in,” Drake says. “You are a lot like your father, you know?”

And this isn't a compliment, or an insult, as others may say it. It is a Fact . A pure observation.

“So I was told,” he replies bluntly.

“And… you didn't see him after Jay's – after Ethiopia.”

“I am aware that father was affected by those events, yes.”

“No,” Drake's holds tighten on the steering wheel, “let me finish!”

His body flinches.

“Sorry,” Drake's grasp loosens. “I didn't mean to shout at you. I just… it wasn't a good time. You may know about it, but you weren't there. You don't… you didn't see how violent he was. And I know it seems hypocritical, coming from me, yeah? But. That was really messed up. And I think, when he looks at you – you are also very different, you know? You look like your mom, and you have your art and pets and… You are also a very different person than him.”

Drake stops, and there's silence as they wait for the green light.

“That's not what I meant. Sorry. But I think, deep inside B feels like…. You’re you. And you are small and different, so you can't be like him. You won't be. But then he sees a different him, that is like the person he knows he could have been. And he sees what he did to the other you. And I think   – this is just a hypothesis, mind you — I think that it's like… He doesn't see you, when he looks at him. He sees himself, and he sees the ways he could do wrong, and he just… refuses to handle it. Like storing things away and, pushing away all of his problems, has never hurt him.”

Drake mumbles the last sentence angrily. Almost like it wasn't meant to be heard. 

That makes sense.

Damian doesn't like it, but… it makes sense.

(He doesn't need to like it. He just needs to know it, for what it is.)

“He wasn't the only one,” he says, quietly. He looks out of the window, refusing to see the older boy's expression. He shouldn't have said that.

But the older teen heard him. “Well, Dick saw a big brother,” Drake thinks out loud. “One he thought kept hurting his little brothers…”

He sighs, heavily, and gives Damian the time to finish that thought himself.

And Damian can do it, now. Can see those actions and thoughts weave together to form a bigger pattern. Tracing the faded figure it creates, the way he wouldn't have been able to recognize months ago, before the time he lived with Richard. Before he came to honor the way the young man refused to cut away his soft parts, despite the pain it gave him.

Before he saw his hollow triumph for what it was, as his new guardian kept reaching for a teen that wasn't there and setting the table with an extra plate. Before he heard quiet sobbing and ate breakfast with a soft smile and red eyes.

(Before the thiefess and the Tomcat and the bird.)

“He saw… himself?” He offers.

“Of a kind,” Drake agrees. “But darker. The person he fears to be, I think.” And there's an unspoken edge to that, that Damian isn't sure how to interpret. 

So he doesn't.

But he keeps it in his memory, to think of it later.

“The kitchen was a show,” he says in return. “They are not… they trust each other.”

Drake just hums in approval.

“They are all imbeciles,” Damian adds. Still mad about the way all the so-called detectives never looked past the clear show

“This was clearly a hidden message from the other. I guess something about the way to escape, given. Well. What came after.”

He hates the way the proper words seem to hide, sometimes. Just out of his reach. Other words may be there, different languages, or inaccurate terms, but it's frustrating.

“This was a show,” he repeats. “There was… he was too focused for it to be improvised. And not in that kind of environment. One should never show weakness.” He tries to remember his childhood lessons. Try to portray how it might appear under different circumstances.

“He was angry,” he tries to unfold the memories of the previous day. “Or at least acted like it. But he let the Alter… let everyone see him. Even the kids. He wouldn't have done that if it was a real argument.”

I know you, Damian doesn't say. I know how you disappear when there are arguments. I know what you consider protecting, and how far you would go for those you care about.

“He was rude,” he realizes. “He was impolite, and he cursed, and he held a knife. One should never be the one to uncover their weapon. And never, unless they are ready to use it. But the other… Timothy, he wielded a knife in a room full of strangers, and no one hurt him. No one even reached out to take it. And… His clothes–”

 He doesn't want to say it. He doesn't want to say it. He doesn't want –

“He seemed to have a fixation with the others wearing clothes. Especially shoes.” Drake leaves out the obvious implications, and Damian can't help feeling thankful.

(They are vigilantes. They know what it means.)

“And he left, right after that,” Timothy continues that thought. “And— uh, the other Tim left, and no one hurt him. So he knew it's safe–”

“Not an immediate danger,” Damian corrects him. Tt, safety? In an unfamiliar location? “Fat chances”, or however they say it.

Drake gives him a side look, but agrees.

“So, he knows he's not in immediate danger. Why would he run away? And how?”

“I'd say Timothy's… vulgarity has something to do with it. From the way the children reacted, it must have been a code of some kind, that they recognized.”

Drake thinks about it.

“Makes sense,” he agrees. “That’s a really good point. I think that was all I got about it. How about you?”

“Yes, pretty much. Though I still wonder how Timothy  had transferred the knife to him”

“The WHAT–?”

“You didn't notice that?”

“How did he get a knife!?”

“Oh, I gave it to him,” he says easily.

The vein twitching above Drake's left eye is a thing of beauty, as he takes a sharp turn and parks the car. His face hits the steering wheel loudly.

“You gave him a knife,” the other boy's voice is flat. “Great. Amazing. So, you saw an unknown stranger and decided, what? 'oh yeah, I'm just gonna hand a fucking knife to the probably highly trained unknown individual'? What the hell were you thinking , Damian!? Why didn't you say anything?”

“Tt, if you are so untrained that a wounded, weak stranger could hurt you, then you probably deserve it.” He mocks. “A small blade shouldn't be such a threat to you. Unless, of course, you aren't as capable as you claim to be.”

(You're all so willing to believe the worst of them. So willing to —

“ He won't hurt them ”

– expect the worst of them.)

Drake's frustration is a thick, almost visible, thing. Damian can almost touch it. He watches as the older teen covers his face with his hands and breathes loudly.

(There are three knives and a garrote he can get in a second, and four other weapons he can reach if needed, not including using the seatbelt or headpiece as a weapon.)

“That's not – this isn't –” Drake finally says after 43 seconds. “Do you remember why Damian was in the med-bay in the first place?  Why would you give him a knife after that!?”

“Because every man should have a knife,” Damian doesn't understand the question. “And a pistol. Yet, due to Father's rules, I understand that this might not be taken well.” How will he ever be safe, if he can't protect himself?

( Taking out his shoelaces and using them as tripwires would be an inefficient method, he decides. It would take time, and his shoes are too likely to fall off during his escape. This would leave him highly disadvantaged .)

“Damian,” Drake says slowly, gritting his teeth, like speaking to a toddler. “You. Don't. Give. A knife. To. Someone. On freaking SUICIDE WATCH! What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want him to die? Do you really hate him that much?”

( First reach to the knife in the left sleeve, smack his face to the wheel— or maybe undo the seatbelt first and then disable— undoing the seatbelt now would be a tell, but can also give a 3-second advantage—)

“He is me ,” he says stiffly, keeping his face neutral. “I think I would know better than you, Drake .”

“At least that way, it would be his choice,” he is being petty now. “Wouldn't it be so convenient if the burden would get rid of himself, so you could just go on with your life?” 

Drake stops dead.

“Damian,” his voice is quiet and serious. “Are we talking about him or you, now?”

He shouldn't have said that.

“Does it matter?” His voice is strange. Flat.

Drake looks like someone just asked him to give up on Zesti for a week. This is almost amusing. He takes a deep breath, and looks at Damian with… something.

“Damian,” he asks carefully. “Do you want to die?”

Chapter Text

“Do you want to die?” Drake asks. And he is serious, in a way Damian realizes he never saw him before.

No , he doesn't say.

Maybe.

Leave it alone.

He doesn't say any of it.

"Not at this moment," he says, staring out of the window. 

(It's weak and childish, and he’s better than that. He is. He's a warrior, fighting til his last breath. He's always been, as Mother said. He's a fighter.

He thinks he might be tired of fighting .)

The window is foggy, and Damian finds himself tracing figures on it with gloved finger. Slowly drawing as a recognised pattern slowly unfolds.

Why do you care? He doesn't ask. I have done nothing but wrong you. Wronged? English is weird.

He doesn't look at his preceder.

(It is childish and a coward's behavior, but he doesn't want to see the disgust on his brother the older teen's face.)

“But you did? wanted to die, I mean. In the past.”

Damian can't tell if this is a question. If it is, then it only shows the low intellect of the person asking. 

He blows on the window softly, trying to fix the details on the wakizashi in his drawing.

“Damian,” Drake doesn't leave it alone. “Did you have a plan?”

“Tt,” what a stupid question. “Of course I have a plan.” Be prepared, always have a plan, never make a threat you can't follow.

(He had mastered his lessons.)

“Okay, okay, okay,” Drake mumbles to himself. “This– fuck, I'm under-qualified, it's—uh, fuck.”

Drake doesn't ask anything. Damian keeps his posture as he starts drawing the kaishakunin . 

“Okay,” Drake's voice is even, again. “Thanks for telling me. I know it must be hard to–”

“I'm not a child,” there's a knife in his hand, and it's too fast and— 

“I'm not a victim, and you shall not treat me as one!” His hand punches the dashboard and everything inside feels too much like tearing up his skin, like taking a knife and carving all over and—

He undoes his seatbelt and opens the car door.

“Dami!”

The attack comes from above. The second floor, not the ceiling, he notices.

His body prepare to take the hit, to keep them away from the kids as–

The attacker meets his strikes with confident, unhesitating blocks.

But that's it.

They just block him. No actual hits, aiming to hurt or maim or kill.

As the fight drops, they hold his wrists and he finally gets the chance to properly observe his opponent: a short female with shoulder-length black hair and Asian facial features. 

“Good fight,” they say in approval. As if he ever had a chance to do otherwise. “Familiar,” says the unfamiliar female, before their face beams with joy. “Big baby brother?”

