Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It happens in less than a second.

Damian can’t even brace himself for it. Just wide-eyed, mouth hanging open on a cry from the pain. Shock, outrage, fear.

It’s an aborted, muffled sound that goes unheard before Damian explodes.

For all he knows the languages of the world, it’s the word most apt at capturing the sudden, violent nature of what he experiences.

Exploding, atomized to the smallest details of his being in the crudest, most callous manner, stemming from the blow he’s taken to the chest. There’s a force to it, and whatever the force is, it has found the very core of him, and latched on, like the very sun is bearing into him. Heat unlike anything he’s ever known.

Damian can’t fight it. Damian can’t move.

For a moment, he’s suspended in that feeling. His entire existence narrows in on that point, where the rogue’s open-palmed hand has slammed into him.

There is only pain, pain and heat, and soon he loses his grip over his mind, the very last thing he’s been holding onto, and like a tightrope snapping, Damian falls away.

Scattering, disseminating, disintegrating.

The pain is incomprehensible, obfuscating everything else, making reality itself become a soft echo. Becoming more memory than realized. Fragmented and decaying.

He might never have been alive at all. He might have always just been this.

It’s somehow more staggering than the sensation of being broken down, as even that becomes a distant recollection, to existing in a state that can hardly be existing. 

There is only a cacophony of emotion, pain, and in the vacuumous space he’s come to, there is no sensation, no way to articulate that emotion or pain, nothing to inform him of what has happened to him, what is happening to him. He hardly has enough sense to understand that there is something, anything to be understood.

There’s no telling how long he lasts in that state, time falls away. Seconds could mean hours, hours could mean days, years. It could also mean nothing at all.

This must be death. He must be dead. His private hellish afterlife.

It’s an odd torture of feeling only pain, of not feeling real —yet it’s better than the agony that follows.

Next thing Damian knows, he isn’t dead anymore— Lazarus? No.

He’s reforming at a rate faster than can be comprehended, atom by atom restitching his body back together. He’s gone from being nothing to alive, eerily aware of every nerve in his body, the blood pumping in his veins, the breaths filling his lungs as his body crashes into the side of what feels like a car, the metal denting around his form, and the repercussive pain that radiates through him.

He’s something again. He’s somebody again—he’s Damian al Ghul, Damian Wayne, and he doesn’t know what’s happened to him, but at least he has that much.

Regardless, he doesn’t manage to do anything except slide down the side of the car, slumping over as he tries to get the world to stay still.

Damian groans, his stomach churning, his ears ringing.

His head pounds, every sensation something to be endured, worsened by the wounds that have been exacerbated by whatever has just happened to him.

What has just happened to him?

Damian attempts to look up, squinting, trying to meet the gaze of the rogue who hit him, but the movement only makes the world spin faster. 

He needs water. He needs something to cool him down. He needs to stop breathing so fast and heavy.

He’s going to die otherwise. He’s really going to die.

Damian loses the battle with his stomach, listing over to the side to vomit, head taking trips around the world in the meantime. He can’t even hear anything clearly.

Yet the leading moments prior to that short eternity are coming back to him, as is the panic.

Damian knows he’s not safe.

He wonders how the rogue hasn’t just finished the job, how he’s still alive after the blow and reality-altering experience he’s taken. He’d never seen that rogue before, has no idea how they operate, their abilities or identity, but Damian wonders if he still has a chance to escape.

Somehow, he needs to warn Richard. He needs to tell Father, and the rest. Those in the Justice League. Everyone. The rogue has to be stopped, he knows that much for certain, and Damian has the humbling thought that perhaps he can’t be the one to do it. Not alone.

He needs help.

One hit and Damian already feels as if he’s on death’s door—no, that he already died. 

Only, Damian can’t see the rogue anywhere.

Even in the midst of his vertigo, Damian should still be able to see the shadowed figure through his cracked open eyes, looming, especially in the daylight...

Daylight.

Damian pulls up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, the domino mask not entirely filtering the light out.

It was meant to be around midnight, last time he checked. Instead, it’s midday, and Damian feels as if he’s lost hours in mere seconds.

It’s in the light of day that he can quickly see, as his vision clears, that he isn’t in Gotham. The architecture is entirely different, the buildings much taller, uglier, and from the scale of it, he guesses he’s in Metropolis. The blatant and irritating ads on every street corner, sign, screen, windows and doors being enough to confirm that it at least has to be a city dedicated to exploitation and capitalism, and he doesn’t know a city more self-aggrandizing than the City of Tomorrow.

It’s a staggering conclusion to come to, one that fills him with dread from all the unanswered questions such a thing entails.

He does a proactive check of his body, accounting for the sword that’s still in his grip, the fact that everything he had with him before the punch is still with him, including his injuries. There’s nothing missing, all of his equipment accounted for.

With one hit, it’s as if he’s been teleported.

Alarmed, Damian reaches for his communicator, saying, “Oracle?”

Nothing.

“Oracle. Batman. Nightwing?”

Silence, amidst the tinnitus.

“Is anyone on comms?”

At the responding quiet, he pulls out his phone, intending to call Richard, yet draws up short when he notices the phone is out of service.

Something unfathomable, to not have service in Metropolis.

It’s an incredibly perplexing moment that without anyone responding to comms or being out of service, he realizes he’s lost contact with the only people he could quickly get help from in understanding just what has happened to him. There’s no way to warn anyone either.

The thought of the rogue still being in Gotham sends a cold chill down his spine, churning his stomach. He can’t imagine what comes next, who else may meet a similar or even worse fate.

He wonders if he should expect anyone else to arrive after him.

Damian finds himself lost in thought, still reeling from the effects, and attempts to explain how his phone can’t catch any signal, assuming it’s the work of a jammer. As alarming as the idea is, it’s the most likely, even as he draws up short as to why or how it’s happening.

Whatever the case is, he needs to find a way back to Gotham. Quickly.

Damian sucks in a breath, stealing his resolve and ignoring the pain in his body as he attempts to rise up. Using a hand on the car door to steady himself, Damian wills his vertigo to pass, attempting short, wobbling steps—.

He barely has any time to react, his ringing ears still managing to catch the sound of a jet sailing through the air, clipping against a building and then making a sudden, careening descent towards the ground.

He can’t even brace himself for it.

The impact as it hit the streets is enough to knock Damian back down, the earth shaking beneath him as the jet peels up the concrete, destroying the cement like knife to butter, sliding to a halt in front of what looks like a multi-level parking complex.

Damian is quick, despite struggling, to stand back up, alert at the obvious danger, gritting his teeth as he watches to see what comes out of the jet’s hatch as it opens.

Some part of him hopes he at least recognizes them, but the three bodies that exit the craft are nobody he’s ever laid eyes on. At least not their faces, which, aside from one, are out in the open with no attempts to disguise themselves.

The woman is dressed in a black, tight-fitting jumpsuit, with short, cropped red hair. She almost reminds him of Oracle when she had been Batgirl, or even Catwoman, or, to his surprise, his mother, with her lithe movements as she exits the aircraft. Her control over her body is discernible and eye catching to Damian, who can spot an assassin when he sees one. Too many years spent around them to go blind to the signs, subtle as they are.

The other two—a man in red and blue like a capeless yet cowled Superman and a man in black, bow and arrow at the ready, a Green Arrow poser, if he had to peg him—are just as eerily similar to figures in his life. 

Yet very distinctly not them.

Damian is quick to approach them in the name of getting answers to questions, disregarding caution he knows better that he should have, even as they take off sprinting. 

Dogging at their heels, he follows, undeterred as they cut around stalled or parked cars, hastily making their way across a flat bridge as the blue-cowled man yells to them, “We’ve gotta get back up there!”

Wherever there is, Damian doesn’t care, he closes the gap, coming up behind them as the three make it easy by halting in their tracks.

They’re all craning their necks up skyward and Damian does the same—.

What?

He’s almost slack-jawed at the sight of the beaming light hitting the skies. In the distance, somewhere in the stratosphere, a warping, awning hole is in the sky. It’s like a tear in the atmosphere, breaching through every layer, or perhaps a portal exposing some distant point in space. 

It practically pulsates as it outpours flying bug-like shapes before those shapes get close enough and appear like—.

Aliens?

Whatever they might be, a whole fleet of them launch themselves into the streets of Metropolis, advanced alien weaponry in hand, riding flying jet skis as they shoot blast after blast, bringing death and destruction in a warpath that Damian struggles to make sense of without having any context.

Where is the Justice League?

What has caused the hole to sprout— and why is he in the middle of it?

Just as he asks that to himself, Damian gasps at the sight of an enormous flying metal worm-turtle-dinosaur-whale-thing barreling through the hole in the sky. It damn near slithers out, the alien spacecraft moving with shifting scales, with flippers cutting through the air. Despite its confused appearance, it still cuts an intimidating figure. Even more so, when more aliens launch off the sides, like missiles or bombs, hundreds of them swarming the skies.

Very quickly, Damian recognizes it to be an armada, a trail blazing warship.

The sound of the city’s destruction is booming, enough to make Damian’s ears pop, entire chunks of buildings collapsing and crashing into things, brick and concrete slamming into streets of the city. Explosions and gunfire are unleashed in an onslaught, the resulting screams of the civilians ricocheting in his ears.

He’s never seen anything like it. There’s little regard for anything, living or otherwise, as hoards of them trod the streets and man flying aircrafts, both the skies and earth invaded.

This can’t be… this can’t be his world. The JL would have arrived already, or would have even prevented such a disaster altogether. He’d have heard something about it. Alien invasions aren’t subtle, by design. And more than that, alien invasions aren’t exactly new territory for the League, it’s almost ordinary, how often it happens or is attempted.

Yet, still, admittedly, it’s not something Damian has much experience with. He wonders if Father has dealt with stratospheric portals before. He doesn’t remember reading anything about it in the casefiles, nor any tech that might make such a thing possible. Regardless, the portal, or something else in the area, is certainly what’s jamming the signal, and it’s strong enough that no one he knows has even shown up—that he knows of.

Tt.

For a moment, Damian considers his place in all of this. Unable to contact back-up, or having any information on how the situation has escalated, who the major players are, who the enemy even is, that he isn’t...

Does it really matter?

He’s witnessing a hostile alien invasion, and while this place is definitely not Gotham, and he even considers that it might not even be Metropolis, it’s still Earth. Or, Earth-adjacent, and that’s enough for him to decide to do something about it.

Additionally, he vaguely wonders if the rogue he fought is the one responsible, and is certain there must be a connection. Perhaps that rogue indisposed everyone and created the opportunity for the invasion to take place.

Worst case, Damian hasn’t world-hopped, only teleported, the JL are compromised or oblivious, and the world's only hope has become a collection of nobody vigilantes he’s never seen before. In which case, Damian needs to get to the heart of the matter quickly, if only to find out just how many of the people he knows are still fighting, still alive.

There is so much he doesn’t know, that he can’t make sense of.

It would certainly be credible for someone so powerful to be capable of such a feat, but is it true? In that same vein of thought, he wonders how much time has truly passed, if anyone even knows where he’s ended up, if anyone is thinking to look for him, too.

Damian shakes his head, ignoring the resulting vertigo. He can’t let himself linger in scenarios that aren’t important. He needs to do what Richard... what Father would expect of him, of Robin, which means he can’t afford to be weak when the world is at stake.

After all, if these aliens think that just because he’s still reeling from that punch that he’ll just let them keep invading, they have another thing coming.

Damian approaches the three jet-crashers, who’ve ducked for cover besides a yellow cab, hot on the heels of the blue-cowled man. It’s as the redhead is glancing between the two men that Damian is noticed for the first time.

“We’ve got civilians still trapped—,” the Green Arrow imposter begins to say, but the rest of his words become unintelligible when the redhead leaps forward, arms reaching around Damian, one hand cradling his skull before knocking him to the ground—and out of the way of a series of aliens that speed by, guns blazing, more explosions echoing their path.

Damian stifles a groan.

“Loki,” he thinks someone says.

“You have to get out of here,” the woman is saying to Damian as she rolls off of him. Her eyes are green, he notices as he meets her gaze.

He doesn’t respond, focusing on getting up, irritated by the amount of times he’s been knocked down. Technically twice by these people.

“The hell is a kid looking like that doing out here with a sword?” the archer asks, incredulous.

Well, what else did he expect? It’s not an uncommon reaction to his age, especially the further outside of his family’s private circles he goes, and perhaps it is unusual, even unreasonable, to expect most adults not to encourage someone underage into the vigilante lifestyle. Doesn’t make it any less vexing.

Nevertheless: “I’m not a child,” Damian bites out, patience thinning. “If the three of you intend to put a stop to the invasion, I’m here to assist.”

He’s met with looks of doubt and annoyance.

“Yeah, whatever— assist by getting out of here. This ain’t exactly the time or place to break out the Halloween costume and play hero. Save it for when your life is a little less at risk.”

“Tt.” Green Arrow wannabe. 

Damian, as much as he wants to retort, knows that time is a crucial and valuable component to a successful operation. It’s with great sagacity, that he restrains his remark, though he does briefly scowl before turning to the blue-cowled man, who’s attention has been directed more to the mass of civilians that have become surrounded by explosions and aliens.

A more prudent man than the other bastard, to focus on the lives that are at stake.

“They’re fish in a barrel down there,” the man says, just as a group of aliens land on the stretch of road in front of them, one in particular crushing a car on its arrival. The redhead immediately shoots at the invaders, her form impeccable, her aim sharp and deadly.

The alien horde, being a bit more pressing of an issue than arguing with Damian, means that her gaze glances over him only briefly before latching on to the man in blue.

“We got this covered. Go.”

“D’ya think you can hold ‘em off?” he asks, more in the direction of the archer, who crouches by a turned over taxi, fingers rotating a gadget at his hip.

“Captain,” the Green Arrow replica says, blue eyes shining, “it would be my genuine pleasure.”

It’s a magic phrase, as everyone launches into action.

Including Damian, who won’t waste the opportunity to prove his capabilities.

Sword in hand, he launches himself at the first alien he sees, taking a firm and clean slice at the throat of his enemy. He doesn’t so much as wait to see the results before moving on to the next one, confident in his abilities with his sword.

He defies the vertigo that lingers, pushing off the fact that his head feels screwed on wrong, forcing himself to adapt as if the world has always been wobbling as he sails through the air to attack the next one, and the next one. He dodges attacks with the same earnestness, narrowly missing blasts from their alientech weaponry, as well as predicting where the arrows and gunshots will be targeting, almost reminding him of Todd and Harper from the synergy between the archer and assassin.

It’s not his most graceful work, granted, but it is effective.

He might still be breathing too hard, his body both too hot and too cold, disorientated, not in the best shape, but what does that matter?

Damian knows only one thing for certain: failure in battle has never been an option, the notion too deeply ingrained to be anything but instinctive. Further, he has a mantle to uphold.

Even if they aren’t Gothamites, as Robin, he still has a duty to protect the innocents.

(More importantly—more selfishly— he has to prove to his father that he can do the work of Robin, even when the circumstances make it difficult. Even when Father isn’t around to witness it.)

It’s why, when he notices the archer breaking open bus doors containing trapped people, that Damian makes a point to guard and defend the people fleeing en masse, even directing them, when he can, where to find safety. The actions of a Robin, more than what he’d ever have done two years ago, when the role of Batman’s partner was first explained to him, back when he’d taken it from Drake.

Without Richard’s Batman, Damian isn’t sure if he’d ever quite understand the distinctive role of Robin, or grasp the importance of it.

Father certainly doesn’t think Damian is... capable.

Unbidden comes the argument he’d had with his father shortly before the situation with the rogue, and remembering it is enough to knock him off kilter, just barely.

In Damian’s distraction, one of the alien combatants lands a hit, a good one, one that makes him see stars and obscures his vision. He relies on his hearing, the sound of movement in the air to narrow down where his assailant is before twisting, katana slashing upwards.

The aliens don’t bleed much, he notes absently, thankful not to be drenched by fluids as he practically disembowels the alien over his head. As the body collapses beside him, it’s as if the exhaustion he’s feeling has caught up to him, compounding, pressing him down to his knees, still reeling from the hit to his head.

“Hey, kid, you need help up?” a man asks, and Damian looks up in the direction of the speaker.

He meets the gaze of the blue-cowled man from earlier, getting a much better look at his appearance. He’s dressed unmistakably as an effigy of the star-spangled banner, with a large, gladiator shaped shield in hand. He holds himself with an eager confidence, his free hand out to help Damian up.

That’s not right. This one is almost a bastardization of...

Damian has a sinking suspicion, one that has him scrambling up to his feet, ignoring the pain and vertigo and ultimately ignoring the man’s hand.

“Kid, you need to get out of here—.”

“Who are you?” Damian barks out.

“Listen, I can answer that later, but you need to get to safety, there’s no telling—.”

As if to emphasize his words, one of the said aliens leaps at the man, and it takes only a moment for the man to take the alien out, with a heavy-handed brute force from the use of the shield.

Which—alright.

Damian blows out a sigh of relief—he almost thought the stranger was an alternate reality version of his father, one combined in the dreadful color scheme of the Supers, and the shield of Wonder Woman, like a sick amalgamation of the three. It would be just the sort of luck that Damian would have, after being transported to... wherever he is. 

He supposes he should be thankful for small mercies.

“I saw you fighting, and sure, you might be, uh, good, but you should get to safety, preferably the subway, before it gets even uglier. This isn’t a fight you need to be taking part in.”

Damian eyes the man. A captain, from the way the archer referred to him.

Observing him, hearing him speak, there’s a sudden clarity that finds Damian. There’s another, more obvious answer to his circumstances that Damian doesn’t want to be true, because it represents something altogether much worse than teleportation, signal jammers, or an alternate version or clone of anyone he knows.

“Are you part of the Justice League?” Damian asks, insistent.

“Justice, what?” 

The man’s obvious confusion has Damian’s breath hitching in his throat.

“You haven’t heard of them.”

You’d have to be hiding in a bunker for decades not to have heard of the JL. Everyone knows. So, with him not knowing...

A world without the Justice League—without… without Father. Alternate reality might not even cut it. Another dimension, another universe.

“Do you know Batman?” Damian asks, tone strangled.

“Who? Look, kid, I, we don’t have time—.”

Obviously. The battle is a much more pressing matter at hand. It doesn’t matter that Damian feels as if he’s unraveling by the second. He has to stop that. He needs to ravel himself, quickly, post haste. Pull himself together. He can’t… think about anything else but the portal in the sky.

“You’re stopping the invasion, I understand. I can still assist,” Damian says, his voice coated in steel, and it doesn’t tremor or catch in his throat at all, and it’s determination pushing through the mounting horror of no Father, no Richard, no Pennyworth, no Titus…

No Mother.

The thought of her is actually the reminder that he desperately needs.

He can’t wallow. He’s still a Wayne, still an al Ghul. Mother taught him how to overcome any obstacle, how to persevere, to be tenacious, to be numb. No task can ever be too much for him. He won’t allow himself to be weak, to embarrass himself, or his parents.

Damian can still live by his Father’s code of ethics, and he can also use his mother’s teachings to do it. He can still be Robin.

After all, this world still needs saving, still needs heroes.

“We got it covered, kid. Just get to safety.”

“I’m not a kid. I can help.”

“You can help by getting—.”

“Tt.”

The man’s words go over Damian’s head as he returns to the task at hand, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.

“Hey, wait!”

He launches back into action at the first alien that crosses his path, sprinting, swinging his blade and decapitating it with one solid strike.

“I can take care of myself. I’m trained to kill,” he says matter-of-factly, turning to look at the captain.

“Trained to kill?” The man is clearly taken aback, but it’s also as if he’s finally, really taking in how Damian is dressed: his Robin-attire, domino mask, the sword in his hand, and the gadget belt around his waist. There’s shock, and maybe dismay in the captain’s blue eyes. He glances at the redhead, who has come to observe their conversation, her expression altogether much harder to discern.

The glance seems to bolster him. “It doesn’t matter. This is bigger than anything else you might have trained for.”

“I can promise you, it really isn’t,” Damian insists. “This is exactly what I’ve been training for.”

Not thoroughly convinced, yet seemingly seeing the fact that Damian refuses to budge, the man shakes his head.

“You’re still ignoring the most important reason— you’re a kid. Whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t need,” a flash of thunderous lightning hits the ground somewhere behind him, “your permission,” Damian finishes, refusing to be cut off, but turning just in time to see the entrance of a blond, red-caped man.

And the captain’s focus changes swiftly, hastily approaching the man heralded by lightning, their argument entirely forgotten in the wake of the newcomer’s arrival.

“What’s the story upstairs?” the captain asks, an aura of authority radiating off of him.

“The power surrounding the Cube is impenetrable.”

Cube being what’s presumably powering the portal.

It’s not a response anyone appears heartened by.

“How do we do this?” the redhead asks, shifting on her feet.

“As a team,” the captain responds, not feeding into the despondency that threatens to encroach.

The lightning man grunts. “I have unfinished business with Loki.”

Loki. That name again. 

Damian studies the blond man and his regalia of armor, the breastplate and cape attachment, the hammer in his hand and the lightning that came before his entrance. His obvious frustration with a figure by the moniker of a trickster god.

Would it be astute to consider that this might be Thor in front of him?

This world’s version, at least—which, alright, the alternate version of his world theory gains more credibility, one where familiar people and cities exist, but in the realm of the uncanny. 

Damian isn’t the least bit relieved or optimistic about the possibility. It all together makes it much more disorienting.

“Yeah? Well, get in line,” the archer quips, breaking through Damian’s disturbed thoughts, a fierce anger in his eyes, readying his equipment for the next battle.

“Save it,” the captain commands, adding, “Loki’s going to keep the fight focused on us, and that’s what we need. Without him, these things could run wild.”

Which, from what Damian can gather, is not the most terrible direction to go with the plan.

No one says anything to disagree either, and the gathered heroes hang onto the captain’s every word, their eyes fixed in his direction. He’s the obvious leader, from the respect and attention that they have for him. And to see him interacting with the team now, Damian oddly thinks of Diana Prince.

“We got Stark up top,” the captain continues. “He’s going to need us to—.”

The sound of a motorcycle’s engine cuts him off, and the group turns to face another new arrival. 

This time it comes in the form of a rather normal looking man in a button-up, with brown hair and eyes, as typical as one can get, especially in a dense city. Regardless, his expression is hard to understand without context, at least not the reluctant, yet accepting expression of a man walking up to a guillotine that he approaches them with.

“So,” he says, blandly, “this all seems horrible.”

“I’ve seen worse,” the woman deadpans.

He gazes at her, face blank. “Sorry.”

“No, we could use a little worse,” she murmurs, tone oddly reassuring.

Damian fails to understand the underlying conversation that seems to be taking place.

“Stark, we got him,” Captain says, unperturbed, even optimistic, as if a piece has just fallen into his hand that might turn the tide of war. “Just like you said.”

Only, if Stark were going to respond, it’s cut off by the sound of jet propulsion, and the sight of a red rocket heading straight for them. And of course, the alien armada is hot on the tail of it, clipping the side of a building as the giant mass changes direction, undeterred in the chase.

“I don’t see how that’s a party,” the redhead mutters, the group tensing at the sight of the enemy fleet.

“Dr. Banner,” Captain says lightly, his tone calm despite the pressing danger, “ now might be a really good time for you to get angry.”

“That’s my secret, Captain,” Dr. Banner replies, a wry smile playing at his lips as he slowly approaches the rapidly advancing armada. He pauses ever so briefly, looking back. “I’m always angry.”

Mere seconds is all that’s needed for his transformation, turning very green, very quickly, almost doubling in size, fist out as he crushes the face of the advancing armada, superstrength of a great magnitude employed to halt the alien beast in its tracks, even as the force causes Dr. Banner to be pushed back.

Worse, the body of the beast careens forward—

The red rocket, revealed to be humanoid, darts forward, open palm sending out a blast.

Several things happen very quickly: the woman, eliminating the distance between them and curling her body around Damian, the captain throwing up his shield over the three of them, a large explosion taking place directly above.

It’s a few tense seconds later, when they take a chance to look around, that they see the destroyed wreckage of the beast.

The armada—they’ve taken it down. In the wake of his unexpected accomplishment, Hulk is roaring victoriously, and around them is a cacophony of noise, the aliens screeching, enraged, and the sound of distant cheering from those that are watching them from afar.

Perhaps, Damian muses, it means there is some hope for this world, and the vigilantes that have grouped together to save it.

Although, they certainly have more than the odds stacked against them.

Nothing confirms this more than when, after everyone has risen, movement from the portal in the sky catches his attention and out of it crawls at least two more of the armada fleets, as well as a smattering of other aliens.

“Guys,” the redhead says, drawing everyone’s attention to the swiftly changing tide of war.

“Alright, listen up,” Captain quickly inserts, tone brokering no argument. “Until we can close that portal, our priority is containment. Barton, I want you on that roof,” he gestures. “Eyes on everything. Call out patterns and strays. Stark, you got the perimeter. Anything that gets more than three blocks out, you turn it back or you turn it to ash.”

Barton looks at the metal man, who Damian presumes to be Stark. “Can you give me a lift?”

“Right,” comes a masculine and tinny, robotic voice, “Better clench up, Legolas. ”

Within a second, the two are gone, Stark shooting up into the air, taking Barton with him.

“Thor,” Captain continues, “you gotta try and bottleneck that portal. Slow ‘em down—you got the lightning. Light the bastards up.”

Thor nods gravely, winding his hammer up and is gone in a flurry of wind, taking off into the sky.

Captain turns next to the redhead. “You and me, we stay here on the ground. We keep the fighting here. And Hulk!”

The green beast perks up at the address.

“Smash,” the captain commands, hand pointing up.

Like a dog let off a leash, the green beast launches into the foray of battle, doing exactly as told, causing perhaps even more destruction than the invaders as he targets and destroys the aliens on the sides of buildings, showcasing incredible feats of strength and single-mindedness.

It’s not long before Damian loses sight of Hulk, and Damian, not caring that he hasn’t been addressed, decides to take upon himself to assist in the ground efforts.

All the while, Thor’s attempts to ‘bottleneck the portal’ light up the sky, the thunder loud in the background as Damian slashes through the aliens that keep multiplying. Is there really no means to close the portal? Containment is all well and good, but exhaustion is a killer and from what he can see, they’re at most putting a bandaid on a hemorrhaging wound.

It takes more effort to keep swinging his sword than he wants to admit, and if not for his stamina training as a child, Damian would have long since passed out. Another thing to thank his upbringing for, as he slips into a frame of mind that has always aided him when he needed it most. A sort of tunnel vision keeps him focused on the matter at hand, disallowing himself from thinking of his exhaustion, worry, or pain.

He’s every bit the weapon he’s been trained to be, shedding the soft underbelly that his father’s side of the family has been developing. Whatever keeps him alive, useful.

“Kid,” the redhead suddenly calls.

Damian jerks, flitting his gaze towards her, and rolling out of the way of an alien’s hit.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

Oh. “You can call me Robin. Yours?”

Indecision wages a war on her face, and it strikes Damian as oddly vulnerable.

“Chernaya Vdova,” she finally says, after the two of them have taken down several enemies.

Black Widow.

The way she says it makes it feel a bit like a test, and not one Damian is familiar with, despite being fluent in Russian.

He wonders if it’s a reference to some famous, high brow piece of Russian literature that he hasn’t read or doesn’t exist in his own world, that the household name of a species of spider is something that alludes to some hidden story he should know about. Her expectant look makes it altogether stranger, as if she’s waiting for him to light up with recognition.

“Mne nravitsya tvoye imya,” Damian responds, after an odd beat of silence where it’s clear she’s waiting for him to say something.

Confusion plays out on her face.

“I like your name,” he repeats, this time using English, uneasy due to her continued silence, and he’s telling the truth.

It’s a bit on the nose for a female assassin, but it’s self-referential in a way most superheroes are known to make a name for themselves.

If anything, his response seems to make Black Widow more uneasy, her brows wrinkling.

“Who trained you?”

Oh. Perhaps her concern is more to do with his age than he realized. Not a fan of child assassins, he presumes, which isn’t altogether surprising. Damian has come to learn in the past two years that such a thing is seen as an aberration, and a particularly despised practice from the moral view of the American public.

Those like David Cain, who raised his own daughter to be a silent killer from birth, are rare in the world, and very unpopular. Which is presumably a good thing. 

While Damian doesn’t resent the way he’s been raised, he doesn’t see much point in most children being subjected to the lessons and experiences he has endured growing up. Not everyone is an heir to a role which has lasted for almost half a millenia. 

Despite that, he also knows that his father’s family doesn’t have the nicest opinion of his own mother and her role in how he has been raised. Though Damian couldn’t care less what they think, especially as Father’s track record in child-rearing only has a marginal improvement—if it’s at all an improvement that all of the children Father has taken in only joined his crusade against crime at or incrementally past the age of twelve. With the exception of Cassandra Cain. Naturally, Cassandra is often an exception.

Of course, his mother isn’t entirely blamed for Damian’s upbringing. Without Grandfather’s influence, a great deal would be different, and particularly because of the relationship between Father and Grandfather, if it were not for their estrangement and fraught relationship, Damian might have been raised with Father’s influence much sooner. He might have become very different, in that case.

But most likely not. To be an al Ghul, to be an heir, there is, and will always, be a price to pay. Not even Father could keep him from such a destiny.

“Robin?”

Damian shakes himself out of his thoughts, before sweeping a leg out to knock an incoming alien over, tossing up a dagger that allows Black Widow to plunge the blade in the alien’s head before yanking it back out.

“The names of my teachers would not be recognizable to you,” Damian says.

“Try me.”

And Damian nearly does, if only to test the chance that she might recognize the names of the inner circle of the League of Assassins.

He opens his mouth to speak, to say his mother’s name first, but then the captain is leaping over the side of the bridge they’re on, and Black Widow is wheeling around to face him, dagger poised to attack.

She visibly relaxes at the sight of the captain, the relief making her lean against the side of a car, exhaling.

“Captain, none of this is going to mean a damn thing if we don’t close that portal.”

His expression is hard to read with the blue cowl, but Damian sees the grim set of his jaw. “Our biggest guns couldn’t touch it.”

“Well, maybe it’s not about guns.”

They’re both gazing at the sky, and it’s as if a silent conversation is taking place.

“If you wanna get up there, you’re gonna need a ride,” the captain tells her.

“I got a ride.” Damian arches a brow, watching her get distance away from them. She looks to the captain with a pointedness that isn’t lost on him. “I could use a boost, though.”

The two of them move with synergy, both getting into formation into whatever wordless agreement or plan that has taken place.

“Are you sure about this?” Captain asks, shield out in front of him, and Damian fills in the blanks.

“Yeah,” she says, not sounding at all as confident as her body is moving, her eyes flicking from the sky, and to her captain. “It’s gonna be fun.”

She takes off running, leaping, hopping from the roof of a car, onto the shield and then she’s airborne, twirling in the air with the resilient grace of a ballerina. She latches onto a passing alien aircraft, and then she’s gone, a blip in the sky, off to enact whatever plan it is she’s formed to close the portal.

Damian has half a mind to follow after, grappling hook at the ready, but pauses.

Her team will take care of her, he thinks. Black Widow can hold her own, too. He could see just how skilled she is just from watching her move, and she knows more than him, what the situation is. They all do.

Rather than chasing her, Damian peers out into the streets and sees people, scared people. He also sees pets, animals that are terrified, not equipped to handle the danger. Those trapped in cars or buildings, those pinned beneath rubble, or those that have just watched their loved ones die and are in shock, grieving that their lives will never be the same.

Damian thinks of Richard. He thinks of Batman.

It’s a very simple choice that he makes, then.

After all, in all incarnations, Robin is for the people. Richard made sure he knew that.

Chapter Text

Natasha is betting that Robin isn’t the kid’s real name, and not just because every search for a child under that name matching his description is drawing up blank, but because of the domino mask. He went through pains to cover up his identity, and from the quality of his weapons and attire, he has someone in his life, bankrolling or raising him, who has gone to pains to keep him protected.

She wonders. It’s not at all surprising to her that there are people in the world raising children to be killers. She herself is a prime example of it.

But it’s not often enough that she comes across someone with his skill, let alone someone his age with the abilities he has. There’s a terrible cost for that. Whoever raised the kid—whoever owns the kid, well, they certainly made him pay tenfold the price.

With the tesseract situation squared away, Thor and Loki having returned to Asgard, Natasha has had some time to herself for once. She’s spent most of it watching videos of the fight, particularly those featuring Robin. His hand to hand combat and his swordsmanship are admittedly masterclass, though the feeling she gets when she watches him in action is dread.

She can’t look away from them, even when Clint pokes at her shoulder and tells her to let up on the fixation. They’re looking for him. Steve, Tony—hell, even Fury is. Fury, because of the potential risks, what secret agendas are at work, and the agitation of not knowing. Tony, because, well, it’s a bit of a Where’s Waldo game for him and his Big Brother tech. And Steve, because he’s a man with a good heart.

As for the kid’s identity, the only thing they can seem to agree on is that he isn’t American—which doesn’t do much to narrow anything down, and makes it that much harder. 

His speech, when scrutinized by the linguistic professionals Fury contacted, agree that Robin talks with the tells of having attended an international place of study, or of at least having been raised as a polyglot. His ease of switching to Russian and back to English, how perfect his enunciation had been, as well as his articulation in both languages. It spoke to a background with a lot of traveling, an accent of indiscernible origin.

Not to mention, when combing through the audio recording of his conversation with Steve, Robin had mentioned groups, aliases. No one has ever heard of the Justice League, and everyone she talked to about it agreed that Batman is the sort of name one gives to a cryptid in rural towns, and not exactly the alias of someone who would instill a sense of trust.

Natasha considers the likelihood of this Batman being someone Robin is running away from. But she doesn’t put much belief in the idea. Robin hadn’t seemed like a runaway. He sounded lost .

“Have we considered he might be a mutant?” Tony throws out unexpectedly from across the room. While he recovers from the brunt of his injuries, he’s been nearby for a lot of the video-watching that she’s done, what with her using him to access his tech. Big Brother though it may be, it’s still helpful in her hopes that Robin will appear unexpectedly on one of Jarvis’s searches.

“Could be,” she agrees, though she wonders. 

While not having used any of the Red Room techniques, there’s still a quality to Robin’s movements that feel so human. Unenhanced, but masterfully proficient. Whoever taught him didn’t allow for any frivolous movements, everything being so intentional. The control over his body that he’s exhibited in these videos would be envied by even the most adept assassins. 

And he’s so young.

“You should talk to Fury about the idea. He has to have some way to contact Charles Xavier. Maybe the X-Men could help.”

“You’re giving up, then?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “What I said is not quitter talk.”

Natasha arches a brow. “I was under the impression that you outsource when things get boring or annoying. Was I wrong?”

“Hey, hey!" Tony sits up, defensive. "Giving Pep the role was the best damn decision I’ve ever made for Stark Industries, and you know it, I know it, the whole world knows it.”

She stares at him, unmoved. “So, which is it?”

“Huh?”

“The safety of this boy. Boring, or annoying?”

Tony narrows his eyes. “I know what you're doing—you’re trying to trap me into looking bad. Well, too bad for you, I do that well enough on my own, Nat.”

“You’re deflecting.”

Tony groans. 

“I just think that maybe there’s a chance this kid doesn’t want or maybe even need to be found. He looked plenty capable to me. And hey, unless he’s independently wealthy, there’s no way he’s without some sort of guardian. Kid was wearing kevlar. Kevlar. Plus, he was helping us save the world. So, dare I be optimistic for once, but I don’t think he’s a threat. At least not to us. As far as aliens go though? There was definitely some untapped rage in some of those beheadings that he should probably bring up in therapy.”

Of course he would say that.

Natasha sighs. Looking back towards the screen with Robin on it, she wishes she could agree, but she can’t. 

There’s something she wants to say, something that Tony could potentially learn a thing or two from, but it’s a lesson Natasha hasn’t entirely learned herself. If she were to say it, especially to him, Natasha doesn’t know what would be worse: Tony recognizing the vulnerability in it, how her own story is hidden in the words, or if Tony would pull a Tony and uncomfortably wisecrack to avoid any resulting vulnerability of his own, leaving both of them self-conscious and their relationship strained. It's frankly already strained.

Even now, as she crashes at his place, it’s not like they’re particularly close. Too much business, and calculated agendas between them. From her time as an undercover agent, to the inherent betrayal in tricking him, and now, the reluctant allies that they've become, under conditions that have forced their group to form, and the unavoidable circumstances that has kept her in his life. All of it has left a sort of confusion in it's wake, where neither of them know what to make of each other. So much has happened, and Natasha still doesn't entirely understand him, something she thinks is mutual.

Despite hating him in the beginning, Natasha can't help but at least grudgingly appreciate him for all the things he's done. Tony's just oddly charitable, and more and more, Nat is seeing that.

She's also starting to notice and see for herself, that while Tony Stark is nothing like his father, and where others might see that as a bad thing, the world doesn't need a second Howard Stark. Tony's doing just fine.

Of course, Natasha doesn’t think now is the time or place to say any of that. Tony has already been lenient enough to allow her to bring her research into his home. To allow the others to come and go to a certain extent as things get worked out.

So, charitably, in her own way, Natasha pulls out her phone and dials Fury’s number.

When he answers, Natasha asks without so much as a greeting, “Any chance you can ask Charles Xavier what he thinks of Robin?”

.

.

Damian has disguised himself as an elderly man in order to gather information on this world. 

It’s worth the petty theft of the implements needed to create his disguise, as he gets away with a lot more by looking like a senile, doddering senior than like himself, who no one seems to take seriously. There’s not much to do for his height, but old people shrink, and not many bat an eye when he stumbles up to the civilians he marks for interrogation, asking his seemingly inane questions.

With his skill in voice mimicry, he matches the tone and inflection of a haggard, miserable convenience store employee that he spent some time communicating with on the night of his arrival. It’s an accent with dropped ‘R’s, distinct, elongated vowels, and the speech itself is altogether much more casual than he’s comfortable with. It’s certainly difficult to speak at length in, but that suits him fine. Damian keeps his interactions with the natives of this world short.

When he says something like, “Back when Nixon was President in ‘69,” he gets either a confirming nod or a look of utter bafflement, sometimes both, depending on how outlandish or random his inquiry is. Usually, the major historical facts lineup, but it’s the more minute details that differ. Mostly different names, but ultimately similar outcomes.

There’s astonishingly a great deal that this world shares with his own, even down to movies, celebrities, and world affairs. It’s almost hard to believe how much is the same, and Damian struggles to identify just what determines the similarities. How this universe mirrors his own in one way, and completely derails in other ways. 

Putting the matter of this universe’s secrets aside, there are also several glaring differences. Cosmetically, the names of specific cities, almost mockingly the ones he’s most familiar with, and more fundamentally, the metas and heroes of this world.

Gotham most assuredly does not exist here, he has come to find. In its place, from what Damian can tell by the maps he’s perused, is a city called Newark, which bears little resemblance from what he’s gathered. Similarly, Metropolis is not Metropolis, but New York . As in, New York, New York, because, if possible, this city is even more attention seeking than Metropolis is. It’s even nicknamed the Big Apple—which at least sounds better than the Big Apricot, though Damian wonders why these cities have to be the Big-anything.

Regardless, in Damian’s search for answers, specifically on the front of superhero vigilantes, he discovers that the metas—no, mutants are what they call them here—are only similar in that they’re still humans. Where metas are vaguely seen as any humanoid with superhuman abilities, this universe is more narrow in their use of terms, as mutants are strictly those with the genetic code written into their DNA. An X-gene, one with a fraught and lengthy history by the little bits that Damian has gleaned.

Mutants evidently hold their history tight to the chest, and more often than not, Damian is met with skeptical looks at bringing them up in conversation. It’s due to that, and the disgust and vitriolic speeches he hears from some of his rowdier marks, he establishes that there’s a lot of bigotry surrounding mutants in this world. Somehow, it’s even worse here than it is back home, as far as metas are concerned.

The very existence of mutants is met with contention. 

At best, people are lukewarm, but more often, they are afraid. The worst is the people that spew their hatred, no qualms in their self-righteous belief that mutants are devils walking the world, and that they should be killed before humanity can be wiped out. There’s a conviction in many of them that there’s bound to be a war between the two factions, that it’s a threat looming over everyone’s heads, but that the public has their heads in the sand about it. 

Although, perhaps Damian picked his marks poorly. Perhaps this area in particular is merely overtly hostile. It could even possibly be the base of an anti-mutant fringe group. Stranger things have happened.

More likely, it can be that what he’s seeing and hearing is just worse than normal. 

In light of recent events, despite the fact that aliens were very obviously at fault, mutants are being met with their own fairshare of the backlash. Heightened emotions have made it so there’s fingers pointing in every direction; at the newly minted Avengers and their destructive path to victory, the government for their slow and untimely response, the military for the potential nuke that might have destroyed the entire city, and the X-Men, who he gathers is a group of superhero mutants who reside in the state of New York, but were initially nowhere to be seen until well after the portal closed and the aliens collapsed en masse.

Many are recovering in the wake of extraterrestrial invasion, and from what Damian can tell, the X-Men are assisting first responders and other government aid. But for many, it’s help that’s come too little, too late.

People’s trust in national security is at an all time low. The X-Men, being mutants, are met with the same distrust and skepticism the civilians have for the government, even when trying to help people. It’s all a bit ridiculous. The organizational skills of the people in power in this universe leave much to be desired.

While his universe is far from perfect or competent in a crisis, Damian doesn’t think he’s ever seen such a poor, clumsy response from any political administration ever before. Especially not in the wake of such a horrific event. Father is too stringent, too proactive, too meddling . Even outside of Gotham, his work in the Justice League has created a ripple effect in many of the communities that the League resides in or watches over.

Admittedly, Damian doesn’t see much of it firsthand, being as occupied as he is. But from his two year stay in Gotham, just as most Gothamites could, he can spot the effects of a politically corrupt regime at work when he sees it—when he’s experiencing it himself.

He’s already made it two days in this universe, and he’s no closer to getting home than when he first entered it. Some of that can be attributed to the poor social services at work. They’re trying, it’s just baffling at the same time. It’s worse, somehow, because he knows it can be better.

Metropolis can be better. Gotham, admittedly, might suffer the same consequences of political corruption, but that’s neither here nor there because the Wayne Foundation would step in and at least get the trains running again.

With the city in a crisis, it’s hard to get anywhere besides on foot, the public transportation system being shut down in several of the most damaged localities. As a result, Damian spends chunks of his time loitering in dense, populated areas, blending in and listening for intel. He gets his meals from the soup kitchens that are up and running to aid the displaced, and he has to force himself to choke down the concoction they’re serving up. He also lucks out of having a cot, all of the spaces quickly filling up with families. The most he’s offered is a hygiene kit, as well as some tasteless energy bars and a few bottles of water that he takes with a scowl.

Paranoia leaves Damian feeling restless and tense.

For the past two nights, he’s slept intermittently, finding obscure places hidden in the dark to hide in. He doesn’t sleep deeply. Instead, he comes to understand Drake a bit more, as by the second day, Damian has devolved into taking power naps all over the city, whenever his body forces him to rest. It almost brings him back to a time in his childhood, training under David Cain. 

Technically, Damian can sleep anywhere and at any time, and still remain vigilant to his surroundings enough to wake in an instant, honed to his sense of danger. But it’s been years since he’s been forced to live that way, and he doesn’t adapt as elegantly as his teachers would expect of him. Cain might even call him soft, now.

But what Cain might say bears no consideration.

If he’s not napping, he’s throwing himself into the goal of investigating, every waking second feeling crucial. Time oddly feels like it’s running out, as if the longer he’s here, the more dire the situation is becoming. The more he learns, the more he feels as if doesn’t know.

So far, nothing that he comes across seems related to the rogue that sent him here.

If he were to suspect before that the rogue held some responsibility for the invasion, he might have a lead. But Damian temporarily rules it out, if only for the fact that on the second day, after much toiling, he managed to get access to a computer long enough to hack into S.H.I.E.L.D and read the restricted reports on the event. (Timothy Drake eat your fucking heart out.)

Admittedly, it didn’t give him very many answers, but it does allow him to rule a couple things out for the time being.

There’s not much motive for a trickster god like Loki, the main high-profile name being tossed around, to be interested in bringing a twelve year old vigilante to a different universe, barring the fact that he would need to be capable of doing it.

And that’s the thing: Damian can’t imagine who from his own world is capable of it, he knows even less about this one. And frankly, whoever is responsible could be from neither of them. That’s what’s tricky about multiverses. There’s so many options that could be the truth that Damian ultimately stalls in his investigation into the rogue and instead focuses on the task of his continued survival, and finding some sort of way of getting back home.

By the third day, Damian has settled into a routine of sorts, but it’s also the day where the routine breaks. The day his conviction is made.

Breakfast is an energy bar, and he ducks into a public restroom to brush his teeth. It’s the main form of hygiene that Damian is stubborn about. The grime on his face may help his disguise, and he’s not keen on shedding it just yet, but he still has standards he won’t let get too out of hand.

After affirming the viability of his disguise, Damian leaves the restroom and heads off towards the corner store that somehow never closed throughout any of the chaos, miraculously avoiding being hit by looters like other surrounding businesses in the area. Potentially a front for some local gang, if he’s to guess.

Ignoring the cashier’s greeting, Damian reads the front-pages of the newspapers from a distance, and from the headlines alone, Damian gets the impression that things will get worse before they get better. The Avengers, the heroes of the Battle of New York, are missing by most accounts. Preoccupied by other things, or taking a breather. The sole exception is Tony Stark, Iron Man and billionaire inventor, who has stepped enough into the limelight to pledge financial assistance to those affected.

There’s a lot of clean up to be done in the city, and the costs are exorbitantly high. Stark Industries has taken it upon itself to assist the government with the task, and some deal has been made as far as the abandoned alientech is concerned. Damian only skimmed the details, but from it, and the overall playboy lens that the public views him with, he gets the eerie impression that Tony Stark is this universe’s Bruce Wayne.

Only, Tony Stark doesn’t make any effort to hide his alter ego, and he’s not only seen as just an idiotic philanderer like Brucie Wayne is. Outside of his exploits with women, Stark’s actually regarded with a lot of respect, even if it’s mostly reluctant. His skill and intelligence is known to be world class, known for being the genius with a crass personality spearheading the progression of mankind with his technological advancements. Though it should be noted that a great deal of his wealth has been amassed from the time that Stark Industries was associated with creating military-grade weapons, and only just recently turned a new leaf following the Arc Reactor’s invention.

Well, so long as he’s not like Lex Luthor, Damian doesn’t care what the hell the man does in his free time.

With all his similarities to his father, potentially against his better judgment, Damian doesn’t write the man off from the list of those he’d seek help from if he can’t make any headway on his own. In the same vein, the rest of the Avengers are also not entirely off his radar, though the likelihood of him turning to any of them first is increasingly unlikely. Stark seems the best chance, as far as engineering a machine to get him home, but if there are quicker alternatives, he’d readily pursue them over anything else.

Ultimately, of those that seem the most viable, Damian has all but concluded that contacting the X-Men would be the best route for answers. They ultimately have more experience, despite how dismissive the public is of them, and are the closest thing to the Justice League that he’s come across, especially as far as the variety of abilities go. As for if they’re equipped to assist Damian in getting back to his own universe, well, he has to start somewhere.

He’s thinking that, of course, just as a headline from the Daily Bugle catches his eye and he draws to a stop, dismayed.

Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised—his photo has been taken several times in his own universe during his time spent as Robin. It’s hardly anything new. Except, Damian sees himself in the same photo as the rest of the Avengers and sees the yellow circle around his face alongside a zoom in, and the tagline: INSIDE SCOOP ON THE MYSTERIOUS BOY WONDER.

He snorts. It’s a strange feeling to see this world share an eerie consistency with his own.

Damian sighs, digging into his pockets and slapping down a few bills onto the counter. Currency is thankfully similar enough that he hasn’t had much issue, though he has a feeling that there’s still some sort of fraud being done on his part. If put under scrutiny, he’s not certain the serial numbers would make sense to this world.

Regardless, he mutters a quick, “One Bugle.”

The cashier accepts the cash, handing over the newspaper, adding a bored, “If that’s all, have a good one, man.”

Nodding, Damian steps out of the corner store, already flipping through all the pages of guff and landing on the full page spread filled with ‘exclusive’ shots of Robin in action.

Damian will never fail to be surprised that instead of running to safety, there are those that would rather snap a photo or video instead. Actually, now struck with the thought, Damian wonders what sort of incredulous lies are being told about him online, how much of his actions have been videoed and posted on social media.

A curiosity to be sated later.

For now, Damian reads the article with a disgusted curl to his lip.

And then, enlightened by a sudden, albeit perhaps deluded idea, he quickly decides on an entirely different course of action. One he very much didn’t think he’d be making, but one that strangely feels like the obvious, economic choice. And in some ways, putting his reluctance and better judgement aside, it feels as if he’s just been putting off the inevitable. 

For it, his current disguise has to go.

After all, there’s no sense in hesitating, being on limited time that he is.

.

.

Damian thinks it should be much harder than it is to sneak into Stark Tower, especially for the very fact that it was a key location during the Battle of New York.

At least, he’s thinking that, up until a voice speaks to him from the ceiling.

“Robin, I presume. Or, at least, that’s the name Miss Black Widow shared with us.”

For a moment, Damian freezes, struck by the familiarity of the speaker’s accent and cadence.

It’s not the exact same. The voice is too young, too relaxed—but three days removed from any of his allies, Damian is still somehow flooded with emotion that he can only vaguely describe as a longing so strong, he sways where he stands.

Alongside the longing comes a wave of unexpected bitterness, a feeling of resentment that Damian realizes only now that he’s been ignoring. He hasn’t lingered on thoughts of home for that very reason, because if he does then he might realize how utterly helpless he is on his own. The fact that he even needs to ask for help, from strangers.

Not to mention, if Pennyworth were here, he’d never have had to sleep in the streets or eat putrid soup. But he needs to stop. He can’t let himself go down that train of thought. It’s not real, and it’s not important.

Seeking aid is already antithetical to his upbringing, to all the things that his mother’s family has instilled in him. Even if it’s the economic choice, Damian is still overcome with embarrassment and shame. He almost wants to turn around and escape, but to do that would be the cowards way out, and far more dishonorable.

“You are Robin, correct?”

Damian stiffly nods. He imagines that the voice is watching him from a camera, for him to be able to recognize him in his suit and domino mask. That, or the man is invisible.

“Could I inquire as to the reason for your unexpected visit? ”

Damian opens his mouth. But before words can leave him, his throat closes and all that leaves him is a fragile, choked sound. His face fills with heat—what the hell is wrong with him?

He’s only ever been so stupid around... around...

Damian takes a deep breath. Perhaps not sleeping has had more of an impact than he’s accounted for. He hadn’t expected to hear someone so similar to Pennyworth in his time of need. Damian also isn’t used to needing. He’s never needed anyone before.

But he does now. He takes a deep breath. He thinks of the rogue, and he thinks of home.

He needs—.

“Help. I need help.”

Chapter Text

Kid has had S.H.E.I.L.D, the X-Men, the Avengers, and the NYPD all in search of him for the past three days, and not even a glimpse of him is found until two things happen nearly simultaneously.

First, Natasha receives a call:

“Miss Black Widow. It’s Charles Xavier.”

“Professor,” she greets respectfully—she’s done enough research into the mutant to know she needs to tread with caution when dealing with him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m calling about our shared vested interest in the Robin who fought alongside you during the battle. I have information that is critical. It might be something better discussed in person, however. Do you have time?”

Natasha is forming an answer in her mind, carefully choosing her words—meeting Charles Xavier, Professor X, in person feels tantamount to suicide in many ways. But he’s meant to be one of the good guys, she sardonically thinks, and alright, maybe she shouldn’t be pinning her paranoia on him. The X-Men have done incredible things. They were the heroes long before Fury put the Avengers short list together.

She hums into the phone. She’s about to say yes, to request a time and place to her liking, when Jarvis interrupts.

“Natasha,” the AI says warmly. “You might be relieved to hear that your search has finally come to an end.”

“Professor, can I possibly give you a call back?”

“Actually, perhaps it’s better I send someone there now.”

She stiffens. Is that a threat? It was said so lamely though, the Professor’s tone of voice was so mild.

“Why would you need to send anyone, Professor?”

“Because of who is currently in the Stark Tower. ”

Oh.

“And you know who it is, how, exactly?”

“Unimportant. All you have to know is that you weren’t wrong to contact me. ”

Natasha sighs, muting herself on her phone and calling out to Jarvis, just to confirm, “Is it Robin?”

“Yes. He’s asking for help.”

“Is he injured?”

“Not that I can assess.”

“Where is he? I’ll go to him,” Natasha says, already on the move. Unmuting herself, to Charles, she asks, “Who are you sending?”

“How much do you know of this child? ”

“Not much,” she admits.

“I’m sending Cyclops. ”

Natasha thinks of the superhero that more often than not leads the X-Men missions. He’s incredibly powerful, yet personable from stories she’s been told of people who’ve met him firsthand. Except, it’s kind of a heavy hitter to send, especially when she’s heard of how busy the mutant group has been.

They hadn’t been missing from the Battle of New York out of laziness, that much is certain.

“Unless you think someone else on my team is more suitable? ”

He must have taken her silence as disagreement. What surprises her is the question, that he wants her opinion on the matter at all.

She would have thought he’d strongarm her. Retroactively, she’s also surprised Charles called at all to inform her. As soon as he discovered that Robin is a mutant, she would have thought that the matter would be hushed entirely, that she’d sooner receive a call from Fury telling her to bury the bone. Children with the X-gene are normally guarded fiercely by Charles Xavier.

It’s sort of why she accused Tony of giving up.

“Cyclops is fine, Professor. Just surprised you’re willing to spare him.”

“I have cause to suspect that this Robin of yours is... unique, and Cyclops is particularly attuned to helping scared children.”

“Do you also have reason to suspect that Robin is a scared child?”

“That’s a topic more suited to a face to face discussion, I’m afraid. For now, Cyclops is currently on the way. I’ll have him contact you as soon as he arrives. ”

“Understood,” Natasha says, annoyed at the tease of information, but relating to the caution and discretion that Charles utilizes in his sensitive conversations.

“If anything unexpected happens, feel free to contact me. Until then, be safe, be cautious.”

He hangs up before she can say anything in return, which is just as well. Natasha has something far more pressing to put her focus towards.

.

.

When Damian sees Black Widow, he’s surprised by his own relief. 

He supposes, fighting with her before, he had subconsciously begun to see her as an ally, and really, it adds more to the reason why he’s come here, instead of going to the X-Men.

But the relief is still a surprise. It makes his body feel gummy, tension draining out of him. Some part of his brain sees her, thinks: safe. Which is odd, and it feels odd. Trust shouldn’t be so easily given away. His body shouldn’t be so easily fooled.