And the way she tilts her head is familiar, though he only saw it on a young face. 

“Shadow?”

“Cass,” she corrects him. “Cass-san-dra.”

He never learned her name. Never got to interact with the little girl with observant eyes that used to hide and follow Quizlet. He never knew anything about her, except the way she always watched, and never spoke.

She is older, here. Her hair is shorter and she speaks. Her body is open, relaxed, and she makes it even looser as he watches her. Carefully signaling him: not a threat. Friend. Safe.

He can feel eyes staring at him. 

“They're fine,” Dickie whispers in his ear. “Old-Jay brought her in a while ago. I mean, uh, brought them . When Jay was still in bed.”

“Both. Both are good,” the unfamiliar person confirms.

“Nice to meet you, Cass,” he says. 

They smile, and it's imperfect. Head tilted and wider on the left and one eye half closed 

“Yes. Good!” They approve. “Good!” They jump in place and shake their hands in excitement.

There's a loud gasp from the corner, and Dami gets a glimpse of Jay's face. He's pale, staring at the stranger with something like hope and pain in his eyes. Almost absently, he raises his left hand and makes a circle around his eye, before closing it, palm flat, and whispers:

“Danny?”

Chapter Text

The trees at the entry to Bristol are a satisfying hiding spot, Damian decides. Though probably should be observed regularly for snipers.

He forgot how much he missed nature. Climbing up an ancient tree, scratching his fingers on its bark. Watching the snow, the real thing - not the dirty half melted abomination they have here.

 Or lying on the warm sand, closing his eyes and basking in the sun, Mother’s gentle fingers in his hair. Staying there until it's too cold to just lay there. Mother's hands, holding him even though he's old enough to walk on his own. Carrying him to his room, even though she knows he isn't really asleep.

( He doesn't cry. He doesn't .)

“Damian.”

He doesn't acknowledge the voice.

“Damian.”

If I stay here, will I become a part of the bark? Part of the tree itself?

“Damian.”

The closest branches move, and he throws his tentō.

“What the hell?” Comes a surprised voice. But not hurt. Shame. What a waste of a good blade. “No, okay. I should have expected it. Obviously you have a knife.”

Imbecile. As if he would only carry one.

The wind is blowing, and it sounds like someone is screaming in the distance. It's like being uphill in a cave, but there's no fire and no furs or heavy blankets to dwell in, and it is all too much, too much, and he knows .

“Fuck, I'm not qualified for this,” Damian can hear the whisper from his left. “Okay. I'm calling Dick–”

“No!”

He's a swirl of motion and his tantō, Shinogi, is pulled out of its ankle holster, and he's holding it to the neck and–

“You can not tell Richard!”

(“ We'll keep an eye on him .”

 And there's a locked room and pain and blood and 

“ He won't hurt them .”)

Drake's hands freeze, right where he can see it.

They are on a tree.

( This would be so easy , that voice in him says. Just push him. No one will ever know– )

“No, no!” he shakes his head violently. 

“I didn't do anything,” Drake says carefully. “I'm here, I'm with you. It's okay. No one else is here.”

“No, this isn't –” he pull his hair, trying to stay focused. “This isn't… you not meant to know! None of you! You can't– it's not –.”

He realizes his hand is moving. It shouldn't. Your arm, your weapon, should always be steady . This is not –

This isn't –

“You can not tell Richard,” he repeats. “You didn't – he's doesn't – it's– arrggh!”

English. Why English like this?

“It's okay,” Drake says, hands still raised up. “Take a second, try to organize your thoughts in your head first. We've got time.”

The fool wouldn't even take the advantage when given. Just stay there, in an isolated location, with someone who's already tried to kill him! Does he wants to die–?

Oh .

“This is- purpose, you. You want me killing you so bad?” He accuses. Knife still shivering in the open air.

“You won't hurt me,” Drake says. “Well, not like that. Not anymore. I trust you.”

“You shouldn't,” his eyes are burning. “I can kill you.”

“I know.”

“I tried to kill you.”

“Yes, you did,” Drake agrees. But still doesn't back off.

“Then why ?” The rain is on his face now. “Why you say this? Why you stay here? Why you don't go away ?”

“Do you want me to leave?” The older boy asks.

Damian stays quiet.

No.

Maybe.

I don't know.

“It's okay,” Drake says. “I mean, it's not okay – it's hard. Feeling like this. But, it's okay that it's not okay, you know?”

Damian just blink at him.

Really, Drake?

“I am not a child ,” He says harshly. “or some kind of a victim. Don't use that on me!”

“I'm not saying that you are a victim,” Drake doesn't back off. “I was saying that it must be really hard, feeling like that.”

“It's stupid, and childish, and a weakness.”

“Is it?”

“What do you even know ? You weren't there! You were out, doing some – I don't know, doing another miracle, like you always make things work. Even if it is impossible. Always do things so good. Always people talk about you, like you are the best thing ever.”

Drake stays quiet.

“And then you come back. You come back, and you bring a prove – and suddenly, you bring back from the dead. And Jid- and Grandfather is calling you “detective” and want you as his heir, and—”

His rage breaks, and there's the abyss he's been hiding underneath.

“It's not fair,” he says, body aching. “It's not fair.”

A soft hand, reaching, taking the knife from his hand.

It doesn't matter . Nothing does.

He puts his arms on his knees, and the bark is hard against his skin as he buries his face in it.

“No,” Drake agrees, quietly. “Life isn't fair.”

“And you have everything,” he can feel the rain, warm on his face. “You have everything, and this not– you don't know it. They want you.”

He stays quiet for a second.

“I hate you,” Damian continues, quietly. “I hate you and this is lies. Stop lying to me!” 

“I'm not lying.”

“You do!”

“I'm not “

“You are! I know, I was here - I see it was. I see. They all happy when you come. Respect you. They see me and they always. I'm not enough. I'm never, and it's not fair and this is not what it was supposed to be! This is your fault!”

The raindrops on his face are stronger, now.

The other boy stays in his place, just in arm reach.

“You know,” Drake starts, slowly. “For a long time, I was so jealous of you.”

Yeah, right. What is there to be jealous of?

“You were just. Accepted. Immediately. No need to fight for it. Just as you are, as Damian, a son and brother and all. B just… took you in. Like it's easy. Jason and you obviously had some history, but a good one. And Dick… he loved you since day one. And after B… he took you as his own. Insisting and nurturing in a way he never had with me. You were wanted, always. And that's before we go into the way your mom clearly loves you –”

“Tt,” he mocks. “Of course. She is my mother. That's her job.” He raises his head.

“Yes,” there's something kept in Drake's voice. In the way his lips tighten. “That knowledge was the reason I know it.”

And for a moment, there's pain in that voice.

Drake sneezes, three times in a row.

"Fuck," he says, "I really shouldn't be out in the rain like that."

"Tt," Damian says. "Of course not, you spleenless fool."

Drake just laughs at that.

"We *do* need to continue this conversation," he warns. "But yes, it would probably best if we do it in a warmer place."

He sneezes again.

Damian doesn't care about the physical health of his precceder, of course. But he does make a good point. 

So he climbs down, ignoring the helping hand reaching out for him. He jumps down from the lowest branch, and starts walking back towards the car. Not looking to see if the older teen would follow.

(He does.)

Chapter Text

Previously:

There's a loud gasp from the corner, and Dami gets a glimpse of Jay's face. He's pale, staring at the stranger with something like hope and pain in his eyes. Almost absently, he raises his left hand and makes a circle around his eye, before closing it, palm flat, and whispers:

 

“Danny?”

 

“D-Danny?” Jay asks again. “It's me. It's Jay.” 

And this time,his thumb and index form a circle, three fingers raised, moving from his mouth out, slowly brushing his cheek.

Danny-Cassandra looks at him with pure glee and surprise.

“Baby!” they smile, and make an unfamiliar sign, something from their chin?

Jay doesn't seem to care.

He runs straight at them, and all of a sudden there's another crying child in this room, and his brother is weeping and holding the stranger tightly as words spill out of his mouth, unstoppable, like a raging tide.

“I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry,” whispers the kid. “I left you I'm sorry I didn't mean to I'm sorry he took me I'm sorry I'm sorry it's my fault I'm sorry I'm sorry Danny, I'm sorry.”

( And Dami can feel it. The aching pain, the desperate need to apologize to those who paid the debt you gained. Dami can feel it, like the dirt underneath his fingernails and the sickening-sweet smell of roses. )

Dami is eager to reach a hand and comfort the suffering child.

( But what do you even say ?)

The stranger falls down to their knees, gracefully, kneeling in front of the child. They open their arms and cover him, burying his face in their shirt as the tears soaks their neck.

They kneel, yet they are strong.

Dami is looking at the stranger, child in arms, and for a moment he lets himself hope.

Eventually, Jay goes back.

“You're not my sister,” he whispers. “You're – you're like, other-her, right? You're Other-Jason’s Danny.” His voice is sad, but peaceful. 

No , Danny-Cassandra nods, fist rolling over their chest, face twitching. Sorry.

“Cass,” they say. “Me. Name. Cass. I choosed.”

I didn't know you have a sister , Dami doesn't say. By the look of it, she didn't make it. He understands the silence. He never spoke about his deads either.

(There's still dirt underneath his fingernails, and blood dripping on his face, and he'll never be clean again.)

“You speak,” Jay's voice is filled with awe. “But you also use signs?”

Cass nods again.

“Speak. Hard,” they voice and point at their throat, and then at their head. “Signs… signing is like dancing. Easier,” they sign.

“My sister,” the confession floods from him. “She never spoke. People said that's ‘cause she's stupid, but mama said ‘no, my Danny's a smart girl.’ The doctors said first that she's deaf, then that she's retarded. But mama and I knew what she meant. And the woman from the clinic, the speech something? She said things that's not speaking might be better. So Mama got Danny in the special school, and we took classes in ASL in the community center before– ”

His voice breaks again.

“She's my baby sister, an' I failed her,” he says quietly, begging for her to understand. “Mama said life's gonna be hard to her, that I look after her. And I did. Even after mama– even when it was hard– I heard the workers, they were gonna take her to a facility. Someplace people ain’t gonna know her and what she's like and that you need to stretch her socks and cut her tags and what to do if she's mad. Mama told me to look after her. She's my baby sis, you see?”

“I took her when they were still speaking and we ran and we were fine, I swear, I did my best! But it got cold and I didn't have money and I saw a fancy car and I thought - I thought it can really make it good, y'know? But–” he chokes, unable to finish.

“But then he got you,” Dami quietly completes the sentence for him. He comes closer, putting his hand on his brave brother's shoulder. The kid in his other arm stays very, very still.

“Yes,” Jay agrees. “And I left her. I left her alone and she's probably dead now and…”

“And I'm bad person,” he whispers in agony to his not-sister. “I'm a terrible person  ‘cause– ‘cause I kept thinking–” he's shivering, eyes focused on the alter, the proxy, begging for forgiveness.

“I kept thinking that I hope she's dead. Because I know what happened to kids that aren't all there with no one to take care after them.” He stops breathing, waiting for the judgment.

His fists are white, and Dami can see the way he's twitching, ready to fight.

( But there's no one to fight now. Only shadows and memories and ashes and the broken shreds of what once was love .)

Cass raise their hand, and–

There's a soft hand on his face, wiping tears, and warm eyes that look almost into his when he opens them.

“No bad,” they say, firmly, unwilling to give up their hold. “You. Good–”

They put the other hand on his heart. “Good, here. Good. Hurt. Care.”

And they stay there, patiently, until the broken expression leaves Dami's little brother's face.

Jay steps back, the first to break the connection.

“S– sorry to cry all over you,” he says.

“No sorry,” Cass shakes their head as they stand up. “Good. Need cry. Need… feeling out. Not in. In make– (they crash hands together in frustration). Make hurt. Cry is good. Love. Care.”

Jay wipes his tears, and gives them one last hug. As the moment breaks, Dami still wonders if he should tell him about little Shadow.

A little elbow in his ribs takes him out of his mind.

“Come,” Dickie says, “I’ll show you around the house.” I'll show you the exits and hiding spots we found, remains unsaid.

And so Dami leaves one child behind, as he follows the directions of another. Climbing up the stairs, he desperately hopes he doesn't make a mistake.

They finish the tour, and Dami is on his way back to the hall, to get Jay, when there's a loud thunder. In the quiet aftermath he can hear noises from the door.

“Get off!”

The big doors open dramatically. At first, it looks like a sea monster has climbed out of Gotham's bay, and made its way into the manor.

Then there's a scream, and a familiar sound of someone getting punched in the guts, and the monster splits into two humanoid-like creatures, covered in mud.

“Alfie. Kill you,” Cassandra says in a nonchalant voice. “Stupid.”

Two sets of eyes turn towards them, as the taller one falls to the ground.

“Cass!?” says Tim from the floor, surprised but happy. “What– I thought you were in Hong Kong?”

“Cassandra,” Damian acknowledges with a polite nod. His dripping coat makes a small pond on the wooden floor.

“Yes,” they say. “Now here.” 

“What – ?”

“Brother said,” they sign. And then smirk. “Need to see nephew 2.0”

Tim makes a sound like a wet cat. “Can't you get over it?”

“No over, never.” They sign with a mischievous grin. “Only chaos!” They cackle so hard that their hands shiver.

“You need to spend less time with Stephanie,” he sighs as he gets up from the floor, and approaches to hug them.

“No. Fun,” they voice. But they hug Tim tight, unbothered by the water or mud, and for a moment everything is good with the world.

Then the hug is over, and they move on to welcome their baby brother.

They frown for a second. Almost unnoticed, but Damian doesn't miss it.

They know.

Then there are hands around him, holding almost too tight to breathe. Only one person holds him like that, not afraid to break him. Only one person would push him to his limits, but won't hurt him.

“What… bad?” They whisper in his ear. 

He doesn't answer. Just holds back, as tight as he can.

Then the hug is over, a second before it's too much. As always.

They look at him, and he can still see the worry in the corner of those eyes. Can feel the way they look at him, thinking, but willing to keep his weaknesses a secret. Keeping his back in this room, full of known and unknown people.

He looks at them, and thinks.

Drake wouldn't let it go , he knows. He seemed oddly obsessed about those weaknesses. He seemed so fixed about telling Father. 

But Cassandra is still here, despite all their flaws and disobedience. They are still here, but also not. They weren't afraid to stand up to Father, if what he was told was correct. They also never showed any interest in Robin. There's little they could gain from betraying him, yet much to lose.

( And Akhi trusted them. Akhi called them “twin” despite the lack of blood relations. Akhi claimed them as kin - and, by proxy, another child of Mother .)

He looks at them, and an idea starts to form in his head.

( They could be considered as a “responsible adult”, right?)

Then Drake sneezes again, and Cassandra all but pushes them away from the hallway.

“Go,” they say. “Shower. Warm. I clean.”

“We talk,” they sign in one hand, as they take off his soaked coat. “ Shower, eat, we talk .”

He leaves his shoes behind,and walks barefoot to his room.

It's a good plan , he thinks. Shower, a quick lunch, and then Cassandra could probably convince Drake that there's no need to bother Father with past mistakes.

It doesn't solve anything, but at least now he knows what's going to happen. There's a plan.  And even though it's nothing, it makes him feel better.

Chapter Text

Dami stays very, very quiet in his hidden place as he watches the Others leave the hall, and thinks.

He's still thinking when Other-Jason calls them for lunch. 

Timmy isn't there.

“They said it's okay,” Dickie tells him, but still looking all over. “They say he doesn't have to come, if he doesn't feel well.”

And Dami recognises that for what it is –

An offering. A chance. A test: Will they come after him, alone and helpless? Will they force him to eat?

(It's been a long time since mere “pain” was a reason to do anything.)

He looks at the old-Jay from the corner of his eye, notices what he's taking.

(He'll play their game, but he won't let Timmy pay his debt. One of them should keep a clear mind.)

The young man eats meat and vegetables and some of the homemade bread, so he guesses those should be fine. The kids also take only from these plates.

Smart kids, he catches Jay's eyes and nods in approval.

He widened one eye, warning, before taking some from the untouched dish. 

(It smells… familiar, for some reason.) 

He keeps eye contact with the older one, daring, very carefully not looking at Jay.

“Thank you,” he tells the man when they finish. “For feeding us.”

Old-Jay looks at him, long and hard, before dismissing it.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says. “That's the least I could do. I mean, I wasn't really here, right?” he shrugs awkwardly. And all of a sudden, under the strange haircut and the muscles and the shouting, Dami can see his brother. 

“You are here, now,” he says. “Is it– is that what you wanted?” Did someone make you? Did they force you? What do they have to make you–? 

“None of them could make me do anything,” Jason promises. “I'm here because I want to.” And his smile is kind, and Dami can almost believe him.

(Underneath it all, he's still his brave little brother.)

“Come onnnnn Dami!” Dickie grows impatient and starts dragging him towards the stairs. “I wanna show you the room!”

“Take care of yourself,” he tells his confused not-brother.

“Um, okay, uh– you too?” is the confused reaction, as Dami climbs the stairs, unable to resist the unstoppable force that is his youngest brother.

Cass is–

Cass doesn't understand.

Cass doesn't want to understand. Doesn't want it to be real. Doesn't want to see Baby Brother on the ground and stiff and cold and someone crying mama–

Cass doesn't want Baby Brother cold.

They hold him, and he's warm and moving and says words like “unhand me” and “stop it”.

But body says hold yes please. Body falls into hug like popsicles in the sun. Wet and messy and all around.

And Baby Brother doesn't use blades. Doesn't even move to get them out. So it's okay.

Baby Brother doesn't know –

Doesn't think –

“No,” they voice. “No, no, no.”

They don't know.

They don't have words for it. Not with voice or hands or pictures or–

They hold him close, and try to show him.

Cass is Round-and-round, up on the fingers, holding like baby, happy and moving around.

Cass is putting baby in bed, hand reaching to neck. Hand reaching over and over, and everytime falls to the ground.

Cass is on the ground, holding a hand like a child, like being a kid and watching Mama on the floor.

Cass's body is moving, still sitting, rocking back and forth and crying.

Cass’s body is on the ground, holding Baby, very close and very alone and not moving at all.

Cass doesn't move.

Cass just.

Holds Baby close and close and doesn't let go.

Damian is… unsatisfied with the way things turned out.

There had been a miscalculation in his previous plans.

Apparently, Cassandra is not as willing as he thought to dismiss the childish feelings of his past-self.

Who would have guessed?

Cassandra seemed to be… distressed, one may say, about it.

He watches as their body language screams horror.

As they reach for him, for words, for anything to let out.

He watches as they dance.

Joy, and holding him.

Distress as they put an imaginary figure in bed.

Fear and pain as they seem to reach for the figure, keep looking for a non-existent pulse.

Agony as they cry,

Grief as they lay on the ground, and stop moving.

They do not speak, but he thinks he might be able to understand what they were trying to express.

I'm happy you're here. And 

I can't imagine losing you. And this is a fear I didn't have, but now I can't let go of it. And don't leave, don't go.

Or so he thinks.

(He might be misunderstanding it.)