Except, Damian meets the woman’s gaze, sees the casual way she’s dressed, how her red hair is thrown up into a loose ponytail, sees the worry in her eyes, and for a moment, he’s not seeing her. Not exactly. Instead, he’s seeing Barbara Gordon—no, that's a lie he’s telling himself because the truth is altogether stranger, and more cruel.

She looks nothing like her, but she moves like her. She uses her expressions the same way. That look, that concern, Damian would never forget it.

Mother.

Sometimes, he’s surprised by how much he misses her. And he does. More than anyone else in the world.

“Robin,” Black Widow greets, and there’s something in her voice, some quality that he can’t place. A tremor, perhaps. “I’m glad to see you.”

He blinks. “You are?”

That’s new. He’s never been told that before, he doesn’t think.

“Of course. We’ve been looking for you. You just vanished, and we couldn’t even thank you for the help.”

Damian doesn’t mask his surprise. “Thank me?”

Black Widow cocks her head, finding his question peculiar from the looks of it. Ultimately, she shakes her head and waves him towards an elevator. “Do you want to come upstairs? It’s a bit destroyed from the battle, but good enough for the interim. Tony won’t mind.”

“Are you... sure?”

Black Widow nods. “Jarvis said you asked for help. Would I be totally off base if I assume that getting an actual meal in your stomach might be a good way to start?”

Damian files away the name of the ceiling voice, and slowly nods. “Public services would do well to be informed of the existence of seasonings, if you could find a way to inform them. All I’ve had the past few days has been the strange concoction they were masquerading as soup.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Well, how does a sandwich sound instead? I’m pretty good at making them.”

“I’m a vegetarian,” he cautions.

At that, she looks at him consideringly. Her next words are oddly stilted, as if she’s not quite sure how to phrase it, or like it’s the first time she’s ever had to say them. Whatever the cause of her hesitation, she eventually says, “It takes... some time, but I can... cook a decent vegetarian borscht. If you’re not too tired of soup, that is.”

“Just so long as it’s not putrid,” he generously tells her.

“I’ll do my best,” she wryly says as the two of them move into the elevator. 

Damian only feels a little bit stressed by being in an enclosed space with her, and it’s somehow more due to the fact that he’s certain he reeks, and he worries no matter how much distance he puts between them, she’d still be able to smell him. There’s something wrong about that. How utterly disarmed he is by her. She’s an assassin —his instincts should be screaming, yet...

“Black Widow, while you make this borscht, may I be permitted to shower?”

“Sure. I could probably get some clean clothes for you too, if you don’t mind them being some of mine.”

“I don’t mind,” he says, and then asks, “Do you live here, too?”

“Not exactly. Just camping out.” To his questioning look, she adds, “Tony’s out. I’m house sitting. Which is just an excuse to avoid outright saying the actual truth.”

“Which is?”

“Tony has the best tech, and I did say we’ve been looking for you.”

Damian wasn’t expecting that sort of answer, but it does make sense.

“Because I’m dangerous,” he says. In her shoes, he’d do the same type of surveillance.

“Well, maybe the others see it that way, but that wasn’t the reason for me.”

He squints at her, suspicious.

“Did you come here to meet Tony?” Black Widow asks, shifting the conversation.

“Technically,” he mutters.

“If not technically?”

“Do you know anything about the Daily Bugle?”

“Only that they’re willing to publish anything, truth or fiction, so long as it sells.”

“So like most publications.”

“They’re a little more careless than most.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” Damian says, handing her the paper he’d read that morning. “That would explain why they were willing to tell the world that I’m Stark’s secret heir.”

It’s a long pause before she reacts. It takes several moments, her eyes narrowing, and then, as she takes the newspaper into her hands and reads the article in question, Black Widow hums. 

“I came to ask for help from him. I need an identity.”

Black Widow looks at him blankly, blinking.

“If he agrees, I will be willing to explain why. It’s a complicated predicament that I’ve been forced into, and while there shouldn’t be any risks to your team's safety, I can’t promise that there won’t be any.”

“Are you in danger?” she asks sharply.

“Presumably.”

“Presumably. From who? Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“I’m investigating it, but there’s a great deal that is obfuscated by the very nature of my predicament. It’s why I need an identity here. Preferably one that comes with inherent power, and a financial backing. Both that I believe I would have, were I to be Tony Stark’s son.”

“Robin... I... what is going on? What about your own parents? Or those teachers you mentioned to me, the ones I wouldn’t know.”

“Out of reach.”

“Are they in danger?”

Damian shudders. He’s surprised by that. He’s been trying very hard not to think of the current state of Gotham, and what sort of hell that the rogue has possibly created in his absence. He doesn’t even know if his family is alive.

“I’m not certain,” he whispers.

“Well, can you at least tell me who you are, who they are?”

Damian nods. He already knew that he would need to take on such risks, assuming that the benefits would far outweigh them. It also helps that revealing his identity doesn’t inherently come with the baggage of revealing the rest of the Bats.

“First, could I take that shower?” he says as the doors to the elevator open.

Black Widow seems to come down from her worry, a wry smile on her lips. Yet, even smiling, her eyes still look remarkably...

Damian turns his face away.

“Of course. I’ll show you the way,” she says and does just that, walking him through the penthouse with enough familiarity that Damian almost suspects her relationship with Tony isn’t wholly innocent in nature.

He thinks of Selina Kyle, wondering if Stark and Black Widow are playing a similar game.

“I’ll get you some clothes, and I’ll leave them by the door,” Natasha says. “And just so you’re not surprised, I do have a friend coming. I’ll tell him to stop real quick for some underwear in your size, though.”

“Friend?”

“Yeah. He’s one of the X-Men—you might have heard of him. Cyclops?”

A bit odd, how she says it. Also a bit odd that they’re friends paying visits to each other without the host home—or is it really? Damian doesn’t know anything about what sort of relationships these people have with each other. They could be swingers for all he knows.

Still, Damian feels like he’s being lied to about something, but without any proper reason to believe so, he ultimately lets it go. For now. “Tell him I prefer boxers.”

“Anything else I should ask him to get?”

He shakes his head. “Just be thinking of whether or not you’ll help me trick Stark into agreeing.”

“You’re serious, then.” Her tone is deadpan. “You want Tony to be your dad.”

“Publicly,” he reasserts. “I have a father already. He’s just... not here.”

“I see.”

Except she doesn’t, not really.

Damian takes a deep breath. He suspects she’s close to agreeing, that she just needs more, just a little extra push. 

“My name is Damian,” he says, meeting her gaze, briefly. “Might I ask for yours?”

“Natasha.”

“Natasha,” he repeats. It suits her.

“Look,” she says with a sympathetic sigh. “Even if there’s a possibility, Damian, the chance that Tony agrees to this is incredibly low. There’s a lot for him to consider, and between you and I, Tony’s not exactly anyone’s idea of a dad.”

“I don’t need a good father,” Damian says dismissively. “Just someone willing to be a wallet.”

She arches her brow. “And what would Tony get out of this arrangement?”

“A dutiful, filial son,” he says serenely.

Natasha snorts. “Somehow, I don’t think Tony’s in the market.”

Damian scoffs. It would be just his luck that the person closest to fitting his father’s description would fail to exhibit his most famous trait. Admittedly, Damian has the feeling that Stark’s most certainly better off for it.

“I won’t stop you from asking him, though. I just want to be in the room for it,” Natasha says, with a smirk, seeing the humor in it. “For now, I’ll leave you to your shower and get that borscht started.”

“Alright. Thank you,” he says, turning the knob of the restroom and entering without another glance towards her.

He exhales in the privacy of the marble walls, taking in the modern fixtures first before peeling off his domino mask and setting it aside. He stares into the mirror, looking into the green eyes of his mother, reminding himself that this is the shade they should be. Not whatever shade that Natasha had.

It’s his mind playing with him. He just misses her, is all.

Mother would hate to see him like this.

Sighing, Damian strips off the rest of his clothing, folding each piece methodically to center himself, setting it on the counter before turning towards the shower. He gets the water hot, scalding, trying to burn off all the grime that has done its very best to seep into him on the molecular level. He’s no stranger to getting dirty from missions, but preferably, he enjoys the feeling of being clean.

Normally, he’s particular about the soaps he uses, specific about his body wash, his shampoo and conditioner. Scents are important to Damian, more than many might suspect. While his senses aren’t superhuman, they are elevated, notched up to a degree that assists in combat, but sometimes become cumbersome. His sense of smell is a pain, more often than not.

Thankfully, Damian doesn’t hate the shower products that he finds, and he makes quick work of scrubbing his skin raw and assessing his body in the bright, bathroom lighting.

Which. Hm.

That’s... strange.

It’s the first time he’s been naked since coming to this world, so he hadn’t noticed until now, but his injuries, they’re gone—and he’s sure he had several before arriving, and some he incurred after, but all of them are simply gone. Not even bruises are left, and even the sea of scars on his body, usually jagged and angry, are somehow pinker, as if even they’re healing, fading. Even scars he’s had since infancy.

Damian should have noticed sooner. He’s normally more intune with his body, but all he’s felt has been how tired he is. It’s still all he feels. 

He discovers sequentially that he doesn’t even have the normal click in his knee from a fall years ago that almost got him killed. He’s had that click in his knee for half a decade. Now it’s just... gone.

Something strange has happened to him. Something strange is happening to him.

Damian shuts the water off, his breaths coming faster than they need to. It shouldn’t scare him, having accelerated healing. Most in his line of work would be ecstatic. It’s a good perk. Useful.

Except. Except, he doesn’t know why it’s happening.

And he remembers, a little. The process of coming to this world. He doesn’t want to, but he does.

Damian takes in a deep breath.

Why? Why? Why is this happening?

Damian hates feeling scared. That’s what this feeling is. He’s not stupid. He knows he’s afraid.

He knows he’s powerless. Can’t do anything to get home on his own. He’s in a completely different universe than his own, and he doesn’t have anything to his name but the clothes on his back. But at least his body is healing itself! 

What a joke.

He doesn’t need it. Doesn’t want it. No special power is worth it. 

He just wants to go home.

He wants to see Titus.

“Damian?” A knock follows the call of his name.

It’s not Natasha.

“Who is it?” he asks, reaching for a towel and wrapping himself in it.

“My name is Scott. Scott Summers. I’m also known as Cyclops—Natasha mentioned I’d be here, right?”

“Yes,” he answers.

“I got you some underwear. And other things. Didn’t know what you’d prefer. Am I good to hand them to you?”

Damian grimaces, but approaches the door, opening it.

Summer’s most notable trait is the red sunglasses on his face, that he has on, even indoors as they are. It makes it difficult to read his expression, but not impossible. His surprise is quiet, the barest raise of his brows, the subtle slackening of his jaw. 

Quietly, he holds out a paper bag with some clothing store’s branding on it. It’s not one Damian recognizes.

Not that it matters where it’s from. Damian takes the bag and promptly shuts the bathroom door in Scott Summer’s face.

The resulting tired sigh on the other side makes Damian’s gut clench, but he ignores it, preferring to focus on the contents of the bag. Summers is a bit similar to Richard, he thinks. Mostly due to the fact that he’s sure Natasha only asked for underwear, and while he made good on that, there’s also several other articles of clothing ranging from casual active wear to sleepwear, in sizes that woefully run too big on him.

He ends up settling on shorts with a drawstring that he can cinch enough that they don’t sag, and a blue polo shirt that he buttons up all the way.

It’s far from fashionable, but it’s serviceable, and that’s all Damian really cares about.

When Damian exits the bathroom, he makes his way towards the kitchen quietly, enough that he doesn’t interrupt their conversation, in time to hear Summers saying to Natasha, voice regretful, “I should have asked about his clothing sizes. He’s smaller than the photos make him look.”

“He’ll still probably prefer them to mine.”

“Hopefully. I’m just surprised. Seeing those videos, him in battle, you’d never think he’s that young.”

“Any guess as to how young?”

“I’m twelve years old,” Damian interjects, before Summers can say something stupid. “I will allow more questions. Your assumptions will not get anywhere close to the truth, so I’ll save us all time by being forthcoming. At least, as long as I’m not lied to.”

“This isn’t an interrogation,” Summers says.

“Perhaps not, but forgive me my caution, I’ve already been lied to once.”

Natasha blinks. “Lied to?”

“The two of you aren’t friends. Scott Summers is here for me. Not you.”

“And why would I be here for you?”

“I have my own, possibly inaccurate assumptions. Care to be forthcoming yourself, so my time isn’t wasted?”

“Wait, why do you think we aren’t friends?”

Damian gives Summers a dead stare, and if it weren’t for the genuine curiosity in his voice, he might not have responded. Very charitably, Damian explains his thought process.

“It’s too much of a coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidence. Besides, by body language alone, it’s clear to see that the two of you are only vaguely familiar acquaintances at best. Not to mention your body language directed towards me.”

“Body language alone isn’t exactly the most foolproof evidence.”

“Perhaps not, but I know to trust my instincts, and it’s what my instinct is telling me. So, Scott Summers, why are you here?”

Summers studies him for a moment, and he must see something he approves of, because he noticeably relaxes. “I’m here because Xavier detected a new mutant in the area. You.”

Damian stills.

Mutant. Him?

“I’m not sure you’re correct to believe that it’s me. How foolproof is this Xavier’s ability to detect mutants?”

Summers is all cool confidence in the face of Damian's caustic tone. “Pretty foolproof. It’s you.”

“But I...” Damian almost says that he doesn’t have any mutations, but then he thinks of the click in his knee, the fact that it’s entirely disappeared, without him having noticed. “Alright. But I would like more proof. Is it possible for my DNA to be tested first?”

“DNA testing for the X-gene isn’t a perfect science,” Summers says with a wince.

“So? I would still like more proof.”

“Tony could test it. He has the labs for it here in the tower,” Natasha supplies helpfully.

Damian nods at her.

“And if I am a mutant, what would that mean for me exactly?” Damian asks.

Summers is eager, clarifying, “Well, to start, how much do you know about mutants? Would your family ever have had probable cause to suspect you might be one?”

Damian shakes his head. “My family is out of bounds. Nothing about them would concern anything you have to ask me.”

“Alright, let me rephrase. Is there any potential reason you might suspect that you’re a mutant? Even if it’s something that made you feel crazy or out of control at the time. It could be small, it could even be something you wrote off at the time.”

Which, alright, he’ll humor the mutant.

“It’s a bit pedestrian,” Damian says.

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’re asking to narrow down what my mutation is. Which, alright, I can play the game. While I still don’t believe I’m the mutant you’re looking for, if I am, then it’s a very pedestrian ability.”

“Which is?”

“Accelerated healing.”

“You believe that to be pedestrian,” Summers states.

“Yes. Isn’t it common? Though I suppose it would depend how quickly I heal from more severe wounds to be certain. I haven’t exactly had the time to test it out.”

“Wait. Go back. Why do you think you have accelerated healing?” Natasha asks. “And how new is it that you haven’t been able to test it?”

Damian sighs. “It’s a long story, Natasha. Is the borscht close to being done? Also, when will Stark be home? You never said, and I would still like to request his aid.”

Natasha is quiet for a moment, studying his face.

Ultimately, she asks the ceiling, “Jarvis, what’s Tony’s ETA?”

“He’ll be returning to the tower shortly. As soon as I informed him of Scott Summers’ arrival, he began making his way back. It’ll be no more than ten minutes. ”

“Jarvis, does he know what I want to ask him?” Damian asks, vaguely dismayed.

“I have informed him that you have a special request to ask of him, but not the exact nature of it.”

Natasha snorts. “So, you do have a sense of humor, Jarvis,” she remarks dryly.

“When have I ever given the impression to the contrary?”

“Well, I suppose anything that Tony’s made is bound to take after him in some ways.”

Damian frowns, but he doesn’t have much care to carry on the conversation. Instead, he’s walking towards the stove and peering around Natasha to assess the soup she’s made.

He’s never had borscht before, and the vivid burgundy color of it, while intriguing, also doesn’t look the most appealing to him, especially not after the past few days. But in Natasha’s defense, he doesn’t think anything would look appetizing to him right now.

He’s not even that hungry. His body is just tired.

Damian sighs, a bit forlorn. He doubts very much that he’ll eat anything near as decent as the meals Pennyworth prepares, not for a long while.

Not for a long while.

Damian sucks in a breath, and exhales it with a tempered control, recentering himself.

He can’t unravel here. He can’t bend to despair. Damian may be afraid, but he’s never let that stop him in the past, and he’s not about to let it now.

“Damian?” Natasha prompts, hand outstretched, hovering over his shoulder. He eyes it warily.

“Have you made this dish often?” Damian finally asks, in lieu of answering her unasked question.

“Not recently, but in the past I did.”

“Hm.”

“Should be ready by now.” she says, her voice soft, her gaze heavy on his face. “I’ll dish it up. You can wait at the dining table if you want.”

Damian shakes his head. “I want to watch. You’re eating with me, correct?”

She seems to understand his reluctance. “I’m not about to drug you, Damian.”

At his resulting deadpan stare, Natasha shrugs, seeming to humor him as she makes a display of rolling up her sleeves and reaching for two bowls, then hesitating. “Are you eating, too, Summers?”

“Scott is fine. And sure.”

Natasha grabs a third, and fills up each bowl, each dip into the pot with the ladle slow and unrushed, allowing Damian to see for himself that the food is untampered with—at least as far as this step in the process goes.

Natasha could very well have an antidote or tolerance built up for anything she might have added. But he supposes that Natasha would have even less reason to drug Summers, and he also doesn’t really think she’d have reason to do anything against him. Not when she’s been so… hospitable.

Frankly, she’s been all too trusting of him, if anything.

In her shoes, Damian would have sent himself away, at best.

“Have you been drugged often enough in the past to warrant paranoia?” Natasha asks as the three of them move towards the dining room, her tone in that dry-casual tone, like she’s purposefully injecting humor into it to make it sound less strange than it is.

She’s fishing for information, he thinks.

“When I was much younger,” he says, taking a seat, and looking at her thoughtfully.

“How much younger?”

Damian shifts, reaching for the spoon that she hands to him. “I don’t recall exactly.” It’s a bit of a fib. 

He vaguely knows that when his training for poisons and narcotics began, he was at least able to walk, but not very well. He doesn’t think either Summers or Natasha would like to hear that answer though, let alone understand the reason for it.

His position in the league comes, even now, with unavoidable dangers. More so when he was still vulnerable to those around him, too inexperienced to protect himself. Mother couldn’t always be around, making it vital he was taught sooner than later.

In the same time that Damian began training all of his other senses, his body was also trained to endure and recognize any and all potential threats. His practice of mithridatism began as soon as he could ingest solids, something that has saved his life countless times before he could mature to the age of ten.

But being from a different world, there’s no telling what other sorts of drugs and poisons exist here. Damian shouldn’t get too comfortable, especially with the fact that there’s no one truly on his side here. He’s his only true ally, the only person who won’t betray him.

As it is, Damian waits until Natasha has taken a bite before dipping his spoon in. He takes a slight sniff, finds that it’s not wholly inoffensive, and decides that Natasha could attempt a lot worse things than drugging him. He begins to eat with slow, careful movements, pleasantly finding that the borscht isn’t terrible.

“Does it suit your tastes?” Natasha asks, brows raised. She doesn’t look the least bit perturbed by Damian’s attitude.

It’s acceptable, he wants to say. What comes out instead is, “It’s delicious.”

Damian takes another bite to mask his mild perplexity. He isn’t normally keen on schmoozing, or even one for the typical polite platitudes expected to mollify other’s egos. It’s the sort of thing Father, Pennyworth, and Richard would want of him, though, the type of behavior they often remind him of.

“Glad to hear. It’s an adapted recipe. Normally, I’d use chicken stock, but even though Tony doesn’t seem to use them, there were plenty of seasonings I was able to use to substitute the flavor profile.”

“You enjoy cooking,” he states.

“Hobbyist,” she agrees. “Used to be more about the utility of it, but things change.”

“Hm.” 

“Do you have anything like that?” Natasha asks. “Hobbies?”

Damian scoffs. Every other sentence out of her mouth is bait, and it’s so obvious. He can’t even fault her for it, as he would do a lot worse in her position, and at least he isn’t flat out being interrogated, but the constant questions leave his ears itching.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” she’s quick to say and Damian feels his cheeks grow warm.

He doesn’t like to be easy to read, but he also doesn’t like feeling as if she might be winning. And that he ultimately isn’t that bothered by her. Not like he should be.

And especially now, with something warm in his stomach, Damian is realizing how exhausted he is. It takes more restraint than he’d like to admit not to nod off. Logically he knows he isn’t out of the woods, that he can’t outright trust these people, but Damian’s body isn’t under the same impression. There’s something about the woman that’s disarming.

“You’ve had a rough couple of days, haven’t you, Damian?” Summers asks, sympathy in his voice.

It’s not the last couple of days that have been rough. It’s the inciting event, the fact that he’s here at all, eating borscht with strangers, having to rely on their mercy, that’s what’s rough. The past few days in comparison aren’t anything he hasn’t dealt with before.

“I’m not fragile,” Damian says to Summers’ words, annoyed.

“Didn’t imply it. I’ve seen the videos, Robin.”

Tt.

“I’m curious, though. Why did you help the Avengers? What were you even doing there at the time?”

“I was in uniform,” he says honestly.

“Those clothes, they’re a uniform to you. As in, there are others like you, or is it that there’s an organization that you report to?”

“Robin is a legacy role,” Damian mumbles. “I’m the fifth, and I worked closely with the first. It’s a role that I... respect because of him. To honor the position, I helped the Avengers.”

“And the Robins, where are they based out of?”

“Gotham,” he says, tone glum. Perhaps Summers would have a better shot at locating it on the map, in the slim chance it does exist here.

“Oh, I’ve never heard of it.”

Unsurprising, still disappointing.

Damian opens his mouth to reply, but then from the large, expansive windows, sees the in-coming form of an Iron Man suit.

“Mr. Stark has returned,” Jarvis announces just as Damian’s mouth clicks shut. 

The room falls quiet, and Damian straightens his back, anticipating the conversation he’s about to have with the billionaire genius.

It’s not much longer before Stark’s shed the armor and, with an expectant look gracing his face, he steps into the dining room. Whether or not he’s reading the room, or what he might truly be thinking, it’s all obscured by a put-upon look of betrayal as soon as he lays eyes on the bowls of borscht.

“You ate without me? You know, Nat, there’s this thing called manners—.”

“Damian was hungry.”

“Damian?” Stark surveys the room, looking between Summers and Damian. He arches a brow.

“The kid.”

“Thought it was Robin.”

“It is Robin. Outside of the mask, he’s Damian.”

“One of those types, then,” Stark says with a bored hum. To Damian, he adds, taking a seat closest to Natasha, “So, what’s your deal, kid? You hide out for two days, worrying everyone, and all of a sudden, you show up and want things from us?”

Damian isn’t ruffled by the man’s sarcastic tone of voice. Stark also doesn’t have the heaviest gaze to be under, like he’s more looking overhead than directly at him, an underlying nervous energy in the air. Damian’s found that it’s best to be very direct with these types of people.

“I’m in need of your aid, Stark.”

Raised brows. “Aid with what exactly?”

“I need you to be my father.”

Tony's mouth opens, aghast. “What?”

Chapter Text

“Just for an indefinite amount of time,” Damian adds in a mollifying tone.

Unmollified, Stark still seems to be processing the request, his expression a combination of incredulity and confusion. He looks at Nat, horrified. “Did I really just hear him say that out loud?”

“You sure did,” she confirms dryly.

To Summers, Stark gestures to Damian. “So, are you taking him to Charles Xavier, or should I have him mailed out? I’ll cover the shipping, no need for thanks.”

Summers shrugs, nonplussed. “I was actually thinking we should hear him out. It’s not everyday you come across a kid like him.” His face turns to look at Damian, and a wry smile graces his lips. “Besides, something tells me that if we don’t, we’re just asking for problems.”

“I won’t be leaving with Summers,” Damian confirms. “Natasha has informed me that you have on hand the means to test my DNA. I will permit a sampling to be taken to confirm the veracity of Summers’ belief that I’m a mutant.”

“And once the results come back positive, Cyclops here could make a wonderful dad, if you just give him a chance. Set your heights for something you can actually reach.”

“I don’t need a real father, Stark. I, unfortunately, need you.”

“Mildly offended, but why, pray tell, is it that you’re fixated on me? Money?”

“Partly.”

“Aha—greedy kid. Well, the answer is no. Now, let’s test your mutant DNA! Whatever gets you out of my hair the fastest.”

“No.”

“No? This ain’t Damian’s world, you gotta realize things won’t always go your way, bud.”

“Tony,” Natasha cuts in, warning.

“Well, it’s the truth! Nat, you can’t expect me to take him seriously.”

“But you can at least listen to everything he has to say before dismissing him right off the bat.”

“In what world would I ever say yes to adopting a kid, Nat? You know me. What reason could there possibly be that it changes the fact that I am famously child-free? ”

“Damian, you haven’t really explained it too well. But why do you feel like you need a temporary father? What about the other people in your life? Aren’t they missing you?” Summers asks, and it’s a series of questions that oddly hurt to be asked.

“Right, right—where are your parents, or legal guardians?” Stark leans over eagerly, elbows on the table.

“Out of reach,” he says, voice soft, his face pinched.

“M.I.A?” Natasha asks, gentle.

“No. No, it’s me.”

“You’re M.I.A?”

Damian nods, so short of a motion that it’s almost imperceptible.

“Do you think anyone is looking for you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t believe they are.”

“I believe that they can’t. Or, maybe, I don’t—if they got help, but I don’t know, I don’t think—Father might have allies, but if they can even do anything, I don’t know. I’m just... stuck here. I need help, and Stark can help, I know he can. He’s the best lead that I’ve found.”

“Is this help something not even the X-Men can help with?”

Damian shrugs. He’d already intended to contact the X-Men for help, but only after setting things with Stark in motion. 

The X-Men were too mysterious to write them off entirely, but Stark is different. Not prone to fabrication or mystifying things, and Damian had read a bit about the Arc Reactor he created, in the circumstances that he did it in. If he can do that much with just scrap, Damian imagines that there’s a shot he can build what Damian needs to get home.

“So you need help getting home, something Tony might be able to do something about, but the time to do that is ultimately indefinite. In the interim, you need a support system,” Natasha summarizes. “You want Tony as a one-stop shop.”

“Well, that’s a degrading way to put it,” Stark mutters.

Damian nods. “It’s the path with the highest chance of success.”

“Okay, you need help getting home.” Stark sighs, staring Damian down. “But tell me, why can’t I just help you? Why do you also want to be my pseudo-son so badly?”

Easy. “Leverage—.”

“Leverage!?” Stark’s astonishment is mixed with exacerbation and disbelief.

Damian stares at him blankly. “How else am I supposed to manipulate you?”

“By not laying out all your cards, for one. Why would you straight up say that? Who is this kid, Nat? I feel like I’m talking to Lucifer’s most naive, unholy boy-scout.”

“That’s an oxymoron.”

“You’re an oxymoron!”

“No, and I’m not naive, Stark.”

“This entire plan of yours reeks of naivety. Who just thinks they can waltz into a billionaire’s home, request to be adopted, and expect the billionaire to say, ‘Sure, here’s the keys to the castle!’ In what world does it work that way?”

“In mine,” Damian mutters bitterly.

“Uh-huh.”

“Typically it involves stealing rims off the billionaire’s unattended custom-made vehicle first, but I was hoping to bypass that right of passage.”

“Fuck, I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. Nat, can you tell?”

“Oddly enough, I think he’s serious.”

“You don’t have to be my pseudo-father forever, only for the length of my stay. At the end of it, I’ll even assist in the act of my faked death.”

His words chill the room.

“Christ, kid.” Tony stares at him, bewildered. “You know, you drive a hard bargain. Who wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to adopt a kid, only to then have them killed off in the narrative. What were you thinking, car crash, mugging, kidnapped and murdered, or suicide? I’m very obviously open to ideas!”

“I was actually thinking an illness would be most suitable. Optimally, the press can be informed that I’m sickly by nature, so as to diminish the potential shock when I do die. Though, now that you mention it, a sudden death in the family might better suit Stark Industries—I know it helped stocks for Wayne Enterprises when Todd first died. After all, the public is largely sympathetic to the deaths of children, and the loss of Tony Stark’s only heir would certainly make an impact.”

Stark’s expression pales, Summers’ jaw tightens, and even Natasha, who’s mostly been inexpressive, looks disturbed. Damian rethinks his words, wondering what had stood out to them, why they all look so distressed.

“You think I’d kill my son for a profit.”

“I didn’t imply that.”

“Yes, you did. And don’t think I missed it. Who’s Todd?”

“My father’s son.”

“Not a brother of yours?” Natasha asks for clarification.

Damian frowns. “I don’t know. Perhaps. Legally, yes. But he’s adopted.”

“And that distinction matters to you.”

“Only because I’m Father’s blood-son. The only one.” Damian shifts uncomfortably at the judgment in Stark’s eyes. “My father took in many orphans, most before he knew about me. I wasn’t exactly raised alongside any of them.”

“Well, that’s illuminating and definitely doesn’t bring up any other questions on my end. How about you, Nat? Scott? You’ve been awfully quiet, sitting pretty over there—.”

“The Todd you mentioned, you said he’s dead,” Natasha interjects.

“Not anymore,” he assures them.

“But he did die, correct?”

“For a few months,” he says. “It’s not entirely clear how he got out of his coffin, but he did, and my mother found him. But it wasn’t until years later that...” Damian shakes his head. “These are things you don’t need to know. My personal history and those of my family aren't relevant to this.”

Stark laughs. “Now that’s a lot to say and then try and walk back on.”

“It just doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, yes, because life works that way.” Stark clears his throat, raising his voice several octaves to say, “Mr. Big Pockets, please adopt me, but don’t ask any potentially incriminating questions about my very mysterious past. You won’t get anything out of it, all you need to do is shut up and sign the checks I bring you!”

It’s an abhorrent attempt to mimic him.

“Tt.” Damian clears his throat, glaring at him, as he strains his vocal chords into an approximate mimicry of Stark’s, saying, “Two can play this game, and I’m better at it.”

All three heads of the adults in the room swivel to stare at him, varying degrees of shock and incredulity on their faces.

“How did you do that?” Stark asks, even horrified, he looks impressed. “That was... actually pretty good.”

Damian’s chest puffs. “Training. Mother thought it pertinent to learn.”

“And your mom, she’s what, a master of disguise, some sort of ninja assassin.”

“Not an incorrect assumption.”

“She taught you how to be one too, didn’t she.” It’s Natasha who says this, and there’s a sharp glint in her eye that he doesn’t care much for.

“She was one of many teachers that I’ve had.”

“So you were being trained for something pretty big, then,” Summers says. “Was there a role you were being groomed for?”

Damian nods, but before he answers, he catches himself and then releases a sigh, annoyed. “I keep saying that my personal past ultimately doesn’t bear much importance here, but all of you refuse to listen.”

“Hey, you’re the one asking a billionaire to adopt you. I think that us knowing your personal history is actually very important to the topic at hand.”

“But I told you already. I need an identity while I’m here, one that’s close to power and money. As it is, my past identity inherently doesn’t matter if it’s being cast away.”

“But you haven’t entirely explained why.”

“I would, if you agree.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re trying to use my curiosity against me.”

“Yes, I’m trying to manipulate you.”

Stark groans into his hands at that.

“I will be the perfect son,” Damian promises. “A dutiful heir.”

“And then you’ll die.”

“I’ll fake my death,” he corrects.

Stark stares, lifting his face out of his hands. “You’re only getting in your own way the way you’ve gone about all of this. I hope you know that.”

Damian juts his chin out defiantly. “I don’t mind showing a hand that I’m confident in.”

“You really like getting ahead of yourself,” the man says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Is money all that you need? I’m sure there are other rich assholes that would love to be threatened into adopting you, why don’t you try any of them—and tell me how it goes, would love to hear about whatever demented asshole gets saddled with you.”

“It has to be you.”

“Me? What specifically about me makes you so determined?”

“You’re Iron Man.”

“And that’s important to you,” he deadpans, unimpressed.

“Natasha trusts you.”

Stark throws out both of his hands. “Woah, let’s not get too crazy here. Nat tolerates me.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “If you must have something more tangible, truthfully, it’s because of your intellect. I didn’t want to inflate your ego, but it appears to be a sisyphean task as you’ll find ways to inflate it anyways.”

“Yeesh, there was no reason to phrase it that way, but okay, I’ll bite. You want my brains, then. Surprisingly, not the first time I’ve been threatened or held hostage for something I could create for others, but what does a kid like you need my head for?”

“I’m not threatening you or holding you hostage,” Damian mutters, affronted. “But you’re right. I do need something made, and it might even interest you.”

Stark waves a hand in the air. “Yeah, without all the smoke and glamor. Just spit it out, kid.”

Alright, then. He will.

“A machine to travel the multiverse with.”

Stark stares at him.

It’s complete, utter silence as the three adults in the room try and gauge how serious he is.

What Stark sees must confirm it, as he leans back in his chair, laughing. “Oh, so you’re crazy. I already thought so, but that just confirms it.”

Damian huffs. “I’m not crazy.”

“The multiverse is a theory—and even if it were real, big if, do you really think that after just opening the alien -variety can of worms, that I’d be interested in opening the multiversal package?”

Damian shakes his head, scoffing. He’s almost embarrassed for them.

“Stark, the multiversal package was opened just as soon as I came to this world. I’ve all but been spelling it out for the three of you this entire time!”

He can’t help the bitter thought that if the situation were reversed, his family would have figured it out night one. He would have figured it out night one! With the things they see night and day, someone from another universe isn’t even that outlandish.

But perhaps this world is particularly unseasoned, inexperienced. Aliens are new to them, apparently.

It suddenly makes Damian feel all that more distressed about his chances of going home. It’s so behind!

“Any chance you wanna spell it out a little better?” Stark asks, and Damian blinks rapidly.

He needs to get home. He needs to.

“I’m not from here.”

“We covered that.”

Damian inhales, exhales, and hiccups. He continues to blink rapidly.

He should just say it, lay it all out.

Maybe then, maybe they’ll stop badgering him.

Finally, Damian says, in a tone that edges on desperation, “I’m not from this universe, at all. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I don’t know who. I just know that in one moment, I was hit in the chest, and in the next moment, I… I was here, right as the aliens were invading. Not even a minute later, there was a jet crash landing right in front of me. So I followed the people that came out of it, and well, the rest you already know.”

A silence fills in the air.

It’s Stark who breaks it.

“You show up in a different universe and your first order of business is to help the locals. Very admirable, very selfless, very stupid —what were you thinking?” Stark looks somehow more stressed by this than a lot of the other things Damian has said.

“I thought that the rogue who hit me, who brought me here, was responsible for the invasion,” Damian murmured. “I didn’t exactly know I was in a different universe. Initially, I thought I was teleported.”

“And in this universe you’re from, it’d be normal for you to help,” Natasha clarifies.

Damian nods. “Expected, yes. I’m Robin. Batman’s partner.”

“And Batman is a hero in your world. Similar to the X-Men?” Summers asks.

“Same line of work, functionally. Different motivation.”

“But you’re a kid, you have the face of a baby,” Stark says, stunned. “They just let you out in that flimsy suit of yours, and you, what, just go out and save people? Are you crazy?”

“Did it only just click in your head?” Natasha mutters, unimpressed by Stark’s belated concern for his well being.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Current distressing circumstances aside, I’m sure,” Stark says sarcastically.

“I’m not alone, typically. There are others.” Damian doesn’t mention the fact that he often slips the proverbial leash, and only because it’s not allowed. He just does it regardless.

“This sounds like a cult. Doesn’t it feel like a cult to you, Nat?” Before she can respond, he turns back to Damian. “How many others?”

“Ten?” Damian frowns. “It’s difficult to say, some are in and out. Others travel frequently.”

“A cult. A cult.”

Natasha snorts. “Cults don’t typically allow for free-roamers.”

“Not if they’re recruiting members.”

“It’s not a cult! It’s a family,” Damian winces as he says it.

“The mob. He’s from the mob. That makes so much more sense—.”

“We’re crimefighters! ”

“Tony, stop it. Look how tired he is. Do we really have to keep doing this back and forth?” Natasha casts a sympathetic look to Damian, who scowls back at her.

“We still have yet to verify my mutant status.”

“Kid, it’s already verified. You’re the only one who needs convincing.”

“So convince me! How long will the test take?”

“A few hours, give or take.”

“Then, may I be permitted to sleep in the interim while my DNA is tested?”

“May you be permitted? Kid, what the hell—I, yeah, okay, whatever. You win. Let’s take your stupid sample, and then the baby can go night-night.”

“Even as an infant, I could have kicked your ass,” Damian snaps, his scowl deepening.

“Aww, baby is feeling colicky. You’re right, Nat, he really does need a nap.”

“Tt. ”

“While we wait, I think I’ll fill in Xavier with what's going on,” Summers says, cutting in before Damian can retort. “It might be best that he makes the trip here, rather than me taking Damian back. If it’s not too much trouble, that is, Mr. Stark.”

“Tony’s fine. And yeah, whatever, at this point, I’m used to home invasions. Been dealing with a heck of a spider infestation lately, any tips?”

Natasha reaches over to shove at Stark.

Summers looks vaguely amused. “I think you have it well at hand, Tony.”

Stark winces, rubbing at his arm. “No, I think I’m surrounded by people who want me dead.”

Damian huffs.

After conversing with him long enough, he comes to the conclusion that Stark is full of endless theatrics, bullshit, and whining, enough that Damian momentarily considers bowing out of his request. 

Even if it’s temporary, Damian isn’t sure even he has what it takes to treat an oaf like Stark as a parental figure. Imagining calling Stark anything but by his surname serves only to make him shudder at the thought.

“Are we going to the labs?”

“Not so fast,” Stark says, rising from his seat. “I’m going to take a non-invasive sample with a swab, and you’re going to take a nap in a guest bedroom. Now, c’mon, I’ll show you which one.”

When Damian just stares at him, perplexed, Stark waves his hands around. “Up, up, Dami, let’s go.”

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles darkly as he stands up from the table.

“Hey, if you’re wanting to be my pseudo-son, technically I can call you whatever I want. Parental rights, and whatnot. Which, hey, that might even be a good idea. I can rename you. Let’s see… Spike? Spikey? Tornado? Hellfire? You know, Spitfire Stark has a good ring to it, actually.”

Damian can only groan in response, barely withholding his snappish response as he follows after the buffoon he’s sorely regretting having ever met.

Chapter Text

“I’ve induced his sleep,” Professor X says as the small group of them crowd around the bed.

Natasha looks at the man warily.

Catching her look, he adds, “He’s in a deep sleep, it won’t hurt him. If anything, it will help him feel truly at ease, and it should give me enough unimpeded access to confirm his claims.”

“What will he be experiencing? When you’re in his head.”

“I won’t be in there long,” he says. “I’m not doing much more than glancing.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, because the answer isn’t very straight forward. It could be that he doesn’t even notice.”

“And we couldn’t just wait for him to wake up,” Natasha sarcastically states.

“It’s to minimize the threat to himself and others. Trust me,” Scott says, “the last thing we want is a new mutant with brand new, unknown and unexplored powers getting out of control.”

“Especially one as deadly as he’s proven himself to be,” Tony says, face grim. It’s rare to see him without his spunk, but even though he was doing a pretty good job of hiding it earlier, Natasha can see that he’s shaken by Damian.

She wonders if she should plan a baby shower for the father-to-be, but she also knows that, even if Damian has left an impression, Tony isn’t likely to change his mind once he’s made it.

“Alright,” Professor X says, “I looked. He’s the real deal.”

Well, that was fast.

“From another universe?” Tony asks, a look of martyred acceptance creasing the planes of his face.

The professor nods, just as grim. “He’s a long way from home, that’s for sure. And it is rather strange how he got here. Earlier, Scott told me that his story was that he was punched into this world.”

“And?”

“Right to the chest,” he confirms, rubbing at his own, wincing sympathetically. “I hypothesize that in coming here, his body adapted in the only way it could to survive, by mutating. His accelerated healing is decent enough, from the looks of it, and could explain his survival.”

“Any signs of any other abilities?” Scott asks.

“Not as of yet, but we need to remain cautious,” he says. “I feel... a strange energy coming off of him. What it means, is yet to be understood, but as it often is in our line of work, it pays dividends just to be careful.”

“Is the X-Men taking him, then?” Natasha asks, frowning.

“It’s unclear,” the professor says, frowning. “He’s not off the mark to ask for Stark’s help. We have scientists among the X-Men that could help, of course, but not engineers anywhere near Stark’s level of expertise. If anything, this might be a circumstance in which it’s best to... split the custody.”

“He needs someone looking after him,” Natasha says quietly. “Someone he can trust, on his side.”

“Trust doesn’t seem to come easy for him,” Tony points out.

“No,” she agrees. “But I think he asked for help in the way he did, for a very specific reason.”

“And that is?”

“He needs someone in this world to claim as his own. Family. Even if it’s temporary.”

“Need I remind you what he said earlier? How he’s not looking for a real dad?”

“And he’s a bad liar. Bad enough that even you should have noticed, Tony.”

She gets a sheepish glance for that. “You caught me,” he says in defeat.

“He’s alone and afraid,” she continues. “He’s confused, and he’s desperate.”

“Nat, are you talking me into fatherhood? What the hell happened—you’re supposed to be the one talking me out of things, not into things! Pep is going to be so mad when I snitch on you.”

“Shut up, jackass. I’m going to take him. He’s mine.”

Natasha is just as surprised as the room is when the words make it to the air. But once they’re out, hanging there in the resulting silence, Natasha realizes how right they feel.

Yeah, the kid is hers. Temporarily. Just as long as he needs someone, of course.

“Oh, thank god,” Tony finally says, relief making his body sag. “Oh my god, I think this makes me an uncle. Wait, yeah, no, that’s right. I’m an uncle. Congrats on the baby boy, Nat! Thanks for taking the bullet for me!”

Natasha rolls her eyes, and then turns her attention back to the professor. “You were saying something about split-custody?”

.

.

A nap helps, a little. 

But it also takes the winds out of his proverbial sails, as laying in an actual bed in a room with a lock gives him enough illusion of security to analyze the past few days and come to the veritable conclusion that he is utterly fucked.

Earlier, he’d sort of not thought too hard about the implications of being a mutant. He’d tunneled too hard on getting Stark to agree, getting blinders to the larger picture. The fact that Cyclops came to see him in person, Damian isn’t sure of the significance, but the fact that Charles Xavier himself is on his way to see him, that changes things, makes him on edge.

To be a mutant is to be other, and even if all it happens to be is an accelerated healing mutation, Damian won’t be able to escape the stigma. And if he goes home now, the way he is... will his mutation travel with him? Not to mention, the path to get here had been an agony to live through. To go home, would he have to endure the same?

Well, Damian can take the pain. Especially if he can get home, he’ll endure anything.

But it’s the not knowing that terrifies Damian. It’s the uncertainty and the cruelty of it being him , for no reason, just picked and launched into the abyss, only for him to end up completely alone on the other side. For all he knows, the rogue never intended for him to be alive, just that he somehow... is.

A thought hits Damian, that perhaps his mutation has more to do with his survival than he realized. That when he rematerialized in this world, it might have taken mutating to stay alive. Which is the best guess he currently has.

With a huff, he rises off the bed, attempts to fix the clothes on his body, and then steps out of the room.

“Jarvis?” he calls, though it’s more to test it out.

“Yes, young sir?”

“Where are the others? Is Professor X here yet?”

“They are currently in a meeting room. Professor X is in attendance.”

Damian scowls. They hadn’t even bothered waking him up!

“Would you prefer my guidance, or shall I call the others to send someone up?”

“You,” he says with a deep sigh. “They’ve been talking about me, haven’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Are they scheming? Would you tell me if they were?”

“You are not in any danger here, I can assure you of that.”

“Right.” Damian obviously doesn’t believe him. “Jarvis, what are you? No one said.”

“That’s right. We haven’t officially introduced ourselves, have we? I am Jarvis, Just A Rather Very Intelligent System, a natural-language user interface computer system, named after Edwin Jarvis, in honor of the butler who worked for Howard Stark and the Stark household. ”

“You were named after a butler?" Damian can’t help the discomfited look on his face as he looks vaguely skyward.

“Is that strange to you?”

Damian shakes his head. “It’s just... you remind me of someone, the butler of my household. His name’s Pennyworth. He’s English, like you.”

“Might I inquire about the name of your household?”

Damian hesitates, but only briefly. “Wayne.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Damian Wayne. Now, shall I guide you?”

“Yes, please,” Damian murmurs, wondering how Pennyworth is doing, wondering if he’s thinking about Damian, or too busy with the rest of the family. 

He hopes Pennyworth is at least taking care of the animals in his stead.

.

.

Talking with Jarvis on his way to the meeting room helps, probably more than even the nap did. He’s a very good system, and great at multitasking, somehow balancing his observation of the meeting room, directing Damian, and also keeping up a conversation. He feels real, and it’s in talking to Jarvis that he confirms the fact that it really does have to be Stark who helps him.

Jarvis is the closest thing to a sentient computer that Damian’s ever seen, and the significance of that isn’t lost on him. Tony Stark is an engineer with a world class ability, the best of the best.

If only he weren’t also so childish.

“Hey, there, Spitfire!” Stark greets just as Damian opens the meeting door room. “You look oddly adorable—sleep well?”

Tt.

Blatantly ignoring him, Damian looks instead towards the other people in the room, mildly nonplussed to see the large gathering that’s taken place while he’s been asleep.

Natasha, and Summers are seated in the corner. Professor X, he recognizes from the news, is next to Summers. But the other three are unexpected, taking in the sight of the Avengers who’ve nosed their way into being present, Barton, Bruce Banner, and the captain all staring back at him with varying expressions of surprise. Thor is missing, but that’s to be expected, being a god.

“Come sit here, Damian,” Natasha calls, gesturing to the empty seat beside her.

He doesn’t have to be told twice, teeth clenched as he makes his way towards her and the relative safety that he’s come to expect from her. She’s the lesser of all the evils in the room.

“This is the kid we’ve been looking for?” Barton asks, incredulous. “Why does he look so much smaller out of the costume?”

Damian scowls at him. “It’s a uniform—and I’m perfectly within the average growth percentile of my age group.”

“Which is?” Barton asks, dubious.

“Twelve.”

Barton is very displeased by the look of it. “What the hell, man. How long have you been Robin for, then? Because you are way too young to be as competent in a fight as you are.”

“I became Robin at the age of ten, when I proved myself capable to my mother.”

“Your mother allowed you to do this?” 

Damian huffs, annoyed. He doesn’t have the patience to respond, so he doesn’t, taking his seat beside Natasha, who smiles at him ever so slightly. Some of the tension in his shoulders fade, having her near.

She surprises him, though, reaching a hand out, hesitant as it is, hand hovering like it’s a question before ultimately running through his hair, smoothing it.

Face getting hot, Damian belatedly realizes that he hadn’t bothered fixing his post-nap hair, that he must still look sleep-rumpled and slovenly. The only saving grace is that no-one in the room has nearly enough of his respect to earn him at his best, but it still goes against everything his mother raised him to be.

“Did you sleep well?” Natasha asks, voice soft.

Damian hums, not quite able to look at her directly. “My sleep was adequate, and now that I’m here, I believe that there is a great deal that needs to be discussed. Stark, have you given my request any thought?”

“I sure have—and to the surprise of no one, I have come to the conclusion that I very much do not need to adopt you in order to help you out, Squirt,” Stark says in a merry, almost mocking tone. “Ultimately, I’m adult enough to recognize that I’m not adult enough for parenthood. I’m still too young, I’m afraid.”

Yeah, because forty-two is young.

Damian scowls deeply. “You hardly need to be a parent at all! It’s called a front, Stark.”

“Yeah, and you don’t know me well enough to know that I don’t do fronts. I can’t pull ‘em off,” he says breezily, grinning. “But don’t get too hot-headed, Hellfire—I’m not throwing you to the wolves just yet.”

Warily, Damian asks, “What does that mean?”

“It means, that given the report on your DNA came back during your nap, that things are a little more complicated than you might have realized.”

Well, duh. Things can only get worse, the longer he stays here. He doesn’t want to overcomplicate things, it’s why he’d pushed for Stark so hard, but unfortunately for him, complications just love him.

“Because I’m mutated,” Damian says darkly. “I still want to see it. Can you show me?”

“Sure can, Dami,” he says, then, “Jarvis, pull up the report on the kid.”

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles, but the fire goes out of him pretty quickly when the projected results fill the center of the table, a strange sort of visual tech display that Damian’s never seen before.

Stark easily navigates it, touching, dragging and pulling at the projection, the air shimmering before his eyes. It’s a thing that Damian can’t help but marvel at, and even more so, as Damian watches his DNA sequences fill the space before them.

“This, right here,” Stark points out to a sequence that is highlighted in the projection as gold, “is the X-gene. Now, we aren’t yet to the point in testing that we can determine the mutation from the sequence, only that it’s present.”

“The manifestation of the mutation differs by each individual,” Professor X says, speaking for the first time, and looking at Damian with a peculiar expression of trying to solve a puzzle. “It can lay dormant for years, even for a whole lifetime, and be carried down to the next generation, functionally resetting the chances.”

“It’s random.”

“No study has conclusively confirmed anything well enough to accurately predict who mutates and how they present.”

“I see,” Damian says, sighing. “Summers said that you have a way of finding mutants, though. That's how you knew I was one.”

“Correct,” the professor replies. “I can’t go into the details, as the information is sensitive, but it did lead us to you.”

“What does that mean for me?”

“Well, you have quite a spread of options, Damian.”

He sneers. “Do I? It’s not looking like it.”

“It might appear that way,” Professor X says quietly, and then asks, “How’d you feel to come with me? I run a school, where mutant children attend in a safe place where they can master their newfound abilities. Does that interest you at all?”

“No,” he says, sharper than he intended. 

“Why not?”

“I need to get home. If they haven’t told you already, I’m not from this world.”

“I was informed,” he murmurs, his eyes conveying his sympathy. “It's why you need Tony Stark’s help. I understand. But the X-Men can help you, too.”

“I don’t need to go to a school,” Damian snaps. “I need to find a way home.”

“Damian,” he says softly, even in the face of Damian’s anger. “You realize it yourself already.”

“I think you’re full of it,” he mutters hotly.

“Your time here isn’t going to be brief,” the professor points out. “Why else did you request a parent-child charade with Tony Stark?”

“So that I could manipulate him,” Damian reiterates from earlier.

“Yeesh, wonder what his mother’s like,” Barton whispers to the captain, who shushes him.

Damian looks over, glaring. “Shut up. Never speak of my mother again!”

The captain gives the cowed Barton a, ‘what did you expect’ look.

“I’m sure she’s lovely,” Barton says quickly, apologetic.

“Hmph.”

“Damian, what I’m trying to get at here, is that you are in need of people to look after you,” the professor cuts in. “We can help you, in more ways than just getting you home.”

“What are you proposing exactly? That I go to this school of yours, and what, expect everyone else to secure my way home? That’s not going to happen—no one has more at stake here than I do. I can’t be going to a school for eighty percent of the time and expect anything to get done. I’d be stuck here for years!”

“I’m sure it won’t be years,” Summers says. “And Damian, remember that you’re a mutant now. It may just be accelerated healing, but with young, new mutants, it rarely stays that way. New abilities can manifest, and you’re going to need support in learning how to control them. That’s where the school comes in.”

“No. I want to help Stark with the project. I need to work on it myself,” he says, and then, as he looks in the gaze of the professor, sees the unconvinced look in his eyes, he adds, “I will accept appointments with members of the X-Men. If I manifest new abilities, I’ll inform Summers. Or you.”

“Are you even familiar with engineering?” Stark asks.

“I’m a quick study,” Damian says dryly. It’s almost a modest statement for the truth.

“You still need to go to school, though, even if it’s not Xavier’s,” Stark says.

“You rejected your parental rights,” Damian snarks bitterly, glaring. 

Stark shrugs. “I’m just pointing out the fact that you need development in other ways, not just in your abilities.”

Damian groans. He’s heard plenty of that from Father, Richard, and Pennyworth. He still doesn’t know what’s so important about ‘spending time with people his age’. Kids his age are mostly all morons.

“Damian,” Natasha says, hand on his shoulder.

He turns to look at her, still not entirely looking in her eyes. “Yes?”

“Ultimately, we can’t force you into anything you don’t feel comfortable with. We’re not trying to—but your expectations need to be reasonable. Tony can’t drop everything in his life to build the thing that gets you home. He also can’t just casually build the thing you're asking for. He needs clearance from higher ups for a machine with the potential risks and repercussions that comes with the multiverse—and we’ll get that clearance, or we’ll look for other means to get you home, but we will get you home.”

“Do you promise?” he asks, and not really because he believes in promises, or that people keep them, but because Damian feels like the world is alien, and strange, that he’s getting caught up and lost in the chaos, and that Natasha's hand on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I promise,” she says, and he does meet her eyes, sees her sincerity.

Sincerity can be faked, he knows that, but he wants to believe her.

“Damian, how would you feel if I’m the one who takes you in?”

And that—.

He swallows, stunned.

“Damian?”

“Y-you would? You’re willing?”

He hasn’t prepared for this. Adults don’t typically want him around. He’s more used to being passed down the line, one teacher and temporary guardian after the next. The only person he’s ever truly really felt wanted by is his mother, but time with her has always been short-lived, brief due to unavoidable external factors. Damian is far more acquainted with forging reluctant alliances with others, like he's something to be tolerated.

It's strange for someone to invite themselves into his life, free of will.

Natasha nods, expression serious. “I’m not new to play-pretending. I promise I can pull off being a… mom to you, much better than Tony can pull off being a dad.”

“Because you’re an agent,” Damian says. “But would it be under an alias of yours? Or you?”

“Depends. I have to fill in my boss on a lot of things, but regardless of what he says, if you’re with me, you have enough reasonable proximity to Stark to keep an eye on the project, and also stay in the city.” With a glance to the professor, she adds, “And if you’re alright with it, your weekends can be spent at Xavier’s. They really can help you, if you give them the chance.”

Damian thinks it over, and for a long moment, silence hangs in the air, eerie with so many bodies present.

Finally, Damian nods, slowly, unsure but willing. It’s better than a lot of alternatives, and in a lot of ways, Damian feels Natasha is much more suitable in a guardianship role than Stark could ever hope to be.

“Alright. It’s settled,” Stark concludes, full of gleeful, smug cheer. “Congratulations to the new mom! We’re all very happy for you.”

Natasha sighs, looking just as annoyed with Stark as Damian feels.

“Good luck telling Fury the good news,” Barton says, standing up from his seat. “I’m gonna make myself scarce for it.”