But Cass is holding him now, from the moment they got up from the floor. They hug him tightly and keep looking for his pulse, so he thinks he might not be too wrong.

“Unhand me,” he commands, but they refuse to listen.

(And maybe that's okay. Maybe he doesn't completely hate it…. Not having any other choice, of course.)

Still, he tries to get it through Drake's thick skull.

“There's no need to bother Father with past weakness,” he insists.

“Scared,” Cassandra says quietly, “why?” Their hand still holds his arm. 

And there's no other choice, he can't see a way to keep them away from messing with things they don't understand, except exposing the truth.

“They already hate me,” his voice doesn't break, it doesn't. “Please don't make him throw me away.”

He doesn't look at them.

Cassandra hugs him even harder, and he can't help it – 

He turns away and buries his face in their shirt.

“No one's going to kick you out, Dames. This is your ho–”

His hand bounces back.

“My name,” he growls, “is Damian, you useless waste of fresh air! And as long as you haven't developed the meta ability to see into the future, I can't see how you could guarantee any of this!”

He can feel a hold on his shoulder, but doesn't let it stop him.

“Unlike you, I am not infirm,” he spits. “I refuse to go back as some… incompetent, amateurish, inadequate . I'd rather fall on my sword than return to my mother as some kind of a failure.”

He's not he's not he's not he's –

There's a long quiet.

“No sword,” Cass says eventually. “No .. bad. No Broken.” 

He clings even harder.

Their hands leave him as they talk to Drake.

“No,” they finally say. “No bad. B good. Or Uncle Eddie. Nephew Baby.”

They sound like they made up their mind.

I don't understand. He doesn't say.

“Cass,’’ Drake sounds both fond and frustrated. “You can't just use it every –”

“Uncle Eddie,” Cass insists again.

“This isn't how it works!”

Drake sounds extremely frustrated.

Interesting.

“As it is my concern,” Damian says. “I would say I have the right to decide, and I think Cassandra's plan sounds like a good plan.”

Drake lets out a short scream, and rolls his eyes so hard the white was on full display.

“Fine!” he says and opens the door. “Have it your way!” And storms out, unnecessarily overdramatic.

The door slams closed and the sound of steps fade as the teen walks away. When they can't hear it anymore, Damian remembers something he wanted to ask.

“So… what is Uncle Eddie?”

The house is suspiciously quiet when Bruce walks in.

Alfred drops him by the front door, and drives the car to the garage.

He leaves his umbrella in the basket by the door.

Most of the hooks on the coat rack are taken, and the metal plate beneath it is full of water from the dripping covers.

He hangs his coat on one of the few empty pegs - between a rough leather jacket and a small, muddy coat. Even after everything that happened in the last days, or maybe because of it, he can't help the soft smile on his face.

His kids are home. Safe. All of them.

(He ignores the little voice telling him the alters aren't yours to keep.)

Though he can't stop his suspicions over the mud on Damian's coat.

(No, stop it. He's fine. He didn't fall down the hill and break his neck. They are all fine. Alfred will clean it tomorrow, and it will be as good as new. Stop catastrophizing things.)

“Good evening, everyone!” He throws his voice as he leaves the hall.

No one replies. As usual.

No, wait –

He can hear a door close, and steady steps. 

(No Steph no Dick no Jay no Duke–)

“Good evening, Tim,” he smiles at his third boy, relieved he didn't use the wrong name. “How was school today?”

(Last time he messed up the names, Jay asked if he's dead to him. And the drama Dick came up with wasn't something he would like to experience again.)

Something's off, he thinks as the kid doesn't reply.

“What's wrong?” his Father voice slips into his Batman voice. 

Tim takes a deep breath.

(Oh no, what happened is it Jay? Did Dick have a car crash I warned him not to–)

“Meet us in your office,” Tim says with a serious face. “We need to talk.

Behind him, Bruce can see Cass standing, fully alert, carrying Damian in her arms.

He wouldn't normally let her do that, he knows. His fear is a blinding thing.

“Damian?” He asks. “What's wrong?”

His youngest just looks away, and holds his sister quietly.

“As I said,” repeats Tim. “We need to talk.”

Chapter Text

(It didn't start like that).

He can't remember the first time he held a knife.

He can't remember the first time he saw a dead body.

He can't remember the first time with blood on his hands and Mother's smile–

( You did good, Habibi ) 

–whispered as she softly kissed his forehead.

Fresh fabric cleaning the blood from his hands. Fabric that wouldn't be touched again. Fabric that would be stored until the day he'll turn into a man, and bleed on the fabric himself. 

( Blood of life against a dead man's blood. )

“Uh, Galbi,” my heart .

“Galbuna,” said Grandfather. Our heart . 

“Galb al-Ghul.” The demon's heart.

(There can be no life without death.

No plant can grow without breaking the ground.

There can be no judgement before learning good and bad, right and wrong, and the threads that constantly bind them.

You must learn judgment, in order to unfold the promise that hides within you.

To assure you will continue our legacy, and protect our people, whatever it takes.)

He used to be a promise. The Heart. The heir. the gift. Talented and capable and thriving– always first, always the best.

He used to know his place, what was expected from him, and who he was supposed to be.

He used to know the rules.

And then it all changed, and the rules he was taught were no longer to be kept. The people he stayed with claimed things auch as ‘family’ and ‘trust’, yet refused to protect one they claimed as their own.

He tried to get rid of the decoy. He thought it was a disguise, a test, to see exactly where his loyalty lays.

But it wasn't. This was right and wrong and everything he once knew seemed to be wrong in this strange new land. No matter what he did, his solutions were always wrong.

He was there to learn from Father. To become the heir, the beacon, a perfect combination of two of the greatest lines.

He was there to learn, but he wasn't a blank canvas to be drawn.

(And despite how much they seemed to hate it, he had already been painted before he got there. His first years were painted in Lazarus-green, and Sand-brown, and Blood-red. He was curved by heat and physical work and a community that held people close, and secrets even closer.)

Then Father-

Then he was left with false smiles and people that wore lies as their chosen dress. People who kept saying that it's okay, even though  nothing was.

He was left hanging on a tightrope, walking over the dark chaos, never knowing what's right.

Damian doesn't look, even as Father says his name. He doesn't reply.

He is carried down the hall by his sister, waiting for his own disownment, and says nothing.

Father's office is a place of power. Usually, Damian would feel empowered just standing in the room, seeing the expensive furniture and smelling the gentle scent of lavender he came to associate with Pennyworth's cleaning.

( He's tired. So, so tired. )

“Damian,” Drake says gently, “do you want to tell your dad, or do you want me to?”

He doesn't speak.

You , he doesn't say.

Me. 

Nobody.

It doesn't matter.

He just shrugs.

“What's wrong, Damian?” Father asks, steel in his voice.

Everything. Nothing. Me.

But he isn't a child. He is capable of making his own decisions. So he leaves his sister's arms and stands in front of Father in a proper position: back straight, hands behind him.

You must know yourself. That means you must acknowledge your flaws, as well. Control them, so they won’t control you.

He remembers Mother.

Do not blame others! You should own your deeds. How would you become a leader when you can't defend yourself? Be certain of your actions!

He remembers Grandfather.

If you make a mistake, you should apologize. Sure, it wouldn't change anything. But it shows that you recognise the wrongs of your actions, and learn from them. That you will do your best not to repeat them.

He remembers Uncle Dushan, on a rare visit.

Sorry doesn't fix it! Sorry doesn't bring it back!  

He remembers Mara.

“I apologize, Father,” he says. “I have been… weak, in the past, and Drake had learnt about it and insisted that I should confess.”

“That's not –” Drake stops immediately, like someone has covered his mouth with their palm.

“What do you mean?” Father's full glare is not an easy thing to bear, even out of the suit. A lesser person would be scared.

( Damian isn't scared. He's the Demon's Heart. He can't be .)

“During your… departure,” he says. “That son of yours had been struggling to keep his center, and stay focused on the Great Cause, Father.” 

He takes a breath, keeping his eyes on the ground, respectfully.

“That son of yours had been considering Sepp– unlawful things, in an attempt to escape his failures. That son of yours knows that it cannot be fixed, but would like to offer an apology, and is open to any punishment  he would receive.”

He doesn't close his eyes.

He will receive any punishment. Any necessary pain in order to become better.

There's silence.

“What do you mean, Damian?” Father asks. His voice is a knife, penetrating through the heart and pin to the floor, to the wall, to the glass (to be examined and searched and–).

Damian doesn't answer that. He puts everything into keeping his mask up. Keeping his face blank, his breathing equal, his heartbeat unchanged.

(He can't. His vocal chords are gone and he can't even remember what words are like.)

He doesn't reply to Father, and there will be consequences.

(He's so tired.)

Damian doesn't reply.

“He said he wants to die,” Drake says from his corner.

(Damian should have known that. Shouldn't have trusted him in the first place. Shouldn't feel acid in his guts and the pain of being exposed like that.)

Father's glare is frozen, even more powerful than before. Damian locks his joints in place, focuses on keeping up the face, of not showing weaknesses.

“Is that true?” Father stands from his chair.

Damian doesn't answer.

“Why didn't you say anything?” He blames. 

(Father is right. He should have done better.)

“What happened?” Father asks.

( Nothing, Damian can't say.

I don't know. 

I'm broken.

I think I am defected. ^[1]

I am poison.

Please don't send me away.)

“Damian, you're scaring me,” Father says.

(Damian doesn't realize his legs go backwards.)

“Damian, talk to me!” Father commands.

(He can't.)

“If you don't talk to me, I'm taking you right to the hospital,” Father warns.

(There's not enough air in the room.)

Father takes a step forward.

(He runs.)

Chapter Text

Baby Brother is. Hurt .

Baby is standing, but. Not all there. Not good.

B keeps asking questions. Saying many many words. Body screams worry and scared and care .

Baby keeps not moving. Keep not-looking. Body screams don't look at me . Body screams prey pretend not .

Baby doesn't say words.

Not the small ones that Cass likes, that are easy to understand. 

Not the big ones Baby likes that sound like waterfalls and keep going. That sounds funny with many many sounds.

Baby says nothing. 

Not even with hands.

Words are hard. Words can be little bugs, whizzing in the ears. Words can be bombs, thrown at and making noise and pain.

B makes too much words. Not the right words. Cass can see Baby Brother is hurt hurt hurt.

Baby looks like–

(Baby looks like when Cass was little. Before Brother and words and Mama. Baby looks like times Cass doesn't want to think of, when there was only body and pain and the little dagger they still have.)

Baby Brother's body goes scared. Run.

“No,” Cass voices. “No. Stop.”

(Those words are important words. Words that mean listen and I don't like it and need to change and it hurts. )

Baby Brother stops. Which is good. But Baby Brother now scared and wait to hurt and–

(It wasn't to him. “No” and “Stop” wasn't to him.)

“Bad,” Cass says and goes boop on B's nose, like bad puppy. “Bad B. No. Too much. Too words.”

Baby is is still in room. Breathing not good. Breathing too fast. Like u-a-u-a. Like running, but not moving.

Timmy is in corner. Face shows pain hurt surprise guilt. Eyes look at B and goes betrayal. Goes how could you? oes sad.

Cassandra just… shoves Father's nose with her finger.

And Father lets her, standing there like a misbehaving dog.

(Damian doesn't know how to interpret this.)

Drake is…

(No, he refuses to think about that traitor.)

“He needs help!” Father tells her. And Damian takes a small step back, instinctively.

No Arkham no you can't I'm not crazy I'm not—

(Is he?)

This isn't how it's supposed to be, Tim thinks. This isn't– He wasn't– He was supposed to be better!

But looking at Damian's body, he wishes he never said a thing.

(He wishes he never killed this dream he had, of Bruce as caring. As a responsible adult. This secret hope he used to have, that if only he saw– if he just said something–

But no, this would have been worse.

This would have been so much worse.)

There's a child inside of him that keeps whispering. 

( I told you. You can't trust anyone. )

There's a twelve year old (and a half!) with a burner phone and a medkit, who’s still looking down from a rooftop and praying to remain unseen.

There's a thirteen year old with a black eye and a split lip, wiping blood from his face and asking him.

( Did you forget how he handles distress? )

There's a cynical sixteen year old inside of him, who keeps telling him that people see the world differently.

( Don't let the facts confuse you, idiot. Keep ignoring history and I'm SURE it won't repeat itself .)

“I'm sorry,” says the traitor. “I thought– I really thought– no, I don't know why I expected him to be anything else.”

Damian ignores him.

“I know it doesn't change anything,” the whisper continues, “But I really thought he'd be better. That he would have a plan or– or something.”

Damian steps away.

“ I am his father ,” Father shouts at Cassandra. “I know what's best for him!”

The traitor takes a deep breath.

“April 27th, three years ago,” the traitor says. “Remember, Bruce ? I’m calling this out.”

“ Tim ,” Father turns, like he just noticed them. He sounds devastated. “ I'm so–”

“No,” is the answer. “You promised– you were supposed to be better. You promised me. Damn, just a few months ago you promised that you'd get help!”

“I did–”

“But you still make life changing choices for everyone, without a word. Just like my birthday . What makes you think you can use the ‘I'm his father, I know best’ card?”

Father doesn't reply.

( It doesn't make sense. )

Cassandra moves, taking Damian's hand on her way out. Gently guiding him out of the room.

( Nothing makes sense .)

“Breathe, Damian,” they say. “You need to breathe, please.” 

( But– )

And they are at his room, and Damian isn't sure how they got here or why and his hand is on Cassandra's chest, and—

( I don't understand, a lost voice in his head keeps saying. It doesn't make sense. )

He can hear his breaths and Cassandra's heartbeat and he can fill his fingernails cutting into his skin and the beating in his own chest and the pain and–

“He was wrong,” he feels sick. “He said– he said Father won't–”

He doesn't finish the sentence.

He doesn't know how.

He doesn't know what he even wants to say.

Cassandra just looks at him, hands still wrapped around his, and asks:

“Home?”

Chapter Text

Now

“Please draw a house, a tree, and a person, in that exact order,” says the woman on the other side of the table. 

The table has an unopened pack of standard, cheap HB pencils, four sheets of paper, an eraser, and a pencil sharpener. Damian takes a pencil and starts tracing weak lines on the parchment.

He starts from the right. First the walls, tall and fierce. Then the roof– a flat surface with short walls to prevent falling. He automatically adds the closing lines before erasing  them. 

He adds two lines in the middle, symbolizing the separation between different floors. Then the windows. He takes a second to assess the size and amount of rooms before adding them, making sure every room has a window. On the first floor, though, he only draws two normal sized windows. The rest is the entrance hall and the living room. He draws three big windows, making sure to add curtains. Then the door: massive with a door knocker.  

For final touches, he adds shading, rose bushes, and the security fence.

“I'm done,” he tells the woman, who gives him another piece of paper.

The tree is easier to draw— from the heavy, old trunk to the limbs and branches. His movements are fierce, certain, and unhesitating. He adds the details: the spot his hand slipped becomes a scar on the wooden bark, and he covers the branches with a single line, mimicking a tree top.

“I'm done,” he says again.

“Good job,” the woman says as she hands him a third paper.  “Now, please draw a person - a boy or a girl, man or a woman.”

He hesitates. Unsure. 

Damian starts at the bottom - straight lines for pants. 

Higher - a shirt with long sleeves, hands tucked inside its pockets.

Higher - a head.

He draws it all in weak lines. Easy to erase, to remake, to fix it.

It's a good choice. Many changes are made, and his fingers are sore before he even reaches the face.

The mouth is closed. The nose - well he doesn't like the nose. He always struggles with drawing human noses.

The eyes are next, big and monolid and thick eyelashes and one raised eyebrow. 

The hair is last. Short, curly mane. 

He hands the final drawing to the woman, and says nothing.

Then

It doesn't change anything , Damian thinks.

Things aren't any easier, after that.

Not exactly.

But he stays with Cassandra and Akh Todd during the next few days. And it is both quiet and loud, in ways the manor has never been.

There are always noises outside the apartment. And there are neighbors up and down and there is a baby crying somewhere and a tv show that makes him want to tear off his ears.

Despite that, there is quiet, inside, in ways that he missed. There is no need to hide or put on a facade.

There is no requirement for speech.

There are no unspoken expectations, and the rules are very clear:

(Don't hurt anyone under this roof. Do your chores. Keep your room clean. No food in personal rooms. Do your homework. Knock before you enter someone else's room.)

And so are the punishments:

(You mess it up - you fix it. If you don't do your part in the household, you can't go out until you do it. Negotiations are acceptable. There will be no physical punishment, no food avoidant, and no kicking out of the house.)

Now:

The woman takes the papers Damian drew on, and puts the one with the house on the table between them.

"That looks like a nice house,” she says. “Who lives here?”

“Nobody. It's a drawing.”

“you are very right,” the woman has the audacity to look amused. “But if it was a real house, who would have lived here?”

He looks at the house again.

“I guess… many people. It's a big house. It would be foolish to keep this place just for one. Probably a family, a –”

( Hamula , he doesn't say.)

“An extended family, maybe?”

The woman's expression is hard to understand. She just nods. “Are they happy ?”

“It's just a house,” he says. 

Then:

Later that evening, Richard comes and brings Damian a new sketchbook and high quality pencils.

Damian recognizes it. It's the same brand he used to have when they still shared a place.

(He remembers.)

And there's this warm wave inside, and he hugs his brother.

Of course, it's only for a short time. But Richard hugs him back and whispers “I missed you, Baby Bat. I'm so sorry I messed it up. You are important and I love you so, so much, my little Robin.” 

And Damian thinks that

Maybe  

This isn't too bad.

( Just for now .)

Now:

“What kind of tree is it?” She pulls out the next paper.

“Do I look like a botanical expert to you?”

“How old is it?” She moves on.

“Old,” Damian answers. “Centuries old, maybe six hundred years old.”

“Who waters the tree?”

“Nobody. It's a wild forest tree. It doesn't need anyone to take care of him.”

The woman looks at him. “Has anyone tried to cut it down?”

“No,” he is very certain about it. “And even if they did, they would never succeed. Don't you see how thick the trunk is?”

She smiles at him, and asks “What else grows nearby?”

“Other trees, of course. And grass, and mushrooms. Though all the mushrooms in a colony can be considered a single living organism. And of course, since it's a forest, you'll have animals like wolves and birds and…”

Then:

This is nice, but it isn't home.

( He misses it - he misses Batcow and Titus and Alfred (the cat, of course.) he misses the garden and the quiet and his room .)

He doesn't say it, but Cassandra still sees it.

And as they confront him and understand what the problem is, they think with him, together, about several possible solutions.

And so he moves back into the manor that weekend. He moves back, but this isn't the end.

Cassandra stays with him, and as the night falls and he is not allowed to get on patrol, they stay in the same room.

He's left behind. He's left out of The Mission, but Richard and Cassandra and Todd all find times during the day to tell him it doesn't mean he's weak, and that it isn't a punishment, and that it doesn't mean he's left out - 

They tell him, in their different ways, that they are scared and care and love him.

( He isn't sure if he believes them, but. 

It is something .)

Now:

The woman looks at the person in the drawing, and Damian wishes he had a match to burn this whole thing to the ground.

She nods.

“Who is this person?” She asks.