“Damian, it’s gonna be good to have you with us,” the captain says warmly, rising from his seat. He gets close enough to hold his hand out, saying, “Steve Rogers, Captain America.”

Damian shakes his hand, less because he wants to, and more because Natasha is looking at them. He puffs his chest. “Damian al Ghul Wayne, Ibn al Xu’ffasch. Son of the Bat. Heir to the Head of the Demon.”

“Yikes,” Stark says, overhearing. “Sounds like a can of worms.”

“It's the sort of name that a villain has, and yet he’s out here in a cape saving lives,” Barton mutters, sounding pained.

Tt.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Damian,” Rogers says, waving as he heads out of the meeting room with Barton and Stark, the sounds of their inane conversations fading with them.

“I should introduce myself, too,” Banner says, and Damian looks at the man who he remembers, just a few days ago, turned very large and very green. Not to mention the destruction he’d left in his path. 

Damian feels he’s right to be wary, and thankfully, Banner doesn’t hold out a hand to shake.

“Dr. Bruce Banner,” he says, his brown eyes twinkling. “I’m going to be helping Tony and you with the big project.”

“Thank you,” Damian reluctantly replies, pointedly ignoring that he shares a first name with his father. He won’t be using it anyway.

“No problem. I’m kind of thrilled at the prospect,” Dr. Banner murmurs. “Multiverses! The fact you're from an entire different universe, there’s a lot I want to ask, but I’ll keep it short. I hear you’ve had a rough couple of days.”

“I’ve dealt with much worse,” Damian assures him. “This world isn’t too bad off, comparatively. Though the social services and government aid response could be a lot more effective, and much improved.”

“You think so?” Dr. Banner seems close to asking more questions, but at a glance from Natasha, seems to change his mind. “Later. I definitely want to talk more later, but I think these three have more they wanna iron out with you first.”

“Thanks, Bruce,” Natasha says dryly.

“Anytime. See you around, kid.” Dr. Bruce waves as he leaves.

“We won’t take too much more of your time,” Professor X assures him. “We just want to give you the means to contact us, should you need to. Also, some advice that I hope you heed: do try and let your body assimilate to the new changes, before getting yourself into anything you are woefully unprepared for. Scott was correct in saying that new mutants can just as quickly form new abilities, and, from the impression I get from you, I don’t think yours is as simply put to be called mere accelerated healing.”

Damian nods, letting the words sink in.

“Do you feel anything else that’s different in your body? Anything atypical? A new sense?” Summers asks.

He frowns. For the most part, Damian feels as he normally does. “Not really.”

“Well, if that changes, here’s my number,” Summers murmurs, sliding over a paper. “And even if it’s not related to being a mutant, if you ever need me for anything, and I mean anything, I’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” Damian says, surprised by the sentiment. Summers can potentially be ingratiating himself, a grooming tactic to keep track of him, but oddly, Damian gets the impression that Scott Summers is as he does. That, despite having the red sunglasses, he’s not actually trying all that hard to hide his intentions.

“And mine,” Professor X adds, giving Damian a business card. “I’m sorry for the circumstances that have led you here, Damian, but I’m thankful for the opportunity to meet, all the same.”

He can only nod at that, struck by how… nice they’re all being.

Situation reversed, Damian doesn’t think, well, most people in his line of business wouldn’t be nearly so kind, without expecting anything in return. They can’t afford to. Blind trust means people end up dead.

And, now that he thinks of it… they haven’t exactly interrogated him, or forced him to prove his story. They all believed him.

Damian stiffens, frowning. He turns his gaze fully to the professor, the things he knows about him coming back to the forefront of his mind. Charles Xavier is a telepath. Damian can’t believe he’d just let that go so easily, distracted by so many other things.

It’s the sort of oversight that could get him killed in the future—and there’s not exactly the pits here to revive him should it come to that.

“You were in my head, weren’t you?” he accuses with a glare.

To his benefit, the professor doesn’t attempt to lie. “I glanced, enough to verify your story. Expediting an experience that might have brought undue stress.”

“You didn’t… see everything, right? What did you see?”

“Just moments. Very few. The important ones, such as the person who brought you here and the means that they did it by.”

It only slightly mollifies Damian, who doesn’t trust the professor, not in the slightest. “Do you recognize the rogue?”

Professor X shakes his head, looking regretful. “I know just as little as you do.”

Damian sighs, and stands up. “Are we done here, then?”

“I suppose anything else can wait,” the professor allows.

Annoyed, Damian looks to Natasha. “Is there a gym in this building?”

“Yeah, I’ll take you there,” she says, rising. To Summers and the professor, she nods, “We’ll be in contact soon. Jarvis can guide you two out, or call for Tony and the others, if you’d prefer.”

“We’ll be fine,” Summers assures her quietly.

“If that’s all,” Natasha says, and with her hand on his shoulder, she leads Damian out of the room, leaving the X-Men behind.

Chapter Text

“I have to explain everything to my superior,” Natasha tells him. “Will you be alright here on your own?” 

Damian looks at the gym in front of him and nods.

“I won’t be long,” she murmurs, hand smoothing out his hair in a way that feels oddly natural. She does it so quickly, so gently.

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it. He doesn’t have to explain why, the corners of her eyes crinkling from her smile.

“It’s no problem, Damian.”

And then she’s gone, phone in hand, the turn of her back and her walk as she exits an eerie echo of Talia al Ghul.

Shaking his head of the delusion, Damian moves to the mats in the center of the room, launching into muscle warm-ups. He has a lot he needs to work out—he’s spent the last three days mostly walking, and hardly had the means to stick to his normally strictly regimented diet and exercise. He can at least kill two birds with one stone by working off some of his pent up energy and bringing a bit more normalcy back into his life.

As temporary as his stay will ultimately be, Damian can’t afford to let any of his skills become rusty.

Unfortunately, the gym doesn’t have any equipment for acrobatics, at least not that he can tell. It’s just as well, though, Damian can work on strength training.

He pads over to the weights, starting off easy, before realizing it’s too easy, and moving up, before ultimately finding it’s still too easy. Damian frowns. No, that can’t be right.

Unless.

Intrigued, Damian works methodically through the weights, testing his limits as he increases it to the next level. Before he knows it, he’s breezing past his max weight limit from a week ago, and searching for his next limit.

Which he does find, eventually, a hundred pounds higher. 

It’s not so much that he has anything like Superman’s strength, that would be absurd. It’s that his newfound strength is altogether much more enhanced, but not to the point that it would surpass human ability.

Damian wonders if his other senses are similarly enhanced, but can’t tell. His hearing has always been acute, sharp enough that even wearing his hood has never created any issue for him in a fight. His sense of smell doesn’t seem to be all that stronger—he’d have figured it out on the streets, if anything. And his sight doesn’t appear any different than usual.

So, as far as he can tell, his mutation is a rather simple, straightforward one.

“Need a spotter?” the familiar voice of the captain rings out as he enters the gym and sees Damian by the weights.

Seeing Rogers' friendly, smiling face is not entirely unwelcome, but it is off putting. People that smile at Damian are predominantly in two camps: those that are manipulating him, or those that are morons. It isn’t clear which Rogers is.

“Yes, actually. I’ve established that my strength has improved, and I would like a deeper understanding of it. If you’re amenable, that is.” Damian stares at Rogers’ face, trying to get a read of him.

Rogers looks mildly surprised, brows raised, mouth slightly ajar. Then his eyes are warming up, crinkling, as he eagerly smiles and nods. Damian feels exhausted just seeing it.

“Yeah! I can totally help with that,” Rogers says, walking closer. “Bench press?”

Damian nods, and the two work on getting it set up, the two finding a comfortable silence. Despite his appearance, Rogers is capable of recognizing that Damian invited him to assist, not to talk.

Others in the same position might use it as an excuse to wheedle more information out of him, but Rogers seems genuinely interested in helping Damian understand his abilities better.

It’s half an hour later before Rogers broaches anything close to a conversation outside of the workout, but it’s to say, “In the beginning, this part was the most rewarding. Getting to see the results after the serum.”

“The serum responsible for your enhanced abilities,” Damian clarifies.

“Yeah. You should have seen me before—I look like I ate the other guy.”

“Was it painful?”

“Fairly, but made it through alright—well, made it through more than alright, given what I can do now.”

“Hm.” Damian thinks about how night and day it must have been for him. Perhaps, due to Damian already maintaining such a strict control over his body, the changes are not as pronounced. For Rogers, he gets the impression that Rogers was too physically limited, and that the serum introduced entirely unthought of heights for the captain. He wonders how much Rogers’ had to endure in order to gain control over abilities that were entirely unprecedented at the time.

But he doesn’t ask.

Natasha returns before polite conversation dictates that he has to respond, and he can’t help the breath of relief that escapes him at seeing her. Damian passes the bar off to Rogers, and sits up, expectant.

He scrutinizes her face for any sign of discord or concern, but only sees a subtle smile that’s warming her eyes.

“Well?” he prompts.

“Damian, does Romanov feel like a good last name for a government ID?”

Rogers is more stunned by the question than Damian is, who mulls over the sound of it thoughtfully.

“It’s good,” he says.

“Fury OK’d it, then?” Rogers asks, amazed.

Natasha nods, but focuses firmly on Damian. “Having the last name Romanov means that you won’t be just anyone’s son. You’d be mine, the son of an intelligence operative from S.H.I.E.L.D. The role will come with certain protections, but also possible danger. Are you prepared for it?”

At that, Damian can’t help but smirk, nodding.

Natasha searches his eyes, looking for something, but what she finds seems to make her relax. “Good. Soon, Fury is going to want to meet you, but your documentation is being made as of now, and it’ll be as if Damian Wayne Romanov has existed for the past twelve years, instead of three days. Did you want to maintain the same birthday?”

“August 9th,” he supplies. Three months away. He wonders if he’ll be home by then.

Natasha must see something in his expression, because she’s setting a hand on his shoulder and saying, “You’ll get to spend your thirteenth birthday with family, I promise.”

He doesn’t dare speak, just nodding.

Birthdays have never been special to him anyways.

“Tomorrow we’ll get you some clothes that fit,” Natasha murmurs with a wry smile. “For now, how do you feel about showing me some of what you’ve been taught? I want a better reference.”

Damian relaxes at the suggestion. He’s almost eager, rising from the bench and heading towards the mats. “Spar?” he asks her.

“Sure,” she agrees, stepping onto the mat. “Ready when you are.”

.

.

Damian has been taught to be vicious in a fight, that much is certain.

Natasha’s still sore by the next day, perusing through the shirts, looking for things that speak more to the impression he’s made on her than by the clothes he’s picked out. Damian has reached only for the basics in solid colors and standard fits. It’s the sort of selection that tells her that he’s going for nondescript, and utility, rather than any personal style or preference.

Casting a surreptitious glance his way, Natasha sighs internally. 

After their spar, she’s come to several conclusions about the kid. Namely, that he’s definitely killed in the past, and that he’s still learning restraint. As much body control that he has, it ultimately means nothing if Damian’s instincts are to go for the kill, and instinct is a hell of a beast to fight.

Whoever raised him, whatever influences he’s had for the twelve years he’s lived, he’s not always been the Robin that he is now. There are dark things in his past, and whatever positive influence that he’s found, it’s still new, still budding.

It eerily reminds her of when she’d first defected from the KGB. 

When she looks into his shadowed green eyes, his distrust for those around him being a permanent fixture on his round, chubby-cheeked face, it’s hard to believe that someone so young is as capable as he is. He still has baby-fat, and his dark, olive-toned skin only adds to the lively, youthfulness of his appearance, not to mention his untamed black hair or the fact that she towers over him.

Certainly, he’d have been better off presented as Tony Stark’s kid, from looks alone, and most wouldn’t think Natasha could be related to him. But the perk of being in New York is that most people won’t think too much about it, and their eyes are a similar enough shade that outsider's might only wonder what the father must look like, attributing any differences to him.

“Natasha,” he calls and she fully turns towards him.

Since he’s come into her life, her sense of him has almost developed into its own instinct, a part of her brain taking special care to be reading his emotional and physical needs, completely without her say so. Natasha hasn’t been able to shut it up, and even last night, when she’d been attempting to sleep, and later, when attempting to read reports, she couldn’t keep herself from worrying about him.

Perhaps it’s knowing that for all intents and purposes, while he’s in this world, he’s her responsibility, and she’s never exactly had someone as young or storied in her care. Damian isn’t like other children either. She can’t exactly rely on advice meant for normal children when his circumstances are so strange.

She suspects, actually, that there’s no one quite like Damian anywhere.

“Yes, Ptichka?”

The nickname seems to throw him, his green eyes going wide, giving her a sort of wondering look that Natasha can’t help but feel endeared by. There’s an almost painful innocence to it. He seems to recognize the word for what it is, though merely the word for bird in Russian, it conveys affection she otherwise wouldn’t know how to express, that she also doesn’t know if she should express.

His cheeks grow darker, his gaze darting away from hers. He’s shy.

“Is that nickname fine?” she asks, just to be sure.

Damian deliberates but ultimately nods, despite his wrinkled brows, an uncertainness in his wandering gaze.

“Earlier, did you want to say something?” she prompts, intending to pass him a lifeline.

He seems to snap back to reality, getting out of his head as he nods. “Yes. Are we staying with Stark, or is there another place you intend to take me?”

“Stark’s. Under present circumstances, we all think it’s best if the whole team is generally nearby.”

Damian seems to understand that he’s the present circumstances, a suspicious glint in his eyes. “Do all of you intend to coddle me?”

“Not intentionally,” she says, vaguely thinking that the boy could use a bit of coddling.

“It’s just because I’m dangerous,” he mutters, almost to himself. “My presence alone invites danger.”

Natasha shrugs. “If anything, it’s more for your safety. Professor X insisted to us in a phone call this morning how important it is that we keep a close eye on you. New mutants have a lot to navigate in the beginning.”

“Tt.” Damian scowls.

At his expression, Natasha decides that blunt honesty will perhaps work best with him.

“Truthfully, you can be dangerous, Ptichka. But we also trust you. You helped us save the world, after all. No matter how hardass the others want to be, that’s undeniable, and I’d say you’ve earned a place with us here. The hovering is just precaution, while everything is so new—and we won’t actually hover. I made sure that the others knew it would only stress you out.”

Slightly appeased, Damian shifts on his feet. “Well, if we’re staying with Stark, can I ask him to get some bars for acrobatics in the gym? Also, may we stop by a grocery store on the way back?”

“Acrobatics?” Natasha can’t help her surprise.

At that, Damian smiles—it’s a smile she’s slowly becoming familiar with, because it holds a sort of smug mischief that serves as a reminder that he is, in fact, only twelve. Damian only seems to smile when he has something to show off, a rare indication of his actual age.

“You’ve only seen a bit of what I can do,” Damian boasts, his chest puffed.

Natasha grins. “I can only imagine. I bet I could learn a thing or two from you.”

She means it, and he seems able to tell that, because he looks thrown off guard. As if he’s not used to being praised.

“You could teach me things, too,” he says, eyes searching her face, looking for any signs of inauthenticity.

“It’s a deal, then. We’ll compare notes. Your world versus mine in combat.”

“My world would have a field day with yours,” Damian notes, and seems not to be bragging, by how nonchalant he sounds. “Gotham alone could outclass New York in crime, doubling, maybe tripling, the rates with half the population. Not to mention that aliens might be new here, but in mine, aliens make up a wide margin of our superhero force, while also defending Earth from less savory galactic foes.”

Sounds like a headache, and Natasha grimaces just hearing about it.

“I don’t think that it will be the last extraterrestrial invasion for this world,” Damian continues, unexpectedly melancholic as he says it. “Stark was right to call it a can of worms. Once popped, it can’t be closed. The rest of the universe will pay attention now, and especially to the Avengers.”

She looks at him pointedly, and dryly adds, “Other universes as well, right?”

Damian nods, grumpy.

“It’ll be okay. We’re going to be fine, Damian,” Natasha says, because she thinks he needs to hear it. To know it’s alright to have hope, regardless of everything.

She may be assuming, but she doesn’t think Damian has had much reason to hope before. Might not even fully comprehend the feeling, though Natasha is mostly projecting when she assumes it. She has enough self-awareness to recognize that she’s doing it, but it doesn’t stop the eerie sense that she’s not totally seeing Damian, but rather seeing herself in him, when she had been that age.

When Damian’s green eyes meet hers, it’s the feeling of seeing little Natalia Romanova stare back up at her, his movements as a trained assassin an eerie echo, his expressions like seeing a ghost.

Damian might not know it, but it had been his eyes, more than anything, that had made Natasha take him in, claiming him as hers. She knows it’s not for forever, that he’s not actually hers, but it still doesn’t stop the clench in her stomach as she thinks of Damian and his past, what pain he has endured, and also what pain he has given to others in order to shape into the person he is.

He’s far too ruthless not to have experience in killing or attacking. She wonders at what age he first killed, how soon his education began.

Natasha continues to think back to the spar.

Each hit that he landed, every hit that she deflected or avoided, they were all pointed, accurate, demanding. 

Look at me, he seemed to be saying. Look at me. Acknowledge me.

And his eyes. So completely different in a fight. His green eyes seemed to flare, coming to life, his expression focused and driven, despite a blank expression. It doesn’t do enough to cover up the fervor in his gaze, or the craze in his decisions.

His fighting style is cut-throat, one influenced by several martial arts, but it’s almost entirely all offense, like he’s been taught to end things quickly and decisively. He doesn’t do enough to protect himself, but it’s not that he leaves himself unguarded. He overly relies on his reaction time, how utterly absurd his ability is to spot danger and read his opponents.

But given the option between defending himself, and getting a hit in, every time she tested him, Damian persistently went in for the kill. It’s also a testament to his inability to ‘play-fight’, how little he pulled back on his punches, like he was testing her as much as she had been testing him.

Ultimately, after the spar, Natasha could only conclude that Damian is veritably insane. Whatever he had to endure, fight through, come out on the other end of, he’d had to go insane to do it.

She understands. Natasha doesn’t think anyone can come out sane.

And from what she’s gathered from his answers to questions, it’s an insanity made almost hereditary from both sides of his family. He stood no chance to escape it. And yet with all of that, Natasha can’t get it out of her head, the fact that the very first thing Damian did in this world is fight to save it.

He’s a boy with cruel hands, but he’s also learning to use them in other ways, for the good of others.

“I’m not worried,” Damian cuts into her thoughts, a reply to her reminder of optimism. He stares at her, a certain petulance to his expression that Natasha can’t help but find cute.

Smiling, perhaps too indulgently, she runs her palm over his head before taking him by the shoulder and guiding him to the boys’ jean wall. He is worried, she can tell that much, but she won’t press it.

“Clothes, grocery store, and we’ll see what we can come up with for the gym equipment you want,” she says breezily.

In saying so, Natasha has a moment of clarity that if they aren’t careful, Damian might end up spoiled in his time with them.

But, she imagines, looking at his round face and fiery green eyes, thinking of all the things he must have been through, he’ll be better off for it.

Damian seems to sense her thoughts, because his scowl deepens, but she swears she feels the muscles in his shoulders relax. He nods at her, still not meeting her gaze.

For someone so direct, he rarely makes eye contact, she’s noticed. 

“The tower still needs repairs, but I think Tony will want to do upgrades anyway,” she adds, more for the sake of conversation. “I don’t see why he can’t add in things for acrobatics.”

Damian hums, giving the jeans in front of them a critical look.

Natasha holds out a pair of distressed jeans. “You know, you can pick out things like this, too.”

“To blend in better,” he assumes with a critical look.

“Or because you like it? You don’t have to just pick out the basics. Spruce your wardrobe up. Get things you’ll actually want to wear.”

Damian stares at the jeans, but he seems not to actually be looking at them. “What if…”

“Yes?”

“Do you think there might be a place where I could get a thawb?”

“I’m sure we can find a place,” she says, pulling out her phone. “I’m sure that there’s Arabic retailers somewhere in NYC.”

He brightens at the news, but not enough to smile, and it’s not long before his expression dims. She can practically hear his anxious thoughts.

“We don’t have to go today. I was just curious to know if it was a possibility,” he tells her, and with a stern face, he adds, “I’d rather get the necessities first, and head back to the tower so that I may continue the efforts that will get me home. I don’t need to build a wardrobe that will only be discarded when I depart from this universe.”

Natasha nods. “The prudent direction to take.”

Damian’s chest puffs at her approval, but deflates as he asks her, “Is there any pressing matter in your life that you would need to attend to? If there is, and you’d be in need of it, I would also be amenable to assisting you.”

“Nothing more important than you,” she says dryly. 

She means it in a very literal sense, being that he’s a universe hopping twelve year old assassin who’ll need a lot of help just to get home, but as the flush in his cheeks reaches his ears, Natasha hears her own words play back in her head and it dawns on her that, no matter how jaded, any kid would like to hear that they’re important to someone.

“Natasha,” he says, raising his face and finally meeting her gaze, his eyes searching hers, a caustic yet vulnerable expression on his face. “Why are you so nice to me? I don’t understand.”

Natasha blinks, suddenly feeling very put on the spot.

Why is she being so nice? Natasha has felt a strange draw to him from the very beginning, and a lot of it can be attributed to him being a child assassin, sure, but there’s more to it.

Natasha has helped many children since her switch to S.H.I.E.L.D. She’s always had a soft spot for them—how can she not? But, truthfully, she’s never needed to adopt any of them, even as a front. Maybe that’s why. The pseudo familial connection is creating a sense of responsibility in her.

But then, that’s still not all of it, is it?

“Why do we fight to save anyone?” she asks after a heavy pause. “At one point, I needed help, too.”

Damian scrutinizes her, but some comprehension seems to find him as he ultimately nods. He looks smaller than she’s ever seen him, when he says, quietly, more to himself, “I hate needing help.”

“Me, too,” she agrees. “But everyone needs a hand up at one point in their lives. Isn’t that why you’re Robin? To help others?”

Damian purses his lips, a strange look on his face.

“If that’s not why you’re Robin,” she murmurs, “what is?”

“It’s... complicated.” Damian shakes his head. “In the beginning, I became Robin to stand at my father’s side, to prove myself to him. But I don’t think it’s why I’m still Robin. I think... I know what others expect of me. I know how others see me. I know that... I haven’t yet reached the same idealism of Richard’s Robin, the heart of Todd’s, or the cleverness of Drake’s. And I know the expectations. I know what I should be. I’m the strongest Robin to ever have the mantle. I have years of training and experiences beyond what any of them have had when they took the role, and yet... I still lack.”

“What do you think that you’re lacking?” 

He scowls. “If my brother’s are to be believed, it's a conscience.”

“That’s patently false,” she bluntly tells him.

“How are you so sure?”

“You saved the world, Ptichka.”

“I didn’t. I just knocked a couple alien heads off.”

“No. Never undervalue what you’ve done.”

His eyes sharpen to slits. “Don’t over inflate it either.”

“I’m not. You saved lives that night. You saved people’s loved ones, and by that, you saved someone’s entire world—all at your own risk. Even if you don’t know the impact of that, it’s something I’m certain of.” Natasha claps her hand on his shoulder. “I think that makes you a wonderful Robin.”

Damian is quiet, and rather than speaking, he sighs, not arguing her point.

“I’m new to saving people, too,” she tells him. “It feels good, helping others. I want to get better at it.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. “Me, too.”

“Well, even if you can’t acknowledge the good that you’ve done, I’ll never forget it, Damian,” she says, tone dry, attempting to keep it light-hearted. “Any world is lucky to have you in it.”

Damian glares at her fiercely then, ears red, annoyed. “Your tongue is too honeyed, Widow.”

Natasha snorts, putting her hands up in quick surrender. “Not saying anything that isn’t the truth.” Though, admittedly, she did sort of like teasing him.

“Hmph.” Damian turns away from her, and stalks off, ears still red, heading in the direction of the licensed shirts. 

Something he sees on the shirt table seems to surprise him, and his attitude seems to dissipate in the wake of it, as he charitably holds it up for her to see, wonder overtaking his features. Natasha doesn’t recognize what she’s looking at, but it’s some sort of character art of an anime, that much she does know.

“Naruto exists in my world, too,” he tells her, expression turning thoughtful. “It’s strange how many similarities there are. Our universes share a lot of the same people, a lot of the same history, and even the same shows. But as far as I can tell, no one I have ties to exists. It’s not exact enough to call it a mirror, but it’s not different enough to be entirely unrecognizable either.”

“I can’t even imagine how disorientating this is for you,” Natasha says honestly. A lot of what Damian is experiencing, there are grown adults, in the same position, that would be too terrified to do anything. Let alone helping others, they couldn’t even help themselves.

She’s caught once again by how adaptable he is.

“Fortunately, this world isn’t inherently terrible. It has its charm,” he says. “It’s not an inhospitable landscape, after all.”

“Thankfully.”

Damian nods. Then, shiftily looking skyward, quietly adds, “You’ve had a hand in it, Natasha.”

“Well, having good allies is often half the battle won.” Natasha points to the t-shirt in his hand. “Are you gonna get it?”

Damian tucks it into the cart with the rest of the clothes that dear Uncle Tony is footing the bill for. “Of course. It will aid my disguise as an average American child.”

Natasha snorts. “No disguise is ever going to cover up the fact that you’re anything but average.”

“Not true—I can be convincingly average. When the situation arises and it’s necessary, I will be the last one spotted in a crowd.” His chest his puffed, bolstered with confidence.

It’s not that Natasha doubts him, exactly. But she can’t picture it. Damian makes an unforgettable impression, whether he realizes it or not, and that’s the thing. She’s not certain that Damian is necessarily the best judge of himself.

If he was, he might have already known that there’s nothing he has to prove.

“Alright, then, Average American Child, do you wanna stop for ice cream before we hit up the grocery store?”

“Ice cream?” Damian lights up, a shine entering his green eyes. “I would be amenable to the idea.”

“Then, let’s hurry this up. I’m feeling mint-choco chip.”

Damian nods, already walking with her towards the checkout. “If they have it, I will select pistachio.”

“Oh, pistachio? Now that you mention, I might have to get that instead. It’ll go great with a waffle cone.”

“I’m partial to a sugar cone,” he says, and from there, the two engage in a casual conversation about ice cream flavors and light banter concerning the best type of cone.

It’s not the sort of day Natasha ever would have thought she’d have. 

It’s not the sort of day that she’d ever thought she’d be lucky enough to have. But while it lasts, Natasha thinks it’s a nice change of pace, having Damian to look after.

Of course, she’s going to get him home—she promised, after all. Before his thirteenth birthday, before he’ll have to spend it without family, she’s going to get the kid home.

But the longer she spends with him, the more charmed she is by him, Natasha worries about what comes next. What comes after she says goodbye. And the thing is, she’s pretty good with goodbyes, having been saying them all her life. But they still hurt.

And she already knows that this one will.

Chapter Text

It comes as no surprise to anyone except Damian that, a full week later, he’s still not home.

Well, it’s not exactly a surprise to Damian either, but he can’t help that there had been a small part of him hoping for a miraculous change to occur and for him to be swept back to his universe, preferably in the blink of an eye. But even that small part of him dies on the dawn of the seventh day.

Five days with the Avengers, plus the two days before that, when he’d first entered the world. Seven days. Seven. Days. He appeared in this world on a Friday, and tomorrow it will be Friday again. 

Worse, he’s no closer to understanding his circumstances than he’d been the day he arrived.

Every morning, Damian performs a perfunctory assessment, a tally of any perceptible change, of which there is disappointingly little. He scours the internet for possible leads, hacks dubiously secure data bases, ignoring any raised eyebrows, and all-in-all spends most of his time pestering Stark in R&D with questions and eating the meals Natasha makes for him. The days repeat in predictable fashion, almost mind-numbingly so.

And still, not a single sign of the rogue who did this to him. Not even with the wider net of Stark and S.H.I.E.L.D’s surveillance, a fact that is endlessly frustrating.

Damian can’t even take his aggression out on anybody—they’re all tooth-achingly nice to him and even Damian, for all the ways he’s terrorized his own family, can’t bring himself to do the same to the strangers that are ultimately assisting him. They have no reason to help him, he hasn’t managed to get any true leverage on any of them, and yet the Avengers are equally as charitable as they are annoying, putting him in a weird position where Damian has to reel back his baser reactions, swallow his tongue, and be polite. To have gratitude.

As a result, he spends a lot of time, whatever time he has left in the day, in the gym. The gym that Stark has footed a bill to add in the upgrades he asked for, and that overnight has been outfitted with the changes. Damian spends several hours a night there, avoiding conversation, trying to exhaust himself, but it doesn’t work the way he intends it to.

His mutation has led his stamina to increase, and the things he did in the past to wear himself out aren’t nearly as effective. Which, from another perspective, should be a good thing. It means he will be more equipped in a fight, able to do much more, will tire out less and recoup his energy faster, all good things.

But to Damian, who is already restless due to his currently unsolved situation, not having an outlet to burn himself out on makes him... ansty. 

And there is a solution, one that becomes more and more imperative as the nights pass him by. It’s a very obvious solution, almost fool-proof in the way that it’s never failed him before. After all, there’s nothing that substitutes patrolling—and it’s not as if Damian has anything valid holding him back from them.

Natasha worries he hasn’t given it enough time to let his body adapt to his mutation, but to that he just has to ask, what mutation, because it’s clearly not anything life-altering enough to warrant being so overly cautious about it.

If in the seven days he’s been here, nothing more than his body recovering much faster has happened, he doubts anything else will. No one else has managed to give him any argument better than that, and he already thinks it’s bogus.

So, patrols. He wants to go on them. 

Unfortunately, the Avengers, brave as the world sees them, are all actually cowards, and for the past few nights, they’ve done their best to impress upon him senseless fears and concerns that Damian frankly has no time for.

None of them even understand the concept of patrolling. None of them are exactly vigilantes— this is something Damian has sorely overlooked, actually, when first coming to them for aid. 

With S.H.I.E.L.D’s backing, they have certain government sanctions for the work they do, and most of them don’t see the need in going beyond the big threats, doing only what they’re told to handle. There’s not really any initiative to the day to day heroism that can be done in New York, and opportunities are slipping them all by.

It’s just so different. The bats in Gotham mostly work under a wordless tacit agreement with the more competent parts of the police force, but the work that they do is largely self-administered and self-directed. It’s actually an integral component to the creed of Batman. 

Being unaligned with corruptive bureaucratic systems means that the people can have a little more faith in Batman and his people. That it’s more of a partnership, rather than anything remotely akin to employment, allows their work to exist in perpetual abeyance, where legalities and government jurisdiction are a little more relaxed, but the Bats aren’t completely off the proverbial chain. It helps a lot that Batman sticks to a no killing rule, and doesn’t have any guns in his arsenal, giving the GCPD very little motivation to put a complete stop to the work of Batman. 

All that to really say, there isn’t exactly a precedent for sanctioned vigilantism in New York city—aside from the X-Men but even then, they have a lot more going against them than going for them. He supposes the Fantastic Four, a group he belatedly learned about, could also be considered vigilante, but they’re also too similar to the Avengers in that their focus is more in the sciences and they ultimately react more to dangers that are much larger than small-scale crime.

Scouring the internet does bring up a couple more names of interests, but if anything, they’ve only just begun in their careers of vigilantism and there’s no telling if it’ll stick or if they’ll even be any good at it. There’s also no telling how each precinct will deal with vigilante justice, reactions tending to vary. Either way, a skilled vigilante will know how to escape the cops, just as well as they can take down criminals, making compliance with the police a rather moot point.

So, basically, there’s a gap in the market. A gap that Damian could easily step into for the duration of his time here—show all these idiots how it’s done, just before he heads out. 

It would be so easy. He could be so helpful.

“I am already well versed in how to handle opposition with guns,” Damian says to one of Stark’s attempts to dissuade him from the ideas of patrols.

“And that’s somehow meant to persuade me?” Stark arches a brow. “Kid, you’re still not going. That’s final,” he says, like he has any control over Damian’s actions.

For someone who so vehemently denied wanting any parental rights over him, Damian has found him to be one of the worst Avengers to deal with as far as allowances go. He’s a paranoid, and anxiety-ridden man, whatever public facade he likes to put on. Stark is more motherhen than even Natasha, who presents as more middle-ground and reasonable when confronted with a dilemma.

“I won’t be in any real danger,” Damian grumbles. “Gotham’s crime is a lot worse than New York’s, and I’ve been handling it just fine for the past two years.”

Not to mention, even anything Gotham can throw at him, will never truly measure up to the things his grandfather threw at him. New York will be a cake walk in comparison.

“Yeah, sure, Shortstack, but even if you were allowed, you wouldn’t be allowed to fly solo, and this is not the night for it,” Stark points out. “The team is strapped with other, more important matters.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Damian grouses. “And patrol is important! Having a presence on the streets is half the battle when it comes to rogues. You have to keep them wary of even daring to act out, and part of that is building a reputation. A strong reputation will sometimes keep more people safe than even engaging in combat with criminals.”

Stark frowns. “That’s all well and good, Shrimp, but I’ll remind you that we’re not like your folks back home.”

“Clearly.”

“Yes! We aren’t exactly enthusiastic about a kid your age going without any adult supervision, let alone out on the streets past dark, intentionally putting yourself in danger.”

“I’m not a kid,” Damian says sharply. “I may be twelve, but I’m not a child. I won’t be patronized, just because you want to try moral grandstanding—.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the big bad wolf, you can handle yourself around all the criminals the world has to offer, but that ultimately doesn’t matter here. Xavier stressed to all of us the importance of keeping a lid on you until we’re absolutely sure you aren’t a danger to yourself and others. Sending you off into the streets of Midtown isn’t exactly sticking to that plan.”

Damian huffs. “All of you rely too much on that professor’s words. I have more self-control than any of you are giving me credit for.”

“It’s not that we think you can’t control yourself,” Stark says, looking pained. “It’s the principle.”

Tt. Damian knows there’s no winning on this issue with him. He’ll just have to sneak out then—fuck getting permission.

Stark places a hand to his shoulder, meeting his gaze. “Look, tomorrow morning, I’ll take you out for breakfast, how does that sound? Get you out of the confines of a building, at least.”

Damian frowns. “Out in public?”

“We’ll go incognito. Dress up. We can even take Nat with us, if you want.”

Hm.

“Breakfast in the morning sounds agreeable,” Damian reluctantly tells him.

“Great! It’ll be a nice treat before Scott comes to pick you up.” Stark seems particularly overjoyed to say it.

At the reminder of the X-Men, Damian releases a groan, and he glowers at Stark, guessing that Stark is more excited about Summers taking Damian away for the weekend, than their breakfast together. And admittedly, he doesn’t even blame him for feeling that way, but it does still annoy him.

Damian has enough self-awareness to admit that he’s been giving Stark a hard time though, especially as it pertains to their work in R&D, in which they’ve not even made it past hypotheticals as far as the multiversal travel tech goes. It’s a big-ask, Damian understands that. It’s not exactly work that can be rushed, or short-cutted, but it’s also currently his only way home and he can’t keep himself from being... a tad bit overbearing.

But also—.

“Does Summers have to pick me up? I can drive myself, just so you know.”

Stark takes a deep breath, a sort of crazy glint in his eyes, perhaps pushed too far by Damian’s questions. “In this world, you cannot. Not until you’re sixteen, at the very earliest, and even by then, you should long since be back in your world, where this conversation ultimately doesn’t matter.”

Damian cuts a dark look at him. Truthfully, even back home, he’s not allowed to do much driving, with the exception of his bike, but even that’s limited to emergencies. And really, Damian should just stop asking.

They aren’t going to believe that he’s capable until they see him in action, and they aren’t going to see him in action at all at this rate, the recent alien invasion aside. They seem to have already forgotten how capable he is in combat.

Stark is shaking his head, expression tight.

“Spitfire, I seriously question what you have done to me. I can’t believe that I’m the voice of reason, talking to a twelve year old assassin from another universe.” Stark rubs a hand over his face, scratching at his beard. “Not even when I was most out of my mind, could I have dreamed this up.”

“You’re hardly the voice of reason. Anxiety, more like,” Damian grumbles.

Stark sighs. “You know, patience is a virtue,” he snarks back. “Why not try to have some, eh?”

“Funny. I don’t aspire to have virtues.”

“Oh? Well, we at least have that in common.”

Damian clicks his tongue. Talking to Stark about anything is sisyphean and pointless, and he really should just avoid him entirely.

Well, he should, but also, admittedly, Damian doesn’t completely hate his presence. Not to say he likes him either, just that he can be tolerable. At times.

It’s easier when Natasha is around, but Damian’s temporarily ordained mother is away for the day—something to do with Fury’s orders, which Damian is curious about, but in the face of more pressing matters, he’s left it alone.

Pressing matters being patrols, currently—which he has not given up on, and will definitely find a way to do them. 

Alas, for now, he dismisses himself with a slightly caustic, “I’m going to the gym.”

“Go enjoy the monkey bars, Sport,” Stark shoots back, laughing at his own joke.

Insufferable, truly.

.

.

Damian rolls the idea of escaping to do patrols in his head, weighing his options.

He knows sneaking out of the tower will be tricky, but it wouldn’t be impossible.

The most obvious difficulty comes in avoiding the attention of the omnipresent being that is Jarvis. Of all the Avengers, he’s the worst one to fool, only further imprinting that Stark made a marvel of creation, the fact that Damian has run through the gauntlet of questions, testing his functions and limitations, and hasn’t stumped the AI yet.

Jarvis is almost living, ever evolving and distinct, having the voice and inflections of someone real. To add to that, the tower is essentially his body, his domain of control, and Damian has spent the past week looking for chinks in the armor, making mental notes of cameras and tech that Jarvis might use. Of course, there’s always the chance, especially with Stark’s mind behind it, that there’s hidden cameras and microphones throughout the building, but no matter how intelligent, how observant—no, especially because of Stark and Jarvis’s intellect, there are still means to escape without notice.

It’s not a hopeless endeavor. There are still things Damian could do to avoid detection, but it’s also still a matter of if he should. His argument with Stark earlier, while frustrating, also makes Damian wary. Should he step out of line, testing their reactions? Or should he maintain the status quo, and enable the perception that they have control over him?

Which would be better, which would get him closer to home? If he screws up now, and they refuse to help him later, Damian would be back to square one. But if he goes, and they see for themselves the good he can accomplish, it could change the way they see him, how he’s treated. It’ll reinforce his independence, something he thinks is already at stake with the way the Avengers keep finding ways to inhibit him.

He also mostly just wants to piss Stark off.

But, ultimately, he’s no closer to his decision by the time dinner rolls around, and Stark is calling him to the table.

That night, Damian eats with the bulk of the Avengers, with one notable exception—Natasha is still away, and without her presence, he sits, disgruntled, chewing in silence, casting glances at her empty chair. He can’t help it, not even when he notices that he’s doing it.

In the short week that he’s known her, he’s become accustomed to her being there. A dinner with her gone is oddly empty now.

“Like a lost puppy,” Barton says, an oddly fond look on his face, being very direct with his gaze on who he’s talking about.

Damian clicks his tongue, his cheeks getting hot as the rest of the room faces him.

They’re eating pizza—because no one besides Natasha can be bothered to cook a decent meal—and he has to actively keep himself from throwing slices at their faces. He doesn’t understand why all of them are staring at him with such amused, sparkling eyes.

Idiots.

“Don’t you all have better things to do than stare?” Damian asks hotly.

“Hey, before you threaten any of us with bodily harm,” Stark cuts in before he can do just that, “he only made an astute observation.”

Damian huffs, standing up from the table, appetite lost.

It’s not lost on him that Stark had said they were all strapped with things more important than patrolling with him, and yet, here they all sit.

Damian might as well just leave while they’re all distracted.

“Don’t be upset! It’s cute!” Stark says, and adds, “It’s nice to see that the son cares for his mother.”

“She’s not my mother,” Damian murmurs, and there’s a hint of a bite to it.

The few similarities between Talia al Ghul and Natasha Romanov notwithstanding, there is nothing in the universe that can change the fact that he only has one mother. Faux-relations are still just that, fake, regardless of how forced or natural they are.

While it’s suitable for a front, it’s not good to feed into the delusion.

Natasha is merely a good person, someone who is easy to like, and the only person he’s met so far that he thinks he could potentially build a partnership with. As she said before, good allies truly are half the battle won.

“Tell us about her then,” Barton says, making Damian pause.

“Yeah, tell us,” Stark presses, elbows on the table, hands cupping his face as he leans over.

Tt.

Damian considers his options, his words. They don’t exactly need to know anything of value about her, but in that same respect, it’s not as if they can take any intel back to his own world to pose any sort of threat to her. Not that Mother would consider any of these brutes as a threat. No, she would look at them, thoroughly unimpressed, disappointed in Damian for keeping them as company. But if they knew, just a little, of the woman who raised him, they might understand.

Besides, they should know about the greatness he stems from.

“She’s an incredibly formidable warrior and the most beautiful woman in the multiverse,” he finally says.

“Dare I ask—what does she do for work?”

“She’s my grandfather’s right hand,” Damian murmurs, answering Stark’s question. “She’s the Daughter of the Demon, and one of the highest ranking members of the League of Assassins, a group of loyal warriors dedicated to serving my grandfather.”

“So, uh, on a scale of one to ten, how good guy to bad guy are we talking when referring to the League of Assassins?” Barton asks. “And this grandpa of yours, I’m assuming that he’s the Demon. What’s that all about?”

Damian frowns, not quite sure how to answer him, and not all that sure that he wants to, either.

“He’s the Head, not the Demon. The Demon is the organization that he leads, with the League of Assassins being a branch under it. It’s an organization that you could not possibly understand the depths, and history of. The amount of wealth alone would be inconceivable, even to Stark.”

“Oh, really?” Stark’s disbelief is evident.

“Grandfather is considered immortal, he has lived well over six hundred years, and in that time, he’s built something that stretches over the globe, connections in every corner of the world. I don’t even know how far or deep it goes. And as for your previous question, it would be easier just to say that Father and Grandfather are not allies to each other. At one point, Father received training under my grandfather’s tutelage—a time where my parents met—but ultimately, they are foes. Because of that, I believe you would refer to my grandfather as a villain.”

“And you wouldn’t?” Stark asks, baffled.

Damian thinks of Ra’s al Ghul, thinks of the conversations he had with him as a child, and frowns.

“Not exactly,” he murmurs honestly. “Grandfather sees the world as something to protect. It’s his motivation, even if his methods are...”

“Villainous?”

Damian sighs. “It’s not that simple.”

“Sure—I imagine that having an immortal head of a global crime syndicate as a grandfather can make things complicated,” Stark says, and it’s oddly not mocking, somehow more commiserating.

Damian grunts.

“Well, if anyone will understand complicated, it’s this team,” Rogers murmurs.

“Amen to that,” Dr. Banner mutters with a faraway look.

Damian vaguely knows most of their backgrounds, bits gleaned from the documents he gained access to, mostly without them knowing. Yet, it strikes him that, for all that he’s read, he still doesn’t know them. He supposes, in the way they’ve asked him about his past, he should also. Only, Damian is reluctant to do so.

He asks himself what the point would be.

“You know, this is nice,” Barton says suddenly. He doesn’t explain himself, just sitting back and almost wistfully gazing across the table.

Stark scoffs. “You’re being shockingly sentimental, Legolas.”

“Eh, can’t a guy appreciate bonding with the team?”

“You call this bonding?”

“What else would I call it? Face it, if we weren’t still hanging out at the tower, you’d be eating dinner, all alone. Probably drinking, missing Pepper. Jarvis would keep you company, sure, but look at us, team dinners every night—it’s nice, right?”

Damian arches a brow. He’s yet to meet Pepper, but from the way all of them talk about her, she’s essentially Stark’s minder. If not even Natasha can keep him in line, Damian is very curious to see how Pepper handles him.

“I’m with Clint on this,” Rogers adds, blue eyes crinkling.

“What? I can’t believe my ears—you mean we don’t hate each other? Bruce, back me up, we’re a team built from scraps and resentment, bickering back and forth, and only when it counts the most, just when the bad guys are gonna get the edge on us, that’s when we’ll have the day-saving team synergy. Now, this? I did not sign up for this mushy-gushy stuff,” Stark whines. “My home has been invaded.”

Dr. Banner laughs, shaking his head. “Oh, Tony, you’re loving this, we can all tell.”

“Et tu, Bruce?”

“Without an audience, who else would you perform for?” Damian cuts in with a smirk.

“Even my own nephew!?” Stark expresses his mock-outrage with a finger pointed at Damian. “Sounds like you get to go to bed without dessert.”

Barton quickly shakes his head. “No! The poor boy is small enough as he is, let him get his calories in.”

“You’re all idiots,” Damian deadpans, turning on his heel.

Stark’s panic is immediate. “Spitfire, come back, he’s right! It’s chocolate cake!”

Damian turns his head, scowling. “All of you are too busy to patrol, but apparently have all the time in the world to stuff your faces with cake. Well, I have better things to do than that.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Barton argues.

“It’s just too soon to have you out like that,” Rogers says, a sort of stoic, borderline sympathetic look on his face.

“What he said. You may have super ninja powers, but this world isn’t like yours. Totally different playing field.”

At that, Damian turns his entire body towards Barton, livid. “I’m perfectly aware of that!”

“I know you are, but I’m just saying that there’s more to think about, kid.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“Yes, you are,” Barton insists, exasperated. “I don’t care if no one in your life has ever treated you like one, that you’re functionally an adult back home, but where it counts, and it counts, you are still a child.”

Damian flinches, startled at the force in Barton’s voice.

“It’s not meant to be demeaning or patronizing,” Barton adds, softening his speech at his reaction. “But rushing into things, without giving it any thought, is how you get killed, and I don’t know if we haven’t made it clear enough, but we’re trying to take care of you.”

“I don’t need to be... coddled,” Damian grounds out. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking I need to be babied like this! I’m not a useless, get-killed in the first few seconds of a battle, deadweight idiotic child! Barton—no, all of you, need to get it into your heads, that I have never been a kid, and I never will be! These attempts to play house are deluded and unnecessary, and I won’t be treated like I’m beneath any of you!”

“Did you get it off your chest, how you’re really feeling?” Stark asks.

At that, Damian growls, and he has to ball his hands into fists, squeezing them to work through the intensity of his anger and frustration.

“Why are these patrols so important to you anyway?” Rogers asks.

“It’s about control,” Dr. Banner answers, eyes on Damian’s hands. “That’s it, isn’t it, Damian?”

Damian hangs his head.

“Oh, I get it.” Stark snaps his fingers. “It’s like a dog pissing everywhere—marking territory, so he can make it feel homey. Honestly? This adds up for Spitfire.”

Rogers groans. “You don’t have to put it like that, Tony—don’t antagonize him. In his position, you’d also like to get a lay of the land, and establish a safety net.”

“Yeah, but we’re his safety net,” Stark says.

“C’mon, use your head, Tony. Remember how he got here in the first place? How safe can he really feel, without knowing where the guy who brought him here is? Honestly, the patrols themselves are a great idea to gather more intel on that front.”

“I’m not against the patrols themselves, Cap. But who out of us is gonna head out with him for them? You?”

Rogers frowns.

“Exactly. You’re too used to the way the military runs things, hardstuck in your ways—and the same could be said of all of us. Picture it in your head, who on this team would be able to head out onto the streets of New York on a random Friday night, full getup, and have the face to tackle unsuspecting low-level criminals to essentially piss on the fire hydrant that marks that corner of the city as theirs?”

“Oh, I could definitely do it,” Barton cheerfully answers. “Nat would be willing, too. But that still doesn’t change the fact that it’s still too soon.”

“And when would be the right time?” Damian asks, frustrated. “You’ll just keep moving the goalpost farther at any minor inconvenience.”

“Well, Nat should be here, for one. We should have a better idea on your mutation, for another,” Stark says in a bored tone.

Irritation strikes Damian hot. “I heal faster! Big deal! If anything, that should make it more optimal!”

“I’m just following the advice of the professionals, Sport.”

“It’s already been a week since I’ve arrived. If there was anything else, wouldn’t it have already presented itself by now?”

“I don’t know. I think more time is definitely needed,” Stark retorts, probably to piss him off.

“You’re going to Xavier’s tomorrow, anyway,” Barton points out. “See what they have to say, and then we’ll talk when you get back.”

“Exactly. Remember what I said about patience, Spitfire?”

“I told you that I don't care for virtues,” Damian mutters darkly.

“Whatever. What’s a few more days, kid?”

“Would you say that to the single mother getting robbed right now?” Damian shoots back.

“Low blow, and you know it. Bringing hypothetical, fictional hot single mothers into the argument is not how you win it.”

“Actually, I’m now very worried about the hypothetical, fictional hot single mom,” Barton mumbles. “Hoping she safely gets back to her kids.”

“She won’t,” Damian bites out resentfully. “Because of you cowards, she’ll die and you’ll have made orphans out of her brood.”

Rogers clears his throat, shaking his head at the conversation. “This back and forth is not getting us anywhere.”

“So, get us somewhere, Cap,” Stark shoots back.

Rogers takes a deep breath, and meets Damian’s eyes, his expression clean of any judgement or anger. “Look, Damian, I know we’re still practically strangers, and truthfully, you’re right about some things, but so, a little, are Tony and Clint. It’s in your best interest that they’re arguing for. So, even if you think we’re all idiots, could you humor us, for just a few more days?”

Damian stares at the captain.

Rogers continues to press, adding, “Just give it time, Damian. Give us time. To build trust in one another, yeah?”

Hm.

“...is there egg in the cake?” Damian finally asks, after a long pause.

It pops the tension in the air, and he hears the relieved exhales of the men around him. Somehow, bizarrely, Damian feels a little relieved, too.

“Is it a deal breaker if there’s egg in the cake?” Stark asks. “Cause it’s a bit of a mystery to me, personally.”

“He’s a vegetarian, Tony,” Barton reminds him.

“Coulda fooled me. The kid is always out for blood.”

Damian rolls his eyes, returning to his seat. “Eggs are okay. But in the future, there are perfectly adept substitutes, like banana, aquafaba, or silken tofu.”

“Hold on there, Sparky, don’t make the table levitate now,” Stark rushes to stay, making a show of pressing his hands down on the table.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Tony, just go get the cake.”

“What? Why me?”

“You’re the host here, aren’t you?”

“I don’t remember regarding any of you cretins as guests—well, aside from Bruce. The rest of you? Invaders.”

“I’ll grab the cake,” Dr. Banner says with a sigh, rising and leaving to do just that.

“Would you look at that? See? That’s why he’s a guest, and you’re not, Legolas.”

“Worst host. Terrible host,” Barton complains.

“You can leave at any time,” he reminds him.

“Could I?” Damian asks.

“No,” they all say as a chorus, with resulting tired groans from around the room.

“Relentless,” Barton says. “He’s relentless.”

“Poor boy is feeling cooped up, that’s why. But don’t worry, Spitfire, Uncle Tony is taking you and your mother out for a nice breakfast in the morning. Plus, I hear that there’s a lot of fresh air at Xavier’s—soon, you can run wild to your heart's content, promise.”

“Man, now I’m kind of jealous,” Barton says.

“Pathetic,” Damian mutters, questioning why he let the captain talk him into staying.

But then, he has to acknowledge that Rogers has a point. He can’t exactly gain their trust if he only proves to them he’s a loose cannon—something he had to fight to redeem himself from with his family back home. To repeat the past, deciding things and tunneling in on those choices, refusing to listen to others, refusing to collaborate. Richard warns him about doing those things constantly.

Even if they are cowards and idiots, to be taken seriously by them, humoring them might be the best chance of that.

“Ooh, strawberry icing!” Barton exclaims as soon as Dr. Banner enters, holding the cake and setting it on the table.

“What’s the occasion?” Damian finds himself asking, wondering why exactly Stark decided to order a pink chocolate cake.

“No occasion. Cake is an any day treat, and I stand by that.”

“Why does it feel like you're deflecting when you say that?”

“Well, can you think of what occasion I might have ordered a cake for?”

Barton looks at Damian and grins. “Yeah. To cheer someone up.”

“I can’t think of anyone who that would apply to,” Stark insists.

Idiots. But sort of... funny, too. 

Chapter Text

They end up driving out of the city for breakfast—a little closer to a meet-up point to Winchester County, where Summers is set to pick him up from.

Stark selects a famed restaurant—the sort that Father might use to bolster the public perception of Brucie Wayne—and when they arrive, Stark explains that they’re known for their discretion, that if in the case their donned disguises are seen through, it shouldn’t reach the public. Damian is skeptical, but he also believes in the work he put into his appearance and ultimately doesn’t care. He hasn’t been in this world long enough to have made any lasting impact.

Not like anyone will be able to tie his current look to that of Robin. He is all too blond, all too freckled and all too bespectacled. He’s also wearing Burberry, a sweater and trousers set paired with high-top sneakers that he normally would never deign to wear, but that Natasha picked out for him, giving him a noticeable boost in height.

Natasha has also dressed up, starkly different from herself, with a long blonde wig with bouncy curls, and a flattering lilac dress that suits the midday brunch. Her makeup has altered her appearance without making her ugly, differentiated enough from her real face that he begins to see just why she’s so respected in her line of work. He appreciates the disguise, the mark of a spy that can stand-out without standing out. She will look like any other young, rich mother in the restaurant, blending in the same way he is.

Stark is the tricky one. Natasha did her best, but he was unwilling to shave or alter his distinct facial hair, or spend that much time getting ready. Ultimately, Natasha uses basic prosthetics to adjust what she can of his face, even aging him with makeup and streaking his dark brown hair with grays. Since Stark’s not going to make it easy, Natasha still found a way to get even, something Damian has come to respect about her.

Both of them ignore Stark's initial whining, before eventually, Stark ends up liking what he sees in the mirror, enjoying the aged, austere appearance. It’s somehow more annoying than when he’d been unhappy with it. Admittedly, he does still whine about Natasha and Damian going too far with the disguises, but it was he himself who said the word incognito. 

Perhaps he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

Regardless, after a long morning, when they finally set out to the restaurant, Damian officially meets a very dubiously named Happy for the first time. He’s a trusted aid of Stark’s, and the driver that’s been given the task of transporting them. Stark seems to appreciate the oaf, but Damian’s initial first impressions of the man isn’t the most promising—the suspicious glares sent his way in the rear-view mirror is enough for him to conclude that while Happy is at least smart enough to be wary of him, he’s not smart enough to hide it.

Either way, they all arrive safely at the restaurant, in time for brunch, and thankfully, Happy has enough sense to stay with the car as Natasha leads Damian with a hand on his shoulder.

They’re warmly greeted by the staff, and with no wait, quickly guided past the large open dining hall, and led to a quiet, private table.

As the waiter leaves the menu, momentarily stepping away, Stark puts a hand to Damian’s free shoulder, drawing his attention. He’s grinning as he asks, “Ever been to a place like this?”

“Of course,” he mutters, scowling. 

Though, admittedly, it’d only ever been on rare occasions. Richard never cared for such places, and even when forced by Lucius Fox, he didn’t force Damian to go. And now that Father has only recently returned from being lost in the time stream after his battle with Darkseid, Damian’s presence in the Wayne family is still being expanded upon in the eyes of the public. Father is calculative, only inviting Damian to galas and luncheons under certain conditions and criteria that Damian often doesn’t meet, purposefully. Otherwise, they aren’t exactly a family who eats out—Alfred’s cooking can’t be bested, after all.

“I made sure to pick a place with good vegetarian options,” Stark says, as if expecting some sort of approval to come from that.

Damian, with thoughts of home, struggles to appreciate it, but he does relax the tense muscles in his face. That’s the best he’s got.

Uncowed by Damain’s silence, Stark snaps his fingers. “That reminds me, Squirt. Are you allergic to anything, have any dietary restrictions we should know about?”

Funny that he’s only asking now.

“No allergies,” Damian says, and adds after some consideration, “I was genetically perfected in an artificial womb.”

Stark laughs. “Oh, the things you say, Spitfire.”

“It’s true,” he insists as the three of them take their seats.

The place is relatively quiet, save for the sounds of soft conversations just past the curtains that cordon them off, filtering the sounds of ambient music and clinking silverware.

The sound momentarily gets louder as the waiter reappears with glasses of water, briefly taking other drink orders before leaving again after a brief check in.

“Does the X-gene exist in your world, too?” Natasha asks, only after their waiter has fully gone.

“No,” he answers. “It’s primarily why I didn’t believe it when I was told I mutated. It means that just by coming here, my genetics were altered. It’s difficult to find an explanation for such a thing—especially without being able to locate the prime suspect who caused it.”

Damian doesn’t want to admit to a deeper fear that he’s not quite acknowledging could be the truth. But a part of him suspects—and hates to think it—that Damian’s original body had been destroyed in the process of coming to this world.

If true, he doesn’t know what that could mean, and he doesn’t dare say it out loud, inviting scrutiny he doesn’t know if he can handle yet.

“Makes sense.” Natasha has that look on her face again, the one that makes him squirm a bit. It’s like she’s truly listening, and understanding him. Traces of concern without crossing into pity, and vested interest, like his every uttered word is important.

It makes it easy to talk to her in some ways, but difficult in others. He can’t be nearly as flippant in his remarks, in case she takes him seriously. It’s not the attention that Damian is used to getting, and he can’t help but be self conscious about it.

“Perhaps time at Xavier’s will help in understanding your mutation further,” she says thoughtfully. “It might seem like a simple regenerative ability, but something tells me that we’ve only reached the surface of it.”

“A hunch?” 

Natasha smiles at him. “My hunch is that things are never expected to be simple when it comes to you.”

Damian nods. Her logic is easy to understand, because his life has always proven it to be true. Only, the contrarian side of him is reminded of the principle of parsimony, that the simplest explanation is more likely to be true. But what is simple about his situation? And of out of everything, which is the obvious answer that he’s just not seeing?

“I know you want to start patrolling again,” Natasha says, changing the subject, a bit abruptly. “Clint told me about last night.”

Damian flushes—from Barton’s retelling, she must have only heard about how petulant he had been at dinner. He prepares to be scolded.

Except, she says, “Monday night, let’s give it a try. Just me and you.”

Shock runs through Damian as he meets her gaze. “You won’t change your mind?”

“Consider it a promise,” she murmurs with a slight curve to her lips.

The strangely unfettered joy in response to her words brings a genuine smile to Damian’s face, one that he fails to catch in time. It’s just so unusual that he would get his way so easily, all without having to force his way. It’s not even that they’re pushovers, but that, more specifically Natasha, always treats him like he’s an equal to her, a collaborator. She tries to meet his needs more than anyone else does, because she seems to understand them more than anyone else.

It’s not something Damian is used to, not even from his father or Richard, who he’s meant to have partnerships with. They’re more like Barton and Stark, perpetually doubting him until he shoves proof of his capabilities in their faces. It’s always their way, to ‘protect’ him. Damian thinks it’s stupid.

No one in the world can be safe forever. Eventually, experience is going to be what keeps him alive, not being coddled.

For a brief moment, he thinks of Todd, how preventable his death had been. He also thinks of his arguments with Father, how cyclical they are, before and after his return from the time stream, how stifling it can be at times, trying to build back the trust they used to have. Truthfully, Robin’s fatal flaw has always been Batman trying to keep Robin safe.

It’s sort of nice how different Natasha is.

Stark and Natasha share a glance, but he hardly notices as he instead looks at the menu, altogether feeling content with how the day is unfolding, even distracted by thoughts he usually wouldn’t entertain. It’s somehow easier away from home.

Of course, the tide of things can turn very quickly, especially with the encroaching appearance of Summers, but it’s better not to dread the inevitable. Mother taught him that.

All in all, brunch is nice. 

The food is mediocre compared to anything made by Alfred, but palatable. Stark continues his constant ribbing, but Natasha always checks him when he goes too far, something she’s very good at.

The two of them end up talking about other things for a bit, too, while Damian quietly eats, and he observes the two together with an odd suspicion. Particularly on Stark’s part, he can tell that the borderline flirtatious jokes he makes edge on being more genuine than he probably realizes.

Not that any of them are landing well with Natasha, who generally maintains a mellow demeanor, making remarks that would be cutting if not for her dry delivery. Sometimes they bring up the mysterious Pepper, who Stark says should be getting in tonight from her flight, and Natasha looks pleased at the news. Their dynamic ultimately makes no sense to Damian.

But Damian hardly understands his own parents' relationship, not to mention all of the romances Father and Richard have gotten themselves into. Ultimately, he lets it go in favor of keeping the peace, something he very rarely does, but is beginning to appreciate the value of.

All in all, by the time they’re finished eating and Stark announces that Summers is en route, Damian has found him approaching the concept of visiting the X-Men with a sense of calm. At least he has Monday to look forward to now.

Once the three of them make it outside, Happy is waiting out front to take them to the actual pick up location, where privacy will be more guaranteed. Natasha slides into the backseat with him, Tony across from them.

“Okay, we got about fifteen minutes,” Stark suddenly announces. “Let’s cover the basics. You’re gonna wanna make friends with the biggest guy in there—.”

“I don’t need friends.”

“Not true. Everyone needs friends.”

Damian stares at Tony.

“You haven’t had the pleasure yet, but I roomed with my best friend in college, and after a rough period when we were getting to know each other, Honey Bear turned out to be one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

He says it all with a fond faraway look that makes Damian sigh.

“I have friends already,” Damian mumbles.

Stark raises a brow, taken aback by the claim. “Oh, really? What are their names?”

“Titus, Alfred... Goliath,” Damian snaps, scowling, “and more, too.”

“These are friends from back home, right? What are they like?”

“Loyal.”

Stark is not nearly as impressed as he should be. Loyalty is everything to Damian.

“Are they your lackeys or something? Do they do jobs for you on the down low? Oh! Do you have a secret underground mafia?”

Damian huffs. “You’re a moron.”

“It sounds like they’re good friends,” Natasha cuts in with a sharp look at Stark. “How did you meet them?”

“Well… they were given to me… by my father and butler,” he mumbles, and very pointedly doesn’t explain how he first met Goliath, or that he currently only has a vague sense of where he is, assuming the League of Assassins have left him alone. Mother never cared much for Goliath’s wellbeing.

Immediate looks of concern.

“Damian… what are they?”

Annoyance flares up in him. He answers hotly, “Titus is a Great Dane, and Alfred, well, Alfred came from a shelter, he’s a cat. Goliath is a dragon bat, but I do also have a friend named Bat-Cow. She’s a cow, and very recently came to the manor.”

“These sound like pets,” Natasha says slowly.

“They’re friends,” Damian insists. “They’re my friends.”

“What the hell is a dragon bat?” Stark demands to know, incredulous.

Damian stares at Stark, unimpressed. “A dragon bat is a dragon bat.”

“But what part is dragon and what part is bat?”

“Use your imagination,” Damian mutters, crossing his arms and glaring outside the car window.

“Did you use yours?”

“Tony.”

“What? It’s kind of a ridiculous thing, isn’t it? Dragon bat—that sounds totally made up!” Stark cries defensively.

“Goliath is the champion that I raised with Mother’s permission,” Damian frigidly says, and tries not to think of the circumstances before he brought Goliath in front of his mother for her approval.

Damian tries not to think about the Year of Blood at all. Even back home, thoughts of it are only permitted when he’s certain he’s alone, sketchbook and pen in hand. Certainly not in front of Natasha, who thinks of him as a hero, or Stark, who doesn’t even understand the scope of what Damian is capable of.

If they only knew.

“Damian isn’t the type to lie or even exaggerate,” Natasha tells Stark with certainty.

Damian’s eyes go wide at the confidence in her tone.

“Listen, I can suspend my disbelief for a lot of things, but a dragon bat named Goliath is pushing it. Sounds like something out of a cartoon.”

“You still don’t have to be a dick about it,” Natasha says with a kick at Stark, who doesn’t have the reaction speed to dodge it.

Stark winces, rubbing at his shin. “Yeah, well, you could pull your kicks a little more if you want to avoid being a hypocrite.”

“You can handle it,” she says dryly, smirking.

“Normally I’m in the suit when I’m taking damage from deadly weapons,” Stark mutters, and then looks again towards Damian. “Your universe have other weird animals you’d like to share with the class?”

Damian is still reeling at having been defended, but he quickly recovers, scowling at Stark. “You wouldn’t believe me, not even if I told you.”

Stark, seeming to have realized he’s put his foot in his mouth one too many times, gives him an awkward smile. “No hard feelings, kid. Put yourself in my shoes a bit.”

“I don’t want to,” Damian snaps. “Keep your shoes to yourself, weirdo.”

“Not literally—there’s no way your little baby feet could fit in these,” Stark says, snickering to himself.

“I’m perfectly within my growth percentile!” Damian cries with a groan.

Natasha lays a hand to his shoulder. “Just ignore him. We’re almost there.” With a conspiratorial smirk, she adds, “If I didn’t have to ride with him on the way back, I’d kick his ass.”

“Nat, if you think I’m being mean, there’s no way our kid is gonna make it at the school. I’m afraid our poor little Spitfire is going to be bullied. Which is why, Damian, you’re going to find the meanest looking kid in there and—”

“I don’t need friends!”

“Everyone needs friends—”

“Oh, wonderful, Scott is already here,” Natasha cuts in, pointing out the window as Happy pulls the car near to where Summers is already parked, leaning against the passenger door.

Damian represses a sigh of relief, the relief being short-lived as the reality of being taken somewhere unfamiliar sets in. Natasha is the first to exit the car, followed by Tony, and then Damian, who bolsters himself up to accept his fate and keep his word.

Summers’ eyes immediately go to him as he grins at him. It’s a megawatt smile, and it’s one with enough charm to match Richard’s when he’s trying to impress someone. He seems genuinely pleased to see him.

It’s the sort of nonsensical positivity that immediately sets Damian on edge.

“Hey there, Damian, I dig the blond hair,” he greets, opening up the passenger seat for him, eagerly waving him in. “How’s this week been for you? Anything of note?”

“Not really,” he mutters, hand going up to thumb at the blond wig, glancing back towards Natasha and Stark, who stand close behind.

They don’t look nearly as pleased as Damian would have thought they would, especially Stark, who has a deep frown on his face, only for it to vanish when he notices Damian looking. Stark makes a shooing motion, brows raising in what seems to be exasperation, but weirdly fond. 

Natasha, for her part, stands with her arms crossed, hip cocked, face blank, her trained eyes on him, like she hasn’t looked away even for a second, and when she notices his gaze, a barely perceptible, but encouraging smile graces her lips.

“When am I being picked up, and by whom?” Damian asks her, feeling for a moment that the weekend is going to last forever.

“Monday morning,” Natasha says, “and I’ll come for you, Ptichka.”

This information slightly mollifies him as he turns back to Summers. “Is this school of Xavier’s a boarding school?”

“Yes,” he replies readily. “I’ll tell you more on the way, of course. It’s not too far away.”

“Hm.” He supposes anything else said would just be stalling the inevitable.

Damian gives Stark and Natasha one last look before finally sliding past Summers to sit in the passenger seat, letting the mutant shut the door for him.

Then, the trunk gets popped, and Happy brings over the small suitcase of Damian’s things for his weekend stay, stowing it.

He hears Summers bid a brief farewell, hears Stark say, “If anything happens, give us a call. I’ll come.” Damian looks out the car window, mildly surprised by the sincerity in his voice, and then doubly so by the worry he finds in his expression. Strange. He thought Stark would be more excited than anything else.

“Will do,” Summers says, rounding the car to pop open the driver seat before sliding in, angling his attention in Damian’s direction. “Well, they seem to be fond of you.”

“Seem to be,” Damian agrees in a quiet voice, and it's something he can’t help but marvel at. Even as Summers starts the car and they peel out of the parking lot, in the rearview mirror, he still sees them standing there, unmoving, looking like reluctantly detached shadows. 

He watches them until they’re out of sight, asking himself why.

They aren’t as relieved as he would have thought they’d be, handing him over to the X-Men.

“Adapting to the new world okay, then?” Summers asks, drawing his attention back, and at his genuine curiosity, Damian decides to humor the man.

It also helps that breakfast and the thought of Monday night has put him in a good mood.

“This world bears a lot of similarities to my own. It’s not an extreme trial to be here. It might even be safer than my own universe,” Damian murmurs thoughtfully.

“Is that so?” Summers says, surprised. “What sort of dangerous things are in your world?”

A sea of faces and names come to Damian’s mind, his own mother included. 

“The rogues. We have an entire asylum back in Gotham filled with them, and they just keep breaking out, only to be caught and brought back. They can be quite deadly, and despite the work of my father and our allies, it’s sometimes not enough to keep people safe.”

“I know what that’s like,” Summers says, and there’s a texture to his voice that makes Damian think that he might actually know what it’s like. Yet before Damian can inquire, Summers quickly moves on, adding, “By the way, out of curiosity, you call them rogues, why is that? Why not just villains, or bad guys?”

Damian blinks. “It was an informal group that went by the name, and due to the informality of their activities and lack of group cohesion, it just became synonymous and easier to use within the vigilante community at large.”

Father might say it’s also because not all of them are bad. Many of them are misguided and confused, hurting and desperate, and that they need help, too. Just like he once did.

“Interesting,” Summers says. “An entire vigilante community? How big are we talking?”

“Not everyone gets along, and some come and go,” Damian murmurs. “As for our numbers, worldwide, it’s several thousand, more in other places of the world, less in some. Most stick to their own territories, but there is a group called the Justice League. It’s composed of heroes from various places, formed with the mission to protect Earth.”

“Interesting—well, we don’t have anything so communal in this world. But we do have an X-Men team member named Rogue. You might meet her this weekend.”

“I see,” he murmurs. “Who else will be there?”

“Of the X-Men? Well, of the ones I know for certain that you’ll see? Beast, for sure. He’s going to help establish a better idea of your mutation, so you’ll meet him probably as soon as we get there. Then, of course you’ll see Angel, and Iceman. Marvel Girl, too.”

He says the last name with a notable softness, affection seeping into his voice. Then, Summers clears his throat, seeming to catch himself.

“There’ll be others, too. We’ve come a long way from what we were just a few years ago.”

“How big is the school?”

“Considering it’s a school of mutants, it’s not anything like a typical American school. More similar to a private boarding school, but smaller scale. What we teach here isn’t exactly traditional. Of course, we cover typical subjects like math and english. But the focus is on our abilities, learning to live with them, to control them, in what can be a very volatile time of life.”

“I see,” Damian murmurs. “How many students are there then?”

At that, Summers shrugs. “That number fluctuates, but currently, it’s around a hundred. Lots of international students, and depending on each child’s individual needs, the time that they stay with us varies.”

Somehow, it’s this information that resonates with Damian the most, allowing him to relax.

Summers paints a reasonable picture, and oddly, Damian finds himself feeling optimistic that he won’t be entering the school sticking out like a sore thumb. Not at all like his experience when starting Gotham Academy. 

As long as the other children leave him alone, there shouldn’t be any issues…

Damian pauses, a sudden, horrible thought striking him.

“Am I going to have a roommate?”

Summers doesn’t respond immediately.

“I’ve never shared a room with anyone before,” Damian says coldly, the barest traces of panic setting in. “Is it that the building is too small, doesn’t have enough wings? If so, perhaps—.”

“It’s a room for the weekends only. Are you sure you can’t share?”

“And be murdered in my sleep?” There is no way, ever, that Damian would be that vulnerable with anyone, ever. He hardly trusts Drake being in the same house as him sometimes, let alone strangers he’s meeting for the first time.

As a child, Damian learned the hard way, how easily people can take advantage of propinquity, especially in the dark. The amount of times he’s had to fight for his life upon first waking, prior to his time at the manor, and the cost of surviving those instances, it’s not exactly something Damian is comfortable with reliving.

“They’re kids— you aren’t going to be murdered, Damian.”

How enviably shortsighted Summers is.

“Barton insists that I am a child, so that means nothing to me. You have no idea how fierce and deadly children can be, Summers, if you’re trying to claim that I would be safe allowing them anywhere near my unconscious body.”

“I bet you can hold your own against them,” Summers says, and he’s smiling, like this is all funny to him.

“I can definitely take any number of them on,” Damian agrees with steel in his voice. “But my sleeping quarters should be a place to escape the mouth-breathing idiots that I’ll already be forced to be in proximity to!”

“Well, how about this, until your royal highness can find someone of your liking to bunk with, I’m open to the idea of sharing my room. Would that be better?”

Damian thinks for a moment. He still hates the concept, but perhaps if it's Summers, it wouldn’t be terrible. It’s also only for the weekends, and potentially, if Stark puts some money into the school, there is a chance he won’t have to worry about having any roommate. This, unfortunately, hinges on Stark being generous enough, and also on Xavier and Summers allowing it.

“I have a pull-out bed that you can use,” Summers says. “It’s pretty comfortable, but the springs are noisy, just as a warning.”

“…is it impossible to get a room of my own?”

“Unfortunately, it’s me or another kid,” Summers says, cracking a smile like he’s amused by Damian’s torment.

These are the man’s true colors.

Damian pulls out his little-used phone, the one Natasha made sure he had on him before they left for breakfast. It has the contact information of all the Avengers, and Damian wastes no time in texting Stark, only to stop typing mid-sentence.

He can’t trust Stark’s reaction, can’t rely on it. He tries to picture how his father would react.

Father would never put him in a situation like this though, but if it had to happen, he thinks that his father would ensure he had a room to himself. Privacy is deeply imperative to their work, but even more so, to the matter of their safety.

Would Stark understand that though?

Damian looks at Summers, frustrated, eyeing him. “Will you be a trustworthy ally?”

“Yes,” Summers says confidently. “I’m already a little fond of you, Damian.”

Huh?

“What do you mean by that?” Damian demands hotly.

Summers grins. “It means, I think you’re funny, and interesting. I also think you’d make for a trustworthy ally, too.”

Damian thinks that Summers is a freak. He thinks the Avengers are too, of course, because they’re all so similar. How are they all so freakishly nice? It doesn’t make any sense.

“You are too naive, Summers,” he says.

Damian begins to wonder if people are just less evil here, if this is just normal and he’s the weird one.

Summers just hums, not even bothering to deny it.

And Damian can’t stand the flippancy of it. “I’m not even trying to be funny, so why would you call me funny? Are you making fun of me?”

“No, definitely not,” he’s quick to say. “It’s your delivery. It’s so deadpan but fierce. And it’s like you got a chip on your shoulder, always on the defense even if no one is attacking. But because of that, you have a comeback for everything.”

“These all sound like insults.”

“It’s not. I imagine you’re the way you are for a lot of different reasons, and it’s part of what makes you powerful. What’s not to like?”

“You don’t even really know me,” Damian mutters, face hot.

He thinks, if Summers and the Avengers met him in his world, where he’s not at such a steep and obvious disadvantage, then they wouldn’t like him very much. They wouldn’t have any reason to like him, and Damian would most certainly hate them back.

That’s usually how it works, at least.

“Still doesn’t mean that we can’t be friends,” Summers says, and he’s so earnest about it.

Delusional, naive moron.

“I never said anything about friends. Being allies is sufficient enough.”

“For now,” Summers says. “Friends are good to have, Damian. Especially in this world, and being a mutant at that.”

It’s a sobering statement, one that has Damian thinking again back to the crux of his current issues at hand.

When he finally goes home, what will he be then?

“Alright, now a few quick things now that we’re almost there,” Summers is saying, brushing past the fact that Damian hasn’t replied. “Considering that you’ll be a weekender, you’ll be here for the days that the rest of the school is free from classes, but it’ll be sort of like class days for you. Beast will mostly be in charge of it, and you’ll have a better idea of your schedule once you talk to him. The main thing that you need to be aware of is that the kids you’ll be interacting with also live here, full time. They don’t get to leave like you do, and for a lot of them, that will make it harder to relate to you. So if you run into any trouble, call me. I gave you my number before, do you still have it?”

Damian nods.

“Good. We have a nice bunch, but these are kids wrestling with a lot of terrible things, so I have one favor to ask of you, and I will never ask of anything else. I need you to keep any mean comments to yourself, and Damian, I know you know what a mean comment is. Even if they say anything, be the bigger guy and come find me. We’ll get it sorted out.”

Damian scoffs. Summers wants him to snitch?

That’s definitely not happening. However:

“I will not intentionally antagonize any of the children,” he says solemnly. Now if they’re antagonistic towards him, that’s another story.

“Thank you,” Summers says, just as he drives the car up a long winding road, a large estate coming into sight. 

It’s a large three story Neoclassical mansion, and it’s roughly, if not a little smaller, than Wayne Manor. The front is outfitted with verdant green shrubs and trees, manicured to an optimal presentation, as well as sculptures and walkways that set a welcoming first impression. At least it’s not an eyesore.

While it’s not up to the same standards of the utter perfection of Alfred’s carefully planned and executed landscaping, it is passable.

Summers drives around the front, heading towards the residential parking lot, which turns out to be underground, as the garage door lifts.

Eventually, Summers parks the car, turns to him with a grin, and says, “Home, sweet home! Well, at least I hope it gets to feeling like home for you, eventually. Even if you’re only here two days out of the week.”

“Tell me, Summers, does perpetually living at a school ever feel like home?”

“If you’re a mutant without one, yeah. It sure does,” Summers tells him without missing a beat, popping open his car door and getting out.

Damian is quick to follow after.

“First order of business, getting you settled,” Summers says, grabbing Damian’s suitcase out of the trunk. “Then, finding Beast.”

Damian follows after Summers as he quickly gets moving, leading them to the elevators.

“Are you going to be blond the entire time you’re here?” Summers asks, pointing out the fact that Damian has yet to make any moves to shed his disguise.

To the question, Damian shrugs.

“Well, whatever floats your boat,” Summers says cheerfully.

Hearing that makes Damian pause.

“You can’t just build a boat and hope darkness magically sails away in it.”

“Why not? It’s my boat.”

“What’s wrong?” Summers asks, concerned at what he sees, and Damian shakes his head, schooling his features back to blankness. “Are you sure?”

Damian doesn’t want to say the words out loud. If he does, acknowledges them, then it would be too much, be too painful. But, truthfully, Damian misses his father. He misses his actual home. He wishes he weren’t here, at all. He wishes he could be—.

Summers puts a hand to his shoulder, and something in the contact and warmth is enough to startle Damian out of the bog of his thoughts.

Except, Summers is staring at him, scrutinizing him, a sort of deep concern marring the lines of his mouth.

“All good now?” Summers asks. “That was...”

Damian flushes, hating the attention as he shoves Summers’ hands off. “I’m perfectly fine. Now, take me to your quarters so that I may divest myself of this disguise.”

Summers’ mouth is set in a grim line, but he doesn’t argue, just nodding as the two leave the elevator and enter the school.

Chapter Text

Scott is certain that Damian had been exhibiting traits of his mutation—even with the ruby quartz filter of his sunglasses, he could tell that the universe hopping twelve year old’s eyes had been glowing. 

But with nothing around them being disturbed, no sign of what it could mean, Scott is left with plenty of questions, and no answers. More pressing than that is the worry he feels as he watches how quickly Damian wipes a look of utter despair off his face, shunting away any signs that he had ever felt disturbed.

Scott thinks he hadn’t realized he’d been showing it, and from the stiffness in the kid’s body, Scott gets the feeling that Damian hates the vulnerability of any of his private emotions being noticed. 

So, he can’t even ask, not yet.

Glowing eyes are a kind of obvious trait—he would know—but seeing as there isn’t an emergency present, Scott has to settle for making a mental note to text Natasha and ask if any of the Avengers have noticed it happening before. It’s hard to think that the answer would be no, because then that’d mean that Scott is the only one to have pushed Damian to the point of unconsciously using his abilities. And that can’t be right. Right?

God, of course, with his luck it would be him to do it.

He has a feeling it was something he said, but he doesn’t know exactly what it was that set him off. From what he can tell, it had been Scott asking about his disguise.

And really, maybe he shouldn’t have poked that bear. He didn’t realize how attached Damian is to protecting his private identity, but maybe that should have been more obvious, retrospectively.

Granted, the kid doesn’t appear that unnatural with his disguise. He has a haughtiness that suits the image of the rich kid he’s posing as. To the point that when he had first spotted him beside Natasha, Scott had done a double take at how seamless the three of them had looked together, Tony included. They’d appeared like the sort of family that from afar, you couldn’t imagine them ever having any association with mutants and aliens. 

It’s funny how dreadfully deceiving looks can be.

And, truthfully, Scott doesn’t think the rich kid getup suits Damian. For all that he’s observed of him, the boy assassin has been perpetually paranoid, willful and smart, much more than just the mere son of a rich man. 

Scott thinks back to when Damian had asked to be Tony’s kid, and how Tony had lamented at the way Damian had seemingly put all his cards on the table, outing his intentions to manipulate him, but Scott thinks that the reveal itself had done a number on the billionaire.

Tony might think he’s teaching the kid how to guard his cards, but Scott gets the feeling that Damian knew he made the right move by weaponizing his honesty, his weaknesses. Very clearly evidenced by how settled he’s come to be with the Avengers—a group Scott is still rather wary of, but is giving the grace to prove themselves as trustworthy.

The thing is, even Scott is taken in by Damian. He’s too interesting, his story too compelling. The kid is lamentably in dire circumstances, strange and ordinarily impossible, the type of trouble that the X-Men get themselves into, as well as the mutant kids that are just now coming into their abilities.

It’s a scary time, scarier when you have no one. Scott understands this intimately. He still remembers his time in the Sunset Home for Foundlings, as much as he would rather forget. He knows how isolating it can feel to be a kid with no attachments, how important having someone on your side can be—and also how easily manipulated a kid in such a position can be, by the people who would rather use that child’s needs to their advantage.

Damian is smart, Scott knows this, but he also can’t help but feel that the kid has a lot of blind spots, particularly towards his own wellbeing. He knows that he did, at that age.

Perhaps it’s sympathy, or maybe because Damian makes him think too much of himself at that age, but Scott thinks of the heroism he had exhibited as Robin and he cringes. Not because Damian had been terrible at what he did that day, but because he had been incredible.

How is he this skilled, as a preteen?  

Scott remembers being fourteen and feeling as if it was too much. Hell, he feels that way now, and he’s only twenty-two. He can’t even imagine being twelve and already having two years under his belt as a superhero. Without even having a mutation. 

Ultimately, Scott is aware of two crucial things: the kid needs allies, but he also needs friends. Scott is more than willing to be both.

Though the way Damian continues to warily side-eye him, it’s going to be a thorny path ahead of him in order to achieve that. But well, in Scott’s eyes, that’s more of a positive. Damian should be cautious. 

Scott wishes he had been.

“Could you inform me more of this Beast fellow that we’re about to meet?” Damian asks as Scott leads him towards his room, which is one of the larger spaces in the estate, enough to have a living room and built-in kitchenette.

It won’t be too much of a hassle having a roommate on the weekends, especially as it’s not even the first time Scott has had to share. There’s a reason the couch is a pullout.

Regardless, Scott smiles at Damian’s quest for information.

“Beast’s real name is actually Hank McCoy. I think you’ll like him. He’s crazy smart, highly educated and has multiple doctorates, mainly in genetics, physics, and chemistry, but there’s so many more. He’s also a really skilled engineer, and he can even pilot planes —so basically, Beast is the best of us all.”

Damian hums, appearing only mildly interested.

“You must normally be around a lot of impressive people,” Scott comments, noting his reaction.

At that, the kid meets his gaze more fully, no hint of hesitation at the fact that only a thin barrier is what’s keeping his face safe from Scott’s powers. It always makes him a little leery when people do that, squirming with the weird mix of trust that’s being exhibited but concern for their wellbeing, anxious by the mere chance that something could go terribly wrong. Scott doesn’t think he’ll ever stop feeling anxious about it.

Damian hardly looks like it crosses his mind at all, instead saying, “My grandfather is over half a millennia in years, owning more wealth than you could possibly conceive, with connections that would take decades to sniff out. My father is a billionaire descending from an old aristocratic family, who lives his nightlife protecting the citizens of our city against increasingly skilled and dangerous foes. My eldest brother is a world class gymnast, and—.”

“I, uh, get the point,” Scott cuts in, both intrigued by the information, but still reeling at the half a thousand year old grandfather. Several potential causes cross his mind, curses, powers, even wondering if there’s any similarities to Logan’s longevity, but ultimately, what he blurts is, “Wait, are you a vampire?”

Damian arches a brow, a look that says, ‘Are you an idiot?’ without him needing to say a thing.

“Just checking,” Scott immediately defends himself. “It’s a reasonable assumption.”

“No, it’s really not.”

Scott opens his mouth to respond, maybe to retort something in the hopes of being witty and rescuing his image, but a voice calls out before he can.

“Scott!”

Immediately, a sense of giddiness rises up in him.

“Jean,” Scott greets, turning to take in the breathtaking beauty of Jean Grey as she approaches them from down the hall.

She’s smiling, her sparkling green eyes trained on Scott before her gaze drops, spotting Damian. Her curiosity is evident in her expression, but she instead asks, “Are we still on for tonight?”

Scott nods, trying to keep his reaction cool and level-headed, despite the fact that her mere presence has him jittery. Thankfully, after enough effort and time, Scott’s mind can typically pass any inspection if she decides to probe, and Jean will stay none the wiser as he keeps his smile from growing too wide.

“Great!” Jean says cheerfully, and then inclines her head towards Damian. “And who’s this?”

“This is Damian Romanov—he’s a newly minted mutant. He’s going to be a weekender at the school,” he explains, remembering that Xavier wants the boy’s circumstances kept private, and knowing him, Damian would prefer that, too. Though it does pain him not to spill his guts to Jean. It’s not often that he keeps things from her. Well, aside from his stupid, massive crush on her, which he thinks is only barely a secret from her at this point.

There’s so little you can keep hidden from a telepath for long, and Xavier probably has his own reasons for even attempting to keep Damian’s origins a secret from her. As far as he’s aware, Hank is the only other person who knows.

“Just a weekender?” Jean asks.

“It’s joint-custody,” Scott says wryly. “His mother is not one to trifle with his education, and thinks it’s best that she keep him with her during the week.”

Jean is even more surprised by this. “Xavier agreed to something like that? Damian’s mother must be pretty impressive for him to give way on such a young mutant’s safety.”

It’s still something of a surprise for Scott, too. Not because it isn’t unheard of, for Xavier to be more hands off with some mutants more than others, but because of how Xavier had initially handled the situation when Damian first came to this world. With the way that Xavier talks about it, even now, Damian is far from being out of notice, that there is something peculiar about him, that they should be wary of. 

But, Scott is not a mind-reader, much as he used to wish he was. Even after all these years, the way Xavier works is still mostly a mystery to him. 

Damian makes a noise of complaint, drawing their attention, then mutters, “I might as well be the safest kid in the world.”

At Jean’s questioning look, Scott jumps in. “He has so many uncles. Really well connected uncles. Like, uncles with military and government connections—.”

“Who cares about them? My mother is better than any one of them,” Damian says with obvious derision.

“Oh,” Jean says, baffled. “Alright, then. Well… welcome to the school!”

“My thanks,” Damian murmurs coolly.

His response seems to baffle Jean further, her brows crinkling as she stares at Damian in confusion. It’s hardly a second later when her back stiffens, her surprise evident.

It’s about then that Scott’s stomach sinks, sensing a change in the air.

“Give it up, telepath,” Damian grounds out, and a chill spreads through Scott’s body, stunned by the killing intent emanating from the twelve year old. Not to mention the wrath in his eyes.

Scott’s never seen anyone that young have such an expression. He’s hardly seen an adult with such an intense look of malice, and if looks could kill…

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Damian’s not any normal child, and only now is that feeling like a disastrous mistake to make.

“Sorry, it’s… habit,” Jean says vaguely, but sounding like her mind is elsewhere, lost in thought, her brows wrinkled. She’s gone pale, too, vaguely green in the way that makes her look nauseated.

Scott immediately reaches a hand out to her shoulder, to help steady her, to which he receives a grateful albeit hesitant smile. Warily, he looks at Damian, who meets his gaze with hot anger in his eyes.

“Xavier already took a dive in my memories, I’m not letting anyone else help themselves to them,” Damian states firmly, defensively.

“I really am sorry,” Jean says, and while she sounds sincere, Scott knows her well enough to know that she’s mostly apologizing to be polite. By now Scott knows how implausible it is for a telepath to not read minds—in the past they had fought about it, before Scott developed the techniques to keep Jean at bay. But if she wanted to, Scott knows even his barriers wouldn’t keep her out, and if she really wanted to, he might not even notice it.

Luckily, her words seem to smooth Damian’s ruffled feathers as he nods, still stern, but not nearly as visibly homicidal as he had been just moments before.

“Your apology is accepted this time,” he magnanimously says to her, somehow creating the effect of looking down his nose at her despite the gap in their heights.

Jean winces—it can’t feel good to be at this end of a conversation with such an obstinate kid, but despite how Damian has addressed the situation, Scott’s conflicted with thinking Jean shouldn’t have used her powers on Damian, but knowing why she did, and also understanding just why he would be so upset to have someone attempt to invade his head.

Which makes Scott belatedly realize, Damian knows how to handle telepathy. Someone in his life prior has taught him how to, or he’s had enough experience around telepaths that, like Scott, he’s developed his own resistance to it. Because it can’t be a new ability accessed by his mutation, not by the behavior Damian is exhibiting.

Just how many talents and skills does this kid have?

“Thanks,” Jean says, awkwardly. She looks to Scott, adding, “I’ll see you tonight, then. And I’ll, uh, let you two boys get to where you’re headed.”

“See you,” Scott murmurs, watching her leave the direction they came from, probably about to head into the city for some sort of errand.

As soon as she’s out of sight, Scott turns to Damian, grimacing.

“Yeah, you’re going to have to be way more chill than that, buddy.”

“I was being chill,” Damian mutters, scowling. “In the past, for the same transgression, I would have pressed a blade to her throat. I would have even cut it.”

Huh?

“Er, Damian, I think we’re going to have to work on some conflict resolution skills, like how to find equivocal responses to things. You still didn’t have to threaten her like that.”

“How is that not equivocal? She was attempting to invade my mind.”

“It’s just not—.”

“You’re right, equivocal would be a knife in her skull.”

“Damian!”

Scott’s shouting, which has startled even himself, seems to do the trick, and it makes the stark horror at Damian’s words quickly sour to regret as he watches the angry, discontent expression on the boy’s face shutter before his entire demeanor is different; first, a calculatedly blank expression that then quickly shifts to reluctant remorse.

It’s the sort of code switching someone used to being yelled at would excel in.

“I went too far with my words, Summers,” he says, then adds, an odd hurt in his voice, “but regardless of your infatuation with that woman, you should still be able to acknowledge that she shouldn’t take advantage of her abilities like that. Sounds like a bad habit of hers to me.”

Scott feels the fight in him deflate. “You’re right. I’ll talk to her about it.”

Damian looks momentarily surprised, before his mouth sets into a grim line.

“I mean it,” Scott swears.

“Summers, I’m here only at the insistence of the professor, not because I have to be here, but as a test of faith that the X-Men would render me aid in the event that my new unestablished abilities threaten the safety of myself and those around me. But I can leave at any time,” Damian declares, taking a step forward, looking exactly like all the things he’s always insisted he is, and yet somehow all the things he denies he is, too.

Scott feels, despite everything that has just transpired, his respect for Damian cement, but so does his worry for him as well.

“I will leave,” the boy continues, “should I come to see that there are attempts to manipulate, examine, or test aspects of my mind and body that I haven’t consented to. Do you understand me?”

“I do,” Scott says firmly. “And you have a promise from me. I know you don’t know what a promise from me is, how trustworthy it is, but you have it regardless. If anyone, and I mean anyone, attempts to do any of those things, you can trust that I will deal with them, that you don’t have to handle it on your own.”

“Does anyone also include if that woman does it? I’ve forgiven her this time, but if it happens again…”

Scott sighs. Jean really is a weak spot for him, but truly, regardless of that, there are certain boundaries that he believes shouldn’t be tested. Such as using a telepathic ability on a twelve year old boy—even if it’s not so simple as that.

The unfortunate reality of it is that those with telepathic abilities almost inherently view privacy differently than those without. Especially strong telepaths like Jean, who glean things even without focus or trying. It’s like having an extra sense, and how can you avoid using a sense?

Jean has attempted to explain it to him, but he only vaguely gets it. She has apologized more times than he can count, especially when they were younger, and for all the times that he’s been pissed at her being in his head when he’d like to he alone, Scott can still recognize how alienating it must feel to have a part of you that’s so intrinsic be so hard to control.

How Scott sees it, Jean should have been more careful, more intentional about her focus, in the way she’s trained herself to be, out of respect for others. Damian is within his rights to feel the way he does, of course, but Scott also knows Jean.

“It sounds flimsy, I know, but I’ve grown up with her. I know she didn’t mean harm, but you don’t know that, and you’re right. I’m not saying this to negate that, but it’s different for Jean. Her abilities are too strong for her to always control, she picks up on things just by entering a room, it’s a sense for her. Like touch. Can you turn off your sense of touch?”

Scott sees the doubt remain in Damian’s eyes.

“Maybe so, Summers. But it felt intentional when she did it to me,” Damian says.

“Do you have a lot of experience around telepaths? Your resistance makes me think you do.”

Damian shakes his head. “Not much, but Mother ensured I would know how to handle any mind tricks that might befall me. Human measures, of course. A great deal of it is psychological, not so much an ability that makes me impervious. If the foe is too strong, like that woman, obviously they will still break through.”

“Jean broke through?”

“Yes. But I showed her,” Damian grumbles. “She’ll fear ever entering my mind again, I can promise you that, Summers.”

“Uh… sometimes you scare me, kid.”

Damian smirks, eyes bright behind his fake glasses. “Good.”

.

.

By the time Damian has gotten changed, and the pull-out bed set up with sheets and blankets—preparations for tonight—he’s still feeling out of sorts once Summers finally walks with him towards Dr. McCoy’s facilities, even as they take the long route to help introduce Damian to his new surroundings.

It’s a valiant effort on Summers’ part in making it an easy transition, but hardly necessary. It’s not as if there’s anything here that will be able to overwhelm him, as Summers seems to fear.

Regardless, on their way, Damian sees a great deal of new faces in the halls and open door rooms, life teeming in every direction as children of all ages meander to and fro, friends chattering and laughing, ducking around corners and in and out of rooms. When they see Summers, though, they all stop briefly to greet him with beaming smiles. They have various ways to refer to him, ‘Mr. C’, ‘Cyclops’, or ‘Scott’ being the most common.

It’s painfully unprofessional.

Damian side-eyes Summers. “Aren’t you a teacher here?”

Summers has the gall to look proud. “Yes. I teach math, and strategy.”

Damian’s expectations for the education he might receive in this place plummet.

“Hey, don’t look so disappointed! I’ll have you know I have a bachelors in education. Which I know pales in comparison to Hank, but I do have an idea of what l’m doing as an educator. Plus, it’s a hard balancing act—leader of the X-Men, teacher at Xavier’s school, my own personal life…”

At Damian’s unimpressed look, Summers adds, “Let’s just say, that once you get to be my age, I’d like to see how many degrees you have.”

“I have the equivalent experience of a doctoral degree in Economics, Physics and Statistics. I have experience in mechanical engineering, as I’ve assisted my father in his endeavors, both as Robin, and as his son. I speak six languages fluently, and dozens more intermediately. I’m trained in all forms of combat, including over ten styles of martial arts. I can use just about any weapon you give me, but I have a particular specialty in swordsmanship. I’m a trained computer scientist and security hacker, as well as extensively trained in the matter of forensics, criminology, disguise, and escapology. Not to mention, I am also vastly familiar with the arts, music and—.”

“I get it!” Summers cuts in, overwhelmed, hand going up, looking pained. “It all sounds very incredible, and I think Hank is going to love you.”

“Tt.” Damian couldn’t care less what Dr. McCoy thinks of him.

Although, based on photos that he’s seen of the man, and also his apt pseudonym, Damian is curious about him, maybe even looking forward to what their first interaction will bring, especially as they get closer to the science department.

But then, Damian feels a bit strange to be looking forward to something. In this world, he should be doing nothing but looking for a way home—the answer could be right in front of him, and yet here he is, far from Stark and the blank blueprints that he should be working on. 

It’s hard to escape the sense of urgency that has persisted in his mind for the past week, hard not to see what a waste of time all of this is. But he has given his word, and so here he is, allowing himself to be inducted into the mutant fold, as if he is bound to be settling in for any stretch of time.

Yet despite it, he also can’t mentally prepare for such a future at all. He has to get home. How is this the path to get there? Shouldn’t there be a better, more obvious route? But then, Damian hardly knows what the path is meant to look like, and in that vein of thought, he feels like he’s being blind to something very obvious.

Eventually, in the midst of his thoughts, Summers has led him to a large double-doored entrance, popping one of them open and then ushering Damian inside.

He quickly catalogues his environment, taking in the typical clinical feel of a lab, the stark white walls, the phenolic resin tables, beakers, chemicals and various other types of instruments and equipment that are, by a glance alone, expertly stowed and sorted. It stands in contrast to Stark’s personal labs, where everything there is scattered and organized purely by Stark’s memory of where he last left things, matched with the frenetic energy of the rock music blaring in the background as he works on his projects.

There is much to be gathered about a person by the way they keep their space. Dr. McCoy, so far, appears to be an adequate savant of the sciences.

Damian finds himself tensing as he spots a hunched figure that straightens out to be a large, massive dark-blue man bearing thick tufts of blue hair around his jaw. With one look, it’s very obvious how Dr. McCoy came to be known under the epithet of Beast, especially so by the heavy scowl on his face that only slightly relaxes as he lays his eyes on Damian. Despite his stern expression and otherwise domineering appearance, it’s not intimidating to be under his gaze as there is a notable intelligence in his eyes, his gaze more of a calculating and curious sort.

It almost reminds him of Father, oddly enough. In the sense that…

“Ah, you must be Robin.”

Damian feels his cheeks get hot as he scolds himself inwardly. Not everyone in this world has a counterpart to his world. His constant seeking of the familiar in these unfamiliar faces... he knows better not to, as what purpose does it serve other than to bastardize the people he wishes  they actually were?

“Officially, Damian Romanov,” Summers says, introducing him, hand placed on his right shoulder.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Damian,” Dr. McCoy directly speaks to him, a smile gracing his face, his stern features giving way to a gentleness that Damian wouldn’t think him capable of.

It immediately sets him on edge, always leery when greeted by kindness.

“Dr. McCoy,” Damian murmurs neutrally.

“How was the trip over here?”

“Fine,” he says before deciding to keep the idle conversation short, bluntly stating, “Summers told me that you might be able to help me understand my mutation better.”

Dr. McCoy nods. “As I’ve been told, the impression is that you have a regenerative ability.”

“Yes.”

“We can clarify the distinctions of that ability, if you’d like.”

Damian stares at the man warily. “What would that entail?”

“Oh, just some light investigation,” he says, and looks to Summers, before returning his gaze to Damian. “We can move from the lab into my office. There’s no need for any physical examination just yet.”

Vaguely ominous choice of words.

“How invasive is your definition of a physical examination?” Damian asks, suspicious, unable to forget the fact that no matter how seemingly nice, Summers is still a stranger and can’t be relied on if Dr. McCoy is to turn out to be more rogue-like than cape-like.

Except, Dr. McCoy sort of… laughs, a creaky, chuffing sound that confuses Damian.

“Hardly invasive,” he says, stepping away from the table and the work he’d been hunched over, and waving them towards an open door.

His office is a little less ordered than the lab is, with mounds of haphazard papers on his desk, thick books stacked in front of the filled to the brim bookshelves that line the walls. A filing cabinet in the corner has bins of folders on top, fit to burst with the amount of papers filed away. There are minimal personal decorations scattered throughout the office, not enough to glean much into his personal life, but just enough to speculate about his past.

Dr. McCoy gestures to the chairs in front of his desk as he sits in his, Damian and Summers following suit.

“Now, starting off, when did you first discover this ability of regeneration?”

“In a shower,” Damian answers honestly, having already decided on this course of action. “I have... used to have a great deal of scars on my body. They’re all mostly gone now, as are the side effects of old wounds, such as a knee injury I took on in my youth.”

Dr. McCoy nods. “Sounds retroactive. Wounds prior to your mutation are brought back to their original state... At what speed is it occurring?”

“It’s not instantaneous,” Damian murmurs. “Depending on when it can be judged that I mutated, it took days before I even noticed. It would, obviously, be conjecture to assume that the speed was influenced by other factors, but I did wonder if it was slowed by the sheer number of old injuries that were being healed.”

“Well, that is a distinction we should assess. Healing over time, or regeneration over time. The two are quite different, even if the outcomes are similar.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Healing is the natural process by which the body recovers from injuries. As a mutant, rather than regeneration, it would be more sufficient to say that the baseline of your body’s natural mending process is faster. Regeneration, however, is the process of restoring what has been lost, or damaged— growth where something has been lost, as opposed to repair.”

“So, it would be more apt to describe my mutation as a healing mutation,” Damian summarizes.

“It could also be both, actually. One does not rule out the other. For instance, Wolverine is a prime example of when both work in perfect tandem.”

“Hm.”

“I suspect there is minimal regeneration occurring alongside your body’s ability to mend itself. You mentioned an old knee injury. Were there any other major injuries that left a lasting impact on your health that have since gone away?”

Damian shrugs. He used to have constant aches and twinges throughout most of his body, and with all he’s accomplished in his short life, it would be difficult to narrow it down to just a few injuries being the cause of it.

“Is it safe to assume that your body has recovered from them all by this point? Even such injuries that would normally have lasted a lifetime?”

“It’s conjecture to assume that they would have lasted a lifetime,” Damian grumbles. “But it is correct to say that I feel no pain that normally would have been chronic.”

Dr. McCoy nods. “There is much that a normal human body can accomplish on its own, as far as healing itself. But without a regenerative ability, there is also a great deal that cannot be made possible, such as recovering from paralysis and the stubborn existence of scars, marks that are reputably known for never fully going away.”

“So, because even my scars are gone...”

“It would be better to refer to it as a regenerative healing factor, similar to Wolverine’s. What you mentioned before, as well, what you referred to as conjecture—do you know how long it takes for scars to reach maturation? It ranges, of course, a few months to years, and even if it fades, even one scar takes time to form. For your body to purge itself of them in just a few days? Damian, it’s nothing short of a remarkable ability.”

It’s the perspective that Damian sorely needed to hear—he has been all too dismissive of his mutation, something he will, of course, rectify going forward.

“Will I be able to regrow limbs?” Damian asks, genuinely interested in the concept.

Dr. McCoy gives him a wary look. “Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to find that out on your own.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Damian grumbles. “Nor am I a masochist.”

“Keep it that way,” Dr. McCoy says sternly. “We have too many masochists running around as is.”

“I only asked a question,” he reminds him stubbornly, not liking the immediate lecture. “It’s not like I took a knife and chopped a finger off.”

“But you thought of it.”

“Tt.”

If thoughts alone are worthy of a lecture, Damian isn’t sure how long he’ll last here.

“I’m overly cautious for a reason, Damian. New mutants often recklessly experiment with their abilities, resulting in injury to themselves and others. It’s important that you aren’t hasty to gather answers to your questions. There will be a time and place where more information will be gathered, but it will be done in stages. Your safety, above all, is the most important.”

If Damian had ever thought in the past that his family worried too much, it seems to pale in comparison to the people he keeps meeting in this world. Just what about him makes them so preemptively worried? He hasn’t even attempted to test the line, practically on the best behavior he’s ever exhibited, and yet they’re all looking at him as if he’s bound to jump head first into battle and get killed—which is ludicrous.

“Am I just here to be lectured?” Damian snarks. “Consider your warnings duly heeded, but unnecessary. I’m not a moron and I won’t be treated like one.”

“It’s not only morons that need advice sometimes,” Dr. McCoy says, unperturbed by Damian’s hostile tone. “In my practice, I’ve noticed it’s the smart ones I need to be more careful with.”

Damian crosses his arms over his chest. “Whatever. I’m more interested to know what else you had planned for me today. It can’t be just this, right?”

“Actually, we planned for today to roughly be just about introductions. The new environment can be overwhelming, and there’s a lot of people to meet. Thankfully, weekends are utilized mostly for recreation, so your experience will be vastly different from the norm, more at your pace.”

“As for any educational needs that we might be able to assist with, from what you’ve told me,” Scott jumps in, saying, “we would have to give you placement tests to gauge where you are, and go from there.”

“And if I don’t have any educational needs?”

“Your time here is for your development,” Dr. McCoy says firmly. “If education is not a need, we will narrow down what is.”

“As long as I get a say in what I do,” Damian cautions them. “I will not let anyone impose their will on me, even if the person claims that it’s for my own good. I can tolerate only so much of being treated like a child.”

Dr. McCoy and Summers share a look between each other.

“Duly noted,” Dr. McCoy finally says after a beat of silence, a smile on his face that reveals more of his fangs.

“Then, I presume we have an understanding,” Damian murmurs, repressing his irritation in favor of keeping the atmosphere cordial. More for his sake than theirs.

“Of course, Damian,” Dr. McCoy agrees. “None of us are attempting to infringe on any of your rights.”

Damian definitely doesn’t believe him at face-value, but with a sigh, he decides that it’s pointless to fight with them now. Rather, he shifts in his seat and asks, “If you don’t intend to conduct a physical assessment today, when will I be allowed free reign in this institution? Or do I need to expect a chaperone while I’m here?”

“As long as you feel comfortable on your own, you’re free to go where you want, with notable exceptions being personal rooms without invitation, and any restricted areas, such as locked rooms, or doors with keep out signs.”

Damian recrosses his arms, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“We’ll conduct a physical exam tomorrow,” Dr. McCoy continues, either missing or ignoring Damian’s disrespect. “Other than that, did you have any questions that I might be able to answer now before I let you go to familiarize yourself with the school?”

Damian considers what he may ask, but finds he isn’t exactly compelled to, not at first. There’s nothing currently coming to mind that isn’t something he can’t just inquire about later, or something he cares deeply enough about that would make asking imperative. What does any of it actually matter to him?

It’s hard not to feel… disconnected from it, from the prospect of meeting and getting to know all of these new people that he’s come to be surrounded by. The Avengers are necessary blocks he’s placed to get him home, but the X-Men, the other mutants, just what purpose do they serve?

How is he actually being helped by being here?

If he could just go home…

“Is there a mutation that allows people to travel to different universes?” Damian asks, more earnest than he intends it to sound. He clears his throat, and then, more gruffly, adds, “They explained to you that I’m not from this universe originally, correct?”

“They did,” Dr. McCoy confirms, but the apologetic look in his eyes paints a grim picture. “There’s many mutations that exist, some that we haven’t come across before, so it’s not impossible, Damian. But an ability to cross into another universe, into multiverses, it’s not something we know of a person having yet. That being said, there are individuals that are able to create portals into other dimensions, subdimensions that are not like our world, as well as people that are able to teleport. So, in other words, eventually, there may be a day that someone manages to develop their abilities to the point that would be of assistance to you.”

“But that day is not today.”

Dr. McCoy shakes his head.

For a moment, Damian sits with the disappointment, as stupid as it is that he feels it to begin with. After all, he knew they couldn’t help him get home. Summers would have mentioned the possibility before, wouldn’t he?

He glances at the man, who’s looking at him with an unreadable expression. He still thinks Summers would have said something about it, if there were a chance. Damian hates the optimism, but relents to the impression the man has given him since the moment they first met.

It makes it a bit easier to set the disappointment aside, recognizing the fruitlessness in it.

But now, with the feeling of a door being shut in his face, Damian can’t be idle anymore, his body feeling especially restless now that he’s gotten such an anticlimactic answer, all the drive and motivation to get home having nothing to be channeled into.

Is he giving up too easily?

Damian stands. There must be something he can still do, it can’t just be a dead end. Even Dr. McCoy said so, there’s still a chance—

“Could I know the names of the mutants whose abilities might develop?”

Dr. McCoy looks aggrieved, like he already knows Damian’s train of thought. “For the sake of protecting their identities, no.”

“Tt.”

That’s alright. Damian isn’t the son of a detective for no reason.

He’ll find those names. He’ll find those mutants, and if he has to train every single one of them to their fullest potential, or even beyond it, if it’s a method that can be faster than his angle with Stark, then he has to do it.

He can’t leave any stone unturned. Or, rather, he won’t.

Chapter Text

Laurie hates weekends. At least during the week she has classes to keep her busy. It’s easier to ignore the fact that even a month into attending her new school, she still doesn’t have any friends. If she was weird before, she’s somehow weirder here—which is honestly a feat, being that it’s a school for mutants. 

In a place where everyone has something that sets them apart, whether it’s their looks or abilities, Laurie still somehow stands out but only in the way of being… irritating. Her abilities are a nuisance, a distraction, maybe even something… awful. Her roommate thinks so, and, well, soon she thinks she won’t even be able to call her a roommate. It’s only a matter of time before the school’s faculty decides to change what clearly isn’t working.

Angela hates her. Well, she loves her, then she hates her. Laurie gets it. That’s the hard part; Laurie understands why the people around her don’t want to be around her. If she were rooming with someone that has an empathetic pheromone ability to control emotions, but without the ability to control it, she would be pretty skeeved, too.

It’s why she’s better off alone, regardless of what her mom says. Laurie doesn’t want to change people’s emotions, especially not to the point where she can’t know the truth of what they’re really feeling. As it is now, she can’t consider any of the relationships formed under the current conditions as genuine.