“Nobody,” says Damian. “It's a drawing, not a real person.”

 “It doesn't have to be accurate, Damian,” she tells him. “There are no right or wrong questions. Just tell me the first thing that pops up in your mind.”

Who is this person? He looks again at the drawing.

“It's just–” he still doesn't know how to answer it. “Just someone. Just a person. No man of interest at all.”

Blissfully, she let it go.

“How old are they?” She proceeds to ask. 

He looks at the photo.

“Thirteen,” is the first thing that comes up in his mind.

“what’s their favorite thing to do?” 

“Play- um,  I mean, train their dog.”

“Who looks out for them?”

“They are thirteen ,” he lashes out. “Not a child. They don't need to be taken care of.”

“Okay,” the woman just look at him. “But what if they are sick, or scared, or need help with something? Do they have anyone they can go to, asking for assistance?”

Damian takes a moment to think.

 “I think… I think they can go to their brother.”

Damian doesn't look at the woman. Not at all. He's doodling on the plain paper as she keep asking him questions:

“Has anyone tried to hurt them?”

Chapter Text

Tuesday (D-6):

The first morning out of the Manor, Damian wakes up to a familiar scent.

(It brings back memories of noise and people and warmth. Of jam and tea and Naan bread.)

Todd makes breakfast, there's a boiling pot and–

“The Adasi is almost done,” he announces. “Don't worry, I remember you're vegetarian. I made some Barbari Naan and there's jam, if you want. Though it's store bought, so. You know. Lower your expectations.”

There's Adasi and Nan-e Barbari and tea and jam, and Damian feels very small and very young and as much as he's trying to avoid it, he can feel tears on his face.

“Dami? What happened?”

(And he pronounces it right. Not the American way. DA-mi . The way that makes him think about blood and soft hands and–)

“Hey,” Todd seems worried. “What's wrong, kiddo?”

I don't know, Damian doesn't even know what to start with. I don't know. I don't know.

“Nothing,” he says. “There is nothing wrong with me. What jams do you have?”

Wednesday (D-5):

“In the past few weeks,” asks the woman who takes them in, “have you wished you were dead?”

No , is his immediate response. No, how dare you?

But he promised.

He promised to take it seriously-

“I need you to be strong for me, Baby Bat,” said his da brother. “I know that this can be scary, but I want you to be honest with the interviewer, ok?”

“But–” Damian isn't sure how to act. What to do.

But as he dares to glance at the mirror, glance at the driver in the front seat, he sees the tears.

“Okay,” he replies. And he hates the way his voice sounds – young and lost and unbalanced.

“No,” he says. And it is the truth. 

“In the past few weeks,” she continues. “Have you felt that you or your family would be better off if you were dead?” 

“I love you,” Richard said. “You know that, right? No matter what you say or do. I'll always love you. I'll always be here for you.”

They were in the car, and Damian had to look away from the raw emotion on his brother's face. It was scary, but there was still warmth spreading in his chest.

“But what if I fail the test?” asked a little voice, somehow echoing and filling the car.

“Yes.”

She doesn't frown.

“In the past week,” she continues, “have you been having thoughts about killing yourself?”

It is a two hour drive from Gotham to Philadelphia. Damian spent the first half of the ride pretending to be unbothered, but Richard isn't the fool he claims to be.

“A penny for your thoughts, little D?” his brother asked softly. 

Damian looked out of the window, fists clenched, and didn't reply. 

Unfortunately, it didn't stop Richard, who pulled into a gas station three miles after that.

“I don't know.”

“Have you ever tried to kill yourself?”

“It's okay if you're scared,” his brother's voice is gentle. “It's okay if you are confused, or if you don't even know what to feel. It's been some really hard times.”

“I'm not scared,” Damian growls. The threatening effect is destroyed by the way his body curled around itself, face buried between his knees.

 

“No,” he says. Very clear.

There is no “try” if I'll ever make it, he doesn't explain.

“Are you having thoughts of killing yourself right now?”

“Think about it like a mission,” Richard suggested. “Or– or like a debrief, right? You just need to be honest and answer what they ask you.”

Damian took a moment to think, and then nodded. Sharply.

“Alright,” Richard seemed relieved. “So, we get to the clinic. We tell the person at the office that we have an appointment for risk assessment–”

Risk assessment, it echoes in Damian's ears. Risk, risk, risk, assassin–

“No,” he tells her. 

Thursday (D-4):

They take a short break before the last exam.

When they meet again in the room, the woman asks him to draw his family doing some kind of activity.

He starts with Richard, of course. Placing him in the center of the drawing, with a big smile on his face.

Then father to his right side.

After a short thinking, he draws a little Damian on the other side of Richard.

And Titus, of course.

And Alfred (the cat).

And Batcow.

He draws Akh Todd, with his stupid helmet under his arm.

On his side, then, he adds Cassandra – dancing on her tiptoes, a big smile, her monolid eyes closed with trust and joy.

He considers.

Of course. He can't believe he almost forgot him.

Pennyworth is placed by Father's right side - dressed in his button down shirt and a bow tie, one eyebrow raised.

And since he drew Cassandra, he needs to add Brown. He draws her walking.

And. All right. Drake could be here as well. 

Damian draws the pathetic little caffeine addict properly - exhausted, limp, with a big mug in his hand.

And just as a good measure, he adds Thomas.

There is still time, he realizes as he looks at the clock.

(Unauthorized, his hand starts drawing a familiar face. Monolid eyes and a small, one-sided smile. Long hair and a long-sleeved shirt and a skirt. High heels that knock on the tiles in a specific way, never fails to make him feel safe,  announcing her approach.)

He thinks about erasing her it.

(He can't. He doesn't want to.)

(There's a faint, almost transparent figure he adds by her side. But he can't force himself to erase it completely.)

He thinks about erasing it.

(He doesn't.)

Friday (D-3):

Damian carries his school bag, allowing Cassandra to carry his double bag three stories up, dropping it on his bed and letting him unpack alone.

The room hasn't changed.

Of course it didn't - he's only been away for four nights.

(But it feels longer. It feels like there's an abyss, separating the “then” and “now”. It feels like there's an abyss, and he's drowning in its bottomless water.)

He takes a deep breath.

There's a sudden motion, and he throws a quick knife at the intruder –

A knife that hits too close to a pale faced child, that's now starting to lose his grip on the window pane–

The one he's holding from the outside part.

Damian gets there in the last second, catching him right before those thin fingers lose the final grip. Right before a small body falls to the ground, bleeding and broken and–

Damian catches him, and pulls him in through the window.

“You absolute moron,” he whispers through gritted teeth. “Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

The child doesn't answer. His wide blue eyes keep scanning over Damian's body.

“I– I brought you some bandages,” the kid whispers. “And Jay makes some distraction, so I can help you if you have–” 

The quiet voice breaks.

“Y'know, if… if you need help in places you can't see. Like, cleaning or bandaging. Or just don't want to be alone, after.”

The child looks young and old at the same time, and Damian doesn't know what to say.

“I wasn't hurt,” he replies stiffly.

“Okay,” the child agrees, too easily. “I'll just leave this here, so if you need it you can use it. Do you need anything else from me?”

“I am serious,” Damian repeats. “I don't know what you think happened, but I just stayed with Todd and Cassandra for a couple of nights.”

“Ja– Jay did it?”, the kid whispers, and Damian can see the light dim in the child's eyes. Then he shakes his head, his voice turns even more quiet as he gets closer, asking: 

“How bad is it?”

“They. Did. Not. Hurt. Me,” Damian tries to shove it into the younger boy's skull.

“I believe you,” the kid says immediately. “I know you're strong and you can take it. They can't hurt you. But you don't have to be in pain.”

Those blue eyes are staring, and Damian doesn't want to think about the reason–

(Because it is familiar. Those words. No one else could ever hurt me and untouchable and–)

“During the last days and nights and in-between times,” he exclaim. “I wasn't injured or suffered any bodily harm by any of those I would consider as ‘friends’ or ‘family’. I currently suffer no physical pain that is related to any injury I might have acquired during those days, and I do believe Todd and Cassandra would be more willing to kill and die than see me hurt, especially under their guardianship. Does that satisfy you?”

The child is staring.

Those big blue eyes glare into his, looking for any evidence for a lie, half truth, or anything, or anything short of full disclosure.

“You're really okay?” the child asks in a tiny voice.

“Yes.”

“They didn't hurt you?”

“No, they didn't.”

“They didn't… they didn't make you do the– the things that make you feel dirty all over?”

Damian refuses to think about it. “No, no one has made me do any of those things.”

“So,” the child seems to consider it. “You just left? Not because anybody hurt you or made you?”

“Yes.”

“So you just left,” the child's voice gets louder. “You just left and didn't say anything?”

Damian… isn't sure how to answer.

“You just left,” the child says. “And didn't even say goodbye?”

(There's something growing inside of Damian's stomach, and he doesn't know what it is. Like a balloon growing in his lungs and guts, blocking the air and voice and everything.)

Those blue eyes are watery, he notices. The child stands there, right where he is, as tears start dripping.

“I hate you,” the child says. “I hate you I hate you I hate you!”

And Damian suddenly falls on the bed, and the kid is by the door, and–

“I hope they hurt you. I hope they put water in you so much that it hurts and then tied you up and don't let you go to the toilet and you have to pee on yourself and everyone laughed when you cried,” he spits.

And then he's out of the room.

And then he's gone.

Damian lies on his back on his bed, filled with air and unspoken feelings, and wishes he never existed.

Saturday (D-2):

There's a knock on the door. 

“May I come in?”

No , Damian thinks. I don't want you here .

But ignoring Drake is never a real option. So he goes to the door and opens it. Just a crack.

“What.”

Drake looks ashamed and embarrassed. As he should.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says. “And explain myself. About. You know. What happened.”