She had thirteen good years without this stupid mutation, but her mom knew well enough to prepare her for it in advance, just in case she took after her father. Her father who’d used his own pheromone ability to take advantage of her mom, before the pregnancy made her immune. Gail Collins has never been the kind of mother that babies her daughter, never hiding the truth. There’s a deep love there, and it’s protective, but it’s not to the point of coddling or sheltering her. If anything, Laurie was exposed early on to the harshness of life. 

When you’re born from something terrible, it’s almost like being born intrinsically knowing that people aren’t inherently good, and will do awful things out of greed. Life then becomes about navigating just how awful people can get. And when you add on top of it, an ability that changes people’s emotions? It’s a golden ticket to wind up on top of the food chain, to get whatever it is she could possibly want, forcibly. The temptation to do bad things with a power that heedy is the type of thing her mom has been instilling in Laurie not to fall to.

She doesn’t want to turn out like her dad, does she? It’s a very old question that Laurie has always asked herself.

So, really, Laurie understands how awful her ability is. She’s spent her entire life praying she wouldn’t mutate. She’s second generation, but it’s not always that the kid mutates, even with the X-gene. Unfortunately, she did, and because of it, her mom decided to uproot both of their lives and come to New York. Seeking a security net that Laurie can’t help but be skeptical of still.

Her mom insists on Laurie staying at the school, to build friendships, out of some bizarre false hope — except Gail now lives in Salem Center, in a little hamlet in Winchester County, and it’s so close. Tauntingly so. 

Laurie wishes her mom would just let her come home, even if only on the weekends, because weekends are the worst at Xavier’s. Maybe not for the other kids, the ones who have friends to play with. Well, ‘play with’ is so juvenile, and Laurie is thirteen, a teenager , so maybe she should consider it as ‘hanging out’. 

Except, as she sits beneath a tree, pretending to draw, Laurie looks out at the rest of the courtyard and can’t help but think of it as playing, seeing only how much fun everyone seems to be having. Mutants are a lot more rambunctious, creative, and, frankly, more talented than ‘normal’ kids. The mutations they all have make for an endlessly diverse student body, and the types of antics they get up to reflect that.

She’s watched several of the groups come up with and play exciting games, keeping each other endlessly entertained, their laughter and shrieks hard to look away from. The teachers will sometimes join, too, and then everyone really starts having fun, because everyone wants to see the X-Men letting loose, demonstrating a more ludic charm to their infamous abilities.

All the while though, Laurie’s just… watching.

The more painful aspect of it is that Laurie isn’t a loner due to being left out by the others. No, in the beginning, everyone really liked her, greeting her, asking her all about her life, asking to hang out, joining her for lunch, including her in jokes—but at a certain point, Laurie could see that the kids in her classes were just reflecting her own emotions back.

It had been her eagerness that made them approach her, her loneliness that made them stay with her. None of the interest they had in her was real, and she could tell because, when she was out of the picture, amongst their real friends, they were completely different people than the eager, ready-to-please teenagers she thought she was getting to know.

That’s the tricky part with her powers. Sometimes, she doesn’t even realize she’s doing something, doesn’t know she’s using them, and then it’s like a bad joke being repeated, over and over, at her expense.

If she can’t know what’s real, what’s the point?

It’s better for others if she’s alone, and this has proven to be true, a month later—despite what others have attempted to say to her, she knows she’s right. Frankly, she’s not interested in what Professor Xavier, or Mr. Summers has to say about it. Even Miss Grey, who had been the easiest to talk to. All the teachers have attempted something to get her out of her ‘shell’.

She’s told that control comes with use of her abilities, but she’s yet to see any proof of that in her case. There’s lots of mutations that can’t be controlled, and Laurie has the suspicion that hers is one of them.

She bets that her father never even attempted to control his powers in any other way but to use them however he liked. From how strong her ability can be, she imagines that he never had to try very hard to get his way with anything. She imagines how awful it would be to be around him.

Laurie sighs, gaze on her drawing pad. She’s not even that artistically inclined, truthfully. It’s just something to do, putting lines on paper and scribbling the vague impressions of the scene in front of her. She idly draws the other children and the games they play, because she doesn’t have the imagination to come up with anything from scratch.

It’s when she’s scribbling a fist connecting with a face, however, that causes Laurie’s brain to short circuit.

Laurie looks up again at the scene in front of her, this time with dismay, witnessing a small kid getting blasted by a bright green telekinetic force by none other than Julian Keller.

The crowd of kids on the field each let loose their own gasps of surprise, some shouting for him to stop, others shouting in encouragement. Fighting is not really that unusual, actually, as so many of their classes focus on developing their defensive and offensive capabilities, but what is surprising is the sudden nature of it.

Julian, who’s perhaps the most hot-headed kid in the school, is fairly quick to get into fights. He’ll brawl with anyone, but... he typically shows more restraint.

Laurie can’t help but pity the kid who got hit as she watches him sit up, grim-faced, nose bleeding. He spits out blood into the grass before rising without any struggle, as if the blast he’d just taken meant nothing to him at all, despite the obvious damage he’s taken.

“What are you going to do next, huh?” Julian asks, egging him on, the grin on his face almost gleeful. “You thought you could just threaten Miss Grey and get away with it?”

“You weren’t the child I sensed,” the kid says, and the look on his face is strange to Laurie, who can’t read what it means. It’s almost... ambivalent, as if he couldn’t care less about being attacked and yelled at by Julian.

Although... threatening Miss Grey? The Miss Grey?

“Yeah, it wasn’t me, and you’re lucky I wasn’t around to kick your ass!” Julian steps closer to the new kid. “Why were you with Mr. Summers? Did he bring you to this place?”

The kid tuts. “Only one astute observation, and it’s framed as a question. The education of this institution continues to amaze me. Especially, if you’re any indication of acceptable standards. I almost pity the children of this school.”

“So you think you’re better than me? Than all of us?” Julian scoffs, readying another telekinetic blast, palm green, his expression furious.

“I know I’m better,” the kid says, in a way that it’s almost not even a brag, as casual as if he’s addressing the weather instead of inciting a school of mutant children.

“Oh, yeah? Well, eat this!” Julian cries, sending out another blast—that doesn’t hit the target. Destroyed terrain where the mystery kid had just been standing is all that remains. Laurie almost thinks he disappeared, but it’s not even a full second later, when she witnesses a masterclass takedown so fast that all she recognizes is that it’s some form of martial arts that Wolverine must have gone over in one of his classes.

It’s so clean, each movement calculated and necessary, nothing extra. Textbook. Detached. Cold.

Julian goes down with a groan, his face pressed into the ground, boot on his exposed cheek, his arms caged together behind his back, the kid holding them closed with a tight grip, eyes steely.

“I thought this place taught control. But you have none,” the kid says with obvious disgust. “No discipline, and you can’t even react fast enough to save yourself. Or do you have no concept of how to defend yourself?”

“Get off of him, asshole!” Santo Vacarro, one of Julian’s friends, cries out, and charges forward, intending to pummel the intruding kid with his bulky size and rough, rock-like exterior.

Instead of pummeling, however, he trips over Julian, who groans loudly at the sudden additional weight, the kid having moved away too quickly for anybody to discern in time. It’s like teleportation except... he’s definitely not teleporting.

He stands, looking above the fallen Santo and the defeated Julian, hip cocked, arms crossed.

“Well? I got off of him. What now, rock-for-brains?”

“ Damian!”

Everyone jolts. Laurie even gulps, the sound of Mr. Summers' anger in his voice stunning her as she watches the leader of the X-Men march towards them.

Damian doesn’t look intimidated in the least, looking expectantly at Mr. Summers. Like any resulting tongue-lashing will be beneath him.

“I thought we talked about this, that we had an understanding,” he says, tone stern, striding up to Damian, but his anger melts fast as he takes in the blood on Damian’s face, the very visible nose bleed, and already purpling bruises on his face. “What happened?”

“He attacked me,” Damian says, pointing towards Julian. “Someone told him of my interaction with that telepath. I assume he intended to defend her honor.”

“How did someone tell him?” Mr. Summers’ confusion is more in his voice than his face.

Mr. Summers is nice and all, but because of his necessary red sunglasses hiding his eyes, it’s sometimes hard to tell what he’s really thinking. He’s more intimidating than the other X-Men, in Laurie’s opinion, evidenced by the way his jaw is set. She can’t tell if he’s more angry or more concerned, just that he’s very unhappy.

“We were seen, obviously. Or the telepath complained. Whatever the case, it’s unimportant,” Damian says dismissively. “Summers, our agreement did not include not defending myself, and so I did just that. I did not use excessive force. I was absolutely chill , and I believe that I mete out an equivocal response to his attack. I practically pampered these two imbeciles.”

“I... see,” Mr. Summers says, like he's at a loss for words.

“Are you still displeased with me?”

“I wasn’t displeased—.”

“You were angry. I was already being blamed as soon as you saw me.”

“From afar—.”

“You didn’t wait until you were up close.”

Mr. Summers sighs, more exasperated than she’s ever seen him before. “You’re upset with me.”

Damian’s silence is very telling, and it results in another sigh.

“Mr. Summers, who is he?” a brave voice calls out, and Laurie looks over to see that it’s Cessily Kincaid, another of Julian’s friends. She’s already gone over to help Santo and Julian in detangling and sitting up right, assessing them for injuries.

Damian looks at Cessily directly, the bruises on his face having gone from purple to yellow. “I am… Damian Romanov, here at the behest of Professor Xavier.” He says it with great pride, his shoulders sticking up, his chest puffed.

“He’ll attend this school on the weekends,” Mr. Summers explains, directed more towards the gathered crowd.

The news sends murmurs throughout the student body, at the weirdness of it. It’s not a typical situation by any means. Kids that attend the school are either homed here or at the very least here on weekdays.

Suddenly, Laurie has a foreboding feeling for Damian, who’s experience at Xavier’s will only be the weekends. From the looks of it, he’s not going to fare any better than she does.

“What, is he too good to stick around during the week?” Julian is asking, glaring at Damian. “What’s the point in having him around at all if he isn’t a real student!”

“Julian.”

All it takes is that, and Julian is gnashing his teeth and looking away, cowed by the tone in Mr. Summers’ voice. It’s his leadership tone, the one that gets even the most challenging of the X-Men to settle down.

“You know better than to use your abilities to hurt others,” Mr. Summers says, disappointment making his voice rumble.

“Well, he shouldn’t have threatened Miss Grey!”

“Your Miss Grey was in the wrong,” Damian says coldly. “She attempted to delve where she didn’t belong, and she got off lightly.”

Mr. Summers pinches his nose, like a bad headache is forming.

“Do you hear that? He deserved it! How could he talk about Miss Grey like that!?”

“Jean can fight her own battles, Julian. It’s not something you should have involved yourself in.”

“I’m leaving,” Damian declares, cutting in, and it’s jarring, the way he says it, so decisive and determined.

Mr. Summers seems to interpret it the same way they all do, his face blanching.

“You just got here.”

“I have seen enough, heard enough. I agreed to come for one thing, and one thing only, to learn control over my newly formed abilities out of an over abundance of caution. Evidently, this isn’t the place for that. From students, to even teachers, control seems to be a critical failure at this institution.”

Laurie can’t help but feel a jab in her heart by the statement. She’s one of them, after all. 

“Damian, you’re looking at this from only one side. Julian is young, self control will come to him with time. Jean is another situation, but I told you I’d talk to her. Can’t you just stick around? It’s just a weekend—.”

“It is time given away to a useless pursuit! Summers, I can’t play pretend. My problems won’t be solved with me just waiting here, for a weekend to pass by, when it could be spent much more productively elsewhere.”

Mr. Summers seems at a loss again, and Laurie can't help her amazement at the sight. Mr. Summers always seems to know what to say, he’s the one everyone turns to when they don’t know what to do, aided by his optimism and mind for planning, somehow always having a direction to head in, to lead people towards.

It somehow says more about Damian, though, that he can stump Mr. Summers like this.

“I can arrange my own ride home, Summers,” Damian says, like an end to the conversation as he stalks off, heading in Laurie’s direction.

She holds back a squeak, clutching her drawing pad to her chest as he passes by her, not even sparing her a glance, trudging into the treeline. Laurie’s eyes go wide, however, as she takes in the mysterious kid’s features from the few seconds she’d been able to view it.

He’s handsome.

Mr. Summers sighs, catching her attention back as she quietly marvels over the impression of Damian’s green eyes. 

“Well, that could have gone better,” Mr. Summers says, his tone conveying his exhaustion much more than his face can.

“Just let him go,” Julian says bitterly, still rubbing at his sore arms. “We don’t need a guy like that around.”

Mr. Summers shakes his head. “He may not know it, but he needs us, and I intend to be there for him, just like I would for any of you.”

“He made it obvious that he couldn’t care less about you!”

“Julian, enough. I’m taking you to Xavier. Santo, you too.”

“Santo didn’t even do anything!”

“We’ll figure out the details with Xavier, now let’s go, boys.”

Laurie lets loose the breath she’s been holding, craning her neck in the direction that Damian had gone in, only just barely spotting the back of his head in the distance.

She’s… curious.

And she knows better not to be…

Quietly, Laurie stands, her mouth setting into a grim line before she follows after Damian.

He hasn’t gone very far, and he seems to sense her approach, swiveling to look at her. His brows are scrunched, his jaw tight, and his eyes glaring fiercely at her.

Laurie’s panic under his heavy gaze is immediate. “Sorry!”

“Tt.” Without using any words, Laurie gets the sense that she’s been called an idiot, his gaze conveying his annoyance.

She winces.

“I-I just wanted to see if… you were okay,” she settles on lamely, confused on how to describe the strange compulsion to check on him. She doesn’t even know where it has come from, just that once she saw his back, seen the way his head was lowered, she had already started moving towards him.

“Who are you?” he asks sharply.

“Laurie... Laurie Collins,” she murmurs, and then looks at the phone in Damian’s hands. “Will you have to wait a long time before someone comes to get you?”

The question is innocent, and rather casual. At least, Laurie thinks that to be the case, until she sees the stricken look on his face.

“No!”

Laurie jumps.

Her fear must be visible on her face, because Damian reels his emotions in, shaking his head, looking strangely uncertain. “No, I mean... I don’t know... I haven’t called anyone yet.”

Her heart is beating a mile a minute, but she takes a deep breath.

“Here,” Laurie says, holding out her drawing pad and pencil.

He stares at it.

“Take it. If you have to wait a long time, it will give you something to do...”

A very tense moment of silence passes, where all that can be heard is the wind whistling through the trees.

“You’re choosing to be kind to me,” he states gruffly, his eyes flickering from the pad to her eyes, searching her face for something.

“Something like that,” she murmurs, feeling her cheeks get hot from the embarrassment.

“Why?”

Laurie, who hasn’t spoken much to anyone in her time here, who hasn’t spoken much to anyone at all since she mutated, just isn’t all that eloquent. Thus, where her words fail her, when she can’t choke out even a mutilated reply, her body responds for her. She shrugs.

The non-answer seems to be enough as he reaches out for the drawing pad and pencil, holding them in front of him as he studies the page she had been doodling on.

“Is your mutation a form of projection?” Damian asks suddenly, his expression thoughtful now, the earlier anger easing away, softening the lines of his face. He looks much younger now than Laurie initially thought. Where before she could almost peg him to be older, now, it’s like looking at a regular boy her age.

“W-what do you mean?” Laurie asks, anxious.

“The fear that I felt when you got closer. The worry... I know none of it is mine.”

Laurie’s eyes go wide. “Not yours? You know... that it’s from me?”

Damian stares at her like she’s an idiot, and it’s enough to make her cringe back. “So, what is it? Your mutation?”

She looks at him, guilty. “I’m sorry. I can’t control it... I’m... sorry.”

He doesn’t keep his annoyance off his face, showing it very clearly. “I didn’t demand any sort of recompense. I asked what your ability is.”

Laurie sorely regrets having come to talk to him. She knows better .

“It’s called Empathic Pherokinesis,” Laurie finally tells him after his heavy gaze refuses to budge. More painfully, as if she’s admitting to a horrible secret, she adds, “My pheromones... can change people’s emotions.”

“Well, it feels more like your emotions control you,” Damian notes, unimpressed. “What steps have the faculty of this place taken to make you have more control of yourself? How long have you been here?”

Laurie shakes her head. “I don’t know if there is controlling my ability. Some mutations are like that.”

Damian shakes his head. “No. There is. Because emotions can be controlled. If it’s your emotional responses to things activating your ability, then that is where your focus must be, in controlling yourself. But I bet none of your teachers have even thought of it that way.”

“Maybe because it would be weird to?” Laurie mumbles, feeling upset for the faculty who have been nothing but kind to her. “I haven’t been here long, and I haven’t been exactly easy to… teach.”

Not to mention, there’s a lot of kids at the school these days, and more just keep showing up. Laurie thinks that the X-Men already have their hands full with saving people’s lives every other day, she can’t imagine adding teaching at a school on top of it.

“He who controls others may be powerful, but he who has mastered himself is mightier still,” Damian says. “Lao-tzu. If you do not wish for yourself to be at the heel of your own mutation, then you must put forth concerted effort into mastering it. You are a mutant, Laurie Collins, and you should not speak of your own capabilities with shame as you described them to me with. Creating a stigma against it will only serve to make you more afraid of it.”

“But I don’t know… how.”

Damian stares at her for one solid second, and then he sighs.

“Meditation. That is your answer.”

“But it’s so… that’s so simple?”

“Spoken from ignorance. Go to your library and look for books on the matter. I am certain you’ll find it not to be the case, once you truly take it seriously.”

“I guess I will,” she mumbles, weirded out by the strange aristocratic way he speaks.

Damian rolls his eyes with a huff at her noncommittal response. “Whether you take my advice or not is of little importance to me.”

“Is meditation how… you knew your own emotions apart from the ones I made you feel?”

At that Damian finally cracks a smile, his amusement a bit frightening to Laurie, who doesn’t understand it.

“Why would I be afraid of you?” he asks by way of answer, and Laurie feels herself wilt, immediately hearing the dig as it was intended to hit.

“That’s true...”

Damian clicks his tongue, unsatisfied by her response as he holds the drawing pad towards her. Hurt at the refusal of her well-intended gift, Laurie takes it back, confused, trying to read his expression but unable to. Her confusion only gets deeper as Damian walks right past her, but not in the direction to leave.

When Laurie doesn’t follow, Damian stops short and turns to look at her. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Come on. We’re going to the library. The unqualified faculty of this educational institution have nothing else planned for me, but to grow accustomed to my new surroundings. So. You will take us to the library, and I shall assist you in your sure to be stumbling first steps in the practice of meditation.”

Laurie stares at him, dumbstruck.

“Unless, you are comfortable as you are now, terrified of your own shadow, weak to criticism and crippled by self doubt.” Damian arches a brow. “Are you comfortable?”

“Will... it... actually help?” Laurie asks, wanting so badly to believe that there could be a way to change herself, to have control. To be someone her mom is proud to have as a daughter. She’d do anything to have that.

Except, strangely, some part of her is just as afraid of the thought of having control. How much it will change, what it might mean for her and the future of her relationships. She doesn’t even know if she’s strong enough, if any amount of effort could change things. Laurie is afraid to know.

Damian must see the conflict waging within her, because his face softens again, this time in an entirely different way than before. He’s not exactly looking at her anymore, more skyward, as if he’s recalling something from a long time ago, as if the memory is a heavy one. Pensive.

“It helps me. It might help you, too,” he finally says after a long beat.

“A-alright...” Laurie nods, telling herself to give it a shot, inspired by his unexpected honesty. But she can’t completely shake her wariness, the voice in her head telling her not to trust him, to trust nobody, to return to being alone, letting no one in.

“Why are you helping me?” she asks.

Damian’s eyes go to the drawing pad clutched in her hand.

His answer is solemn. “I suppose... it’s because I’m choosing to be kind, too.”

“Oh.” 

Laurie feels struck dumb again, but swallows and bravely starts walking towards him until she’s falling into step with him as they head back to the school together.

“Thanks,” she says quietly.

“It’s too early for gratitude,” Damian murmurs. “Tell me again when I actually help you.”

At that, Laurie weakly nods, secretly thinking he more than deserved it the first time. 

.

.

“He’s probably having a great time, Nat,” Tony says, a bit exasperated over the fact that he’s been forced into spending what could have been an optimal Saturday in R&D in a quaint bed & breakfast room out in Winchester County. “I could be back here in minutes with the suit, if the kid were really in danger.”

“That’s if they call to inform us of anything,” Nat mutters. “I’m not about to risk Damian’s safety to people we don’t exactly have a whole lot of information on.”

She’s not wrong, exactly. Other than what the public knows, and what’s been written in a few more in depth files on each of the X-Men that Natasha managed to get her hands on, they don’t know a lot. Mutants have historically been paranoid on the intel that reaches outside of their circle, for good reason, and it’s hard to determine who in the group is more protective of the other, with the way they keep to themselves.

Not to mention, Charles Xavier is already an inscrutable man, for all that he preaches coexistence. His power alone more than makes Tony leery of him—when he’d seen the ease in which he’d put Damian to sleep and entered his mind? Uh, yeah, he’s not exactly wanting to get on that guy’s bad side. There’s a lot that Tony needs to keep in his head, thank you very much, things that would certainly spell the end of him, if any of it got out to the public.

But maybe, he’s underestimating just how much he can get away with. Public still thinks of him as the drunken party boy of his twenties… and his thirties...

“Tony,” Nat says, facing him directly, turning her face away from the view of Xavier’s school in the distance, “you’re free to leave whenever you want. I’m more than fine on my own, and frankly, if you keep bitching, I’m kicking you out.”

Tony fakes a gasp. “Say it ain’t so! You mean, you don’t see this as an opportunity to get in my pants? And here I thought this was all just a convoluted overture.”

She cracks a slight grin at that. “Never will be, Stark.”

It’s a response that exposes just how much things have changed between them.

Words like that, in the maybe-not-as-distant-as-he-would-like-it-to-be past, would have been seen as an irresistible challenge, the sting of rejection being intolerable to him, unthinkable. Now, while the sting isn’t entirely absent, it’s soothed by the fact that Tony genuinely likes Natasha, both as a friend and confidante—as someone he trusts. 

Admittedly, there are still times that Tony can’t help but wonder if she feels the same, or if all she sees in him are only the things he lets people see. Indeed, even Tony doesn’t know if there’s more to him, if any of his effort in the last year or so has made any real impact. If any of his bullheaded heroism has unwritten the awful things his name has been degraded by, the things he allowed to degrade it.

Nat gets a weird look on her face.

“Why are you still here?”

It’s actually very difficult to be nonchalant when being questioned by Natasha. Not even because she’s being forceful about it—no, she’s got the kid gloves on this time. It’s mostly because Natasha sees everything, and with the look she’s giving him, and the lack of bite in her voice... Somehow it’s worse, because Nat typically saves her vulnerable soft side for Clint, and historically hasn’t had much tolerance or patience with him outside of her Natalie persona. Tony doesn’t know how to handle Nat like this.

He notices the changes in her though, hard not to. Like having Damian in her life is peeling the hard skin off of her.

“Do you even have to ask?” Tony asks, attempting to maintain his aloofness, to preserve his ability to play dumb. “Same reason you’re here.”

It’s an answer Natasha seems to approve of, because it makes her shoulders sink, her muscles losing tension.

“I’m anxious about this, Tony. I feel like letting him out of my sight... was a mistake.” Nat sighs, her gaze returning to the window. “The way he looked back at us keeps playing in my head.”

He remembers it well, too, how utterly miserable Damian looked before he entered Scott’s car. But it’s not exactly a concrete reason to change anything.

“He’s in a school, Nat,” Tony reminds her. “Not a military base, or a prison. He’s also, notably, amongst his kind.”

“His kind?” Nat swivels to glare at him.

He raises his hands. “Hey, we’ve established that he’s a mutant. Something the both of us have no experience with. It’s a perfectly reasonable place for him to be to receive help on that front—a place he agreed to be in, mind you.”

“You think I’m being paranoid,” she says, and it’s a statement that Tony can practically see the pitfall being dug right before his eyes.

If he agrees, she’ll be angry. If he disagrees, it’s basically an invitation to storm into Xavier’s place to find their kid. Their kid.

Tony finds himself temporarily silenced by the thought, and the sudden, casual nature of it.

Their kid.

He sinks down onto the foot of the bed, hands going to his face, groaning.

This can’t be real. God, this can't be what his life has become.

“Drama queen,” Natasha mutters under her breath.

Tony raises his head, pointing a finger. “Hey, you can’t say a damn word, Nat. A B&B, really? The kid hasn’t even been gone a full day and you’ve already convinced yourself he’s in danger. No, even before he left, because if I got the details right, you booked this place days in advance, nabbing the room with the best possible view of Xavier’s! Does that make any sense to you? So, yes, since you asked, you are paranoid!”

A silence falls between them, where Natasha’s expression ices over, her jaw clenching. 

Tony knows he fucked up. That’s the thing with pitfalls. Even if you know they’re there, sometimes you still find yourself stumbling in, ass backward. God knows he’s done it countless times before. That’s all he really seems to do around the people in his life.

“What does that make you?” she finally asks, ending the silence. All of that soft vulnerability is gone now, but Tony doesn’t even know that side of her well enough to miss it.

“It makes me... just as bad,” Tony says, defeated.

Natasha scrutinizes him carefully, her gaze leaving no detail unnoticed before she lets loose a sigh, taking a seat next to him on the bed. She doesn’t say a word to him, and he can’t bring himself to say anything more.

Minutes pass, the both of them lost in their thoughts. He can’t even fathom what Nat might be thinking of, but Tony’s mind can only go to one place: Damian.

Smart-ass, demanding, rude, naive kid. Tony can’t help but worry about him, how the other kids might be treating him. Wondering if the teachers there can even handle his kid’s temper, the bite in his words.

The kid’s like a bug in a software update, hastily installed, like the dev team snuck it in when Tony wasn’t looking. 

Maybe he was looking. 

Maybe he installed it. 

Shit.

“He’d call us,” Tony says with certainty. “If he needed us, he’d call. Right?”

“I hope so.”

Hope is a funny thing. It never feels like enough. Not concrete, simply lacking the foundation to put any trust into it. Tony’s never been good about having trust, and even less so with hope.

“We’re not allowed to keep him,” Tony points out to her. “Neither of us even know how long we’ll have to worry about him.”

“I know.”

“He’s not like a stray cat we can nab off the street. He already has a family.”

Natasha hums.

“I have to build the tech that gets him back to them.”

“You don’t even know how long it’ll take.”

“I... it could take... years,” Tony admits quietly. “It’s so much theory, and we don’t even fully understand how he got to this universe to begin with. Like, seriously, a punch? Not only does it sound like something out of a bad Sci-Fi film, it sounds like someone has a vendetta against him.”

Nat’s expression darkens. “Damian seems to not have any leads on that. Knowing as little as we do doesn’t help the paranoia.”

He gives her a onceover, her words making him uneasy. “Are you even attempting to compartmentalize, Nat? I thought you would be better about all of this, able to detach yourself at the drop of a hat, and just move on. Why am I getting the sense that it isn't the case here?”

She sighs, rising from the bed, turning away from him. 

“Because it’s not,” she says, hardly audible. “I’m... compromised.”

“It’s hardly been a week,” Tony points out, unable to ignore this fact. The speed at which Damian has endeared them all to him feels unnatural, but only when looking at it objectively, which he’s not typically prone to doing.

It’s strange for him to be the one clinging to it.

“The time hardly matters,” Natasha responds, surprising him. He’s always felt she’s the more pragmatic one, the one who keeps everyone’s head clear, checking the team before they’ve gone too far, whether it’s from their thoughts or emotions. It’s why Bruce relies so much on her, why Tony argues with her so much, and why Steve and Clint hang onto her every word.

“How does it not matter?”

“We’re all he has. He chose us.”

It’s like a punch in the gut, her delivery.

Natasha turns to face him again, her expression inscrutable as she watches Tony’s emotions play out on his face.

“He’s our responsibility. I gave him my last name. I can’t compartmentalize that away.”

“You’re… actually intending to be a mom to him.”

Natasha doesn’t respond, which is just as bad as admitting to it. It means she can’t deny it, and for all the jokes that have been tossed around in their group, Tony hadn’t exactly taken any of them seriously… Until now.

“I choose him, too,” Natasha says, a somber look in her eyes. “It’s not forever, but that’s not a reason to stop caring, is it? None of us know when it’ll be the last time we see the people we love. At least... we’ll be able to say goodbye to him on our terms, knowing we’ve done everything we could for him.”

“Surprisingly sentimental, coming from you.”

She scoffs. “You would be surprised.”

It sounds peculiarly self-admonishing, as if she’s beaten herself up over this.

“Why him? Why this kid?”

Nat snorts at this, giving him a look. “Can you think of any other child in the world that, in just minutes of knowing him, would ask to be your son?”

She means to be funny, but Tony’s gut twists. It’s a frightening thought that anyone would look at Tony and think of him like a father—which is why Tony isn’t trying to be one to Damian. He can handle the role of an uncle, to keep the peace and play house with the rest of the Avengers, but anything more and...

It’s just not a role Tony could ever succeed in. Even if just pretending.

Natasha places a hand to his shoulder, bringing his attention back towards her. Her blank expression is unfathomable, in a way that Tony is oddly... comforted by. Except, her verdant green eyes are taking in every detail of his face, methodically, like he knows she’s been trained to do. What he doesn’t know, can’t even guess, are the things she’s seeing, what she might be making of it. She gives nothing away; he’s practically laid out on a table with his chest carved open.

Tony jerks away, but before he can fully tear his gaze away from hers, Natasha’s phone rings.

Nat reaches for it, answering in seconds, brows furrowed, “Scott?”

“Speaker,” Tony urges her, almost reaching a hand out to do it himself, before she does it with an agitated look sent his way.

“...need to get here, fast. It’s Damian—he’s... we think it’s his mutation, but it’s strange.”

“Strange how?” Nat asks, already on the move, waving Tony to follow her as they exit the room.

Tony hears Scott’s sigh, and can practically feel the stress coming off of the phone. “I’ll preface this by saying that we have stabilized him! But it was like walking in on a medical emergency. He was seizing, but he was also glowing, and sort of levitating. He’s still feverish. I, it’s hard to explain. How far out are you guys?”

“What the fuck kind of school are you running over there, Cyclops!?” Tony’s fuming as he tries to keep up with Natasha—the two entirely neglect to inform Happy that they’re heading out, their single-minded worry spurning them to move fast.

“We’re only a few minutes away,” Nat says, more calmly than Tony could hope to be. The two are already in the car, with Natasha behind the wheel, taking off with barely a look at their surroundings.

“Good, I think he’d really appreciate seeing you two—.”

“It’s not even been a full day! What the hell happened to cause this?” Tony asks, his tone full of the dread he feels, just thinking of Damian seizing .

Scott sighs again, more forlorn than the last. “Natasha, Tony, I’m sorry. We’ll talk more when you get here.” 

The call drops, and Tony lets out several curses before twisting in his seat to look at Natasha. “You’re kicking his ass as soon as we get there.”

“I’m kicking his ass? You look more than ready to do it yourself.”

“I just think you have the better chance against a dude who can explode people with his eyes.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she mutters dryly, foot pressed firmly on the gas pedal.

“Anytime,” Tony says, grinning, clinging to the grab handle to endure the short, albeit potentially life-threatening ride to Xavier’s.

Chapter Text

Damian scowls at the books on the shelves, unimpressed by the selection in front of him, casting a surreptitious glance at the painfully shy Laurie Collins. 

Painful, because Damian can feel her emotions, and everything about them is awful.

It’s an odd thing to feel them; he has spent an entire lifetime aspiring towards keeping careful control over himself, emotions included, and hers are invasive and loud, unrestrained. Particular triggers aside, Damian isn’t exactly prone to excessive emotional displays, especially outside of circumstances involving his family, and he’s fairly adept at compartmentalizing, because he has to be.

(Others might disagree. He doesn’t care what they think.)

Unfortunately, to feel Collins’ emotions is to be exposed to a sensory nightmare, like standing inches away from a sparking livewire.

At first, it’s like a creeping sensation that’s difficult to describe; he can only differentiate her emotions from his own by virtue of having no adequate reason to feel them. But the longer he stays in her proximity, it gets more intense, more difficult to decipher his from hers. Her power is just too strong, and Damian can’t force away the twisting in his stomach caused by her anxiety. 

She’s so filled with dread, and the dread just gets deeper as Damian goes book by book, unsatisfied with the lack of quality textbooks on the subject of meditation. He perhaps presumed too much, held more optimism than he should have.

His lungs feel tight now, like he can’t get a full breath in. No wonder she struggles so much to speak to him, her responses slow and hesitant. Damian sometimes gets this way too, but the stakes are typically higher…

The girl needs help.

Damian turns to face her, meeting Collins’ large blue eyes that keep flickering from him to the unfortunately useless books, that are more new-age self-help advice than the instructional texts he had hoped for.

“I shall instruct you instead, Collins.” Damian sighs at the thought of it, but resolves his conviction to see his efforts through to the end. “Fortunately, I came with you, otherwise my own advice would have failed you. Nothing of value can be learned from these.”

“Why not?” Collins asks, brows furrowed.

There’s a great deal that Damian could say about the genre of American self-help books, but nothing pertinent to the current situation, and definitely not anything a girl like Collins will understand. Oddly, he finds himself thinking of Todd’s love of literature, but he squashes the thoughts just as they spring up.

“They’d only be helpful if you’re an insomniac,” Damian murmurs, stepping back from the bookcase. “None of these appear to be instructions, and none seem as if they’d bother going in depth to the many methods of meditation.”

“There’s more than one way?”

Damian nods. “Meditation is a staple in many religions and cultures, whether it’s called meditation or not. It generally serves a similar purpose, with some moderate variables. Often, the methods are categorized together, but if given proper distinction, the number of types of meditation can reach up to twenty-five, or more.”

“Twenty-five?” Collins yelps.

Damian walks past her, heading towards an empty table. The library is relatively empty; this is not a school for scholars who would spend their free time studying. It’s a lamentable state, but not surprising, and also something Damian finds himself appreciative of under the current circumstances.

“Worry not,” Damian tells her, taking a seat, and gesturing to the one across from him. “I am going to instruct you only in the methods I believe will assist you.”

“Okay…”

Laurie sits, her eyes not quite meeting his gaze, her feelings of intimidation and inadequacy palpable—is he actually that terrifying?

“We’ll start easy,” he tells her, modulating his voice to sound softer, like he’s talking to a civilian in distress. In the back of his mind, he wonders why he’s doing this, why he’s helping her. He knows it’s what Richard would want him to do, and the compulsion to follow that expectation is strong enough that even Damian’s annoyance is easy to repress.

“Meditation is the practice of implementing techniques to establish a sound mind, and develop emotional stability. Theology can play its own part in it, too, but I’ll only stick to what will help you now. It’s your own personal journey if you go further.”

Damian watches her face as he talks, reading her expressions to inform him of what emotions to expect from her next. Collins’ abilities are terrifying, the more Damian thinks about it. 

Scentless pheromones. All he can picture is the sea of Scarecrow’s victims, and how much easier of a time Collins would have to cause the same mass distress and hysteria. She wouldn’t even need fear gas to do it. It’s distressing that this is a power wielded by a disorderly teenage girl.

He understands—almost respects—her fear of her mutation, but that sort of fear is not sustainable. It’s like a time-bomb ticking away.

His use of a softer tone of voice helps, to Damian’s surprise. Her emotions seem to curl back into herself, the anxiety and fear fading, as curious interest sparks. It’s strange to be able to pick up on that.

A weakness of hers that could be exploited.

“There’s an easy one we can work on first,” he says. “Well, easy to explain, difficult in practice. Meditating always feels difficult in the beginning, and it’s important to have determination and patience. Developing those traits are essential. Even if I tell you, it won’t mean anything if you don’t put your own effort into it. Are you following?”

He asks, but he already knows the answer, as he sees an unexpectedly fierce attention in those blue eyes of hers. She’s hanging onto his every word, nodding emphatically.

“Good. It’s called body-scan meditation. Now, hold out your hands, Collins.”

She does as asked, her eyes are trained on his face. “Why do you… do that? Call me by my last name?”

Damian, who had been about to reach out towards her, recoils slightly. Collins is unexpectedly direct.

“Professionality,” Damian answers, his tone brokering no further questioning into the matter.

It’s not exactly a short explanation, and he feels he doesn’t owe her one. To explain all the reasons Damian is so decisive in the way he chooses to address people, it would need a wealth of context he doesn’t think anyone has business prying into. It has certainly been the cause of hostility in the past, some weird offense being caused where it hadn’t been intended, and then later, very intended.

Damian can’t shake these habits, however. He doesn’t see the need, in this case. He doesn’t understand the need of being called by a first name, especially if the relationship is intended to be transactional, or brief.

He’s certainly not about to strike up a friendship with Collins, regardless of what delusions she might already be thinking.

“Then… Romanov,” Collins tests. She appears a bit awkward with the sentiment, but then says, more firmly, “Romanov.”

Damian wearily nods, inwardly thrown off by the new name that he hasn’t adjusted to yet. He decides to forge ahead, reaching his hands out towards hers, tapping the tips of his fingers against hers for just a moment.

“Close your eyes. It helps,” he tells her. “Follow my directions. You are going to focus on the tips of your fingers, and just that, for a moment. Clear your mind of everything else.”

“What… What if I can’t do that? I can’t ever seem to shut my brain off…”

“You’re not shutting your brain off. You’re turning it on. The focus is the switch. Now, feel your knuckles,” Damian runs the tip of his finger over her knuckles and is mildly struck by how free of nicks and scars her hands are. He doesn’t really get close to people like this. Sometimes he forgets what innocent hands look like.

“It’s sort of… Why am I focusing on my knuckles?”

“This is only the beginning, Collins. The body-scan method is one in which you have to feel the articulation of every inch of your body, top to bottom. The intention is to see. Do you feel that there is any resistance?”

“I… don’t know.”

Damian stifles his irritation. “Put in simple terms, supply and distribution of nerves is called innervation. In the hand alone, there are well over a thousand nerves responsible for the signals being sent to the brain, providing the sensation you feel. There are three main ones to remember. The median nerve,” he says, lightly pressing where it’s positioned on her small right hand. “It’s responsible for sensation in the thumb, index, middle, and half of the ring finger. Then there’s the ulnar nerve.” He continues to demonstrate the anatomy by giving light pressure in the parts he’s high lighting. “The pinky, the other half of the ring finger, and muscles in the palm of the hand. Lastly, the radial nerve, responsible for the back of the hand, and parts of the thumb.”

“Alright… but why does this matter?”

“Understanding anatomy is a crucial foundation for the body-scan method. You may not need to know anything by name, but you need to know it by feeling, by the give and pull of your body’s energies and how it is distributed throughout. Knowing that, your mind is the tool you’re using to understand your body. Catalogue the sensations.”

“Do you know the anatomy of the entire body?” Collins asks, voice curious, her eyes still closed.

“Of course. I grew up studying it.”

“Because you found it interesting?”

Damian purses his lips, unsure how honest he should be. He certainly hadn’t enjoyed his anatomy classes by any means. They had been tedious and dull, but his effort in learning had paid dividends both in his time with the League and after.

“It was necessary for me to learn,” Damian finally says. “Now, focus. Concentration is the tool we are implementing, awareness is what we are developing. Your mind may wander, but bring it back. Notice what you are feeling, become aware of the sensations. There is nothing to change. You are an observer. See your body without judgement, just as it is.”

“I am an observer,” she echoes.

“Your wrists now, focus on them. Here is the transverse carpal ligament. It’s a band of tissue that stabilizes the wrist joint and guides the tendons that are passing through. These tendons act as pulleys, making for efficient hand and finger movements. Notice how everything is connected. From the wrists, we move to the forearms. Right here is the flexor carpi ulnaris. It’s the muscle responsible for flexing and adducting the hand to the wrist. It also contributes to the elbow flexion, the movement of bending the forearm up. It’s all connected. These body processes occur with no thought, no intention.”

“I’m getting kind of… sleepy,” Collins admits quietly.

Only because her eyes are closed, he rolls his. “Collins. Alert yourself. Focus.”

“It’s just that, you’re explaining, but I still don’t… I can’t follow it.”

“Forget the anatomy lesson, then,” Damian says, exasperated. “The point is to be aware. You don’t need to understand anything just yet, understanding will come. The purpose of the body-scan method is to develop a connection with your body, to be aware of the physical sensations you’re experiencing, and to be mindful.” 

“I always thought meditation was more about, like, being outside of your body.”

“Not all meditation is like that. In some capacity, you can experience outer body experiences, but it doesn't happen in a day, and it’s not why we’re doing this.”

“Have you experienced being outside of your body?”

Damian can’t help but snort, muttering, “Not through meditation, that’s for sure.”

In reality, Damian is actually relatively new to meditation, save for the League’s methodology, which was always oriented around the world, rather than the self. He really only began around the same time he started acting lessons with Carrie Kelley, and while he’s studied a great deal of the various different methods, he’s experienced his own walls and struggles with the practice. There are benefits, and he knows it’s helping, it’s just… not easy.

“Meditation doesn’t insulate you from suffering or reality. It’s about seeing reality, developing your perception of it. Seeing everything as it is, the transient nature of everything. Understanding change is perpetual, neverending. Nothing lasts.”

“That’s, um, depressing.”

“We live in a world that is conditional and impermanent. Meditation is a practice in which you cannot lie to yourself. You must see who you are as you are, the ego, and the flaws in your character, all of your imperfections. What greed you might feel, the hatred in your heart, and the things you’re afraid of. Ask yourself, what are you ignoring? What is it that you can’t bear to look at? Then look. You have to. Piece by piece, you have to peel back the layers and find the root. What is causing your anger? What is causing your hate? What is making you afraid? You have to identify it. Only then can you move forward.

“It’s a grueling process, Collins. But you are just beginning it. You can be… gentle. Fostering resentment isn’t the point of it. In fact, you have to be gentle with yourself.”

Collins has opened her eyes some time in his explanation, her gaze trained carefully on his face, scanning him. Her expression is a bit difficult to decipher, but she nods.

“There’s another method I want to show you. It requires only three things: sitting, stillness, and focus. The position doesn’t have to be an uncomfortable one. You can even use a chair, remaining upright. All that matters is that you determine a set amount of time to dedicate towards meditating, and you keep your body still. No shifting, or fidgeting. Even if it’s painful. No movement.”

“Can we do criss-cross applesauce?” Collins asks, and Damian arches a brow.

“The what?”

“You know, the criss-cross applesauce?”

Damian dully stares at her.

Collins rises from her chair and steps off to the side before sitting on the floor, crossing her legs. “It’s this. Did no one ever teach you the criss-cross applesauce?”

“That’s basically the half-lotus pose,” Damian mutters, getting up to join her. “Americans bastardize everything in the weirdest ways.”

“Well, if you’re not American, where are you from?” Collins asks, her eyes sparking with curiosity. “You do sort of talk a little differently, but I thought that’s because you’re so smart.”

He decides on a comparable truth. “I grew up in the Himalayas, specifically in a mountain range that runs through Afghanistan and Pakistan.”

“Oh? What was that like?”

“It was…” Damian sighs, shaking his head. “It’s too difficult to explain. Back to meditation. We’ll do this together this time, for about… twenty minutes. If that’s manageable.”

“I just have to sit still? For twenty minutes?” Collins looks skeptical. “Sounds easy but… can we try ten minutes first?”

Twenty minutes already felt so generous, but the girl is a civilian. He sighs.

“Sure. Ten minutes. Now, close your eyes. Picture your mind as a pool of muddy water. When you are still, the mud has no choice but to sink to the bottom. If you move, however, your mind will be disturbed, and the water becomes clouded. To help you create clear waters, you will need something to focus on, and for that we will use our breaths. Your breathing is a constant. The inhale, the exhale, simply observe your breaths. Breathe freely, but notice the brief pause before you inhale, and notice the pause after you exhale…”

“What if I fall asleep?” Laurie wonders, her tone a bit plaintive. “The longer you talk, the sleepier I get.

“Then, I won’t talk. Ten minutes starting now, be absolutely still. Remember, you are training your awareness. So, notice.”

“Okay…” She still sounds skeptical, but Damian shrugs this off.

It’s been some time since the last time he meditated. Sometimes it’s hard to find time to do it, especially with how private he normally keeps the practice, unable to help his embarrassment around it. It’s his first time being around someone else while meditating, and while normally, he doesn’t have a difficult time, it’s a little harder hearing a second set of breaths to listen to.

Still, Damian forges on.

Collins' breaths are somehow softer than his, more subtle, and they aren’t as consistent as his either. They’re a bit erratic, actually. Like she’s over thinking things, or perhaps, the natural cadence of her breathing is offbeat.

Regardless, Damian finds his mind straying. He’s seeing his family in his mind, and he knows he shouldn’t be distracted. He has to focus, to build his concentration.

Back to his breathing. Damian counts his breaths in his head. One to five on the inhale, six to ten on the exhale. One to five on the inhale… six to ten on the exhale…

Soon, the counting is unnecessary, falling into the familiar focus, a headspace that can’t be articulated by words, just by feeling—

A sudden, destructive panic rips through his concentration, like a bomb with a short fuse, nothing could have prepared him—

“Eugnh!”

He’s experienced actual explosions with less force—

His eyes fly open, looking towards Collins, or trying to, because Damian quickly discovers that he can’t. His body feels locked in place, out of his control, like he’s not…

In… it.

Collins! His shout goes unheard, his mouth clamped close.

It’s a short few seconds later that he begins to shake. He’s not ever experienced anything like it before. He’s had hypothermia, been so cold that every inch of his body shook, and he thought he would die, starving for heat, but inversely feeling like he’s been lit on fire, every nerve alive in pain.

This isn’t like that. It's a total loss of control over his body. He can’t force anything through his mouth, can’t make so much as a sound as his vocal cords refuse to heed him.

Then Collins screams, piercing and frightening. Her panic multiples ten-fold, and so does his. Damian can’t even breathe anymore, his fear dominating his mind.

He tries to count again, trying to defy her mutation. In-out, one, twothreefour—

But then he thinks of his family, how if he dies, they’ll have no idea. That they probably already think he’s dead. That they aren’t looking for him.

No one’s coming to find him. They don’t care to! 

He’s all alone in this world. He’s so fucking… alone.

Damian doesn’t understand what’s happening to him, why he’s convulsing, and he doesn’t know how to stop it, or to stave off the panic.

All he knows is that—

Because he thinks of his family—

Somehow, a gasping, guttural cry escapes him, and with it, comes the shadows. They encroach on him from all corners of the room, drawing nearer and nearer with every second.

His eyes fall shut, and some sort of power beyond his understanding is lifting him up, picking him up off the ground, taking him skyward until his feet are left dangling.

Damian can’t even reach out to hold on to anything, and when he falls, hearing the wind whip past his ears, there’s nobody reaching out to catch him.

.

.

Scott confirms Damian hasn’t actually left the school by asking Charles right after talking over punishments and expectations with Julian and Santo. The boys both know better than to get into fights, but it’s not the first, nor does he think it’ll be the last time that they’ll be in this situation. Unfortunately.

He hopes it doesn’t continue to be a problem, but Scott knows that fighting amongst the children is inevitable and can only improve with time and adequate means of discipline and consistency. There’s a lot of baggage to be worked through when you’re a mutant, not to mention it occuring in the already difficult to navigate waters of puberty.

An unfortunate reality of his position is knowing there will be failure… and Scott hasn’t ever handled failure well. He can’t help but linger on it, using it as fodder to torment himself with.

It somehow feels more awful this time, though, and just after trying to reassure Damian… for him misstepping an opportunity to put his money where his mouth is…

He winces. It’s not even that he thought that Damian had been responsible for inciting anything, it was more that, at the time, Scott couldn’t gauge how far the kid might take the fight.

He has no doubt in his mind that Damian can handle his own, but Julian and Santo can be bullheaded and one track minded at the best of times. At the worst? He doesn’t know for certain if they’d have it in them to walk away. Particularly Julian, who’s as unwieldy as his control over his mutation, with powerful abilities that are veritable threats to the safety of himself and those around him.

Scott couldn’t have helped his reaction, his worry was honest, rooted in his over abundance of caution. He didn’t intend to make Damian feel as if he doesn’t trust him. But he showed that, well, he didn’t.

Instinct has a nasty way, sometimes, of overriding logic, and that’s why Scott hates relying on instinct or emotion to navigate these things. The only downside is that… It's difficult to reach people by logic alone, a catch-22 that Scott has been unable to escape in all his time as an X-Men.

The only thing he really has going for him right now is his ability to persevere. He never quits, and he hopes that not all is lost yet with Damian.

That fact that he hasn’t actually left does give Scott some optimism, and not wanting to waste any more time, he goes looking for the young mutant.

Charles had directed him towards the library, and that’s where Scott beelines towards, using the walk to formulate what he’s going to say to Damian when he sees him. 

His mind is a mess, of course, scattered by the bad introduction with Jean, the sense that he’s failing, knowing that Damian had been hit by Julian but not knowing if he’d been injured, if it had healed, feeling as if he’s responsible for it happening at all, and again, what an utter failure—

When Scott reaches the doors to the library, his hand hesitates to turn the doorknob, still not knowing what to say, but then he hears a shrill shriek, and suddenly his hands are shaking, fear making his stomach twist, his heart drop.

He opens the door, not knowing what to expect as he takes a few steps in, surveying the place, only knowing that his heart is hammering in his chest, the thud of it hot in his ears.

He hears the crying before he sees the glow, and when he does see it, a bright glow cast against the walls and the floor, Scott runs towards it, following the sound of the crying. He also quickly sends out a distress signal with tech from Hank, preparing for the worst by hailing some back up.

Rounding around a large bookshelf, the first thing Scott sees is Damian, a glowing, levitating Damian, and Laurie Collins on the floor, face full of tears, her fear no doubt manifesting the raw panic that’s making it hard to think through.

It feels like he’s witnessing someone die.

Scott runs to the two children, eyes flickering from Damian’s visibly unconscious, yet floating form, and Laurie’s face full of frantic concern.

“Mr. Summers!” she cries when she sees him. “I-I don’t know what happened—or I maybe do, I don’t know why—my fault, I think—powers, my p-power did… I did this.”

It’s hard to follow her words, something Scott thinks would be easier if he weren’t filled with so much dread.

“It’s alright,” he says, though it’s hard to believe it, he still thinks he sounds convincing. He’s had enough experience saying those words when afraid for his life and others, that he can at least manage it for Laurie.

“I did this! I knew I shouldn’t—! I thought—! It’s my fault, Mr. Summers. I shouldn’t have, I know better. I just thought—Damian said… he could help...”

“Help with what?”

“My control,” Laurie says in a choked whisper. “He was teaching me meditation, but I… I messed up… he started glowing and floating, and he stopped breathing—look, his chest isn’t moving!”

Laurie is right, Damian’s chest isn’t moving.

He looks… Well, he looks dead. Eerily still. Not… there.

But that’s just how it looks, not how it is. Damian has to be in there, has to be alive. Otherwise, how to explain the glow of his body? Something has to be causing this, and if it’s his mutation, well, Scott has been expecting something like this to happen, it just happens to look rather… alarming.

Regardless, something had set him off.

“Laurie, earlier, when you were learning to meditate, were you frightened by something?”

Laurie sniffles, nodding. “It happened so fast. I… I think I controlled his emotions without meaning to… He seemed so… unaffected when we were talking. I thought it might be okay, but… I…”

Scott places a hand to her head, trying to be gentle. “It’s alright, Laurie. Everything is going to be fine. I think this is just Damian’s mutation protecting himself.”

“Really?” she asks, eyes full of a hope that’s been dimmed by skepticism.

“Yes—.”

“Scott!” Hank calls out. “I brought Northstar with me! Is everything—.” He abruptly stops, stunned after rounding the corner as he takes in the scene in front of him, Jean-Paul following shortly after with a similar look of shock.

“He’s still alive in there,” Scott says to Laurie, for once feeling that, beyond catching Hank and Jean-Paul up to the speed, it’s far more important to calm the young girl who’s emotional state is literally controlling those around her. “I’m certain he’s going to be okay, Laurie.”

“How do you know?” she asks, her lip wobbling, eyes filling with fresh tears.

“Because we’re going to find a way to help him, together.”

.

.

He’s falling, and he doesn’t want to open his eyes. He should—Damian is used to falling, he’s used to flying. He’s never been afraid to fall before, always knowing how to catch himself.

That’s what he never tells anyone, one of his favorite parts of being Robin: the ability to fly, soaring through the night air, wind whistling past his ears, hearing his cape flap behind him, that dip in his stomach as he defies gravity, spinning, rolling, twisting midair. It’s the feel of his spirit and body in joyful tandem, everything he’s been taught of flying coming from one of the aptly named Flying Graysons.

He loves the thrill of it. It feels like freedom, real freedom, when he’s in the air.

This, though? He feels like he’s on the cusp of something terrible, that he is descending to Hell, just like so many people have warned him he’s headed.

He has a feeling that, even if he does open his eyes, there will be nothing to catch himself on. He might as well just keep falling, he might as well just…

The world abruptly falls silent and Damian feels himself landing, not roughly, somehow on his feet. There is no more wind, no air current or scents carried by them. He’s not even sure what he’s standing on.

His eyes open, only seeing darkness in all directions. As if… no. He can’t be blind—or… is he? How is he to know anything for certain?

Damian takes a tentative step, using his hands as feelers.

Is this how Ravi lives now? Seeing nothingness even with wide eyes, no glimmer of light to go by, or an outline to determine what is there? How does… How does Ravi not utterly despise him?

Damian feels so vulnerable, at risk of every possible danger. Can’t hear. Can’t see. Can’t smell. He’s useless without his senses, at least as far as predicting an attack.

Damian might be able to fight back, as long as he can latch on to whatever comes after him.

Because of course there’s no way he won’t fight back, even in this state. He’ll fight until his last breath, he’s not a coward. No matter what sort of enemy he’s fighting, that’s one thing Damian knows for certain he’s capable of.

Bolstered, he keeps walking, gaining confidence with each step, not really sure where he’s headed, but refusing to wait. He won’t be a sitting duck, that’s for sure.

Even after coming to live in Gotham, Damian never got very good at staying in place, waiting. He can’t be idle, not when he can still move, saving himself. Better than waiting for others. Or for no one.

Determined, Damian spends some time walking before the nothingness begins to aggravate him. He turns his attention towards the floor, using his fists and feet to beat against it, hammering it, hoping that it’ll budge.

Nothing.

There has to be a trick to this place. He can’t have been brought here for nothing. There’s no line of logic that stays intact to assume otherwise. He feels it.

He keeps walking, but this time, he decides that he needs focus. If he can’t hear his breaths, he can still meditate by using his steps. What matters is that he doesn’t let his mind wander, that he uses it to cement his focus on his bizarre surroundings and his body.