It doesn't matter.

“You have done enough. It became very clear that your purpose had always been to shame me in front of Father,” he says stiffly.

“What–? No, that's not what – oh my god. That's what you thought?” The traitor's eyes widen in surprise, but Damian doesn't fall for his tricks.

“Tt, that pathetic facade you're putting on doesn't fool me. I should have known better than to trust you with anything, let alone a weakness .” he scoffs.

“This isn't what I meant to do,” Drake says, and Damian is too tired to analyze the tone he's using. “I– I really thought he'd help. I'm sorry. I know I fucked up.”

“What a poor excuse,” Damian doesn't look at him. “ I didn't think , as if it's any better? Saying Sorry doesn't fix it. Sorry never fixes anything.”

( And those words are familiar, and bitter, and ancient in his mind.)

“You're right,” Drake says. “It doesn't change anything. But you still deserve an apology. I hurt you, even if I didn't mean to, and so I should try to make up for it.”

Damian refuses to fall for this. He will not engage with such false allegations. He doesn't answer.

“Okay,” Drake hesitates. “You don't trust me. I get it. Then how about this – a secret for a secret. You told me a secret of yours, and so I'll tell you something about me. Something no one else in this family knows, that you could either hold against me or tell B to even things. How does that sound?”

Damian looks at him, then. Assessing. Drake's shoulders are uneven, and he tilts his head. Damian has seen Drake lying before, even to Father - Drake can put on a blank mask and act honest and innocent while lying to one's face. Drake seems calm when he lies, almost bored, and never sweats.

This could be another facade, of course – this could be a lie, designed especially to fool him. Or this could be true.

( Anyway, the opportunity to gain unique information doesn't come often, he convinces himself.)

“Two secrets,” he bargains. “With evidence. And you owe me three favors, no questions asked.”

“Two secrets and a favor,” is Drake's counteroffer.

“Two favors,” Damian demands.

“Deal,” says Drake, and Damian finally lets him in.

They shake hands on their deal.

“I owe you an apology,” Drake says, stern and serious. “And an explanation.”

He doesn't look at Damian. His eyes are scanning, moving, but never in the kid's direction.

“I overstepped. I apologize. I understand that telling things about you to others like that was not okay. And you deserve to know why.” He stops. tripping on his words, like pebbles thrown into his usual stream of words.

“The reason I did it, I just… I mean, why I told B what we talked about, is– uh… Well, you aren't the first one in the family with those thoughts, you know?”

“What do you mean?” Damian doesn't understand that apology. “And why did you expose another person’s secrets, in your attempt at redemption?”

Drake looks at him, then. And as he raises his eyebrow, Damian realizes.

“What– you? ”

( But. It can't be. Not Drake. Not the perfect son and heir, the one Grandfather praises and Father adores. Not the leader and the detective and the successful businessman. Drake is glorious. Bright. The heart of this family. Then how– why–? )

Drake doesn't smile. But the corner of his lip twitches for a second, as Damian readjusts the reality in his mind.

“Yeah,” Drake sighs. “Me. And I never told B, or anyone in this family. At first I was ashamed, then I pretended it didn't matter. But I guess I just never had the courage. So now you know, something no one else here knows. And you can do with that what you want. You can keep it or tell it or use it as leverage. Whatever you want to.”

It's a trap, Damian suspects. “Why are you telling this to me?”

“Because you deserve it,” Drake says. As if it has ever been this simple. As if it has ever been a reason for something. “Because even though I intended well, the way I spilled out your secret hurt you, and for the very least you deserve to know why it happened.”

His fingers tap his hip in a telling sign of distress.

Tap-tap, tap-tap, ta-ta-ta-tap.

“Umm. I had… Well, I was lucky enough to have friends that were supportive when they found out. And they helped me get help and all. And. That helped? I mean I'm pretty sure it's the only reason I survived last year,” he says with a nervous laugh.

“But uh. What I'm trying to say is…” 

(The beat changes, Damian notices. Ta-ta-tap-tap tap-ta-ta)

“Do you remember the conversation we had?” Drake asks. “About the way people see others? Like how B and Dick looked at the old Damian and saw someone else? I guess I always thought that if I just told B, he would be nice. He would help and be supportive. And I put my thoughts, that fantasy, first instead of actually looking at the situation, or considering your thoughts. That's my fault, and that's what I'm apologizing about.”

( “Sorry doesn't fix it!” Damian remembers. And it is still true. But maybe, just maybe, there's something it can fix. Maybe an explanation could soothe the pain of betrayal.)

Sunday (D-1):

Jonathan isn't coming today. Again.

Of course he isn't coming – the newcomers aren't cleared for meeting any outsiders. Of anyone but the few they already met, or that Father allowed into the manor.

This isn't surprising. This is just Protocol. Containment is the most logical thing to do in case of an unknown situation.

Last weekend, Jonathan's father came in and carried him to the farm. It's been… a decent way of spending several hours.

(There were no hurt children, no shadows lurking in the corners, no unfamiliar scars on the bodies of people he loved knew. Just sun and animals and Jonathan's unstoppable speech and pies.)

Last weekend was understandable.

This weekend, though–

(This weekend is also understandable. He knows that. He failed, and proved to be damaged. More than they could ever handle. He sees the way his so-called family looks at the older version of him, and understands.)

“ We'll keep an eye on him. He won't hurt them .”

Weapons only have one target. Weapons don't require friends associates, or animals, or days in the sun, or pies. Weapons are only there to be used.

And he understands that, he really does.

(Weapons should be constantly sharpened, or they'll dull.)

D day

It is a two hour drive from Gotham to Philadelphia. It feels longer– endless, like Erlkönig’s chase in the woods. It feels shorter– like it was done in a blink of an eye.

(Damian thinks that Richard had tried to talk to him. He thinks he might have responded. But it is all happening in another place, a galaxy far, far away from him. It isn't real.)

Damian keeps his head high and back straight, and walks right into the Shrink's Den.

~end omg ~

Chapter Text

The house is quiet.
The house had been quiet for a few days, now.

There was shouting, he remembers. There was shouting during that first day, but it wasn't Him. This wasn't a sharp-deep voice. It was a teen voice, a Tenor, instead of the dreaded baritone-bass. A voice filled with annoyance and a subtone of frustration.

(He still got the kids to shelter. He made sure Dickie and Jay stayed in the closet in Timmy's room, and that Timmy stayed in bed. He stood guard that night, quietly waiting for the moment the door would open and there will be pain and his brothers'–)

But the morning came, and there was no attempt to enter the room.
There were no screams, or the sound of shattered furniture, or the sound of a body slammed against a wall, or groans of pain.

(And he knows. There are many ways to hide it. There are many ways to hurt and to break and to hide it, but–)

But it's morning, and the sun's in the sky, and there's a knock on the door and a familiar voice, calling:

“Good morning, young masters! Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes. Would you like to come down, or would you prefer a platter to be brought to your room?”

He doesn't trust this house, or the people in it. 

He doesn't trust anything.

But he doesn't prevent his younger brothers from wandering around the halls.

(This would be pointless, anyway. He would always find someone to hurt. The only way to protect them is to make sure he's closer, easier to find when the wind changes.)

He notices the stalking.

He says nothing, hoping to get a glimpse of the stalker and their intentions.

But he notices the stalking.

(It's a constant feeling in the back of his neck. A familiar vigilance to danger he never realized he missed.)

He fools them into a feeling of confidence, thinking they are unnoticed.

Then he attacks–

The person pinned to the wall is familiar but not, like looking at the right palm while thinking about the left. 

“Umm… hi?” says shoe Tim. 

Dami slightly loosens the pressure on the stalker's airway.

“Why are you following me?”

Tim swallows. Once. Twice. “Um…” He hesitates. “I was actually looking for your help?”

Dami lets him go, for now. He blocks the exits, of course, but the child can shake his head and rub his aching wrists.

(Not wounded. Never again. Not in this place, still trying to convince them of the tall tale of “safety”.)

“Explain,” he orders the child.

The kid hesitates, avoiding eye contact, visibly struggling to find the proper words.

“Did you ever hurt someone, trying to help them?” the child starts. “I mean. Not like breaking someone's ribs during CPR. Did you ever do something that… You thought was necessary to help them, but you also knew it would hurt them, badly?” 

(It's in the back of his mind, always. The whistle of a whip, the tension of a dislocated limb, the structure of tortured skin and red red red–)

“How do I fix it?” asks the child, facing his alter’s abuser. Asking for redemption from the executor.

You don't, the torturer doesn't say.

(This is another world. Another situation. It can't be as bad as–)

“Tell me what happened,” he says.

And the child comply.

They sit in Tim's room.

(And Dami still struggles to wrap his head around this phrase. Tim with room and a door he can lock and a closet filled with clothes. And shoes. So many shoes. Enough to require another closet, smaller, just for them.

But the child by his side isn't the one that had to walk over sand and burning bricks and puddles barefoot. Not the child that had thorns and glass and dirt breaking the fragile skin on his feet. Not the one Dami sat by, water-soaked paper towels in his hand, cleaning cuts and bruises and blisters in the long weeks before the skin layers built up enough to create some kind of a barrier.)

They sit in Tim's room, and Dami needs to stop comparing this one to his brother.

But the child came to him for help. And at least in this case, Dami might actually be able to assist.

“Have you tried to give him something, to show that you have changed?”

The kid Tim blinks.

“No,” Dami dismisses his own idea immediately. “Changing this fast would be impossible. And besides, you don't seem to regret that. In another scenario, you would have done it again.”

Tim glares at him.