So, Damian meditates, walking for a long time as he sharpens his awareness, batting off all his worries and concerns in favor of focusing on the way his legs bend and the way his feet land.

It helps, some. He loses more of his fear, finds himself cataloging the most microscopic details of the strange nothingness that he’s in.

He knows that this place might as well go on forever. He knows that his body vaguely exists in the same state as before he came here, as if he’s been transported here, because he can almost feel the scratchiness of his polo shirt and the added height from the sneakers that he’s wearing.

He also knows that… it’s a remarkably lonely place to be in.

Damian has spent a sizable portion of his life alone, but not truly alone. Not like this.

He has scaled mountains, some of the tallest in the world, by himself, has survived weeks out in the wilderness. But even then, there had been predators and preys to contend with. There had been the sun and moon, the cycles of night and day, the sound of bugs and the smell of fauna. There had been life.

Here, it is so empty, and he finds that, worse than all the claims of how tortuous the concept of hell can be, this is worse. At least pain is something to experience, but this…

Mediating isn’t working, not like he wants it to.

Suddenly, Damian is filled with a sense of homesickness the likes of which he’s never felt before. Not even when he used to miss Nanda Parpat, when he missed his mother.

He can’t help but feel that, if only Richard were here, things would be different. Even if there’s no sound, Richard had ways beyond words of making Damian feel safe.

Before he left, there were after-mission moments where Richard used to place his forehead to his, eyes smiling. He would try to ruffle his hair, too, but Damian always escaped before he could.

Touch is infrequent in his life. Physical contact is usually a means of survival, a prelude to death. Hand to hand is where Damian is without weapons, where he is a weapon, steel made of bone and flesh. It means he doesn’t have many options except to kill before he is killed.

It brings him back to days in the League, fighting against the other assassins, many of which were after his life as if his death could bring them nirvana.

Of course, it’s different now, but not by much.

Damian practices his techniques with Father’s simulations, with dummies. He doesn’t spar often, because Drake is a coward, Father sees it as an opportunity to lecture him, and Todd is hardly around enough to ask. Richard, however… he’s fun to spar with.

So is Natasha, actually, now that Damian is thinking of it. She doesn’t hold back, she has that same drive that he operates with. She doesn’t criticize him for it, either.

But it’s not like with Richard, who turns everything into a game, unable to help himself from injecting some sense of vitality into their play fights. He quips and laughs, and it’s contagious.

Damian… really misses that.

And suddenly, it’s that feeling that changes everything. 

A pinprick of light appears in the distance, and Damian rushes forward without thinking. The light comes into focus, at first as harsh light that dims as it comes into focus, grays and shadows infiltrating, forming something…

Damian sees a shape in the darkness, a familiar outline that sends a burst of fierce longing lancing through him. He yells out, but still hears nothing, and it feels as if he’s a ghost, a mere projection. The figure doesn’t notice him, and the returning silence is fraught with remembered rejection. He hates this. 

When Father returned, Richard was happy to no longer be Batman, glad to return to Blüdhaven. Status quo reset. An exhalation of relief, unburdened of the mantle and Gotham’s vise grip relaxing. Richard left so fast.

Two years with Damian seemed to leave no impact. Or... not much impact.

Certainly, Richard cares for Damian. He left for a multitude of reasons, and not because Damian isn’t enough—.

Richard cares for Damian. He calls him often, leaves him texts, and they discuss cases like they used to, even if they aren’t working on them together anymore. Richard is still there when Damian needs someone to talk to. He’s there when Father is cross with him. He defends Damian, not because he has to, but because... They’re family.

And Damian misses him. Truthfully, he misses him more than he thought it possible to miss a person. His understanding of the word has taken on an entirely different definition after meeting Richard. A lot of words have. 

So, perhaps that’s why...

Damian approaches the figure and in doing so, the darkness begins to bleed out, blues and grays filling in, adding texture and background to the scene in front of him. It’s almost as if Damian is entering a sort of... painting, at first. Then, it’s as if the painting has come to life; the sounds of Gotham fill the air, distant sirens and the subdued solitude of an alley not often traveled through.

As odd as it is, relief fills him.

Richard obviously hadn’t ignored him. Why would he? Damian needs to stop being so doubtful. He knows Richard wouldn’t purposefully ignore him. They’ve been through so much together, too much for it to not matter.

Cautiously but emboldened, Damian’s footsteps leave the shadows, stepping onto wet pavement and when he looks back, with the vividness of reality meeting a dream, he sees the shadows move, retreating to the darkest point that he can see, into the umbra.

Uncertain, he looks back towards Richard, who’s head hangs low, his body shaking. He no longer looks like the tower of height that Damian has looked up to in the past. His shoulders are curled in, appearing enfeebled by some strange volume of emotion. Damian can’t tell for certain, without seeing his face. He might be laughing.

Fear gas? Joker venom?

Damian gets closer, his footfalls silent. “Nightwing?”

Richard spins, and several details slide in place.

This is the place. This is where it happened, where it started. Damian finds himself stunned.

This is the alley Damian had been punched by the rogue! This is the spot.

Is this real? A dream? A nightmare?

Richard’s face is wet with tears, dribbling from his mask. He’s more agonized than Damian has seen in a very long time.

Bizarrely, Damian feels a spark of joy, because, because... he’s back!

He’s returned!

“Nightwing!” Damian yells, a wide grin spread across his face. He takes off running, closing the gap as fast as he can, arms stretched wide, filled with so much relief! He can’t believe this! The shadows returned him!

He’s back!

“Damian—.”

Damian’s arms pass through.

Oddly, his brain is slow to recognize this fact.

His body feels like a carbonated drink, fizzy and electric. His breath is tight in his chest, caught. Can’t breathe.

He’s weightless, and he’s falling, unable to catch himself on anything, and for a terrible second, Damian fears—

“Damian!”

He keeps falling, the dark pit has opened again, inky tendrils reaching out for him, snaking around his waist to pull him in, but he twists his body, desperate for one last look—

Not fast enough. Richard’s face is only as clear as a memory now, and Damian struggles even holding onto it.

He screams.

He screams.

He screams.

For countless beats, seconds that feel like eternities, Damian falls.

And then he hears:

“I̴̻͓͛̃t̴͕͝͝'̵̜̈́͝s̸̡̈͆ ̸̛̻̆g̶̢̗͐͆ỏ̴̢̳͝n̸͗ͅn̴̤͋ǎ̸̯͆ ̶̢̕b̶̢͉̍ë̵̪́̈́ ̵͚̅̀a̵͓̖͌͝l̵̨̅r̸̼͌̚i̴͓̭͗͐g̵̖̲͛h̵̪̉t̵̗̐,̵̫̄ ̷̘̲̿͘Ľ̴̡͝i̶͔̒ţ̷͛t̵̥̋l̷̟͈̍̊ë̸͕́̔ ̸͕͎̿D̴̮͗͌.̸̥͗̾”

And then he sees: 

Everything becomes awash with colors, light and dark, indescribable shades from every hue, saturation and value, comprising images twisted by refraction, sights he feels are familiar yet strange. It’s not accurate to call it snowfall, or rain. The images are not quite images, but he sees them. All around him, they fall but also remain suspended, slowly and yet quickly shifting. Coming into view, disappearing, reappearing, the same yet different.

He doesn’t understand it.

He feels small .

“L̸͎̉́i̴̢͚͌͝t̵̫̝̃t̴̡̽̕ĺ̷͙̍ḛ̸̣͗̽ ̴̘̋D̵͔̿̈́—”

Richard’s voice is unmistakable, yet distorted.

“L̸i̶t̷t̴l̷e̷ ̸D̶—.”

It feels mocking, hearing Richard’s voice echoing just after he’d been so close. He can’t let go of the feeling. The high he’d just felt, the relief that had so quickly spoiled and turned to acid.  

Damian understands less than he knew before.

And somehow, that’s what tips the scale.

His eyes fill with tears, and quicker than he can blink them away, the tears roll down his cheeks, dripping down his chin. He sucks in a breath.

“Fuck you,” he says, so filled with anger, it doesn’t even matter that there’s no one around to hear it.

Actually. What does any of this matter? If he can’t hold it in any longer, who’s here to witness it?

“Fuck you!” Damian shouts, putting everything he can into it. “Fuck you! Fuck youuuuu!”

It’s not enough. He can’t get enough of it out of him, the anger that’s consuming him.

He thinks of the bastard rogue who had done this to him. It gets harder and harder to remember the details of the rogue. What they looked like, if they’d spoken. Regardless of who they are, though, it doesn’t matter. Intense hatred sears through him, making his sight blurry, his stance unsteady.

It triggers something, the shadows are back, sprouting at his feet, wriggling tendrils that almost appear frenzied by his emotions. He can’t tell what they are, where they’ve come from, what they’re really responding to, what their purpose is. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter.

With the anger, desolation follows in its path, and when the shadows envelop his body, taking him from a world of light and color, Damian allows it to happen.

.

.

It’s Laurie’s fault.

“Laurie, get back,” Mr. Summers cautions.

She shakes her head. No. She won’t cower, or falter. Her panic forced Damian into this state, and she has the ability to help him. She knows she does. She just doesn’t... know how. Not yet, but she will.

Mr. Summers said they can find a way to help Damian, together. Except, she can’t think of anything they can do, but her? Just maybe…

Laurie wipes her tears, and thinks of the things Damian told her before. It stands to reason that her abilities are more complex than forcing other people to feel her emotions, or creating fake emotions. Pheromones are chemical signals, triggers. 

If panic is what induced this, then Laurie must be calm.

Taking a deep breath, she focuses on the tips of her fingers, then her knuckles, then her wrist. She gets to her elbows, and then to her shoulders, she observes. Damian had said to build her awareness, to use her breaths to do it. Attempting to keep focus, she takes deep, slow breaths. She listens.

Her back is next, and she goes section by section of it, before coming to her hips, then down her thighs, to her knees, to her toes. Systematically, Laurie assesses her body, doing her best at taking note of every detail. It’s hard, harder than anything she’s done, because it doesn’t feel natural.

Laurie’s used to carrying stress, and worry. She feels that now, in the tension of her muscles, but through breathing, some of the tension lets loose, just a bit.

It’s in doing this that Laurie feels a strange power... in her skin. Something normally unnoticed, something other, and then Laurie’s nose picks up on it, the notes of it that become clearer with her attention on it; the sharp acrid smell of terror, and it’s coming from her . It’s terror she no longer feels but her body is still pumping it into the air.

It’s the very first time Laurie has ever been able to identify her own pheromones, and she’s momentarily stunned at the potency of it. No wonder Damian can’t get ahold of himself. No wonder people can’t stand being around her. No wonder her mom is terrified of her!

“Laurie!”

Mr. Summer’s yell is the only thing that stops her short at the precipice of the spiral she had been about to fall down.

Damian groans, and Laurie looks at him, sees his cheeks are wet with tears.

It hardens her resolve, closing her eyes to concentrate.

In the future, Laurie might be able to create pheromones that are unique and more versatile, but that isn’t now. In order to calm him, she needs to embody that. She thinks of her happiest memories, the times her mom took her out of school, prior to her mutation, where they’d go shopping, to the movies. She thinks of when her mom last hugged her, how tightly she held her in her arms, the warmth and scent of her that always brings Laurie down from whatever panic she’s in. She thinks of her mom’s voice.

She keeps thinking of it, brings the feeling to the forefront of her mind, allows herself to be comforted, to be emboldened. Laurie takes a deep breath, searching her skin for where her pheromones are strongest, and then she mentally blasts the scent of comfort into the air. She puts all her focus and strength into it, pumping the scent into the air, and it’s a palpable shift that sends relieved sighs resounding in the library.

Laurie’s brain hurts.

“Nicely done, Laurie!” It’s Beast that says it, and his raw enthusiasm sends a spark of unfettered joy through her.

It’s sufficient to say that everyone in the room feels it, too. In the mental state she’s in, Laurie can smell her happiness, her triumph. Weird. Even as she thinks that, she’s… grinning.

It dawns on her that this, right here, is what she’s meant to be doing with her mutation. Damian had been right; she can’t be afraid of it. The body-scan meditation had helped, the secret ingredient to succeeding. It’s only one method of meditation, she can’t begin to imagine the benefits of other methods. Hopefully, Damian can...

Laurie opens her eyes, and the bright green glow that Damian is encased in nearly blinds her. 

That’s something she hadn’t been expecting, the onslaught of her other senses after having brought her mind into a weird zone of scents and emotion. The lights are too bright, the visual feedback enough that Laurie groans.

She sways, blood spurting from her nose as she brings a hand up to stop it.

“Laurie!” It’s Mr. Beaubier, arriving at her side as she feels his hand on her shoulder, steadying her.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Laurie whispers, and she puts everything into keeping her panic from rising, continuously pumping comfort, peace, safe into her pheromones.

She’s scared that if she stops, they’ll be back at square one, that her anxiety will once again fill the air and hurt Damian. Laurie won’t let such a thing happen. She can’t.  

To her last, waking second, she uses her pheromones, and then her body gives out, caught by Mr. Beaubier.

.

.

Damian walks in the shadows again, though walking is a generous term for it. In the space that he’s been brought to, it’s still unclear what it is. He can’t even be certain if he’s still corporeal, if all of this is just an astral projected fever dream, or if he’s fully lost his his mind. It would make sense in either case. Not perfect sense, but enough that Damian wouldn’t mind just accepting it as the truth, just to have something.

He isn’t sure how much he’s traveled, if he’s traveling at all, if he is simply walking in place, imagining the motions of putting one foot in front of the other. Before, it almost felt like he was going somewhere, but now it’s as if he’s directionless, wandering.

It’s still a space in which sound doesn’t exist, Damian’s breathing is inaudible, and when he brings a hand to his chest, he feels the scratchy fabric of his shirt like its a mirage, like his hand has touched a cobweb falling apart at his touch, breaking away with nothing except a strange buzz at his fingertips.

At a certain point, Damian has to acknowledge it. The fact that this strange place he’s been enveloped by is... not as nothing as it appears, and not as... intangible as it feels either.

It’s contrasted by the initial moment that Damian was first punched by that rogue. Back then, Damian thought he’d died. He’d almost forgotten everything, his name, his identity. He’d only barely held on to the concept of being alive. And maybe he did die, he hasn’t ruled the possibility out.

But this place, in the shadows, where it's not as cold as he thinks it should be, where he’s not contained to the confines of flesh and bone, where he also isn’t being broken down to atoms, to singularity. It’s not freedom, but it’s not a prison either. It feels... alive. Other. Somehow… protective? Certainly not hostile. Motivations decidedly unclear.

Damian wonders if there’s a way to communicate with it. Is it even sentient? What is it?

For a moment, he’s so curious, his anger eases.

It reacts, perhaps to his emotions, an odd shiver running through him, the darkness around him shifting, not as dark anymore. It’s a place where sound is inaccessible, where he can’t use words to communicate. Is emotion the way?

If it is, Damian finds himself feeling at a loss in the face of what is entirely a foreign language. There are no root words or historical precedent to guide him towards learning. Emotion is something he has spent his childhood trying to carve out of him, not even to reject it, but to entirely destroy it at the spark, the seed. At first, to live as his grandfather and mother desired, to overcome his base, animalistic nature, to forge himself as a weapon, to be a conqueror of the world, to dominate .

Then, when that aspiration was rooted out of him by the hands of Richard, by his hands, Damian has found an unruly anger sprouting where before it was a dry desert. He tried, tries, not to water it. Damian knows how he is seen. He knows the truth of it.

Anger has been his guiding light at times, righteous and fierce, but it is also his major failing, where his sense of control falters and his instincts take over. Less callous weapon, more unruly beast-child, aspersions he has fought against being known for, but he can’t ever seem to... be more than.

He remembers telling his father once:

“I want to be like you. I’ve always wanted to be like you... But sometimes I don’t know what I am... or even who I am.”

Damian had just killed a man not long before those words. Nobody, or more precisely, Morgan Ducard. 

He’d taken his life with a technique his father didn’t want him to learn, the same technique Nobody had used to knock Damian out with, the same technique that Nobody taught him; he’d driven his fingers into that point between the nose and the forehead, concaving the soft part of the bone, killing him with the sort of ease Damian would have felt proud of it, if it were years ago.

The thing is, Damian didn’t make a mistake that night. Not the way he sometimes wishes.

People are so fragile. Restraint is so difficult to learn. Father told him:

“Because if the move isn’t executed perfectly —with the precise amount of pressure—you can easily kill someone.”

It’s not that Damian couldn’t knock him out. It’s that Damian understood Morgan Ducard. He understood Nobody. At that moment, all Damian could see was a man who wanted his father dead. Who wanted him dead. A vendetta manifested out of blood, pride, and bitterness. All he could see was the man that had nearly killed Batman, right before his eyes, promising to come back, to keep coming back.

Father’s back was turned when it happened.

Damian made a choice.

Batman, whose mythos had grown larger than life in his mind long before he met him. Batman, who Ra’s al Ghul acknowledges above all. Batman, who his mother loves.

Batman made fallible, mortal. More king than a god. A castle with cracks in the rampart.

Damian didn’t have to kill Nobody. He knew the feel of the pressure, how much force to exert to incapacitate. When his fingers made contact, the decision had already been made. His life had already been taken, and when Damian heard the wet crunch of breaking bone, Damian had a thought:

He has more in common with Ducard than his own father. 

It had been easy to trick Ducard into thinking he betrayed his father because of that. Even Father was fooled. He remembers the audio diary his father made for him, the one made while searching for Damian.

“Right now I’m at one of our emergency uniform sites. Your suit and utility belt are gone, and you’ve turned off the tracking device inside the belt. Only one word keeps pounding in my brain. Why? Why would you step into the darkness so fast? But who am I kidding? I know the answer to that.

“If I’m going to be honest with you, Damian, I’ll need to be honest with myself. It’s not just the upbringing that your mother forced on you that made you who you are... I’m also to blame.”

He proceeded to tell the tale of the Ducards, the father and son pair that Father had trained with, shortly before returning to Gotham. Henri Ducard, who trained Father in man-hunting, tracking and investigation, and Morgan Ducard, who had killed his own mother when it was discovered she was an assassin hired to kill the senior Ducard prior to his birth. His mother had been the only person in the world who truly cared for Morgan, who would have killed Henri, the person she had fallen in love with, to protect her son. 

Regardless, Morgan was trained under his father’s hand after that point, and when Father entered the picture, the very fact that Father proved to be the better student, far superseding the ability that Morgan had worked for, he had come to hate Father. 

Ultimately, Morgan Ducard attempted to kill him, just after the three of them had tracked down an elusive terrorist—a terrorist that Father thought would be turned over to interpol, instead of being outright assassinated like the Ducards had sprung on him. The Ducards had made Father an abettor to murder, and Father made it no secret how he felt about the betrayal. 

So when Morgan shot Father before he could embark at the airport, it came as no real surprise. It only made sense that the Ducards would try to cut a loose thread.

Father just barely lived through the attack on his life, saved by chance. He confessed on the audio diary, that out of the sheer anger of how much they had wronged him, in retaliation, Father tracked Morgan down and threw a brick into Morgan’s windshield before reaching into the car and viciously beating him, almost to death. He eventually came to his senses, but he still dropped an injured Morgan through the skylight of Henri’s base, where his bloodied body would land on his father’s work table amidst a cascade of glass.

“And that’s how I wrapped up the last of my training days overseas, Damian. Now you know everything there is to know about the Ducards... and my own horrendous actions that have brought us to this point.”

The point being, Morgan Ducard had a goal, for which there were only two acceptable outcomes, driven by one desire. Bruce Wayne had to lose his son, whether by death, or by taking Damian in as his own apprentice. The latter would never have happened, and Nobody figured this out long enough to attempt to murder Robin, with Batman barely coming in time to save his life.

The fact that death had been so close, the fact that this man’s pure devotion to his revenge could bring him this far, the fact that... Damian understood him. Understands him.

Sometimes, Damian toys with the idea of if he had let Ducard live that night, what might have become of him. Father believes in the future. He believes in rehabilitation. He believes in the work of Thomas Wayne. Batman is guided by strict principles.

“Principles don’t allow for exceptions, Damian.”

Except, it had taken the life and death of a nobody for Damian to understand the sea of difference between him and his father.

Father recorded the message for a reason, to inform Damian he wasn’t alone, that the two of them shared similarities, a similar righteous fury, anger that could take lives. Except, Father has his principles, his core beliefs. He believes in preserving the sanctity of life, of valuing innocence. He believes in the concept of a better world, of fighting for it.

Damian... doesn’t. He doesn’t have an imagination like that.

“You have to believe it. You have to live it from here on out... Not for my sake, but yours.”

Mother raised him to conquer the world, to forge a world of his own making. No, of their making. Him, as her Alexander, she, as his Olympias. The path to it would be bloody, death an inevitable facet to the journey, but by the end of it, oh, what a wonderful world it would be, him at the helm of it. Even back then, Damian didn’t have much imagination for what that might look like.

But in those days, death hadn’t frightened him, not like it does now. It used to be so impersonal, cotidian and dull. Lifeless eyes looked like still portraits to him, and blood and viscera were commonplace brush strokes on the easels he painted on.

Death didn’t matter to him until he was ten. Murder didn’t seem like a terrible thing, not if there was justice to claim—a belief that only held up until he arrived in front of Father with a severed head in hand. It’s no surprise that Father rejected him. It’s more surprising, if anything, that Richard hadn’t.

It’s funny, actually. Richard once said, in a time just before Father’s return, “You honestly think he’d put up with you the way I do?”

It had been in response to Damian asking, “What will I do? Do you think my father will let me stay on as Robin?”

The idea of Father’s arrival home at the time seemed foreboding, like an imminent threat. Damian had left his mother’s side to fight alongside Batman, had given up the al Ghul way of life to experience a new one. To see life from another angle, to be... different. He rejected his origins to take on Robin.

If Father returned, only to cast him out from the role, what would happen to him?

Richard had attempted to soften his response, saying, “Damian, I’m joking.” He was not joking. Moments later, Richard would add, “Come on, cheer up, Damian. Batman and Robin will never die, right?”

Damian knew better though. Richard doesn’t give direct answers, not when he fears the truth will hurt. He’s someone who deflects, who commandeers charm to obliquely divert attention, to avoid hard answers to difficult questions.

Richard answered the way he did because he hadn’t been certain Father would accept Damian. The ‘joke’ he’d made, rhetorically phrased to inject a sense of sarcasm in it, hadn’t landed that way. It landed a bit too close to the crux of Damian’s worry. Lands a bit too close, even now, frankly.

Without Robin, what is he? Without the al Ghul or Wayne name, what is he? Even with those things, what is he?

More importantly, when it’s all gone, what is he left with?

That’s the sort of fear that Ducard had struck him with that night, the sort of fear that made Damian ensure, even in the haze of pain he’d been in, that he put an end to the man who posed a threat to the kingdom, to protect his father and the legacy he built. To do what his father had been unable, no, unwilling to.

Damian might ask it, but he never actually wanted to find an answer to the question.

He’s different that way, from Father. Damian was raised to be the hammer, not the hand. Any sort of natural curiosity hadn’t been cultivated, it had been culled. Richard understood this, the fact that the clues-game of some of their cases didn’t hold the same appeal to him as when they were on the field, fighting. It’s not that he can’t play the game, either, that he can’t solve a case with mindwork and clue hunting, but that it doesn’t come as natural to him as it does to Father... or Drake. He can’t quite get the same satisfaction as when he beats someone in combat.

He had been raised for the fight, in the fight. He lived by directives given by Mother and Grandfather, to meet their standards of perfection, perfection that he still innately seeks out. He thinks of all the things he was taught, the purpose of every lesson and every punishment. His exhaustive education hadn’t been administered to enrich his mind or foster his natural inclinations, but to emulate a man he didn’t meet until he was ten. To be a stand-in for the man that had rejected the chance to be an heir to the al Ghul patrimony.

Damian understands this now. The al Ghuls, by their very nature, seek power, unflinching of the corruption of it, held aloft by ideals soaked in blood and deception, with aspirations to sail above everything, to do it for the good of the world, preventing ecological devastation for the betterment of all, and the sacrifice of the some.

Father, at his very core, couldn’t be heir to a league that aligns itself so closely to death, that pretends to have dominion of it. As for Damian, he may have left the League of Assassins, might have turned his back on his mother and grandfather, but that doesn’t ever mean he’s left the shadows.

Damian has spent his entire life walking in the shadows of others, being a shadow to others.

Around him, the darkness shifts, has been shifting, reacting to his thoughts and the resulting emotions. It’s easy to understand then, that this Other being, this space he’s been shielded by, isn’t actually other at all. It’s him. His shadow, bizarrely obvious now that he realizes it.

To control it, all it takes is a concerted focus, a bringing to heel of the emotional drowning he’s been struggling to keep his head above.

For this to be his mutation, though it feels like the universe is mocking him, it actually makes it easy to wrest control of the shadows, to reign in the anger, the sorrow, the longing. It almost feels as if something is helping him to do it, too.

He senses an odd feeling of comfort that has infiltrated, unreasonably easy to be soothed by. It makes him think of Richard, when Damian had nearly died and Richard had clutched him to his chest. He thinks of Father, too, as the man carried his broken body out of the sinking ship where Ducard’s body lay abandoned, evidence of all the things that torment them to this day, proof of Damian’s polarity.

Damian remembers saying, later, “Don’t give up on me, Father.”

He remembers hearing, “I have no intention to.”

Damian had asked, “How do I make amends?”

“You can’t,” his father had told him with solemn certitude. “But you will remember what happened on that boat every day of your life.”

Back then, it had felt like a sentencing, like the king’s decree. Remember the life he had taken, the future of a man snuffed out. Nobody, no, Morgan Ducard couldn’t become anything more than the man he had been, and Damian had ensured that with his own hands.

From Father’s perspective, that’s the tragedy of taking life, what makes it nigh unforgivable. Redemption and change is integral to his belief of making a better world, a cornerstone to the infrastructure his father has built with his legacy, both in and out of the suit. He wants to believe that people can change… that Damian can change.

If you do not change direction, you may end up where you’re heading. 

Another Lao Tzu quote, oddly enough, which brings to mind the meditation that had gone so poorly, as well as Laurie Collins and the grim acceptance that the two of them are a lot more alike than he wanted to acknowledge before.

If you do not change direction, you may end up where you’re heading. Damian remembers the quote because of how stupid it sounded at the time he first heard it. Ravi had said it in that soft rolling tone of voice he used with Damian when he was young, a gentle lamb of a man who stayed loyal the entire time he served him. Even when it cost him his sight, disabling him.

At the time, he thought Ravi was mocking him, but now, years later, Damian understands the literal nature of it. He hears the warning, the blatant reminder that without purposeful intention to change, the path he was set on as a child will become an inevitable destination.

The shadow that dreamed it could be a hero. He still feels sometimes that there’s a countdown to when the dream will end.

The point is, Damian has to change. Even if he’s afraid. Even if it’s difficult. Even if he can’t achieve it gracefully, that he’ll have to fight with gritted teeth to do it. Even if it means he has to face the awful reality of his actions, feel the weight of the lives he’s taken and ruined. Even if there are no ways to make amends, he’ll remember, every day, the Damian al Ghul of the past.

When Damian sees the cocooning darkness fall away, sees the way the black inky tendrils recede into his body, it’s like getting an answer he knew was coming but didn’t want to hear. A truth he already understood but didn’t want to face.

Without Robin, without the al Ghul or Wayne name, who is he? 

Nobody. He’s nobody.

Except, Damian refuses to be Nobody. He wants to be Robin, forever leaping, joyously flying. Only, he can’t do that in the shadows, as a shadow. Not where the light makes it impossible for him to follow.

So, if such a thing is truly out of reach, what does a shadow become if it wants to change? 

More importantly, what does a shadow do if the figure that cast it is no longer there?

.

.

Scott doesn’t know what to make of the glowing—green, by the accounts of Northstar and Beast—but it seems not to be necrotic or acidic as nothing in contact with it is being destroyed. He still plays it safe, glad to have his gloves, so that when Damian falls from the air, Scott catches him.

Laurie’s ability had come as a boon to the situation's recovery, and he can’t help but feel a little bit of pride for the both of them. Whatever Damian had taught her, whatever she had learned in such a short time, even if it came to ahead in an alarming way, Scott has been around enough out of control mutations to know that they’re getting off easy here.

No one’s dead or dying, minimal damage to the property, and as long as Damian proves to recover like Scott thinks he will—for all that is good and kind in the world, he better— then it will at least have been illuminating. Literally.

Despite no longer floating, Damian is still glowing, his skin taking on a luminescent sheen, his eyes wide and unseeing, expression lost. It’s an expression that tugs at Scott’s empathy. The kid seems oddly defenseless like this, and noting that makes Scott’s stomach twist. It comes to mind the potential risk of Damian’s mutation reacting this way again, leaving him vulnerable to attack in the future.

This concern only gets stronger at how easily Scott has grabbed a hold of Damian, having scooped him into his arms. There was no visible reaction when he did this. Damian’s mind is truly elsewhere.

Cautious, Scott glances over Damian, checking for any visible injuries, and then very gingerly, he adjusts Damian’s weight in order to grab for his wrist, feeling his pulse. Steady. He looks fine, minus the glowing, and well, there’s plenty of glowing mutants.

“Damian?” he calls, and he really doesn’t want to jostle him, doesn’t want to unintentionally harm him in this state.

That’s about when the crying starts. Damian’s cheeks had already had a tell-tale sheen, but now the tears are hot and fresh. It’s hard to determine how present the kid is in his head, especially with his expression as blank as it is. Not even a controlled blank—just… vacant.

“Damian?” Calling again seems to do the trick, and when Damian comes to, it’s slowly, almost agonizingly slow. He begins to murmur under his breath, things that aren’t English, but sound heartfelt, yet heartbreaking at the same time.

Scott can’t help it, tugging Damian closer, leaning back so that the small boy’s entire weight fell on his chest, using an arm under his rear to keep him secure against him. When Damian responds by reaching his arms around his neck, he knows he made the right call. The only correct thing he’s done for the kid all day, really.

“I’m here, Damian.”

.

.

“Damian—I’m right here, Damian,” a voice says, familiar. “I got you. I got you. Just keep holding on to me. I won’t let you go.”

“Richard…?” The voice isn’t right for him, the cadence is off, and much deeper, rumbling. Damian feels it against his chest as the person keeps talking, keeps reassuring him. Where the voice tugs at a memory, the body doesn’t. The planes of the chest are all wrong, the arms too bulky, not lithe enough to be Richard’s, much sturdier, not as able to bend.

“It’s Scott,” the voice says.

He sounds regretful but Damian finds himself acutely relieved—and filled with... filled with...

“I can’t see,” Damian murmurs, which isn’t totally accurate. He’s seeing, but there are fat gobs of wetness masking everything, turning the world blurry and bleak. The tears spill, more coming to take their place, and there’s a helplessness to it. He doesn’t even feel like crying, just that he is, uncontrollably.

Summers has a hand at the back of his neck now, fingers gently carded into the hair at his nape. His arms are tight around him, applying pressure that Damian thinks is the only thing keeping him held together, as the sensation of falling through Richard hangs over his head. Just as much, Damian clings back, a hindbrain reaction and nothing more.

“You’re going to be okay, Damian,” Summers says, resolute.

It brings a fresh wave of tears, and he can hear himself—god forbid—sniffling.

“Is Collins alright?” Damian finds himself asking, fuck, why does his voice sound fragile?

“She’s…” Scott shifts, and after a pause, says, “She’s alright. Tired. She helped calm everyone down, and overextended herself, but Northstar has her.”

“It’s the least she could have done, after the panic she incited,” Damian can’t help but snipe, embarrassed by his hysterical show of emotions. It’s one thing for it to happen in his head, but the fact that there are people around to see it?

His image will actually never recover. God. It’s the sort of unhinged behavior he can expect of his brothers, but him? He has already far superseded what would have been a proportionate response to the actual stakes of the situation in his mind. For it to reach the outside world? Vile.

Here he is, held in Scott’s arms like he’s a child , with a shaking, small voice, and a stupid clawing need to cling to the mutant as if the man is his father or Richard. It would have already been embarrassing with his family, but at least there’s a precedent there.

This?

Abhorrently shameful.

Damian breaks into a sob, his emotions as touchy as an active livewire. He can’t help but feel that Collins is still at fault here. That stupid girl.

“How about I get you to the clinic, Dames?”

Damian jerks at the nickname. This is exactly why precedent is so important. He bets Scott—Summers feels that he is obligated towards him now, that theirs is a relationship where Scott dares to care. A freak like him would.

“Sorry,” Summers is quick to say, and Damian can’t tell through the blur of his tears, but he thinks he might be flustered.

“Put me down,” Damian says, trying to inject authority into it, but it comes out whiny and bratty, and not at all commanding.

“Are you sure—?”

Damian elbows Summers sharply, and at the mutant’s surprised gasp of pain, he makes a bid to escape—

Only to crash land on his hands and knees, head spinning like a pinwheel, similar to the feeling when he first arrived in this world. Not bad enough to vomit, thankfully, but his stomach does protest, especially as he attempts to rise.

It’s at this moment that he’s able to make out the fact that he’s fucking green. Which notably didn’t happen the first time. Not only that, it’s a very peculiar green. Lazarus green. 

Summers is quick to kneel beside him, hand on his shoulder. “Damian, trust me. You can rely on me.”

“I don’t need your help, Scott!” Damian snaps ferociously, slapping the hand at his shoulder.

Why the fuck is he green and how does he stop it?

And oh, actually, nevermind on holding in the contents of his stomach; Damian tips forward and loses the battle.

Summers, bastard that he is, coughs, pointedly. In a very ‘told you so’ way that eerily reminds him of Todd. “Sure looks like you’re doing great, Damian. I have all the confidence that you have everything under control.”

Smug asshole.

“I will kill you,” Damian threatens.

“Sure, kid,” Scott says, and now that he can see a little better, Damian notices the subtle smile there, like he’s trying to hold back, but can’t.

“Fucking di—.”

Damian is abruptly cut off when Scott reaches around him, scooping him off the ground, and working his body into a fireman’s carry with a quickness that feels expertly done. He struggles, of course he does, but the mutant has a vise-like grip on his arm and leg, and Damian just doesn’t have the reach for any of his hidden blades, leaving him captured.

“Just taking you to the clinic, don’t freak out on me, Damian,” Scott says with weirdly fond exasperation.

Damian stops struggling, if only to preserve strength, and now that his brain is catching up with the overload of all sorts of new information, he finds himself resigning to his fate.

Summers should be making himself useful. Damian would do the same, in his shoes, to take care of an injured or ill ally. At least Summers has given him the dignity of a fireman’s carry.

Richard wouldn’t have. He’d have strapped Damian to his back or chest like an infant.

“If I puke again, I won’t be sorry,” he warns, nevertheless.

Summers gives an amused snort, walking in the direction of the clinic. “Won’t be the strangest thing I’ve been covered in.”

“Tt.” It somehow annoys him more that Summers is so blithe. “You sound oddly proud.”

“I’m an X-Men, Damian. Means the team and I have definitely been through the gauntlet of all sorts of weird things. A kid’s vomit doesn’t rank that high... unfortunately,” Scott murmurs, then chuckles at his own words, perhaps at the memories he’s referencing.

Damian doesn’t respond immediately, can’t. He’s caught on the fact that Summers still considers him a kid—Damian hates that, he really does. Normally, he can ignore it, but something about hearing it now is particularly striking and agitating.

It eats at him in a weird way as it brings to mind how starkly other he is. He’s never felt like a child. He doesn’t think he even has the right to be one, after everything he’s done in his life. Yet it’s a ubiquitous notion that has been particularly present in this world, a word continuously tossed in his direction or about him to a degree that is nauseating.

Barton’s words ring in his head, along with the memory of his stern expression, and the very pointed delivery:

“I don’t care if no one in your life has ever treated you like one, that you’re functionally an adult back home, but where it counts, and it counts, you are still a child.”

None of these people get it. Well, perhaps Natasha, but everyone else? The mold of a child is one that Damian hasn’t been made to fill. He’s just too capable, lightyears ahead of anyone else his age in experience and education, that he almost has much more in common with Drake’s friend, Superboy. More clone-like than child-like. Definitely the intentions of his birth are similar reasons for a clone to be made.

Mother never attempted to pull the wool over his eyes in that regard, even as she assured him of her love, that of hers for him, and the love she has for his father. Damian’s too pragmatic for it to matter to him that he was born for an express purpose other than the typical reasons a child might be born. It never bothered him to know he had gestated in an artificial womb or had been genetically modified, cultivated to be his grandfather’s successor.

Drake’s called him a homunculus in the past, and while it’s annoying coming from the most negligible Robin in the line-up, it isn’t... entirely baseless.

Certainly, with his new mutation, not knowing how it occurred or why, is another matter that Damian hasn’t thought enough about. Now, having just experienced what he did in his head, something that felt preternatural and inexplicable, it almost begs him to ask, what is he, if not more creature than boy, more monster than man. Especially now, when he’s in a world he doesn’t even belong in.

“You still with me, kid?” Summers asks.

It’s such a frustrating, painful question to be asked. “I want to go home, Summers.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Summers says, and his voice is rough against Damian’s ears for being so utterly, aggravatingly... soft. “For what it’s worth... I’m sorry. But we’ll get you home, Dami.”

Damian lets a pause fill the air before quietly asking, defeated, exhausted, desperately lost, “Why the nicknames?”

“Why do people normally use nicknames?” Summers says, his footsteps adding a slow, methodical bounce, like he’s being careful not to jostle Damian. “To express affection, establish familiarity and closeness, and… to give others a sense of belonging.”

Damian huffs. “Well, I don’t need any of that—.”

“Yes, Dami, you do.”

Summers says it with so much conviction that it’s hard for even Damian to refute it.

“I was like you, at one point. I had lost my family, staying in an orphanage. I didn’t have anyone… no one truly on my side. Everyone around me was extremely self-serving and only saw me for my use, or as my mutation, and not… me. I can’t let that happen to you, or anyone else if I can help it. So, even if you want me to piss off, that’s not going to happen. I can’t abandon you. The Avengers are a great support system, but not even they can fully grasp what it means to be a mutant, and I refuse to let you burn this bridge. It goes against everything I’m fighting for as an X-Men, and the future I want to protect. Do you understand, Damian?”

At this sentiment, Damian doesn’t know what to say, and he doesn’t understand his resulting emotions either. They’re mercurial, a vortex of conflicting feelings, swiftly shifting from doubt, to confusion, to anger, and the most off-putting, a reluctant sense of respect and… gratitude.

Summers is a blunt man, and honest. There’s something safe about the predictability of it, where Damian doesn’t have to question where he stands with him. 

For the entirety of his life, where that question is what has always hung over him with the people in his life, still hangs over him at times, it’s strange to have a forthright answer. For such stubborn steadfastness to come from a man that’s practically a stranger…

Scott is also a dreamer, like Father. They have a future that they can see in their minds, a future that they’re working towards, even at their detriment. It’s not like the sort of dreams that Mother used to weave, using Grandfather’s words as wooden supports for a rocky foundation. He knows now that those dreams were more of a tool, a manipulation for their endgame. He might never admit that out loud, but it’s an irredeemable truth that has forever altered the way Damian hears conviction like Scott’s.

However, Damian doesn’t know Summers well at all, not enough to be certain of how far Summers would go for his beliefs. And there’s a voice that Damian didn’t always have in his head that’s telling him, just this once, to give the mutant a chance. It sounds an awful lot like Richard, the man who had given Damian a chance.

It’s in thinking of his Batman, he finds himself relaxing, despite everything. Despite every logical reason in his head telling him not to trust Scott, there’s also a strange… elation that is too tempting not to be swept away by. His cynicism can’t let him ignore his instincts, but his instincts are telling him, bizarrely, that he can rely on Scott.

Perhaps that’s why, realizing this, Damian's skin loses the green glow, giving in to the air of comfort of being carried—and then the fever hits.

As if waiting for its cue, without the green glow, it’s like his defenses have fallen, and whatever backlash—minus the vertigo and nausea that clearly overwhelmed him earlier—that had been bade off, strikes, sudden and fierce.

His dizziness intensifies, and against his will, he does, in fact, vomit again. Then the cold invades, the shock to his nervous system wracks his entire body in shivers.

He doesn’t hear what Scott says next, the world appearing blurry, both in sound and sight. He can only make out the fact that Scott has picked up his pace, rushing the rest of the way to the clinic.

Damian doesn’t remain conscious too much longer after that, head lolling, body going limp.

Chapter Text

“Be careful around that boy, Scott,” Jean says quietly, peering over the investigative health scans they’d performed on Damian while he remained unconscious. She uses a hand to brush her fringe back from her face, but she doesn’t look up to meet Scott’s eyes.

He has a sense that she’s overthinking something, probably her first interaction with him.

“What do you mean by careful?”

Jean huffs, body tense. “I... I think things are not as they appear with him. He’s a risk.”

“Damian is a good kid, Jean.” He’s about to add more, to talk about all the interesting things he’s learned about him, about how proud he is of him, especially after having talked to Laurie when she woke up a bit ago. Only, Jean cuts in quickly.

“I didn’t say he’s the problem.”

“Then, what is?”

“I don’t know, Scott. I just... saw things in his head. Felt... things. I don’t know what to make of it.” Jean turns her head, just slightly, looking at him from the corner of her eyes. “I do know that things are being hidden from me.”

“Take it up with Xavier,” Scott says, his frown deepening. “I assume he has his reasons, and he didn’t discuss them with me.”

Jean looks away, back to the scans. “He has things he’s keeping from us. I don’t trust it. And I trust the situation around this child even less.”

“Damian,” he reminds her. “The least you can do is say his name. You went into his head after all.”

At that, Jean sighs. “I didn’t mean to. Not at first. But it was so strange. I felt like I was being called to, and then I needed to see why—.” Cutting herself off, she shakes her head, dropping the papers onto the desk. “Boy wonder’s vitals look good, and his very capable healing factor is at work. He’s going to be fine, Scott.”

“Damian,” Scott says again.

Jean stands, taking off the white lab coat over her clothes, and hanging it up. It almost appears she might leave without another word, but she pauses at the door, turning to look at Scott, genuine worry there, too close to resembling fear, and he’s entirely thrown off by it.

“Be careful around Damian. Careful with him. He’s dangerous, and not to be underestimated.”

“We’re all dangerous, Jean,” Scott murmurs, confused by her insistence. “That’s never stopped any of us in the past from taking care of each other. Why are you singling him out?”

Jean furrows her brows, and he knows she has an answer that she doesn’t want to say out loud.

“Why?” Scott presses.

She sighs. “He doesn’t belong here,” is all she says before quickly leaving the office, not daring to meet his gaze.

Scott, knowing that Damian isn’t from this universe at all, wonders if that’s what she’s alluding to, if she knows from what she saw in Damian’s head that he’s a long way from home. Except, from her open paranoia and the fear he swore he'd seen, he has a grim suspicion that it’s definitely not all that she’s talking about.

“Damian,” he whispers in the empty room. “Just what did she see in your head?”

.

.

Damian wakes to a cool hand on his forehead. He vaguely feels as if he’s been dreaming, but only the vague vestiges of it remain, more sensation or feeling than memory. It’s presque vu, right there, but he just can’t remember it. It’s… a bit…

He cracks open his eyes, and even through the blur, he knows who is there. He can’t help but feel quietly stunned, his face scrunching as he inwardly marvels, confused.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Natasha asks, using a finger to smooth the wrinkles on Damian’s face. He doesn’t have it in him to bat her hand away, even as it tickles.

“You’re here,” he says.

“Scott called. Of course we came,” she tells him.

Relief and surprise swirl within him, and he blinks. “We?”

“Tony’s here, too.” Natasha brings her hand to his hair, fixing it. It’s strange how easily she touches him. It’s strange that he kind of… doesn’t mind it. “Why do you look so surprised? Did you think we wouldn’t come?”

He squints at her, and doesn’t risk talking just yet, shrugging instead.

“You worried me there for a second,” she says. “Has anyone told you that you sleep like the dead?”

He can’t help but crack a smile. He’s laying rod-straight on his back, palms crossed over his chest. Richard often complained about it when they were still living together. “Not the first time, no. It’s League conditioning. I guess even unconsciously, muscle memory takes over.”

“Well, it’s mildly worrying to see,” Natasha murmurs, but he sees her amused smile for what it is. “At least you’re breathing. Scott said that earlier that at one point, you weren’t.”

Damian grunts. He doesn’t really want to talk about any of what he’d just been through. His head still hurts, and his fatigue is making it hard to be as alert as he wants to be.

“How long was I out?” Damian ends up asking.

“You slept through the night and then some. It’s about to be ten,” she informs him, and adds, “Dr. McCoy thinks that what you’re experiencing right now is a form of backlash from using your mutation.”

Damian grimaces. “Does that mean I have to experience this every time? What the fuck.”

Natasha’s smile becomes more pronounced, shaking her head. “From what I gathered, it’s because you overdid it this time around.”

At that, Damian sits up in bed, ignoring his protesting muscles, squinting at her. “How could I over do something I had no control over?” Or better yet, how can he overdo something when he doesn’t even know what he did? 

Her amusement grows. “Control is sort of why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Natasha, you haven’t seen what I’ve seen. This institution is sorely failing in its educational promises. What do you think caused this debacle? An out of control mutant child is what did—stop grinning! You’re not taking any of what I say seriously, are you?”

“Laurie told me this morning that you were teaching her a way to control her mutation and she still failed. Why do you think that is? I mean, you were instructing her, and she still made a mistake. So, isn’t it more reasonable to assume that sometimes it’s inevitable that these things happen, and it’s not actually anyone’s fault in particular? That these sort of setbacks are a part of learning?”

What a lame excuse. It would never be accepted in the League. Failure is a humiliation ritual; calling it a setback is such a weak justification to keep failing and getting away with it.

For Natasha to be the one to say it, he can’t help but show his dismay.

“I can’t believe you’re on their side,” Damian mutters.

“I’m on your side, if anything, Ptichka. I’m not going to lie to you.”

His scowl deepens, but Natasha only chuckles.

“Listen. Your mutation is a part of you. Even if you can’t now, it doesn’t mean that you’ll never have control over it, or won’t come to understand it. At least now we have a better idea of what it is. Right?”

Damian arches a brow. “And what is the current theory on my mutation?”

“Well, Tony tried to say it’s like you’re a baby Hulk, but that’s definitely nowhere near the truth.”

“Lazarus green is nothing like Hulk green,” he grumbles.

“Lazarus green?” Natasha arches a brow.

“It’s a… substance from my universe, more colloquially known as Lazarus Pits. They’re a natural but rare phenomenon, pools of restoration. Put an injured man in, he comes out repaired. Put a dead man in, he returns to life… Does this world have anything like that?”

Natasha gets a weird look on her face, her smile gone, replaced by concern as she looks over his face. She’s reading him.

Damian arches a brow. “Well?”

Natasha inclines her head, and what comes out of her mouth next isn’t English, but Russian, saying, «There was a man, Nikolaus Geist, from Nazi Germany. You might want to ask Steve about it. He would know more than I do.»

Damian responds in kind, switching to Russian, «Would he even talk to me about it?»

Natasha shrugs. «Doesn’t hurt to ask. I would recommend not throwing that word, Lazarus, around, however. It might make you a target.»

«Why?» Damian demands to know.

«It has an association to an… organization of ill repute.» Natasha appears uncertain, and maybe even troubled. «Like I said, talk to Steve. What I’ve heard is only in passing.»

«I’ll ask,» Damian mumbles, and switches back to English to add, “No, but really, what is the running theory about my mutation?”

Natasha shrugs. “We were mostly waiting for you to wake up to ask what your experience had been like. As it is, we only have half the story.”

Damian grimaces. He doesn’t really want to talk about the shadows or the strange ordeal he had in his head. He doesn’t really see the point in it, either. It could have all just been… imaginary.

Yeah, right. 

He’s not delusional enough to try and kick it under the rug like that. It’s more complicated.

Some part of him just doesn’t want to admit it. He doesn’t want to have to tell anyone the things he saw, doesn’t want to provide the context. He doesn’t want to have to tell any of them what has really happened in his life, the things he’s done. If they were to learn about him, to know his past, if they were to look at him differently…

Damian knows, logically, he should tell someone. Natasha would be good to confide in. But he can’t—because, Natasha…

“You’re worrying again,” Natasha says. “Ptichka, just what did you experience?”

His ears burn. He can’t even look at her anymore. Damian wants to lie, but doesn’t know what she would let him get away with. She’s an incredibly discerning woman. Like Mother. She’ll know if he’s trying to lie.

She must take his silence as an answer, because she hums, her hand reaching back to his hair, fixing it. “It’s alright. You don’t have to say anything. As long as you’re safe, that’s all that matters.”

All that matters.

“You grew up like I did,” Damian murmurs, turning his face to look at her.

Unflinchingly, Natasha nods. There’s a lot said in just that look alone.

“I was really good at it,” Damian says softly, drawing away from her touch. He takes a deep breath, brings the palms of his hands and presses against his eyes, trying to regain the stoic demeanor that’s normally easier to access. After a moment, sensing the futility in it, he drops his hands in his lap, and gruffly admits, “I was really good at killing people. I think I still am, if I have to be.”

There’s a brief pause, one where Damian doesn’t know what to do with himself except bleakly gaze at his hands.

Then, Natasha asks, “Do you want to know how I got my name?” 

She takes it upon herself to hop up onto the clinic bed, her movement drawing his gaze back towards her.

“Chernaya Vdova. Black Widow. That’s how you introduced yourself to me,” Damian says, meeting her eyes.

“I was just an infant when I was trafficked. My family had taken money, and I was purchased, selected because I possessed the genetic potential the Red Room was looking for. I grew up in their academy and I excelled at every assignment, every lesson and expectation. When I graduated... Black Widow was the name they gave me. I worked in the KGB as a spy and assassin. I’ve been all over the world, there’s hardly a country I haven’t killed someone in. Some innocent, some guilty—all, just because I was really good at killing people, too, Damian. For a long time, it’s all I thought I was good for.”

“And now?”

Natasha tries for a smile, perhaps to be comforting, but it looks out of place. “I have a lot of red in my ledger, Damian. Right now, I’m just trying what I can not to add more. My work with S.H.I.E.L.D feels like a step in that direction.”

Damian tactfully decides not to question her belief in S.H.I.E.L.D. He can’t help but be wary of any government made taskforce. Grandfather’s teachings are instilled in him, right there in the back of his mind, exposing all the ways any group with ties to power can be corrupted. Grandfather has always been rather methodical when it comes to what sort of corruption he exploits, and S.H.I.E.L.D is certainly the type of organization that he would eagerly infiltrate and influence if given the opportunity.

“They gave me a second chance, even after Clint had been sent to kill me,” Natasha continues, surprising him. “It was Clint who convinced them, of course, but they accepted me even after all of the things I’ve done. Maybe because of my capabilities, but even now, the fact that I’ve been tasked to be one of the Avengers, responsible for helping save people... I think, even for people like us, there’s still hope. There has to be, because if there’s hope for us, it means people everywhere are capable of change. You, especially, Ptichka.”

Natasha scoots close, holding an arm out, looking at him as silence fills the air. Her gaze is clear, earnest, and despite how short she actually is, so small when compared to his memory of Mother, or even Gordon or Kyle, she still looks sturdy, still solid. Dependable.

Damian sighs, falling into her open arms, laying his head on her shoulder. Natasha really is the best there is in this world, and it becomes confoundingly difficult to distance himself from her. He knows better. He knows he shouldn’t allow this.

Except, it feels like when she looks at him, she sees him, and she isn’t afraid of what she’s seeing. Something about that look is more grounding than anything else in this world has been.

“Whatever it is you’re feeling,” Natasha says softly, hand cupping the back of his neck, “whatever it is you’ve gone through… I get it. You are not alone. Got it?”

Damian nods, but doesn’t speak, using her shoulder to hide from the world. He just needs a moment, just a second to get all his thoughts in order. Then he’ll pull away.

That’s what he tells himself, at least, but that moment turns to minutes and neither of them move. It’s strange, because he can’t stop thinking of the past, can’t help himself from drawing comparisons between his world and this one. He seeks out the familiar to feel less strange, but it’s not fair to these people.

Natasha is similar to Mother, but there’s so much that’s different between the two. Damian just can’t picture Talia al Ghul sitting like this with him—and not because she lacks love for him, but because her love is as cautious and careful as she is with everything else. 

Mother can’t express affection like this without it being surreptitious, quick, unseen by others. Her words are important to listen carefully to, and when she calls him her heart, she means it. He knows it without any doubt, because he sees it in her eyes, and that’s always been enough for him.

But it’s nice. It’s really nice, leaning on someone. It’s nice, the light scent of detergent and hints of rose water. It’s a good smell, calming.

And all Damian can think of is the fact that Natasha is willing to be affectionate and to take in him for no other reason than to help him, with no ulterior motive that he can find. He’s thought of everything he can and has still come up blank, only coming to one conclusion: Natasha is simply the best.

“Can we go back to the tower?” Damian asks, finally pulling back to look at her face. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Natasha’s expression is that impassive look again, the one he’s realizing is akin to meaning she’s relaxed, content not to force any expression. Oddly, it reminds him of Cassandra. Like Natasha has had some similar training that might have forced her to have complete control over her facial reactions. Her eyes look especially warm like this, like she’s smiling even though her mouth isn’t.

“I was planning to take you home,” Natasha says. “As long as Dr. McCoy gives the go ahead.”

“What if he says no, what then?”

“They might try and say you’re unstable, that the potential risks far outweigh letting you come back with me and Tony, but I think that’s bullshit. You were fine until you got here.”

Damian grimaces. “Well, I was fine here, too. Before I tried to help that girl.”

“Is that so? I heard you ran into some school bullies. Didn’t end up taking Tony’s advice, did you?”

He scowls. “That kid was a freak. A loose-cannon. I might have let him get a hit in, but it was only—.”

Damian cuts himself off, realizing belatedly that it’s perhaps not the wisest thing to admit to taking physical damage to test his healing mutation. Especially because Natasha catches on, her eyes sharpening.

“I can’t say I don’t understand, but you can’t be letting yourself get injured, not even as an experiment.” Natasha sighs. “How am I to trust that you won’t let Robin get hurt on patrol? That you won’t make a test out of taking a bullet?”

Her question eerily brings to mind concerns both Father and Richard have had with him in the past, brought about by Damian’s tendency to leap into things. But he’s not an idiot, and he knows how to take care of himself. It’s just getting them to believe it is difficult.

He honestly didn’t expect Natasha to care that much…

“I—there were kids behind me,” Damian mutters, feeling pained by his own slip up. “I could have dodged... I just chose not to.”

“Two birds, one stone?” Natasha sounds unimpressed by his defense.

Somehow, it feels like time as Robin is slipping away from him by the second.

“You promised you would let me patrol Monday night,” Damian says, his distress growing, mentally taking back all the nice things he’s thought about her. 

“I’m not breaking my promise. I’m just saying, use some sense, Ptichka. You’re too smart to waste it on fighting.”

Damian represses a flinch. He really doesn’t like how close she is to sounding just like Pennyworth. He doesn’t like the chiding tone, or the know-it-all look she’s giving him. It’s coming from the person he least expected it from.

A knock comes at the door while Damian inwardly fumes, and a second later, a small voice says, “Um, Miss… Mrs… Missus Romanov?”

Damian sighs deeply, bringing his palms to his face, groaning. Just what is that girl doing here?

“Natasha is fine, Laurie. You can come in if you’d like.”

No, she may not! Damian seethes, but keeps his mouth clamped shut, crossing his arms and not even wanting to acknowledge the miscreant that landed him in this bed.

“Oh! Okay, um… I just wanted to bring—.” Collins enters, only to stop short as soon as Damian lifts his head up to meet her gaze. She lets out shocked yelp, cheeks filling with red, blue eyes wide.

Damian’s eyes narrow in on the sketch pad in her hands, as well as the bagged stash of coloring pencils and markers that she nearly drops before clutching it to her chest.

“I thought you—I’m sorry, I thought you were still asleep,” Collins says to him, guilt filling her expression. “I just came to bring these, as, um, an apology. I’m sorry... Romanov. It’s my fault. That you’re, um, here.”

Damian, under normal conditions, would have scoffed and called her a plethora of mean names to get her to leave. It wouldn’t take much to get a girl like Laurie to piss off; he wouldn’t even have to get creative, she practically wore her weaknesses on her face.

But… these aren’t normal conditions, and… Damian remembers that at one point he had felt the sense of calm he had so desperately needed, something that had kept him from falling deeper into the shadows than he’d already ventured. It was her fault, but… Collins already seemed well aware.

“Alright…” she murmurs when he doesn’t respond. “I’m just going to leave these here…” Collins sets the art supplies on a table by the door. “I really am sorry,” she says again, her feet inching closer to the door.

His eyes still on the sketch pad, he says, “Scott told me you helped me. After you fucked everything up in the first place, of course, but you still helped.”

“I tried to…”

“Did meditation assist you, then?”

At that, Collins steps closer. “Yes! I… could feel and smell what my mutation was doing. I’ve never felt that before. I never even noticed, and it was…”

“Earlier, you began to panic out of seemingly nowhere. It caught me off guard, but what caused it? What made you so afraid?”

“Oh, um… I… don’t really…” Collins gets a bit blue in the face and Damian decides that he’s not actually all that interested, particularly if it poses the same danger as before.

Damian shakes his head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter to me. If it’s personal, it’s none of my business.”

Collins deflates, breathing out a low sigh. “Yeah. So… I brought these. In case you get bored. And to thank you, for, um, helping me. And also, I’m sorry, I really am, uh, Romanov.”

Damian sighs. “Just call me Damian, Collins, you sound stupid trying to mimic me. And keep in mind that the next time I mentor you, we won’t meditate together. I won’t be caught off guard again.”

“Next time?” Collins blurts, stunned.

Damian doesn’t even acknowledge this. “I’ll see you next weekend, Collins.”

It’s all she needs to catch the hint. “Uh, okay! Um, see you next weekend!” Collins says, face red as she turns tail and runs, just in time to narrowly avoid Stark as he comes up in the doorway after her hasty retreat.

Stark laughs. “Oh? Is she your new girlfriend?”

Damian takes a pillow and chucks it forcefully at Stark’s head, only for Natasha to snatch it out of the air.

“Careful. A hit like that could land Tony in one of these beds, Ptichka.”

Tt. He looks away, recrossing his arms.

Stark bades him off with two raised palms. “Alright, my bad. I won’t tease the grumpy baby, much as it pains me not to.”

Natasha laughs without any humor. “Just another reminder, Tony, Dr. McCoy told us not to elevate his stress levels.”

Her words strike Damian with sudden anger.

“I don’t need to be tip-toed around!” Damian yells, frustrated. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine!”

“You’re over extended and you need rest,” Natasha says, uncowed by his vexation. “Just because you’re no longer glowing green, it doesn’t mean the ordeal is over. And just because you don’t have any wounds to show for it, doesn’t mean you’re fine.”

“As if you really fucking care! You’re not even my real mother!” Damian yells, finally deciding that he really doesn’t need to listen to any of this, hand reaching to take out the IV in his arm.

Natasha stops him, deftly reaching around him, her arms circling him, squeezing tight. He struggles, but only for a few seconds, because she’s saying something to him, something that he can’t help but want to hear:

“Yell at me all you want, but you’re currently not going anywhere where I’m not. I’m sticking to you like glue.”

She’s so matter-of-fact, and determined. Damian has the thought that the worst part of Natasha is how stubborn she is.

He doesn’t even have the energy right now to put up a halfway decent fight against her. Irritated, he intentionally goes limp, and Natasha takes on the full weight of his body, letting him lay against her. She even readjusts him, making sure he’s comfortable, holding him tightly. Her warmth pressed against his side is alien and bizarre. He thinks he should have fought more, but he also wonders why he thinks that at all?

Actually. Why is he so awful?

He didn’t need to yell at her. She’s always so nice to him. Almost to the point that it’s hard to accept.

Why is he so angry though? It nips at him underneath his skin, neigh unbearable to ignore. Yet it’s juxtaposed by the strange gnawing emptiness of his middle, like he’s exposing a raw, fresh wound, or that he’s missing something from the cavity of his chest. It’s almost painful to be held by Natasha because of it, but her tight grip also helps in a weird way he can’t even begin to explain.

Damian doesn’t know how to shake off these conflicting feelings, not in his current position. While he’s certain he must have felt something like this before, normally, he’d be able to work it off in exercise and training. He’d be able to throw his mind into casework, and then throw his body into street fights, Batman hot on his trail.

He could at least ignore it that way, if not outright deny it.

“Here, kid,” Stark’s voice breaks into his thoughts and when Damian looks up, he sees he’s being offered a bottle of water.

For once, Stark doesn’t look as if he’s going to wisecrack or say imbecilic jokes. In fact, he seems to be almost regretful, perhaps hating to have come at all. He has a lot of better things to do, after all. What does Damian even matter to him other than being a project partner? Natasha must have made him come along. 

At least he’s not actively complaining—Damian doesn’t think he could handle Stark’s whining right now.

Hesitantly, he does reach out and take the water, momentarily inspecting it before twisting the top off and taking a sip. He swallows. It’s just water.

It’s really just water.

Damian reaches up and wipes his eyes. Just water.

He takes another drink before screwing the cap back on. He wipes his eyes again, and again, before turning to look to the side at Natasha. When he does, the things he might have said to get her to let go of him die before they can make it out of him.

Her eyes are still on him.

Instead of any of the forced insults he was going to make, instead, he blurts, utterly defeated, “I apologize for my excessive emotional display.”

Natasha gets a weird look on her face, and Damian feels his face grow unbearably hot in embarrassment. Why did he say that? It’s almost as bad as all the crying he’s been doing since he woke up.

“With the people we live with,” Natasha says patiently, “you have to act out a little more for it to get excessive.”

“Yeah, we have a Mister ‘I’m always angry’ on the team,” Stark quips, pulling up a chair, turning it around to straddle it, propping his arms up. It’s not lost on Damian that the back of the chair between them might act as a barrier, even subconsciously, some psychological need to have distance.

Stark’s always doing something to that effect.

“Though, you have some promise, Spitfire. The ‘your not my real mother’ line, that was a good start,” Stark continues, meeting Damian’s unblinking stare. “But you lacked the real bite needed to make it sting. Heart just wasn’t in it. Poser.”

Natasha snorts.

“It’s true though…” Damian mumbles, face hot.

“Is not, actually. As long as you’re in this world, anyways.” Stark, for once, looks serious. “You can call it a front, but I told you, I don’t do fronts. You’re the team’s kid. That means, time, money, resources, all yours when you need it.”

Damian wipes his eyes again, but doesn’t dare speak.

“Tony’s right. You’re our kid.”

Damian doesn’t know where to even begin in comprehending the notion.

He has the words, but I’m not a kid, and you don’t even know me, right there on the tip of his tongue, even opening his mouth, but he can’t seem to make it out.

It’s difficult having so much attention on him. Natasha, who never misses a detail, and Stark, who is oddly insightful at times… Damian knows he shouldn’t be upset to hear Stark’s promise of ensuring his needs are met, but he is, and he doesn’t know why he can’t just be pleased that he’s getting exactly what he asked for. It’s quite literally what Damian wanted out of Stark, and yet…

Damian is beginning to think that he’s bound to hurt these people, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop it even if he wants to.

He’s going to do or say something wrong and Damian loathes that he worries about it at all. He hasn’t spent nearly enough time with them to denote caring about them, it hardly makes sense to him at all. These are strangers. These are people who are helping him as heroes of this world, they shouldn’t—he shouldn’t—.

Damian sucks in a shuddering breath.

Father and Mother have, at one point, both taught him lessons in objectivity and stressed the importance of being able to have it, something Richard never bothered much with, not even during his time as Batman. 

Damian always thought that Richard was poisoning himself by inflicting himself with such a weakness, but Richard never sought to change, even after receiving criticism for it. Their Batman and Robin dynamic was incredibly different from any of the others because of it; Damian’s Robin was more impartial, able to separate himself from the people in connection to their work. He bounced back much faster, didn’t linger on the violent ways people hurt each other, and was the voice telling Richard to do the same. 

In comparison, Richard’s Robin brought a sense of hope to everything, and he did it so successfully, not even Damian’s Robin can completely tarnish the legacy. People know Robin best for it, even now. He broadened the scope of what Batman’s work in the shadows could be capable of. Encouraged growth and overcoming trauma, was there as a guiding light to Father—and he did the same for Damian.

And all Damian could provide back was telling him not to care so much.

Richard would simply look back at him as if he’s heard it all before, and still remained determined to leave his heart in every case they involved themselves with. To an extent, Damian is aware now that Father does the same, he just hides it better.

Out of all the Robins, objectivity is something that Damian hasn’t ever struggled with before, not really. 

So, he doesn’t know. Even with all the training he’s had, Damian doesn’t know what to do. And he’s not normally in a position where he doesn’t have contingency plans to fall back on. He’s used to handling plans gone awry, that sort of thing happens all the time.

But he never bothered to prepare a contingency plan in the event the Avengers actually started to care— he didn’t think it was a possibility.

Honestly, if he didn’t know better, Damian would think his mutation was sort of like Collins’. That his mutation is one that manipulates people into liking him. How else to explain Scott, to explain Natasha? How else to explain that a group of adults with no viable connection to him have accepted him as their own?

How does it make sense?

But Damian is well aware now what mutation he actually has. Even now, if he focuses just a bit, he can feel the shadows in the room, and can discern their existence in the way they connect to his body and those around him, to the way they shade the room, where the light makes them weaker, or the corners in which they’re stronger. It makes his brain hurt to do that though, and Damian’s reminded that perhaps Natasha was right in saying his mutation’s been overworked.

It’s as if Collins jump started this new sense of his, as he definitely hadn’t noticed any of this before. Or maybe, meditation had been the trick. It’s hard to be sure.

“You’re worrying again, Ptichka,” Natasha says, running her hand in his hair. 

“I just don’t understand it,” Damian says slowly. “I don’t understand why… either of you… I haven’t done anything to earn this. I just came into your lives, forced my way in, demanded your help, and still, everyone has been so… nice. I just don’t understand it.”

“You can’t fathom people taking care of you?”

“It’s the motivation, or the lack of it. I haven’t done anything worthy of this attention, this affection. I’m neither of your responsibility, not really. We share nothing between us, not blood or history. I’m not… deserving, or rather, I haven’t earned it—.”

“There is nothing to earn.” Natasha is so absolute in her tone, yet Damian still isn’t so sure. “You were with us in the fight that birthed the Avengers. You’re practically one of us.”

“An honorary member,” Stark adds. “Because you’re still teeny-tiny.”

Damian shoots a disgruntled look at Stark.

“What? It’s the truth. You’re a teeny-bopper. That’s not me being patronizing, either, no matter how much you want to accuse me of it.”

Damian lets loose a long sigh, frustrated at his inability to comprehend these people. “I don’t understand that either. No one here believes me when I say I’m not a kid.”

“Hard to believe when you still got all that baby fat on you,” Stark says with an amused twinkle in his eyes. “Not to mention, that when you’re not doing that weird voice mimicry thing, you still sound like a pipsqueak.”

“Things aren’t always as they appear. You’re all too naïve if you think that just because I look like this, that that's all I am.”

“Then, tell us, Spitfire. What are you?” Stark raises his brows expectantly, waiting for an answer.

Except, Damian doesn’t have one that he’s willing to give. He can’t say, I am a shadow, I am a shadow that longs to be more. He can’t say that because it’s so... It’s so pathetic! He’s so pathetic!

“I can tell you,” someone adds, and Damian looks up to see Scott leaning against the doorway.

“Oh, hey, Scott, nice of you to stop by, but this is a family moment we’re trying to have here. Not friends and family. I’m sure you understand,” Stark says dismissively, waving him off.

“You’re remarkable,” Scott says directly to Damian, ignoring Stark. “That’s what you are. The Remarkable Robin, one and only in this world.”

Stark makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Eugh—that’s so corny, I almost wish I thought of it first. At least then it would have sounded cool.”

“No, it was still cool with Scott saying it. You’re just jealous, Tony.”

“Am not. What would I need to be jealous of—?”

“Scott,” Damian cuts in. “What if you’re wrong about me?”

The mutant leaves the doorway, stepping close enough to kneel next to Stark so that he can look directly at Damian. Even without seeing his eyes, he knows that Scott’s entire focus is on him. He reaches for Damian’s hand and he lets him, curious to see where all of this is leading.

“I’ve asked that question, too,” Scott says. “To all the people who’ve put their faith in me. Expectations are funny like that. They feel insurmountable to live up to, like something you can only barely reach or something to hang yourself on. But when you least expect it to, that faith has a way of keeping you going beyond what you’ve thought yourself capable of. Love is transformative, Damian. It’s the people around us that allow us to conquer our fears. Let us help you conquer yours.”

He has several retorts that he can use, namely by asking just what Scott thinks he’s afraid of—but that almost feels like an invitation to expose himself. Scott would just answer with what he thinks the truth is, and Damian isn’t interested in hearing his theories, just in case.

His hesitation to speak leads him to be defenseless against the three of them as all of their gazes land on him, each with varying degrees of emotion and intention. It’s difficult to be under the weight of it, and for all the terrifying things that Damian has survived, he’s somehow more nervous now than when his life has been in peril.

Trusting people is already hard, but feeling someone’s trust is somehow even harder.

Yet, no one from his world is here with him, and when he finally returns home, no one has to know about anything he says or does here. So if he messes up, if he cries, if he’s vulnerable, the only person who will take the memory of it back to his world is him.

The narrative of his time here will be told at his discretion when writing his report for the Batcomputer archives. No one in his family can call him a liar when they read it, because none of them will know any better.

So, it means that no one other than him will remember that when Scott Summers affirms his belief in him, Damian gives in to the relief of it and lets his tears flow freely. Because Scott’s right; faith does take you beyond what can be imagined.

And maybe it’s true what he said about love, too.

Chapter Text

Damian does not get to go on patrol on Monday, breaking Natasha’s promise to him; a disillusionment that would normally threaten the validity of her words, exposing her as a liar, if it isn’t for the fact that it’s Damian who decides to put off patrolling.

Natasha had only nodded when he quietly came to her Monday evening to let her know, and she hasn’t brought up the subject again since. He assumes, due to the current silence about the matter, that everyone on the team is relieved by this, but out of worry of jinxing it, none of the Avengers have dared to make any comment about his sudden change of heart, not even to tease.

Truthfully, it’s been days since they’d returned from Westchester County after being given the go ahead by Dr. McCoy. They’d left with the express wish that Damian keep himself in check, to save any investigations of his mutations for the weekend. 

For once, Damian is taking the advice—and not because he’s anxious about it, that would be preposterous. It just makes sense to wait.

On an evening phone call, Scott informs him about the existence of the Danger Room, explaining its capabilities. Damian concludes that it’s only logical to save any use of his ability for a place built to withstand the various mutations that are put to the test there. If it’s anything like the practice room back home, he might actually get to have some fun this weekend, and he’s kind of looking forward to it. Especially because Scott has promised he will demonstrate his mutation, and Damian is keen to evaluate whether Cyclops’ eyebeam is anything like the Supers.

But as far as patrols go, while Damian has gotten plenty of rest since returning to the tower, and he normally bounces back so much faster, he finds that he just doesn’t have it in him to head out onto the streets of New York. Not just yet, anyways. The need for it just doesn’t feel nearly as pressing as in Gotham—which is not to say that NYC isn’t in need of his help, he’s done enough research to know that it clearly does. But it has survived well enough without him before, and Damian is still an outsider who can stand to do a little more surveillance before taking any big steps.

He’s reminded of the ways Richard established Nightwing in Blüdhaven, and the fact that Richard is in law enforcement there, a member of the community he’s serving. He already knew the histories and important characters of the city; he knew where his effort would make the most impact. Just like how Father knows Gotham, and how Todd understands Crime Alley.

So, Damian pushes off patrol for the sake of better informing his decisions when he does begin them. In the meantime, alongside everything else, he occupies his time with a refreshed pursuit instead: investigating the Avengers.

Of course, he’s done basic searches of them during week one, vaguely knowing most of their backgrounds. He has a general idea of most of their function and abilities. But even reading what he’s scoured from internet searches and subtle hacking of databases, it’s not the same as seeing the Avengers as they live their day to day. Damian also doesn’t exactly have the same sort of stamina as Drake or Gordon, to be able to sit at a computer all day. 

Besides, studies are best done practically, and without interfering biases.

One such bias being, his perception of the team synergy, what it should be, and what it ultimately isn’t. If he expected them to be as close as other cape teams back home, reality just doesn’t measure up.

They all—temporarily, he’s reminded—reside in the tower, but it’s rare for any of them to be in the same room, all preoccupied with their own matters, the size of Stark’s building making it possible not to run into each other as they live their lives. They’re all rather individualistic, loners that have been selected and connected through government facilitation to form a defense strike team. It’s not at all like the Justice League, where the responsibilities were agreed upon out of their own vested interest in keeping the world safe, unaligned with already existing political powers.

That being said, every couple of nights, the team will have dinner together, and their new proximity has begun to form a much more solid foundation. Weirdly, it has dawned on Damian the fact that they seem to be doing it more for him than for any other reason, seeming not to care for the team’s development, as strange as he finds that to be.

If it weren’t so unnecessary, and if he were an entirely different person—a different Robin—he might feel touched. As it is, the group dinners only serve to further establish how new and fresh the formation of the team truly is, even as it echoes what the team could be, if given time. 

Conversations range from awkward silences, inane commentary, off the wall jokes, all the way to flat out arguments if someone’s fuse is short enough—worse if there are multiple short fuses. Natasha is often the one quelling the hot tempers with her cutting pinpoint remarks, but even she gets agitated and usually that’s when the fighting halts. Getting on Natasha’s bad side seems to be feared by everyone, and there’s a sort of respect for her that the others don’t seem to have for each other.

Natasha is simply the best, and Damian is glad to see her be recognized for it, even as he wonders what she has done in the others’ eyes to gain such a respect, or if she just naturally commands it. Maybe a bit of both.

Over the following nights, inevitably, conditions amongst the team improve. 

The dynamic is being tested and found, attitudes softening, and relationships developing past what would be required for civil teamwork, regardless of their intentions around Damian. They’re an interesting group when taken in as a whole, each coming from such different backgrounds that it's honestly bizarre that it has led them to this path. It’s a wonder how the head behind all of this thought it could work. Only, Damian hasn’t met the mysterious Fury in charge to be certain if he’s a lunatic to think of it, woefully optimistic, or just flat out desperate.

In any case, sometimes Damian has this thought that, while the Avengers are nothing like the Justice League, they could be. Damian sees their potential for it, at least. Even if they make it really hard to believe it at times.

“Don’t learn from their examples,” Natasha tells him after dinner once, referring to Barton and Stark goading Rogers into eating a truly nauseating amount of hot dogs.

Learning from any of these losers is an impossible concept to Damian.

But, truthfully, although it annoys him to admit it to himself, he does find them to be a little bit more than tolerable these days. At times, he even likes a few of them.

.

.

Rogers is still adapting to the modern age and spends a good portion of his time either training or reading up on historical reports. Damian usually leaves him alone, a bit wary of approaching him now that he has something to ask. He’s not sure how he wants to go about interrogating the man, and now that there’s been a notable change to the dynamics since coming back, Damian isn’t sure he wants it to be an interrogation. Not immediately anyway.

The likelihood of the Lazarus Pits being a connection from his world to this one is an interesting and possible one, and Rogers is a lead he knows he should pursue. Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate, he would strike while the iron is hot and corner Rogers just as soon as he sees him alone. Except, Damian finds that he feels a little more circumspect in the current circumstances.

Upon observation, Rogers is amicable enough to Damian, probably more due to his age than anything else, but he also isn’t eager to approach or talk to him. He’s wary of Damian, but not in an aggressive or hostile way. It’s more like… Rogers is observing him, waiting for something to happen.

Damian is used to that sort of stare. Drake watches him in a similar way, just with a bit more agitation. He accepts the wariness as a sign of intelligence on Rogers’ part. The others, Barton and Stark especially, seem not to recognize him as a threat at all, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. If any of the Avengers betray him, Damian is capable of getting even, any history between them be damned.

The thing about Rogers is that, even with the competition of Stark and Banner, he spends more time alone than any of the other Avengers do, and he’s not as talkative in group settings either. First impressions had made him think of Clark Kent, but he gets further and further from that with each interaction. 

Now, Damian sees him as a man with a lot on his mind, but with thoughts that are typically conveyed in a succinct and concise manner, forming an intentionally careful presentation of himself. He jokes with the others, sure, but even when smiling, there’s usually something Damian thinks the man is not saying, that he’s either hesitant about or confused by. Steve Rogers is still finding himself in the modern age and figuring out the direction his life is headed. If there’s anything that Damian understands about the man, it’s that.

It can’t be easy being frozen and woken up decades later with everyone you’ve ever known and loved old and graying, or dead. To have missed every possible important moment with the people you have known as friends or family; Damian looks at Rogers and sometimes gets anxious at the thought that he’s looking at his future. Ludicrous to think, of course, but this universe has already brought him to lows he hadn’t thought possible—.

So, Damian hasn’t really talked much to Rogers. There’ll be time enough for that later, of course. Not like he’s going anywhere just yet—clearly—and of all the things on his list of priorities, it doesn’t—though he can see how it should—rank very high.

The machine is going to be what gets him home, and Damian really doesn’t need to think about Lazarus Pits or the eerily familiar symptoms he is experiencing… Not just yet. 

Or so he tells himself.

.

.

Bruce Banner is another one that Damian finds is elusive. He pokes his head out, comes down to the labs and argues with Stark about their theories on multiversal travel, but even though the two are friends, Banner has other things occupying his mind that eventually draw him away. Neither of them get too personal in their conversations either, maintaining surface level conversations riddled with terrible humor and, very rarely, topics of value. 

Damian doesn’t know what Banner gets up to while he’s away, but also, Banner isn’t exactly an open book on his personal life. He’s the sort that has gotten efficient at steering conversation away from anything that hits too deeply. He handles relationships like they’re bombs about to explode in his face, but he still keeps his hand on the pin, not willing to toss it or let go.

Damian has talked a bit with him about the differences between his world and theirs, and they’ve gotten into fairly interesting debates about ethics and politics. It’s conversations that Damian actually enjoys but they don’t last longer than an hour before Banner eventually excuses himself. Natasha says he’s been a recluse for years and that when he leaves, especially so abruptly, it’s because he’s maxed out his social battery, which is a sentiment that appeals to Damian.

He, too, feels like there are times his social battery is maxed. Mostly when around Barton and Stark. Alone, they’re manageable, but put together? Their bickering drives Damian nuts. Their arguments and claims are usually so brain dead and petty, that Damian gets closer and closer to reaching for his knives any time he’s stuck in the same room as them. He doesn’t even know if he’ll threaten them or himself, if it would even have any effect, but he hasn’t resorted to it just yet to find out.

It’s sometimes his own fault though. Every so often the things they say are so stupid, so abhorrently dumb, that Damian can’t help but jump into the conversation, even when he knows better not to. It’s normally the only time Barton and Stark see eye to eye though, when they decide to team up against Damian. Both of them just love doing that.

So immature.

.

.

Out of all the Avengers, Barton is the one who tends to approach him first—no way would Damian purposely seek him out—and as a result, he finds himself spending a lot more time with the archer than he would have planned for himself. In the afternoons, Barton makes him watch bad sitcoms on the couch with him and asks him about his life.

Damian doesn’t really tell the man much. He’s still sort of pissed off at Barton’s insistence on treating him like a child, and it’s not lost on him that all of his pestering is just an extension of that belief. He mainly goes along with it because Natasha eventually joins them, and even when she doesn’t, Barton seems genuinely interested in getting to know Damian, unlike many of the other Avengers who diligently maintain a sense of emotional distance, even if they aren’t conscious of it.

It also helps that Damian knows now that Barton is the one who saved Natasha when she needed it most, making it possible that she would be there the day that Damian arrived. So, even when the man pisses him off, he finds it within himself to tolerate him, and after a few days of spending time with Barton, it would be a lie to say that Damian is suffering. But it is still a stretch to say whether or not he is enjoying the company…

.

.

Stark’s usually in R&D, if he’s not in the meetings that Ms. Potts drags him to. 

It was interesting to get a face to the name Pepper, and for a civilian secretary, she has her own sort of formidable nature that she largely only implements when dealing with Stark. As for how she interacts with Damian, she’s rather reserved and polite. She checks in on him like she’s tending to a business partner rather than talking to him like he’s a child, and for that, Damian doesn’t dislike her.

He knows she’s wary of him, though. It’s hard not to miss, especially when they first meet in Stark’s lab, when she enters, catching them working on the big project.

They were spit-balling ideas, once again getting nowhere. Stark is still somewhat skeptical of multiversal travel, despite the living proof in front of him. He likes to claim otherwise, but Damian can see it on his face, how incredulous he still is, how trivial it all seems to be to him.

Damian recognizes that he finds it difficult to accept it at face-value, at the fact he only has words to go by, from the confirmation of Xavier’s invasion into his mind and also Damian’s own first hand account of it. For most people, it would be a stretch of the imagination, and Stark, for all he is visionary, is also rather caged by his blunt realism.

Frankly, it’s not as if Damian doesn’t understand the hesitancy to believe, either. Methodology is so important in research and the route that he took to end up in this universe can’t be replicated. That in itself is a red flag. A punch being the catalyst sounds utterly absurd, and to even begin to form an alternative mode of travel, when the concept of the multiverse has largely been discussed more as theory than fact, Damian understands how even the great mind of Tony Stark is stumped, even if he won’t admit to it.

The three of them, Banner included, have gathered research and studies from across the world, from numerous languages and cultures. Damian has done much of the work himself in translating and logging the known data into Stark’s system, while Stark draws up potential blueprints for the machine itself. Banner mostly works on equations, bouncing math problems off of Stark, the two of them grim faced as nothing sparks any spark or revelation. The last time the three of them were together, he left the room frustrated enough that a bit of green might have been peeking through and he hasn’t been back in the lab since.

Regardless of the two dunderheads, Damian is resolute in his belief, unshakeable in the knowledge that there must be a way. Not only because he refuses to think that he is stuck in this world, but also because he is in this world. The path forward is only yet to be discovered, and it exists, because he exists.

Right?

Ms. Potts enters Stark’s private R&D just as Damian is raising his voice, rhetorically asking, “Are you secretly a moron?”

“What does that make you, Hotshot?” Stark fires back, adding, “Dum-E, attack the elf—no, not that, the kid. Attack the kid!”

The hydraulic arm robot waves, spinning, seemingly confused by the order as it attempts to identify the correct target. Stark quickly moves to preserve the fragile things the bot is setting its sights on.

“Look at that, even a Dum-E recognizes that I’m not a kid,” Damian points out, before the arm twists into his direction, nearly thwacking him in the head if it weren’t for his reflex to dodge. “I will report you to CPS. Imagine the splash articles—.”

“What is going on here?” Pepper Potts interjects, her gaze darting back and forth between the two of them. “Tony, who is this?”

Damian blinks, having heard her entrance, but not having expected her to be entirely kept in the dark. 

He can’t resist sneering at Stark. “What good are you if you can’t keep your top staff up to date in the unexpected changes of your life? Even my father knew better than that. In the same circumstances, Fox, his CEO, would have already drafted and sent missives out to the media alerting the public of the new addition to the family.”

Stark cuts him an annoyed look. “Yeah, well, I already think your dad is a wacko, I’m not too concerned about what he might do, Sport.”

“Father is not that,” Damian growls. “He is more than you could ever hope—.”

“Pep, thanks for dropping by, is that for me?” Stark asks, rising from his seat and approaching the redhead for the extra cup of coffee in her hands.

She hands it over, her expression tight. “Explain, Tony.”

“It slipped my mind, I swear, Pep,” Stark says with a what can you do type of look on his face. “I’ll introduce you, though. His name is Damian Romanov.”

Her body incrementally relaxes, even as her expression remains stiff. “And that means?”

“He’s Nat’s.”

“And he’s in the lab, insulting your intelligence, why?”

“Because he’s an idiot,” Damian huffs.

“Obviously,” she mutters in agreement. “But there’s more to this, I know there is. Spill.”

“Hey, hey, I don’t need the two of you ganging up on me,” Stark whines. “It’s kind of a long story, Pep. One that I should tell you where there aren’t little ears—.”

“Whatever,” Damian snaps as he quickly catches the very obvious hint, rising to leave and brusquely stepping past the two of them, calling back, “I will return when you no longer have your head in your ass, and shit in your brain, Stark!”

He whistles. “Swear jar is upstairs, kiddo!”

“Fuck your swear jar!”

“He’s a sweet kid, honestly—” Stark says just as Damian slams the doors shut on his exit.

Suffice to say, Ms. Potts leaves him alone, and she also does a fairly decent job of wrangling Stark, two things that Damian can appreciate. Even a few days later, she remains very consistent, raising her esteem in his eyes beyond most of the other people that he’s met.

It really is that easy, sometimes.

.

.

Natasha, out of all the Avengers, is more in and out than the rest. 

Barton may work for the same group, but his abilities aren’t as various as Natasha’s. He’s implemented in specific ways, and his missions aren’t as numerous or as lengthy as hers. But it’s also hard to say whether or not she’s even on assignments, as she doesn’t talk much about her time outside the tower.

Regardless, she still makes plenty of time to spend with Damian, even if she doesn’t have to. She makes a point to have breakfast and dinner with Damian, with minimal exceptions as the days pass, and they’ve also taken up sparring as a nightly ritual before either of them head up to bed. 

After their fights, Natasha is more talkative, but only by so much. It’s not as if she’s hiding anything, it’s more that she’s naturally more reserved than a lot of the other loud voices on the team. It only makes sense with her being a spy that the things she tells him are also only things that she’s carefully determined he should know, or wouldn’t hurt him by knowing. That isn’t to say that she is sanitizing her words, either.

At night, she’ll tell Damian stories of before and after joining S.H.I.E.L.D, mostly events that happened long ago for her, and she doesn’t bother with sparing details when Damian prompts for them. They’re neither humorous or hopeful stories, but neither are the ones he tells her in return.

Damian doesn’t often speak of his time with the League. It’s difficult to share with his family, and they’re the only ones he might consider discussing it with, but it also falls into the category of things that Damian is trying his best to move past from. He doesn’t like to linger on the days when he was so much smaller, not just in size, but by the scope of his vision of what life is and could be, and so much angrier as a result. Those days are the majority of his life, all that he is built from, the ideals of the al Ghuls soldered and melted into his core, and his decisions and choices back then… 

Somehow, it’s easy to talk to Natasha.

When she tells him of a time of the Red Room structure, of the daily routines and rituals that ensured the girls’ obedience and quality of their training, she lightly confirms details that he doesn’t think, not from the inflection in her voice, that she’s ever outright discussed. She speaks of the girls having to fight to the death, how impossible the environment was to even dare think of forming attachments. Girls that were your friends in the morning might be dead by your hands in the evening. Natasha doesn’t talk about the girls that she has killed, but Damian looks into her eyes and knows she is remembering.

It’s on the night before he’s due to leave for Xavier's that she herself echoes this sentiment.

“That’s all I am,” she says when he is least expecting it, “memories.”

Damian cautions a look at her face. “Are there regrets as well?” he asks before he can bite the words back.

They’re sitting alone in the gym, on the same padded mats that they’ve been fighting on. Natasha is covered in sweat and the hair framing her face is curling from it, the rest of it tied casually in a ponytail. Her expression is cold but her eyes convey a strange feeling to Damian. Her gaze is locked on his. He knows just as she knows why he’s asking such a thing.

“Regrets can’t rewrite anything, Ptichka,” she says sternly. “It’s a narrow hole that appears tempting to fall into because it offers a sense of redemption, as if crucifying yourself will pay for your sins to be erased. Wallowing in regrets, the shame and guilt associated with them… Putting your life on hold to feel something that can’t carry enough heat to burn the past away...” Natasha trails off, patting her neck with a towel, her eyes not leaving his, adding, “It can’t sustain you nor can it carry you away from what you have done. Remembering is all we can do for the past. It’s the future that we have to look forward to, and we need our heads up for that.”

It eerily carries the same sentiments that Father spoke of to him, but there’s a tender hope in her words that his father’s had notably been lacking.

Yet as he looks into Natasha’s eyes, he knows what she isn’t saying. Her actual answer to his question is yes, there are regrets. How can there not be? Her heart is kind, he has felt the warmth of it enough by now to know.

“You say that, but I feel like if I can’t hold onto the feeling, I might forget.”

“Forget what?”

“The reasons why I have to change. If I don’t hold onto those feelings, I feel like I’ll just return to what I was. Do you ever feel that? Like you are just… not good? At the core?” Damian sighs. He feels stupid to be voicing any of this out loud, but still, he adds, “I failed to do what I was made for, cultivated into, and I fail at the expectations of my father everyday. I used to never fail before, Natasha. Because I was so good at it, at being heartless and cruel. I used to make my grandfather so proud, and I know what that says about me. But everything now is so difficult, ever since I came to live with Father, when I used to be so f-fast at learning, how can it mean anything other than the fact that I am—.”

Damian hates how much he has cried in this universe. He feels as if it began at the start, it had to have. When he came to this world, he hadn’t come into it as he left his own universe. He’s mutated, and he cries, and it has to be because his body didn’t reform correctly.

It has to be. How can it be otherwise?

“Is it a fear of yours, to go back to the League?” Natasha asks, inching closer to him, her words cutting into his dour thoughts.

“I wouldn’t call it a fear, no. It would depend on the circumstances.” Mother, Ravi, and Goliath are still there, after all.

“I’m afraid,” Natasha says. “To go back to the Red Room.”

Damian reels at the confession. “You? Afraid?”

She nods, bringing her forehead against his, her eyes intent on his. “Terrified.”

“But you won’t ever have to go back,” he says, a cold fury settling within him, one that had already been steadily building from her explanations of what the facility did to young girls, to Natasha. Hearing her confirm her fear brings it sharply into light, with blistering clarity how real the torment of such a place existing has brought to her, how much it still does.

“I will find it and destroy it for you, Natasha. Your hands needn’t deal with such a matter so beneath you. It will be burned out before I leave this world, and then you will have nothing to fear.”

He doesn’t know who is more surprised by his words, her or him, but as they settle in the air and Damian’s ears get hot in embarrassment, the softening of her face is hard for him to look away from.

“The Red Room is gone now, though,” she quietly assures him. “I destroyed it shortly after joining S.H.I.E.L.D. It was a task I had to do to prove myself to Fury. But even though it’s destroyed…”

”You’re still afraid of it,” he murmurs.

“You have a good heart, Damian,” she says, gaze far away. “No matter what anyone in your world has thought of you, I know that much to be true.”

He sucks in a breath. “You don’t know the extent of how… You don’t know what I’ve done.”

At this, she meets his gaze directly, and says, “I don't need to, but even if I did, I wouldn’t think otherwise. I have known many sorts of people in this world. I have met men more cruel and more sinister than I would care to describe. I work in a field where my life is at stake if I happen to misread someone, and yet here I am, still whole and alive. I have a very keen eye for these sorts of things, Ptichka.”

But she’s wrong this time. She has to be.

“Once, I threw a blade at my cousin, Mara. It left her disfigured and blind in one eye. I didn’t do it because I was told to do it. I did it because I wanted to show her I was better than her.”

Natasha doesn’t so much as blink. “I paralyzed a girl in training and we later had to use her as shooting practice. We always used living people as target practice. I killed her before anyone else could. I made certain that it was my bullet to end her, and I didn’t feel sorry. I felt pity. That girl had been a friend. We shared bread together.”

“My closest attendant, the man who ensured I was well-taken care of, from my state of dress to the food I ate, to the quality of my art supplies, he did so much for me and I ordered him to be blinded when he witnessed my grandmother bathing in the Pits. He’s an artist. He taught me to draw and paint, yet I stole his vision from him.”

“A lot of blind people in your stories,” she points out.

Damian is so surprised by her comment that a weird short escapes him. He shakes his head. “Grandfather would say it’s due to my shortcomings. I couldn’t order Ravi to be killed, and without reason, I wouldn’t kill my cousin. But I’ve still left an irreversible impact, done things where it might have been better off to kill them instead.”

Natasha shakes her head, but she doesn’t make a comment on that, asking, instead, “Do you have a count? Are you still able to count the people you’ve killed?”

Damian shudders, not able to meet her eyes any longer.

“I... I... There was a year, prior to being placed with my father. I call it the Year of the Blood for a reason.”

“Was it a graduation trial of sorts?”

He nods. “I don’t know how much life I was responsible for killing, whether directly or indirectly. My mother and grandfather gave me assignments and I did as they asked. It wasn’t only assassinations, either. Cultural monuments were desecrated, trophies collected... It’s how I got Goliath.”

“The dragon-bat.”

“Yes,” Damian whispers, and then takes a chance to meet her gaze. “I killed his whole family, Natasha. He was just a baby. I killed every single one of them. I was s-still covered in their blood when he—” Damian shakes his head, the memories so close to the surface that he can almost feel the wet lick of Goliath’s tongue on his nose. “I don’t know how he has forgiven me, but he has. Or had. At this point, I don’t know what’s become of him. I had to leave him with the League, and I’m sure he h-hates me now, if he’s still alive.”

“You were nine when all of this happened. Prior to that, had you taken life?”

“I was a late-bloomer by my grandfather’s assessment. My first kill was when I was seven, defending myself against an attempt on my life. After that, several more incidents occurred and the feeling of killing became familiar enough that I found it difficult to hesitate anymore, or to keep track of.”

At that age, Damian purposely didn’t keep track. If he did, perhaps Ducard’s death wouldn’t be so persistently on his mind.

Natasha hums. “I was ten when I killed someone for the first time. It was a Serbian man, whose name I can’t remember, only that he smelled of Morava cigarettes.” When Damian doesn’t respond, she raises her brows at him. “I never thought there would be a man more crazed than Dreykov, but your grandfather certainly has him beat if you were considered a late bloomer.”

“I was trained with weaponry as soon as I could hold them, taught coordination as soon as I could walk, my stamina developed once I gained balance. By his measurement, I was late.”

“That’s awful,” she whispers, her expression clouded. “What was the rush?”

“Rescources, power, appearance,” he sums easily. “I couldn’t be seen as weak, not as the Heir.”

He doesn’t explain the Heir aspect of it, can’t begin to articulate the importance of the role, or the pressure that he used to be under when in the League. He doesn’t know how much was self-imposed, how much was his grandfather’s expectations. After so much time, it felt like one in the same.

“It wasn’t all terrible, though,” Damian amends, his mind trailing in other directions, adding, “Grandfather wasn’t always strict. I even remember that once, he bounced me on his knee and shared with me a piece of ma’amoul to sweeten my tongue. There were times that he read poetry to me, and his words, his cadence, it was so soothing to the ear that I once napped in his lap. He hadn’t been angered by it, either. In some of my earliest memories, he defended me against assailants, and in watching him fight, his strength became all that I wished to aspire towards. He would call me Azizi in those days...”

Damian’s voice has gotten soft enough to be a whisper, and as he realizes what he’s shared, things that he couldn’t dare imagine telling to anyone, he feels his ears get hot.

Still, he straightens his spine, and says, “These moments might have been exceedingly rare, but I know them to be valuable in understanding him. Grandfather is a man of great complexity, of extreme divergency. A long time ago, what might be called his first life, he was a physician, and he knew what it meant to save lives. Except that once, in saving someone, it came at a great cost to him. It has rooted inside of him a deep hatred for those in power. My grandfather wants to protect the world at large, but his methods... I never thought to question them, not until Father and Richard came into my life…”

“And now, you think differently.”

Damian shrugs. “Before, Stark called my family a cult, and I denied it, but he’s right. My grandfather has a great deal of pull over others, and he can be incredibly callous and cruel with his influence. The Pit has driven people to madness. It heals, extends lives, but it comes at a cost. Induces rages, pulls to the surface things that even the person coming out of the Pit would have thought are unconscionable. My brother, Todd, was dropped in it by Mother, and his rage later made him attempt to kill our brother Drake, something that has impeded their relationship, even now. So I can only imagine, after the hundreds of years that my grandfather has been using the Pit, that he is nothing of what he used to be. But I see glimpses, and I... have difficulty hating him.”

He releases a breath as soon as the words are out, an admittance that he would have never spoken out loud back home. It would sound too much like a betrayal. He couldn’t be certain how his family would view him if they knew. He did know that they wouldn’t stand for it, they wouldn’t be capable of fathoming the sentiment, just as they don’t understand his relationship with his mother. With the exception of Todd, who Damian has never been certain about on any of his feelings, his brothers hate the al Ghuls.

But what they might never say, and what he sometimes suspects to be true, a part of them must hate Damian, too. For he is still his mother’s son.

“Have you ever been in the Pit?” Natasha asks, and Damian stiffens.

He looks at her for a moment, unsure of what he should say.

“I haven’t died before,” he murmurs after a moment of studying her. “I don’t recall it if I’ve ever been placed in it.”

“But you suspect it.”

Damian fights against a cagey response at how accurately she has pinned him. “I have... symptoms.”

Natasha looks at him critically. “You haven’t spoken with Steve yet,” she murmurs. “You’re stalling.”

“It’s not stalling,” he defends in a harsher tone than he means, softening his voice to add, still firm, “I’m not.”

“Well, if you’re not stalling, you won’t mind heading up to visit him with me now.”

Tt. Damian makes a face at her.

“We’ll stop by the kitchen first,” she tells him, already rising from her sitting position. “We’ll show up with a peace offering for the late hour.”

“Or not at all, because he’s sleeping,” Damian mutters darkly.

“Nah, Steve’s not sleeping.”

Damian narrows his eyes at her. “How do you know?”

“Hey, Jarvis, is Steve asleep yet?”

“Good evening, Miss Romanov, Young Romanov. To answer, he is very much awake. And if I may give some advice, bring milk and cookies up.”

“Will do. Thanks, Jarvis,” Natasha says to the air before looking at Damian with her brows raised. “Coming with me or not?”

Damian stares up at her for a moment before letting loose a sigh and rising off the floor. “Milk and cookies is so childish,” he gripes, following after her as she makes her way towards the elevators.

“He’s a good ‘ole American boy, even down to his tastebuds,” Natasha comments with a laugh. “But we’ll grab the good stuff, too. I have some oreshki I’ve been hiding. Have you had it before?”

Damian shakes his head. “I assume there are nuts in it.”

“Actually, it’s named for the shape, because they look like walnuts. It has a caramelized milk filling. Sound good to you?”

He hums his agreement, still frowning.

“Do you have a favorite sweet food?” Natasha asks, turning to look at him once they’re on the elevator.

Damian doesn’t meet her gaze, mulling over his response. Little known fact about him—little known on purpose—while Damian has something Pennyworth once irritatingly described as a baby’s tongue, finicky and fault-finding, he has a partialness to sweets. He has gone through certain measures not to reveal this preference, loath to be teased for it, but Damian can’t help the fond memories of Ravi bringing him freshly made kunafa and lokma, or bowls of bingfen and douhua, foods meant to nurse his labored body. At times, Mother would even stop in and enjoy them with him, a treat for doing well in his studies.

To Natasha’s question though, perhaps if it were anyone else asking, he might deflect, point out all the ways that sugar corrupts the health of people, bringing up statistics from studies he mostly skimmed through to use against Richard in arguments.

But if he were to actually narrow down his favorite sweet food, he has to cautiously admit, “Ice cream.”

Because Richard used to take him to get it after patrols, and nothing was sweeter or creamier in his memory. 

He thinks, also, of the ice cream that Natasha had taken him to get shortly after he’d come into her life. It had been some time since he’d had it, and the parlor that she had taken him to had been adequate in quality, but it hadn’t been the same as the one back in Gotham. Only Richard took him there, and he’d been gone for months with no chance of coming back any time soon. Damian never bothered telling Father of it, but he has missed the treat, and he thinks that feeling is enough to make it his favorite.

“Father is fairly restrained in his diet,” Damian finds himself musing out loud. “He eats to stay fit and bulked up, and while he’s not strict in the sense that he would forbid me things, he does expect that I do my due diligence in working off anything that would be adverse to my performance as Robin. I don’t eat many sweets as a result.”

“I suppose that type of mindset is common in athletes,” Natasha acknowledges, but there’s a glint in her eyes that doesn’t appear to be all that approving. She confirms it by adding, “You should still be able to enjoy the things you like without it becoming a punishment later on, though.”

“It’s not really a punishment. I like working out,” Damian says truthfully. “The world makes more sense when I’m in motion.”

Natasha smiles at that. “I know what you mean.”

A silence falls between them, and it lasts only until they’re done collecting their peace offering from the kitchen, some silent communication taking place as they deliberated over which type of cookie before gathering a variety of them, along with glasses of milk.

“If he likes hot milk, I’m pretty sure there’s a microwave in his room,” Natasha says.

Damian wrinkles his nose. “Microwaved milk is foul.”

“What’s hot is hot, Ptichka,” she says with a shrug. “Personally, I like my milk and cookies cold, but who’s to say with Cap—that man is from a time long gone.”

“Maybe his time in the ice made him partial to the cold.”

She snorts, amused. “Wanna make a bet?”

Damian peers at her as they get back into the elevator, heading up to the level Rogers is on. He can’t help but be suspicious of the look in her eyes.

“What are the stakes?” he asks her warily.

“Winner gets to pick the next movie we watch.”

Oh.

Damian relaxes, surprised by how unserious her chosen stakes are. He isn’t used to betting without majorly putting himself and his secrets at risk, considering the company he has been forced to keep in his life.

“Alright,” he agrees. “I bet he’ll like it cold.”

“Good, because I bet he’s into the comfort of a warm cup of milk and extremely soggy cookies.”

“Revolting.”

“Hey, they sure taste good, even if the texture can get weird,” she retorts.

“That is why it’s so childish though. There is no decorum to the method, and the results are inconsistent,” he mutters. “I brought chopsticks, by the way. There’s no way I’m dunking my fingers into it. I shall use utensils that may at least elevate the experience.”

“It’s the charm of it,” she replies. “The mess is part of the appeal.”

“Tt.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but without realizing it, they’ve already made it to Rogers’ door, and it’s belatedly that Damian realizes that he’s been had. Natasha must have purposely engaged him in conversation of such an inane topic to keep his mind off of the worries that had made him originally put off the conversation to begin with.

Damian once again is baffled by her skill and persuasive abilities.

She knocks on the door before he can say anything about it though. “Open up, Steve. We bring goodies.”

“One sec!” Rogers calls back, and it’s a short moment later before the door is opening, and he reveals himself, looming in the doorway. His eyes land on Natasha first, greeting her with a smile before dropping his gaze to Damian, his smile remaining, but looking a little strained. Traces of confusion peak through.

“Let us in,” she says, already stepping forward, and Rogers easily gives way.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Rogers asks.

“It’s an interrogation, but we brought this lovely cookie platter up to sweeten the torture,” Natasha explains easily, setting down the aforementioned cookies on a table, and turning to hold out a glass of milk to him.

“Ooh, milk and cookies,” he says, accepting it. “My guilty pleasure.”

Natasha grins, grabbing a handful off the platter, and clinking her glass to his.

“First question,” Damian starts off, deciding to take charge. “Is milk better hot, warm, or cold?”

“In context to the cookie aspect, or just on its own? Because it honestly depends.”

This stupid man.

“Of course it’s in context to the cookies.”

“Then h-cold,” he says, his gaze flickering between the two of them. “I love cold cookies!”

Damian turns to look at Natasha, suspicious. Except, she’s already nibbling on one of the oreshki she brought with them. When she catches him looking, she offers him one.

Certain that he’s being played, he gingerly accepts the oreshki, biting into it skeptically. He quickly holds out his hand for another one.

“Knew you would like it,” Natasha says, appearing pleased by his approval, handing him another.

Annoyed, Damian pops it into his mouth and goes about surveying the room, identifying a nearby kitchenette with the table Natasha left the platter on, and chairs that he makes his way towards. 

He picks up a chair, positioning it in a particular way before sitting with his back to the wall, various paths of escape in his view. If he has to jump out the window, he’s pretty sure he can manage without his grapple gun, at least long enough to get to another floor.

But then Rogers takes a seat in the worst imaginable spot, his bulk blocking most of his routes.

Damian doesn’t dare stand to reposition. He’s trying to remind himself that with Natasha in the room, he isn’t as disadvantaged as he feels. Just so long as she means all of the things she has been filling his head with.

“Something’s eating at you,” Rogers points out, concern visible in his blue eyes. “What’s this all about, Damian?”

With a sigh, he decides to be tactful, asking, “If I say a word, could you tell me what you know of it?”

“Sure,” Rogers agrees easily, but the way his brows scrunch reveals his hesitancy, his unspoken reservations.

“Lazarus,” Damian says.

Rogers’ brows shoot up, eyes widening, before his mind seems to process the implication of it being him saying the word. Rogers’ mouth sets into a grim line. He studies Damian for a moment, and then looks to Natasha, “Is this about what I think it is?”

Natasha nods, appearing more focused on biting into the cookie that she’s dipped. She’s sitting on the foot of Rogers’ bed, cross-legged, and watching the two of them, but not necessarily looking as if she wants to be directly involved in the conversation.

“It might help, Steve,” is all she decides to say as Rogers’ lets the silence hang in the air.

“It could be dangerous,” he gruffly says, looking doubtfully between the two of them, an unsaid ‘for him’ making Damian’s ears twitch.

“I assure you, any danger posed from telling me, is no more dangerous than anything else I’ve faced in my life.”

Rogers’ sighs, shaking his head before leveling his gaze on Damian, blue eyes oddly sincere, even as there’s a layer of chill in them. “Anything I know is from decades ago, before I got iced.”

“Then how dangerous can it be, really?”

“Because it’s a part of something much larger, way bigger than anything I could even attempt to compare it to.”

“Natasha did say that it has an association with an organization of ill repute.”

Rogers’ snorts. “That’s a way to put it. Yeah, an organization of ill repute.” He shakes his head, blowing out a breath. “Alright, okay. I’ll tell you what I know, but it might not be enough, and this ain’t anything like being a crime-stopper on the city streets; it’s a leviathan of all the bad things you can possibly think of. What I tell you, you have to be careful with, Damian.”

He represses his annoyance at the blatant condescension, and gives a tight nod instead, understanding that this information could be his first actual lead in unraveling what started all of this to begin with. He can’t risk it by falling back on a sharp retort.

“It was July, 1944. Germany,” Rogers begins when Damian doesn’t speak. “I was there investigating a concerning tip brought forth by the German Freedom League, alongside their agent, Trude Lohn. They’d already lost many of their operatives in previous attempts to uncover the secrets of Drache Castle. The project was called Auferstehung, but even with a name like that, it couldn’t be determined what it was truly capable of accomplishing, aside from what was rumored.”

“Ressurection,” Damian translates thoughtfully. “The rumors?”

“An unstoppable force unlike anything anyone has seen before. Hitler needed something like that to even hope to win against the Allied forces, especially at that point in the war. As a sort of last ditch effort, he’d ordered the Thule to work on the project. The Thule Society was an occultist group of scientist mystics who were ruthlessly dedicated to Lebensunwertes Leben, a core belief of the Nazi regime. ”

“Life unworthy of life,” Damian murmurs darkly.

The sentiment shakes something in him, makes his stomach twist with disgust and anger. There’s a weird irony to it, as he’s killed many times in the past, but even Damian can hear the sick dehumanization that’s inherent to the belief, and it strikes him how antithetical it is to everything his father and his brothers have been working to instill in him. He’s certain he’s heard worse things, but, perhaps due to his sensitivity of late, the words feel particularly acidic and rotted now, nauseating him.

Is there even a point of return once you find yourself believing such a sentiment? Especially as it pertains to the Jews, whose births alone were seen as a crime in the eyes of Nazi Germany. How could merely being born make anyone inherently worthy of death?

“They were responsible for a great many of the experiments taking place at the time, at Hitler’s directive,” Rogers continues, “but it’s not correct to say that they were entirely under his command. It’s more accurate to say that the group was taking advantage of the circumstances, for the resources and freedoms they were being given in their grossly inhumane experiments. They saw Hitler more as the bus that could take them to where they were headed, meaning that their loyalty was conditional. The Thule Society were prepared, at any time, to cut their losses, should they need to, so long as the Society survived.”

“This is the organization of ill repute,” Damian states.

“It goes by many names, and they weren’t just involved in Germany,” Rogers says with a dark look. “But back to what you came here to learn. In this specific instance, when I went to investigate, I met a man there by the name of Nikolaus Geist. He was in charge of the Resurrection Project, and unbeknownst to me, he had just made enough advancement in the project that when I confronted him. That night, I fought against resurrected soldier cadavers.”

“Cadavers?” Damian cocks his head.

“It was like fighting against another super soldier, except the man was dead. He could speak, but slowly, unable to think critically. The man was controlled by orders, and no matter what injuries I gave him, even a shattered jaw, he walked it off, single-mindedly intent on obeying Geist’s command. In his death, he had become the optimal foot soldier for what Geist referred to as the Eternal Reich, and there was more than just him, as I very quickly came to find out.”

“How many?”