“What you really try to do,” he realizes, “is not to apologize for your actions. Talking about the way you feel, or about your thoughts about the situation, is useless. What you really try to do, is regain his trust. And for that you'll need to get to more equal terms. He should have something he can hold upon you, a leverage, weapon of mutual distraction one may say. And possibly a favor. He won't trust you, of course, but that is an opportunity he wouldn't miss. He'll try to get more, maybe. Try to bargain, to see how far he could get. Looking for the actual worth of what you gave.”

He starts pacing around the room as he thinks. 

“You need to show him that your offering has a meaning,” he looks straight at his not-brother. “Don't make a pointless deal, but don't give up too easily either. Show him what you give is worthwhile, not easily given. Also, if he just accepts then it might be a problem.”

“How do you know that?” asks the kid who didn't grow up by his side.

“We aren't the same person,” Dami finds himself explaining. “But I do believe we share some experiences and memories.”

(In the back of his mind, the trembling fingers of an old man still wrap the self-made wounds of a child.)

“Why do you help me?” asks a brother. 

(Unseen tears and a broken voice still live, long after the body has

composed under the roses of another long-dead mother.)

“I’ve made an oath.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Once upon a time , tells Richard (as all tales begin), there was a child and a guardian. The child was taken from everything he had known – was taken away from his family and life – and sent to live with a man he never met.

Once upon a time , he says, like it's a fairy tale, a thing that never happened. There was a child who struggled and a young man who didn't know how to be a father. And there was hurt and love and–

“Why are you telling me this story?” Damian asks. Why are you telling me a story about my life?

And Richard holds his hands.

(Ever so gently)

Richard holds his hands, and tells him, “this is not your story, dearest. It's mine.”

“Why are you telling this to me?”

“I just… well, I guess I’m just trying to make you feel more comfortable. What I was trying to say is– I also had to go through some evaluations myself. For the CPP and the social services, when I was just taken into custody. And then for school- there was  the placement exam, because I was homeschooled before and– well, my point is that there are many reasons why people go to evaluations.”

“But it is not the same,” Damian refuses the kindness offered to him. “You were an outsider. An unknown variable, in need of proper evaluation. I am not.”

“I am the blood son,” he whispers. “I wasn't chosen.”

( And isn't it a bitter truth?)

(There is a loud motorcycle outside the window, and the sun slowly fries his skin, and the plastic chair makes tiny noises when moved, and–)

“It doesn't matter,” Richard says. “He still loves and cares about you, just like he loves and cares about all of us.”

“And you?” The question slips through his lips, unauthorized.

“Oh,” and in a second, Damian is no longer in his chair. He's holding on to Richard's neck for dear life as Richard hugs him and–

“Baby bat,” Richard’s voice is a soft whisper. “Vörösbegykém, I will always choose you. You are my Robin, remember?”

“And we were the best,” Damian says back. “But you– you left. Father came back, and I was no longer your burden–”

“You are not a burden,” Batman Richard commands. And for a second he is the fearless leader again, the man who's been there when everything fell apart “Do you hear me? You are not a burden, and I will not let anyone talk like that about the best Robin I've ever had.”

And it's hard to understand, but it is truth–

“I don't understand,” says a small voice.

“I love you,” says Richard. “I'm sorry I stepped back. I wanted to let you and B have time to get to know each other. Clearly, it didn't work. But never doubt I love you.”

“We were the best,” he mumbles into his guardian's neck.

“And we still are.”

This is not the end, of course. Not by a long shot.

But it's a start.

“Ok, so,” Richard says. “You know how I always use text-to-speech when I use the computer? And how I usually send voice messages or use speech to text on my phone, and for reports, and anything involving written parts?”

Damian nods.

“Does it make me broken?”

“Of course not!” The answer is instinctive. “What fool dared say that?”

“And what about Tim? Is he broken?’’ Richard continues his peculiar line of questioning. “After all, he needs to be reminded to eat and sleep, and we have to adjust the lights and watch our volume around him.”

“Tt,” Damian rolls his eyes. “As much as he lacks common sense and self-preservation skills, I wouldn't go as far calling him broken .”

“That's right, baby bird,” Richard says. “Because we aren't. But sometimes we need help, and the things that help us? They’re called accommodations. Just like how B built an elevator and ramps for Babs. Just like how we learned ASL for Cass.”

Oh .

“But how do you know that?” He asks. “How do you know what you need?” And it's silly, but–

(How do you know that it helps? That it's not me? How do you know that I am not just helplessly broken?)

“Well,” Richard thinks for a second. “Some of those difficulties and coping strategies were learned by trial and error, like with Timmy's sensitivity. He noticed that wearing sunglasses and noise canceling headphones helped him feel less irritated. I– well, once I got my diagnosis, B went absolutely wild. He bought a recorder and went straight to getting me an IEP. He got so mad when he learned that private schools aren't required to offer them.”

Richard smirks at the memory. Damian still has no idea what he is talking about.

“I don't understand,” he says. “What diagnosis? What's an IEP?”

“Oh,” Richard looks surprised. “Yes, right – so, you know how I came to live with your father, right?”

Damian nods.

“Well, it wasn't easy, you know? And I wasn't an easy child either–”

“They took you from your family,” Damian grits his teeth, “and put you in a prison for children.”

“Yes,” Richard still smiles, but his eyes are sad. “And after all of that, after your dad took me in and gave me a new home, he obviously sent me to the best school he knew. And you know how cruel kids can be. It really didn't help that it was my first attempt at school, or that everyone thought I was  stupid. Or that I couldn't read.”

“But I thought you were a mathlete,” Damian says, confused. “How could they not realize that you are smart?”

“Oh, but that was in high school. Elementary school was a whole different kettle of fish. I was new, and different, and couldn't sit still and sometimes switched languages because I forgot the words in English.”

“That's in the past, now,” Richard shakes his head again. “But the school told B I needed to see a doctor, to see if I needed any special help. And so B obviously freaked out, and I went through what I guess is pretty similar to what you just went through here.” 

Damian can guess how it went. The things Richard has left behind, disguised as jokes, covered up with bright smiles. Things haven't changed much in the passing years. They probably told Father that his child might need Special Care , or that he needs to be in a school that's more suitable for kids like him . A school that can deal with challenging behaviors.  

“And at the end of it,” Richard smiles his false smile brightly, “I got a fresh new dyslexia diagnosis, a referral to see a psychiatrist about ADHD diagnosis, and a basic IEP suggestion. That was pretty great.”

“I see,” Damian says. What else can he say?

“You aren't broken,” Richard says. “In fact, you fit right in.”

The woman and Richard still talk, after that. But they ask Damian about his thoughts, and listen to what he says.

(It's strange.)

The woman gives them a paper for school, with all the things that were suggested. Things Damian had never thought about, like being allowed to get out of classes if he needs it. Having access to the quiet or sensory rooms, where he can be alone and not have to be alert all the time.

(He isn't sure if he's going to use it. But he'll be allowed to.)

The woman and Richard talk about going somewhere else, doing another kind of evaluation, this time about the way his brain works. Apparently different people have different kinds of communication, different ways to interact, and maybe this is part of the reason “friending” in school had been a… difficult task.

(“It's not bad,” Richard says. “We just think you might be more like Tim than we thought.”

“Tt. If anything, Drake wishes he was more like me.”)

The woman and Richard suggest things such as “therapy” and “talking”. But they also suggest music, writing, drama, and art. 

(He's not sure why drawing is important. But when the opportunity strikes, he wouldn't say no.)

And– 

Richard asks him for Mother's phone number.

Richard asks him if he has a date for Mother's next visit in Gotham.

Richard says that he needs to talk to her, but it's not a bad thing. That Damian might get to see Mother more often.

(Damian says nothing about the rest of his family, but… maybe?)

There are things Damian doesn't know yet. There are things he'll have to go through.

But one day - a year or three or a decade from now, things will be better.

And it starts at the car, typing familiar numbers into Richard's phone, and pressing the green button.

It starts when a familiar voice picks up, and all Damian can say is:

“Ummi?”

Chapter Text

There's a cave here. And there's a Batman and there are suits and weapons and trophies. Dami sees them, scattered all around the cave.

They go down the same spiral staircase. They go down to what he used to think of as his personal Jehenem. One laced with ice instead of fire, and only one demon. 

(Only one doomed soul).

There's a cave here, and it's the same, but–

Also completely different.

There's a robot-dinosaur and a giant penny, for some reason. There are bats and colors and stickers on random places. There is more than one chair. One of them has a pink blanket on top, and the dissonance is blinding.

HE would have never let that happen.

(But HE isn't here. And it's a small thing, but this pink blanket is the thing that really drives this home. This childish thing, just laying there for the whole world to see, is what makes him believe them.)

“This is not our world,” he tells the ghost of his past self. “This isn't there. HE can't get us, here.” He doesn't even realize he says it out loud, before the child by his side holds his hand and tells him, very seriously:

“You are safe here. Your Batman can't get you here. And if he ever gets here – if he ever gets to this place – well, Todd isn't bound to Father's rule. And he isn't the only one.”

(There's weight in those words. Dami doesn't feel ready to find out why.)

“Well,” he says. “You said something about showing me what a real Batman does?”

“Tt,” the child nods. “Of course. Let me show you where we run the comms from.”

It's a good night.

Not a quiet night – they all know better than to use the Q or S words. But it's been a good night, so far.

Batman looks down at his city, and for a moment he lets himself focus on the voices of the almost organized chaos that is Gotham.

On the voices of his family, just as chaotic as the city they protect.

Batman watches over Gotham, as he’s done thousands of times before. As he'll keep on  doing, as long as he can.

Batman stands on a rooftop, watching his city, when all of a sudden there’s a knife at his throat.

On the other side of Gotham, in an underground cave, a teen drops everything that he holds. His face is white when a voice that's haunting him asks:

“Where is my son?”