“Up to maybe twenty,” Rogers answers, shrugging. “Enough that they were able to suppress me after the entire horde converged on me. Geist called the group of them the Resurrection Corps, and all of them had died serving the Third Reich. I got the whole villain spiel while strapped to a table. He told me of how his group had taken advantage of the Nazis, using their military to plunder vaults, libraries, and archives all over the world, collecting rare and forbidden knowledge. He revealed the extent of their groups’ mechanisms, how many names they’ve been operating under, centuries that they existed under the nose of those in power, biding their time. He called him and his brothers true masters of darkness, a sacred order that had survived generations, with an almost pathological need to survive. A beast that even if you were to cut off one arm, it was only a matter of time before two took its place.

“In the end, the war to them was merely a means to get what they wanted. It didn’t matter to them which side won, only that they could use the opportunity to create a legion of unkillable soldiers under their command. In order to achieve that, Geist had developed what he called the Lazarus Formula. It had yet to be perfected, but it functioned enough that he’d already crossed the line of life and death to bring the Nazi soldiers back to life, and while he had me restrained, he intended to inject the formula into me. But thankfully, my backup, Agent Lohn, shot him just in time, risking her life for mine. She outed herself in a room of undead super soldiers,” Rogers murmurs, his gaze taking on a shunted look of haunted regret. “She’d already contacted the German Freedom League, but it was just me and her, and it took them hours to arrive. Fought like hell, the both of us did, but she... didn’t make it.”

Damian doesn’t dare say a word, speechless at the vulnerability in Rogers’ curled shoulders, the evident grief in his voice and eyes.

“She was my hero that night,” Rogers says, quietly, his words coming out in a rasp.

“What happened to the soldiers’ bodies?” Damian asks, a weird lump forming in his throat as he avoids commenting on Agent Lohn’s sacrifice. He looks at his hands instead of Rogers as he thinks of the fact that Captain America is known and recognized most of all for his shield. He has made a legacy for himself as a hero, and protector.

For someone to get killed protecting him is... There's such a blatant incongruity in hearing the story, that Damian finds himself momentarily sorry for Rogers for having experienced such a thing.

“The bodies were incinerated, from what I was told. The German Freedom League did the clean up, and they must have done a fairly good job of it, as nothing else about the Eternal Reich has come up since. At least, not until now, that is.”

Damian can feel the weight of his gaze.

“Can I ask why, Damian?” Rogers asks, his voice soft, not at all demanding, more curious.

Damian finds himself looking towards Natasha, whose eyes were already on him. Their gazes meeting, she imperceptively inclines her head, expression blank, as if to say, up to you.

“You don’t know what the Lazarus Formula was composed of, do you?” he asks doubtfully, briefly glancing at Rogers.

He shakes his head. “Would tell you if I did.”

He suspected as much, but it’s still disappointing. “If we knew, it would have been easier to rule out a connection. But as it is, the fact that this incident took place nearly seventy years ago, it’s even more difficult to infer that there even is a connection.”

“Connection to what?”

“To my universe,” Damian murmurs, peering at Rogers and attempting to peer into his potential as a danger. The man is hard to get a read on, and has been difficult to read for the past two weeks he’s known him. Mother would tell him not to trust a man like this, and Richard might even agree with her for once, skeptical enough not to be suicidal in the people he puts trust in.

But then Damian thinks back to what Rogers said to him, what somehow feels like forever ago despite it barely being a week. But so much has already changed. He thinks back to when he was a hairsbreadth away from leaving the tower, looking for any opportunity or reason to go, how his frustration at his predicament had been getting the better of him, spurring him to take whatever action he could to take back the control he didn’t have.

“Just give it time, Damian. Give us time. To build trust in one another, yeah?”

After a moment where Rogers seems to sense his deliberation, Damian comes to a potentially risky conclusion and decides that the man might make for a decent ally, if not a fierce foe. It’s a cost-benefit analysis that Father might frown at, but that he somehow finds himself growing confidence in.

“In my universe, we have what are called Lazarus Pits. They are a very rare and supernaturally occurring phenomenon,” he explains, looking at both of them before finally delving into the deep and lengthy history of the Pits, a history that has become synonymous with that of his family’s.

He tells them of his grandfather's discovery of them, how long it has sustained him, and their seemingly random locations across the world. He adds that his grandfather often goes on expeditions to discover more, keen on developing new sites, wherever he’s able, and that Father has been doing his utmost to destroy them when he can. 

Damian explains that the Pits are filled with an unknown chemical blend, and describes the appearance of them, the oozing, bubbling green sludge. He reveals that much of how they function is still not wholly understood yet, but the results are undeniable. He provides them with examples of the Pits at work: from how mortal injuries are washed away, that any ailment, even cancer, can become obsolete in the waters, that the old can walk out rejuvenated, youthful once more, and, most mysteriously, that it’s capable of restoring to life what was once dead.

He tells them of the drawbacks, about the temporary insanity or rage that those leaving the Pit endure. He lightly glosses over Todd’s rages without speaking his name, explaining how it can have long-lasting consequences for some, even with a single use of the Pit. He emphasizes the unpredictability of the results, that not all are equal, and some escape better off than others. He tells them how not all dead come back, that it works best if the corpse is fresh, but that no matter what, those that return are unmistakably changed, spiritually and mentally decayed.

He even tells them, more for Natasha’s sake, about the Well of Sins, the first discovered and the most potent of the Pits, the very one that Ravi had once witnessed Grandfather bathing in. He stresses the depth of the wrongdoing, how Ravi should have died for such an invasion, to protect the integrity of the Well, but that Mother had given him a choice, one that he’s been unable to stop thinking of lately, with all the reminders.

Eventually, Rogers starts reaching for cookies as he talks, dunking them, but still listening to Damian with clear eyes and intent focus. Natasha is the same, having joined them at the table, nudging the plate of cookies in Damian’s direction, an unspoken prompt for him to take his time, but also to indulge with them.

It’s actually rather absurd, but as he talks, and as he dunks cookies with his chopsticks, Damian thinks, bizarrely, how delicious and sweet the first and then second bite is. Rogers and Natasha don’t rush him, and their comments and questions are thoughtful and curious—and they’re listening to him.

Even as the conversation slowly leads away from the topic of Lazarus, that Damian begins to speak more of the League and his time in it, it doesn’t strike him then, not in the moment. It also doesn’t strike him when he tells Rogers good night, or when Natasha walks with him to his bedroom, leaving him only after she gives him a hug, promising him once again in a whisper that she’ll be there when he needs her. It doesn’t strike him while he showers, or as he dresses himself.

It instead strikes him when he lays in bed that night, unable to sleep.

It’s a thought, full of hurt and frustration, a deep, flinching pain that Damian has to press his hands firmly into his chest to ebb.

Why is it them, and not Father or Mother, or even Richard. Why is it them that he is heard by?

Only, Damian knows the answer to that. To hear requires paying attention. It’s really that simple.

Chapter Text

“So?” Natasha prompts, staring at Tony with arched brows.

Pepper sits beside him, glancing back and forth between the two of them, but she’s only observing. Whatever her opinion of Natasha’s request, she either doesn’t find anything wrong with it, or she’s deciding to keep mum.

Tony, for his part, looks visibly uncomfortable. “I see why, Nat. I think it’s a good idea, even.”

“But?”

“Look around us. Is this any place to raise a dog?”

“It doesn’t have to be a dog,” Natasha is quick to correct. She has a feeling Damian would love a dog, but she has her own reservations about them.

“What then, a cat?” Tony sits back, crossing his ankles and laying his hands on his stomach, fidgeting. He’s considering it, though, she can see it in his faraway gaze. “That’s more likely… We’re definitely not getting a cow—Pep, get this, kid told us his dad let him have a cow. Can you believe it?”

Pepper looks vaguely amused. “Reminds me a bit of Veruca Salt, saying, ‘Daddy, Daddy, I want a golden goose’.”

Tony’s brows shoot up, but Natasha doesn’t know the reference to infer what she’s meaning to take offense like he seems to. “ Nah. That kid? He’s not that bad. Fairly reasonable... Most of the time.”

“Oh? I haven’t spent enough time with him to know. First impressions made him look like a brat.”

“He is a brat,” Natasha says, cracking a grin, and even she hears the fondness in her voice creeping through.

“I don’t see it,” Tony says in a deadpan. “He's an absolute angel in my presence.”

Natasha snorts, knowing that just the opposite is true. 

Damian is downright gentle around her, his walls not as high in her company, but with Tony? It’s an entirely different story. He’s surly, easily antagonized by the way Tony speaks and behaves, unable to tolerate much of the sarcasm that the man spews. There’s usually always a look of subtle derision in his eyes, but it’s more pronounced when speaking to Tony that it’s hard not to notice, and especially so if Clint is in the mix.

But well, they all give as good as they get, and she has a feeling that there’s enough respect for each other not to actually mean everything they yell in frustration. Only some things are meant. 

Natasha is under no illusion that everyone will always get along like the happy cheery family the team has been making jokes about, what with calling themselves uncles and goading the ‘baby nephew’. If it weren’t for the fact that she thinks Damian secretly enjoys the ribbing, or wasn’t perfectly capable of speaking for himself, Natasha would have put a stop to it.

As it is, she thinks the jokes have actually made the transition from strangers to teammates much easier, uplifting the general team morale and adding a layer of cohesiveness that she doesn’t think the group would have without the twelve year old in their midst. Weird though it may be.

Without Damian, the group wouldn’t have stuck together past the victory shawarma, scattering until the next global disaster needed the Avengers to form again.

It’s actually a wonder what having a common concern can do to bring people together. Perhaps the excuse was weak in the beginning, more of a precautionary decision, but time—even a couple of weeks—has changed something flimsy into a firm conviction to take care of the child in their midst. Natasha might take on the most responsibility, but everyone—save for Thor, who really couldn’t stick around—on the team has their own vested interest in helping him. 

It’s hard not to be endeared by the sullen boy, whose fierce gaze can be scalding to be beneath, and whose words are often petulant and bold. It’s harder not to notice the baby fat rounding out his face, the defensiveness in his posture, and not feel angered by the things in his past that could mold him into needing such a heavily fortified wall.

Damian is painfully mature for his age, and she’s heard plenty of the horrifying details as to the cause of it. Natasha has heard, seen, done awful things in her life, but there are things he’s confessed that make her ill to think of. She doesn’t even know what can be considered the worst of it. She knows by experience that it often becomes moot to try and rate things from least to worst, especially because it all sort of blends into one terrible memory after a while.

The thing is, when all you’ve known is the life of an assassin, the scariest part is usually what comes after. It's trying to leave it all behind, and realizing that no matter how far you take yourself from it, the past will still be a hairsbreadth away. It’s checking over your shoulder and seeing how short of a distance there is between the person you were, and then looking forward, only to see there’s an ocean’s distance between the person you’re trying to be.

Damian is so young, though. He has a chance, time left to experience a childhood, and have a shot at growing up to be more than all of the expectations that have been laid on him, to truly be a person of his own making—not anyone else’s.

Natasha wants to help him do it. She can’t do anything about the home that Damian is going back to, but at least, while he’s here in this one, she can do what she can to provide for him, and thankfully she’s not alone in that.

Truthfully, Clint and Tony are more helpful with Damian than she thinks any of them realize. They do really well with handling his temper, not taking things to heart, and they’re great at keeping him engaged in the present, not bogged down in his thoughts or feelings.

Clint has been filling a lot of the empty hours for Damian with mandatory viewings of films and shows, even managing to get the kid to play a few card games with him that Natasha has been able to sit in on. Damian complains but he doesn’t leave, and while Natasha has noticed the way Clint’s energy flags at the constant rejections, he’s still a dog with a bone, determined to get to the marrow, the soft side of Damian. It’s a work in progress, but if there’s anyone with experience at taking in strays and letting go of grudges, it’s Clint.

At least it’s better than lab time with Tony, which is typically more miss than hit these days, considering the lack of progress made on the project. Natasha doesn’t think Tony’s truly broken the news to Damian, how long it is likely to take. That the shortest estimate is still years away. Natasha wonders if Damian will realize it himself soon, if that’s what Tony is waiting on.

She’s not looking forward to it, the devastation it’s sure to cause. She wonders if she should rip the bandaid off on it and just talk with him about it, but Natasha isn’t exactly an expert on the science. She knows enough to carry a conversation, but she doesn’t have Tony’s brain for these things.

It would be best to come from Tony, but Natasha can’t exactly force him.

Honestly, while Damian is prone to taking his frustration out on others, intentionally or not, Tony is somehow the best on the team at redirecting it, even if Natasha isn’t all that pleased by the means he’s doing it with. Tony seems to understand the anger-aspect better than she does, but even if there are times that he’ll rise to the same heights of emotion, causing the both of them to feed into the hostility, Tony will usually get his head out of his ass first and deescalate things, giving Damian work in the lab to distract him.

Natasha thinks the yelling is cathartic for the two, but at the same time, she’s not yet convinced that it’s the healthiest or most appropriate approach to dealing with their relationship. Not in the long term, at least. 

Damian’s a little too comfortable in arguments, for her tastes. Like he’s grown up in them, both physically and socially. He’s used to handling problems with aggression, always on the attack, prepared to defend, discomfitted when there isn’t a fight.

The thing is, Natasha caught on quickly to Damian’s attachment disorder—it’s painfully obvious—and while she’s no expert on child psychology, she has enough experience navigating murky relationship waters to recognize the help that Damian needs doesn’t come with a simple solution. Damian holds a vast amount of his emotion in, represses things until they bust and he’s drowning in them.

Thinking back to Damian’s crying face makes her flinch inwardly. His pain isn’t a simple matter; the complexities to his circumstances, from his birth to his arrival in a completely different universe, all of it would be enough to destroy even the most stubborn of adults. All she can be relieved by is that he had been strong enough to choose to trust them, even at the incredible risks. That he continues to do so is nothing short of a miracle.

She doesn’t take any of it lightly. Nothing he says is dismissed by her. It all is part of the puzzle that she is piecing together slowly but surely, and the path forward is difficult for all of them to trudge along with, full of indecision and uncertain outcomes, but she can at least try and provide what she can in the ways of a solid foundation.

Which is why she’s come to Tony with her request.

Animal companions have been important pillars in his home life, and though she’s never before thought she’d ever bring a pet into her life, Natasha has asked enough about Damian’s pets back home to recognize the importance of them in his family structure. She’s also asked about his family, and as cagey as he is in his responses, he has shared enough that she has gathered the necessity of familiar destressors, and how animals have provided that need for unconditional, uncomplicated companionship that Damian has missed out on every meaningful relationship she thinks he’s ever had.

It all fits into a larger picture, pets just being a small slice of the pie, but an integral piece to the structure that Damian relies on to regulate. 

Damian’s observable behavior has already made it clear to her how important schedules are to him, although she doesn’t think he realizes the extent of it. 

Damian falls into them to the point where it’s preternatural; his time in the League of Assassins has left him with this innate need to adhere to structure, naturally responding to perceived hierarchies—his insistence on her being the best of the Avengers, is an insistence on his decision to follow her. He’s far from wild, or crazed, even if his ability to be fearless might give that impression to the unobservant.

He is far too calculative, and his power of deduction is acute enough to discern most people’s intentions immediately, even if he’s prone to assuming the worst. He knows keenly when he’s being lied to. He’s painfully aware of the opinions of those around him, and from his visible confusion in the past week, Natasha has a sneaking suspicion that he’s not used to being liked, or even being listened to for periods of time longer than delivering a succinct explanation. It’s been drilled into him how to deliver a report, rather than a story.

He reacts to conversations as if they’re due to end quickly, struggles to maintain casual topics, as if he’s cataloguing in his mind the importance of what’s being discussed, prepared to be dismissive, or evasive. Yet he speaks with such a stern sincerity, full of insight that makes it difficult to remember that he’s only been alive for twelve years. That is, if the baby fat in his cheeks isn’t already a dead giveaway.

Damian wakes every day at six in the morning, regardless of how little sleep he gets at night. He eats breakfast with her a half hour later, after a quick morning shower, and spends a few hours on a laptop Tony had lent him, searching the web—and secured databases she’s certain he’s not authorized for—before having a light snack, just in time to be snatched up by Clint. Dinner is normally the only time of day the team is all sat together, with some minimal exceptions, and then after, Damian asks to spar with her. They will spend several hours together, and it will be late into the night before either of them head to bed.

It’s a structured way of living that Natasha knows he’s carving out for himself, regardless of any adult direction. It reveals a lot to Natasha, how self-sufficient Damian is, how easily he acclimatizes, able to rapidly accept new and changing information, but also restricting himself to careful, methodical decisions that make up the fabric of his day to day.

Yet as smart as he is, Damian is still driven forward more by his heart than his mind. Natasha gets the impression that he might disagree, but it’s exposed in the way he has opened up to her, what shows on his face rather than what is said.  His logic always carries some emotional throughline in it, based on the life experiences that seep into his words. It’s a quality that feels inherent to him, something that makes him Damian, and not a weapon to be wielded.

Natasha almost envies this trait of his, if she didn’t see the cost it came at.

Damian’s vulnerability around her is an unexpected surprise, just as his quiet attachment to her is, too. Damian is resilient, and he is kind. Natasha just wants to do right by him.

Natasha looks at him these days and, perhaps because she has been so melancholic and heavy from surfacing memories, she sees Yelena. In the ways that Yelena was so full of vigor, and just as her name implied, the shining light she lit the room up with, Natasha can’t help but see glimpses of that in Damian as he opens up to her, revealing the kindness he masks behind anger.

Natasha hadn’t been able to protect that pretend family back then, had lost her sister. But Damian... 

She thinks this might be her chance, too, to take back something the Red Room took from her at graduation. Selfish as it is to think of it that way, but Natasha has never been accused of being selfless, and she’s not looking to have a change of heart about it now.

“But what about when the boy is gone?” Pepper asks, and it’s like a bursting bubble, cutting through her thoughts. It’s so sharp that even Tony is jolted by it. Pepper looks between them and wonders out loud, “Does he just take the pet back home with him?”

“That, or it will stay with me,” Natasha murmurs, shifting in her seat, masking the way the question has hit her.

Of course, Natasha has already thought ahead, prior to posing the question to Tony. These are foregone conclusions, a pro and con list that has already been made. She knows Damian needs more, in the here and now, than the team can provide—than she can provide, on her own. She also knows that all of this is temporary, and to others that might make it pointless to be trying so hard.

But to Natasha, who knows she can never have any children of her own, it feels like a cruel twist of fate for Damian to be here, perfect as he is, someone she understands in a bitter, ugly way that normal people would be ashamed to claim.

It may have only been a couple of weeks, but the time is ultimately inconsequential to her. People she’s known for an even shorter time are still on her mind, so what’s one more? 

It’s self-serving, she knows. But if she helps Damian now, it will be like gaining an answer to a question she never thought it would be possible to ask. It’s because of that, she can’t look at him and view her efforts for him as pointless, or linger in thoughts of how provisional their relationship is.

At the end of the day, it matters because Damian matters. To her.

Tony’s sigh drags her back to the present. He levels her with a look. “If this devolves to the point that Spitfire convinces me to install a barn on the roof, I’m kicking you out of the tower.”

“Before or after the barn installation?” Natasha asks wryly.

“Please, for the love of god, keep me from owning a barn, Nat.”

“If she won’t, I will,” Pepper mutters.

“Pep, I can always rely on you,” Tony says, his tone dry. “What if I want a barn, though. Are you going to stop me, then, too?”

“You bet your ass I am,” she retorts. “You do not need a barn.”

“I don’t know... I think a barn would be nice, now that I think of it. We could put chickens in it, have endless eggs.”

“Chickens go in coops, not barns.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Tony, you’re not being serious,” Pepper says, exasperated.

Natasha snorts. There are times she wonders at their relationship when they bicker like this. Tony is far too childish for Natasha’s tolerance, and she, frankly, thinks Pepper is too good for a man who gets off on being contrarian and difficult to manage. But, well, that might be how Pepper gets her rocks off, and Natasha is far from being the type to judge. 

Stones, glass houses.

“I’m as serious as a heart attack, Pep. When am I ever not?”

“I could fill a book the length of the Bible and still have more to write down, Tony.”

“You’d write a book about me?” Tony asks, touched.

Natasha decides that she’s had enough of the bickering couple. She rises off the sofa, and asks, “Tony, you’ll think of what I asked, right?”

“I, er, yeah,” Tony says. He oddly looks unsure of himself, but it only lasts a moment before he grins at her. “What if we get a monkey?”

“No,” Natasha and Pepper say together.

“Way to kill dreams,” Tony groans.

“When you have a serious answer, like a yes or a no, contact me,” Natasha tells him, heading out.

Only, just before she makes it to the door, she hears him yell, “Just get him a damn cat!”

Well, that works for her.

.

.

Despite entering the weekend, and Xavier’s, in a melancholic mood, his time there surprisingly flies by for Damian. 

He spends a lot of it with Scott, actually, when the man is free from responsibilities, which he mostly is without school in session. They spar in the Danger Room together, with Damian deftly dodging Cyclops’ beams—something that had taken a lot of egging on to get him to use against him—and then engaging in hand to hand combat. 

He won’t admit this to anyone, ever, but Damian has a lot of fun during their spars. It quickly becomes clear that the eyebeams are not all Scott has at his disposal, but perhaps because of his mutation, he has a superhuman sense of spatial awareness, and with it, the tactical ability to analyze and precisely predict Damian’s movements and attacks, as well as the reaction time to keep up with it. Even attacks from behind, Scott has a sense for them, deflecting or meeting all of Damian’s blows.  He takes the hits like they have no impact, even though Damian knows he’s not pulling any of his strength.

Scott has a fairly interesting hand-to-hand technique, and it revolves entirely around balance, and the subsequent destabilizing of it. He primarily uses a mix of judo and aikido. Judo, as a means to undermine his opponents’ stability, and aikido, to usurp his opponent’s momentum and use against them. His physical attributes are no more than the peak human condition, and it’s immediately clear to Damian that his fighting prowess is entirely built off his own dedication and hard work. It’s the type of conditioning that makes him feel like he’s up against someone of his father’s caliber, matched, if not in power, by zeal.

More interesting, Scott is notably a ranged fighter; his hand-to-hand is meant for resetting the fights, shaking off his enemies and getting distance in order to gain back the upperhand. But even so, Scott doesn’t allow that to be an exploitable weakness of his, which Damian gets to know the more he spends time in close combat with him. The thing is, Scott’s enhancements are simple, and potentially useless in someone else’s hands, but because it’s Scott, they are used to their maximum capability. 

There's a mentality embedded in Scott’s combat style that Damian picks up on quickly, that he resonates with: precise and powerful. It’s no-holds-barred, yet meticulous.

He’d make for a terrible enemy to have.

But they’re not enemies, far from it at this point. No matter how fierce Damian is in his attacks, Scott is quick to praise Damian. His grin ever present on his face, as he whistles with appreciation at the moves Damian shows off. There’s a genuine excitement there, an amazement that at times throws him off. Scott is honest in his reactions, his admiration evident, pride in his voice as he compliments Damian.

It’s the sort of thing that Damian isn’t used to, and sort of hates, even if it’s well-intentioned. It’s not that he doesn’t receive praise, but it’s just never been so forthright, or so immediate. ‘Good jobs’ from Father usually come days later, and not so much in those words, either, but through implication. As for Richard, in the past he employed the use of physical rewards, like ice cream and time together outside of the capes. He also didn’t say much in the way of words. Richard was emulating his idea of Batman, after all.

So, it’s kind of odd to be sparring and to see joy on his opponent’s face instead of a critical eye looking for signs of telegraphing and areas of improvement. But then, both Father and Richard had the burden of training their Robin not to get themselves killed in a fight, even if that Robin is Damian, who arrived on their doorstep pre-programmed for combat.

Sparring is not actually meant to be a fun pastime. But Scott isn’t training him, and because of that, it doesn’t feel as necessary to be so critical or expect criticism. It remains to be seen if that will change.

Throughout their time in the Danger Room, Scott doesn’t ask any questions about how Damian seems to know so many different martial arts, probably chalking everything up to his past as a child assassin and a two-year vigilante. He has no idea of what Damian’s put his body through in order to gain the experience and knowledge he has, but whatever Scott expected of his abilities, Damian thoroughly exceeds them.

The two end up taking on simulations together as well, the tech allowing the room to be completely optically transformed, summoning endless waves of various enemies. It allows Damian to scratch that itch that’s always sort of in the back of his mind, a relief after so long of feeling pent up, able to truly let loose. It’s the part of him that wants to keep moving, that doesn’t want to settle for stillness, an instinct that warns him of the dangers of falling under a false pretense of peace. He can’t allow himself to be comfortable, and he’s been treading dangerously towards that in the past week.

The Avengers are weirdly difficult to keep his better judgement intact around, but it’s not as hard at the school. 

There’s a different vibe, and it’s contagious, a frenetic energy that feels inspired by the heightened stakes of being a mutant in a world where that’s seen as a threat to humanity by so many. It’s not so much in the topics that the children and the faculty talk about, but in the general community that’s formed within the protection of the school. Despite being so new to Xavier’s, and especially for being a weekender, Damian still picks up on the energy, alongside the feeling that none of what the mutants have managed to create can be taken for granted, that the children here are being prepared for something greater, even if it’s not outright. 

There’s an undercurrent of a secret battle being waged, and even the most oblivious children seem to pick up on it. Nothing makes it clearer than what’s being written in the New York Times and the Daily Bugle. Mutants, in many publications and online discussions, are seen as subhuman, and in the real world, shunned in many communities. It’s little wonder that most of the children, who come from so many different parts of the world, are all striving to one day be considered part of the X-Men forces, inspired by their personal experiences, but also by the efforts made by Scott and his team.

In short, the children here are being groomed for battle in the name of self-acceptance. Damian can’t help but draw the conclusion that it might just be necessary. At minimum, instilling self-defense seems imperative to the mutant cause, and while the curriculum doesn’t appear to be doing anything more than that for the younger children, it’s not so simple for the older students.

It’s so different from the formative era of the Teen Titans, if Damian thinks about it, but if he does give in to his imagination, it’s not a stretch to assume that of all the superhero adjacent groups, the X-Men are the most likely to have a junior squad. If circumstances made it necessary, he has no doubt that there would be countless children from the school that would clamor to be in such a group.

Regardless, time in the Danger Room isn’t frozen, and eventually, Scott and Damian have to leave it, reluctant as he is. He’s already formulating how to ask Stark to invest in creating one similar for the tower, and thinks of drawing inspiration from tech from his own world to improve on it.

.

.

Midday Saturday, he teaches Collins more forms and aspects of meditation, impatiently answers her sometimes off-topic questions, and when it comes time for her to practice, he sticks to quietly sketching at her side while she attempts to meditate. Though not as successful as she would like to be, Damian considers it a moderate success for himself when he manages to keep his emotions under strict control. Strangely, of all the people in the world that he’s met, it’s Collins that feels like the biggest threat, and Damian has always been keen on listening to his gut on these matters, even if she appears nothing but harmless.

Scott and Dr. McCoy each take an opportunity to check in on them during what’s meant to be an uninterrupted lesson, but they leave quickly enough after seeing that there’s no danger. He suspects that one of them has planted a camera somewhere as a preventive measure, as well, but it’s something he doesn’t even bother asking about because he understands the necessity of it. Frankly, he’s surprised that they didn’t insist upon having some sort of chaperone to keep an eye on them.

Lack of paranoia and precautionary methods aside, Damian ends up eating with Collins during some of the scheduled meal-times that weekend, and, for a girl who struggled so much to talk to him in the beginning, she has plenty to say outside of the library. A lot of what she says is nonsensical, but his entire time in this universe has been nonsensical, and he’s realizing with great dismay that he’s almost building a tolerance for it.

Ridiculous.

.

.

At night, he rooms with Scott, and it’s a big adjustment for Damian.  

It’s not even because he doesn’t completely trust the man. It has more to do with the fact that he’s not used to hearing the sound of someone else’s breathing when going to sleep, nothing like Titus’s breaths, and the proximity of the noise is making his skin itch, even with it being muffled by a shut door diving Scott’s bedroom from the living room. It becomes more obvious to him then that his hearing has been enhanced, though it’s still a long way off of being anything but a mild boost.

Actually, if Damian really draws comparisons, ever since he’s become aware of it, it’s at particular times of day, and at night that he can feel the shadows the strongest, where he feels the strongest, and his senses come alive. Ignoring it only does so much, has only done so much. When the sun is low on the horizon, early morning or early evening, he’s noticed his energy levels spike uncomfortably. Yet, it’s more so in the dark of night, where theoretically there’s not enough light to create shadows, that Damian experiences the worst of his restlessness.

He’s been having difficulty sleeping all week, but he’s been chalking it up to the scenario he’s trapped in. At the school it becomes more obvious to him that there’s a more obvious answer, one he isn’t very happy about.

Damian shuts his eyes, trying to sleep, and damn it all, he twists and turns in bed, trying to get comfortable, forgoing any League training that would normally keep his body composed.

He imagines that if he went outside right then, he’d be able to run marathons around the facility, and would have to if he wanted to shake off all of the excess energy caged inside of him. It makes the itch to patrol into a scream, which brings to mind the question of if there’s even a chance Scott would take him on missions with the X-Men.

He impressed Scott with his abilities, that much is clear, and Scott himself started out young. He won’t have the same reservations about his age. Right?

Eventually, he does get some sleep, and if it’s interrupted by nightmares, no one has to know. Well, maybe if Scott weren’t so damn observant, no one would know. But Scott doesn’t bug him about it, because he only knows due to waking up from his own night terrors, and the two let it be an unspoken understanding not to ask for details.

There’s even an oddly nostalgic camaraderie in the air as they drink chamomile tea at four in the morning, but Damian doesn’t know why that would be. He’s never shared such close living spaces with anyone else before. The manor is too large, and the LOA too insistent on hierarchy and paranoid...

Though, now that it’s on Damian’s mind, there is a time it reminds him of...

Back when Todd was little more than a silent guard, hardly of notice until Mother tossed him into the pits and he left with his revived intellectual capabilities and a grudge. But Damian doesn’t linger on those days. They prick uncomfortably at his mind. He didn’t realize then who Todd was. He failed to connect the hints Mother laid out, a great embarrassment even years later, something that demarcated him from Father’s reputation as a great detective.

He doubts Todd remembers that time at all, and while Todd never drank the tea that Damian did, it was in his company that Damian calmed his mind from night terrors. Perhaps some archaic pavlovian response is why he feels so nostalgic, a memory unexpectedly triggered by Scott.

Regardless, they shake off their respective moods, and head to the Danger Room before the sun is even up, taking advantage of the fact that there’s no one awake to complain that they’re spending too much time in it. Yesterday, a man calling himself Gambit was particularly annoying, and Damian isn’t keen on having another interaction if he can help it.

And then, an hour later, a loud knock comes from the door shortly before someone is opening it, the safety precautions of the room halting any simulated action.

Damian is mid-leap, and mid-yell when the room changes, but he reacts fast, ducking and rolling, narrowly missing the red beam of a Cyclops’ blast.

“Damian!” Scott calls, running towards him, and kneeling beside him.

“I’m fine,” he assures him, annoyed, turning his gaze to the intruder with a scathing glare. “Who the fuck are you?”

A pause, then:

“What’s it to you, bub?” comes a low growling voice, and Damian rises quickly, launching himself at the intruder, wooden sword at the ready—the man doesn’t so much as budge as Damian furiously jabs the hilt of the sword into a wall of abdominal muscles.

Tt. Scott wouldn’t let him use a real sword, and it didn’t matter much to him then, but it does now.

Damian contemplates for one split second, snapping the sword in two to see if a sharper point might do anything, and envisions staking the man whose entire presence screams at Damian’s senses that he’s a threat. He scans over the man’s appearance, taking in the ugly face, the mutton chops and horn-like spiked hair, as well as a body full of compact muscle and realizes he knows who this is.

Wolverine. A mutant whose abilities have famously made him impossible to kill.

A thrill runs through Damian, and he’s grinning before he can contain it, a sense of glee filling him. Of all the mutants he’s heard about, Wolverine is the most appealing to Damian in facing off against. A body who regenerates fast enough that he’s essentially immortal, and an adamantium skeleton to go along with it?

Damian’s body is moving faster than even Scott can predict, and he wouldn’t hear Scott telling him not to before he’s already doing it, breaking the wooden sword and launching at him. Wolverine dodges, but Damian had already sensed that was coming, as he angles an attack at his throat—another dodge, and Damian uses his proximity to reach an arm around his neck. 

The attempted grapple is aborted quickly, and so are the sword pieces—Wolverine tries to paw at him, get a hold of him, but his fingers come away with torn fabric from Damian’s shirt instead, and in milliseconds Damian has made it on top of the big oaf’s shoulder, legs on either side of his shoulder, hands primed on the underside of his jaw, primed to break his neck—

Damian grins—

“Oof!”

Wolverine drops onto his back, knocking Damian onto his as well, and he’s quick to use the opportunity to grapple him into a hold, twisting his arms and cupping them in one hand, and using his legs to pin Damian’s. He’s stronger than Damian is, and he isn’t shy of exploiting that, seeming not to have any qualms of using excessive force against a minor.

Fuck. He turns his head to glare at the man.

Wolverine huffs out a beleaguered sigh. “That all you got, bub?”

If Damian wasn’t pinned, and had an actual sword, he would have filleted the man.

When Damian doesn’t respond, choosing to strengthen his glare, the man looks at Scott. “Jean told me you had a kid attached to your hip, didn’t expect it to be true though.”

Scott’s mouth is set into a grim line and Damian notices the way his jaw clenches. It reaffirms for Damian that he had been right to be on the attack, feeling the tension in the air thicken.

“You gonna dress him up in an X-Men uniform next?”

Damian thinks of all the images he’s seen of the X-Men in action, from blurred eye-witness videos, to stunning shots from eagle-eyed paparazzi, and he thinks of himself being amongst them, fighting alongside Scott in a suit of black and yellow.

It’s hard to claim that he wouldn’t be interested if given the chance, especially as he’d already been toying with the idea.

Admittedly, though, it’s far from the appeal of fighting alongside Batman or Nightwing, more similar to when he used to wish to join the Titans. In those fantasies, Richard would be in charge, and Damian would be his right hand man, still his Robin. Only, he hasn’t imagined anything like that in a long time, as those thoughts only ever sprung up during arguments in the first few weeks after his father’s return. When he thinks of them now, it comes with an inescapable bitterness of knowing it could have never happened.

Not only because Richard would be unwilling, but because Drake would inevitably hate him for it—well, hate him more than he already does—and Damian isn’t actually all that keen on heading into a losing battle.

Outside of calling it a fantasy, being a member of the X-Men holds that same sort of conflicted feeling, and just as soon as he looks at Scott’s surprised face that’s quickly followed by a grimace, Damian senses the rejection before he’s even truly gotten the chance to ask.

Damian should feel relieved; he has no business entrenching himself further than he already has with the mutants. Yet he doesn’t.

It’s annoying to be rejected, even if it isn’t even a role he wanted. Because he could be an X-Men, just as he could be a vigilante here, and...

He shouldn’t even be bothering with any of this. Home is more important. Wasting time like this is idiotic, his time at the school performative. What help is he actually receiving here?

Wolverine loosens his hold, and Damian quickly twists out of it, rolling away and making quick work of getting distance from him.

“You’ve got helluva grip on you, bub,” Wolverine says, rubbing at his jaw. “Tryna kill me?”

“Was it obvious?” Damian retorts, tone biting.

“Damian’s here to learn how to use his abilities, not to take up arms as an X-Men.”

“You’re not fooling anyone, Summers,” Wolverine mutters, looking unimpressed. “You’ve gone and found a mini version of you.”

Scott sighs, not rising to the provocation. “Is that a terrible thing to you, Logan?”

Wolverine looks between the two of them, seemingly contemplating the question before finally shrugging. “Well, I’m sure Chuck is pleased there’re two of you to boss around now.”

“That sounds awfully like a criticism you should be taking up with Xavier.”

“It’s not entirely about Chuck, Summers, and you know it. Teaching these kids self-defense is one thing, but you take things to a notch that these kids don’t need to be thinking about.”

“Self-defense is not going to be enough to prepare them for what’s to come.”

“What’s to come is for the adults to worry about, Scott. Not the kids,” Wolverine says, but his eyes are on Damian’s face.

“Kids have a say in the future they’re going to be a part of,” Damian cuts in, arms folding. “Why wait five, ten, twenty years to take action when we’re the ones who’re going to have to live with the consequences?”

“Are you truly going to be living with the consequences if you’re not even alive to see it?”

“It’s easier to build strong children than to repair broken men,” Damian quotes, assuming Fredrick Douglas is another shared existence in this universe.

“Ten years, let’s see how strong you see yourself then,” Wolverine drawls.

Damian, despite knowing that he won’t be here to keep such a promise, jabbing a finger at the know-it-all. “Ten years,” he agrees with a glower, and stomps off towards the exit, cutting off any need for continued conversation.

Scott doesn’t follow, but that’s just as well, because he sort of doesn’t want to see Scott at the moment.

.

.

When Collins sees him at breakfast, she seems to catch on immediately to his temper, and temporarily appears wary, before she surprises Damian by asking, “Do you mind if I—?”

She catches herself, not quite brave enough to finish the sentence, but the sentiment is understood. Damian considers his options, of denying Collins’ access to controlling his emotions or granting it. There are very obvious reasons to say no, even if she did help him last weekend. Namely, Damian is perfectly capable of handling a foul mood on his own, without some weird girl’s mutation to pacify him.

Thinking about it like that, it brings to mind the improper handling of drugs, and addiction.

Is Collins’ pheromones capable of creating addicts?

Damian doesn’t want to find out, even if it would help her gain better control of her abilities. She can find other puppets, but he won’t be one of them.

He shakes his head, and while Collins deflates, she weirdly looks relieved, too.

“Then, after this, do you want to read manga with me in the common room? We’d have to stop by my room first, but I have things I think you’d be interested in.”

Damian is surprised once again. The idea of it doesn’t sound as dreadful as it should, but then, he doesn’t actively hate her company, and he’s a bit curious as to what her idea of his interests are. After all, Damian is a fan of comics and manga, but she didn’t know that.

More importantly, he wonders at the possibility of different titles between his universe and this one, and it’s this intrigue alone that has him nodding. 

As it turns out, there’s a fair bit in Collins’ collection that is familiar to Damian, but as he spends hours reading beside Collins, at times breaking into debates or commentary of the stories she’s handed him, he comes to discover that even at the stories he’s certain he’s read before, there’s twists in them now that are new and strange.

He reads through her volumes of D. Gray-man, Natsume’s Book of Friends and xxxHOLiC, before eventually he sets his sights on the titles she’s been keeping to herself. Even at her childish warnings that he couldn’t possibly find any of it interesting, he reaches for her volume one of Peach Girl first, and when he looks Collins in the eyes and says, “Sae is the devil that needs vanquished,” she relaxes from there, giving Damian greater access to her collection of manga without any further prejudice.

For a girl raised by a single mother, her lot is fairly sizable, too, stowed away in cardboard boxes that they’ve dragged out to avoid getting in trouble for crossing any gender boundaries—cue Damian’s eye-roll on the matter—and for a morning that started out so sour, he finds himself relaxing, even smiling.

Collins’ isn’t so bad, now that he’s spent so much time in her presence. It’s sort of nice being around someone who doesn’t know about his situation, and who doesn’t remind him of anyone back home. With her, he can even imagine there’s nothing pressing for him to worry about. 

Nothing immediate, at least.

.

.

That evening, earlier than planned, Natasha comes for him as a surprise, closing out the weekend with an early release from his time at Xavier’s. 

When he waves goodbye to Scott, despite the weird energy from earlier lingering, he does so with a little bit of reluctance to go. But then he looks at Natasha, and remembers that he’ll be back soon again anyway.

Clearly, any efforts from his own universe to find him aren’t shaping any better than his own efforts to get home. 

Can what he’s doing even be called an effort?

But Damian has no time to get lost in that question, nor the will.

As they head back to the tower, Natasha plays music that Damian finds to be tolerable, even pleasant at moments, juxtaposed to Stark’s loud and grating taste that he blasts in R&D. Damian hasn’t heard it before, but it’s a type of classical music, stylistically different enough from the music he’s learned to play that he doesn’t immediately pinpoint its origins.

“Alexander Borodin,” Natasha explains. “String Quartets, one and two. A favorite from my childhood.”

“From when you did ballet for the Red Room,” he assumes, and then, because it feels like an opportunity, he asks, “Do you miss it at all? The ballet part?”

Natasha makes a humming noise that could be either, or.

Damian doesn’t push for a more concrete answer though, only deciding to say, “My father’s daughter, Cassandra Cain, does ballet. I’ve never seen her perform before, though. I think it’s just a hobby.”

If Cain does it in a professional capacity, he’s not been informed, which is likely for most things concerning her. In the last two years, his contact with her has been minimal, moments and seconds in each other’s company outside of their night life, and only a handful of team-ups under their belt. Of either Batgirl, it’s Brown that he’s somehow most familiar with, despite the many commonalities he shares with Cain.

But he’s been thinking of her lately.

“Well, if she’s anything like you, I assume she’s quite a performer,” Natasha murmurs, glancing away from the road to smile at him.

Damian shifts in his seat, feeling his ears get hot. “She’s sort of like me… She grew up in the League, too. But I didn’t meet her until much later, long after Father had already taken her in.”

Despite her being back in Gotham, he doesn’t see much of his adopted sister. She typically resides with Barbara Gordon, and is an infrequent visitor to the manor, similar to the ways that Drake is scarcely actually seen by anyone other than the Teen Titans, preferring to stay in his apartment or all the way across the country, in Jump City.

Actually, all of the former Robins tend to stay away from the manor. Especially Todd, who lives in some safe house in Crime Alley—which is an oxymoron—and he hasn’t been back in the manor proper in over a year, still carrying a lot of the same resentment he left the LOA with. 

As for Brown, her time as Robin being ill-conceived and short-lived, still resides with her mother, and operates as Batgirl under Oracle’s directive, working out of the Clock Tower, rather than the Batcave. Pointedly, as she’ll be the first one to say it, not adopted.

Then there’s Richard, who hasn’t been back to the manor since he left it… Which might have only been a couple of months ago—longer now that Damian has spent so much time in this universe—but it’s a change Damian is still rankled by. The only times he gets to see Richard anymore is when Damian calls him for help with a mission, and that usually only happens if Batman is busy with the Justice League. Otherwise, Richard seems keen on keeping his distance.

Damian hears he has a new girlfriend. Blüdhaven keeps him busy. Richard doesn’t really...

If what he saw during the meditation fiasco was real—ignoring the potential theories of how he had seen it—then it would mean that Richard is back in Gotham to investigate his disappearance, and, regardless of if it might have just been a delusion, the thought of the potential allays some of his anxieties, even if they sprout new ones he trying not to think about.

He’s never been good at waiting. Or, perhaps, he’s just tired of it. After all, Damian spent the first ten years of his life in suspense of meeting his father for the first time. But maybe because of that, rather than building tolerance, he can’t stand it anymore.

Every day, Damian becomes a bit more disillusioned, a bit more discouraged that he’ll be home soon.

He sneaks a glance at Natasha, who is mulling over his response to her last statement.

“Your father took in quite a handful of strays,” she finally says, flickering her gaze over to meet his for a moment. She looks unimpressed.

Damian sighs. “Richard, I could understand. With the others, it gets progressively more ridiculous.”

“Richard is your eldest brother,” she clarifies.

“He’s... sure. A brother.”

“That’s not very convincing.”

Damian shrugs. He doesn’t think there’s a word at all to describe the relationship between him and Richard. Mentor might be close, but it’s not right, and doesn’t entail everything. Brother feels inaccurate, too, but also, not wrong. Of course, there are moments, occasions where it might be true to call him those things, but nothing consistent, nothing that fits perfectly into typical familial structures, or that rings true.

“To Richard, I’m his Robin,” Damian says softly, amidst the sounds of string instruments. Perhaps it’s the most accurate of all, to simply say that they had been partners, and have saved each other’s lives. That they’ll always be family, even if everything has changed.

“What’s he to you?” Natasha asks, oblivious to his thoughts.

Yet when she asks it, something else comes to mind.

“I think Richard avoided putting a name to it, and it’s difficult to one-sidedly decide what to call it. Sometimes he calls me his brother, but that’s to other people. He has this need to adhere to social conventions, and I think, adhere to his ideals of what he should do, rather than what he wants to do. I’ve taken advantage of it. A lot of people do.” Damian can’t believe he’s telling her any of this, but after so many days spent by her side, it’s become easier to talk.

Which might be the point of therapy, now that he’s thinking of it.

But before she can respond, and before he can think deeply on the benefits of therapy, Damian adds, “I’ve known him longer than I’ve known my father, but he’s known Father almost longer than I’ve been alive. Of all my siblings, Richard is still the most reluctant and mercurial on whether or not he considers my father his as well. Even Todd, who has the worst relationship with Father, is not nearly as inconsistent on that matter.”

“Is there a lot of bad blood between them?”

“It’s hard to say. I know they love each other. Father loves all of us,” Damian murmurs with trace amounts of bitterness. “But there are things in their past that I think makes it difficult for them to feel confident in, especially outside of the suits. I don’t truly understand it, Natasha. What I do know is that, should Richard call him in need of anything, Father will be there for him, no matter how much time has passed. As for Richard, while he won’t want to answer, I believe he would still do the same, independent of any hesitation. That goes for if I call, as well.”

“Do you believe there to be a reason for this, for why he might be so indecisive?”

Damian shrugs. “Anything would just be speculation. Frankly, Richard is someone who keeps things close to his chest. Most will know him to be good-natured, generous, and even comical. Wherever he goes, he makes friends. He knows practically everyone in the trade, and has grown up in it. Partly, because he became Robin at the age of twelve, having nearly the same amount of time under the cape as my father does. Over a decade in, he still has more experience than most of the heroes in the JLA, and is highly regarded and respected for it. Which I bring all that up to say, Richard is far better than anyone I’ve ever met at keeping his true thoughts to himself, but... Even he can’t keep everything from my father. The two may have a strained relationship, but it’s not because they don’t understand each other. It’s more of the opposite. 

“You see, Father has blindspots. He sees everything, but not always what’s most important. When it comes to family, it’s especially a problem. He’s renowned as a world-class detective. His power of deduction is practically his superpower. It’s what has made Batman into a hallowed name; it carries a powerful reputation that everyone in my world has heard of, but it also casts a shadow. All of Father’s children fall under it, and it both protects and endangers us.

“But with Richard, it’s very different. He was a ward before he was a son, and more than that, they were partners in their work, and at times, more like brothers. They were not so distant in age, and Richard had an entire life before coming to live with Father, with deep connections to the family he had lost. I don’t even think my father intended to see him as a son in the beginning. He just wanted to help a child whose life had been ruined, seeing a shared personal connection in being orphaned after witnessing the brutal deaths of their parents.

“That association is still there. Father may see Richard as his son now, and Richard may see him as a father, but they knew each other when Father was just starting out as Batman. They’ve seen each other at their lowest, have failed each other, broken promises, and lied about things. I’m sure they’ve even hated each other. Hard not to, sometimes. But even so, I can’t think of a person in the world who understands my father better, and vice versa.”

Damian looks out the car window, watching the landscape pass by. “If I were to guess, that’s why Richard prefers to stay away.”

“Because being known has its challenges.”

“So does not being known,” Damian murmurs, sinking in his seat with a sigh.

“You don’t think you’re known by them? Understood?”

Damian hesitates, but before he can think better of it, he admits, “If I weren’t connected to my father by blood, I don’t think he’d have kept me around.”

Natasha’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, but her face gives nothing away. “What makes you think that?”

“I don’t think they like me,” he whispers, embarrassed at the admission. “I’ve made it hard to. I was worse in the past, difficult to be around. Mean, and I hurt people. I don’t always tell the truth, either. I’ve lied about some pretty awful things, Natasha.”

“There’s not a child in the world who doesn’t fit that description,” Natasha says softly.

“Maybe in your world,” Damian retorts. “And it’s not like my father doesn’t love me. I know he does. I know that my family loves me. I know.”

It sounds like a plea to his own ears, an attempt to convince himself of that truth more than her.

“I like you,” Natasha says.

Damian can’t help the weird noise that escapes him, or the way his face gets uncomfortably hot. “You still have a honeyed tongue,” he mutters.

“It’s the truth,” she says firmly. “And while I’m far from being a voice of authority on the matter, I’m certain that your family likes you, too.”

“You haven’t met my family,” he states bitterly, hearing her words as a weak attempt at consoling him.

“I would love to meet them, if it were possible,” Natasha says, a bit too controlled in her tone. “But Damian, I’m saying only what I believe in. Have you known me to lie? Your family likes you, and they’re missing you, just as much as you’re missing them.”

“How are you so sure?”

“It’s you,” she says, as if that’s all the answer that’s necessary.

Damian only releases an unconvinced chuff.

“Ptichka, don’t fall into thought spirals like that,” she warns him, taking her eyes off the road to look at him. “You don’t have anything to prove, and you’re likeable as you are.”

“I think you just have weird standards,” he mutters, turning to lean his face against the car window.

“Tell me about your weekend,” she says instead of denying it, and while Damian could be stubborn and point that out, he chooses to skip to the part after, and only because he’s been wanting to talk about the past few days with her anyway.

Minutes later, however, Damian comes to regret being so eager as she mutters under breath, “Scott is losing his damn mind if he thinks you’re joining the X-Men.”

“Scott doesn’t want me on the team,” Damian points out, wondering how she had missed that in his explanation when she’s normally a much keener listener.

“Don’t be so sure about that. He’s an army brat, everyone looks like a soldier eventually, especially with a background like his and the type of battles he’s gearing up for.”

“He’s on the side of coexistence, Natasha,” he points out.

“Of course he is, but he’s also a realist. Scott knows that such a belief is going to come at a price. If not now, someday. And Xavier, whether he knew it or not at the time, set him on that path.” Natasha sighs, and in a much softer tone, adds, “It’s hard to say how far Scott is willing to go for his beliefs, but just from looking at him, I can tell you that he’s not the type to back down when shit hits the fan.”

“That’ll be for him to deal with,” Damian says after a moment to mull over her words. “I’m not exactly going to be around forever. Not like I can be much help once I’m back in my own universe.”

Natasha taps her finger against the steering wheel. “In your head, how long will you be here?”

Damian freezes.

“I've been waiting for Tony to tell it to you straight, but I get the feeling that he hasn’t.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know about your world, and frankly, I’m far from an expert in this one, but I can tell you right now that your time here, if on the same timeline of how long it takes to build a machine to get you home, isn’t going to be short.”

Damian grits his teeth.

“Vital years of your life, Damian. That’s on the lower end of the timeline.”

“You can’t say decades. Stark is an idiot, but he’s—.”

“Not decades, perhaps, but years here. Formative years, Ptichka. Potentially what’s left of your childhood.”

“I’m not an idiot,” he whispers.

“You aren’t,” she agrees.

“I don't know what else to do, though,” he says, trying not to be reactionary, forcing himself to be level-headed. “I don’t have any leads. I can’t even draw conclusions after what we talked about with Rogers. I don’t know who brought me here, or why, let alone how. What do I do?”

“I don’t have any more answers than you do, baby,” she says, surprising him at the sweeter nickname, but it doesn’t sound condescending out of her mouth. It sounds... nice.

It shouldn’t. Mother would be so betrayed.

“But you aren’t without options,” Natasha says firmly. “You have me in your corner.”

Damian doesn’t know where to begin on responding to that, baffled by her continued dedication to him. For what? It doesn’t make any sense.

“I have a surprise for you, by the way,” she says to his continued silence. Her tone is weird, and he hears her hesitation, something that is only strange because it’s coming from her. Natasha is more confident than most people he’s met in his life, but more unusually, she’s never given any reason to see it as arrogance.

“What kind of surprise?” Damian asks her, cautious.

“How are you with surprises? Do you like them?”

Damian contemplates his answer, and finally says, “Don’t tell me. I want to see what your idea of a surprise is for myself.”

“Hopefully you think it’s a nice one.”

He relaxes at those words, taking it as a confirmation that whatever it is, it’s at least well-intentioned.

.

.

“Meet your potential new sister, Ptichka,” Natasha says with a small smile, as she opens the door to his room.

On his bed is a cat. He blinks.

It’s actually a cat. He takes a hesitant step forward, and the cat seems to sense him, rousing from sleep to stretch out on the bed.

Damian glances between Natasha and the cat, feeling as if he’s stepped into a dream.

Natasha raises her brows, perplexed at his reaction.

Upon closer inspection, the cat is actually a kitten, and beautiful . She’s fairly large, despite being so young, and long, evidenced by her stretching. Damian immediately recognizes her as a Maine Coon, the upright ears and tufts of hair spiking at the tips. The face of the cat is regal, austere, yet her eyes still carry a youthful glint of mischief. 

After a moment of being stared at, the kitten sits up with her black-gray paws placed primly in front of her, looking just as interested in him as he is in her.

“Sister?” Damian echoes, still thrown by this turn of events.

“You can name her if you want,” Natasha murmurs, her gaze trained on Damian’s face. She’s trying to read him, he knows, gauge the meaning of his responses.

But even Damian is confused by the cluster of emotions her words and the kitten on his bed incite. He’s struck speechless, dumbfounded by this strange, unexpected gesture from Natasha. This surprise of hers.

Perhaps due to the ways that Titus and Alfred came into his care, gifts from his father and Pennyworth, he gets the oddest sense of deja vu, only the memory feels twisted with a sense of equal wrongness and rightness. It comes with an unnamed emotion that is monumental and overwhelming. Something that he doesn’t feel prepared for, that even terrifies him.

“You got her… For me?” Damian asks, emotions too high that his voice has become toneless, his face blank as he tries to process them.

“Depends. Do you want her?” Natasha asks cautiously. “She’s currently a foster, as I wanted to test the waters first. But we can adopt her.”

“I can’t take her with me,” Damian says, a plaintive note sneaking in. “When I go. I can’t take her from the world she belongs to. And I know— years, it might be years away, but I...”

Natasha sucks in a breath, but her voice is still controlled as she explains, “That’s why she could be ours. I’ll take care of her when you can’t. She’ll always have someone to look after her, I can promise you that.”

“Why did you get her?” Damian asks warily.

“I thought that an animal companion would help you feel more comfortable with us, while you’re still here.”

“Why though?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t understand it,” Damian whispers.

“If this is a lot for you, we don’t have to foster her,” Natasha says, concerned. “I’m sorry—I had a feeling that surprises might not be good—.”

“It’s not the surprise,” Damian quickly corrects, almost embarrassed at the notion, especially because Natasha had been willing to tell him on the car ride over. “It’s the…”

How does he even begin to explain it, when he doesn’t understand it himself? He should be nothing but thrilled—and he is thrilled, the kitten is a creature of beauty, and his mind is already searching for a name—.

“Any decisions don’t have to be made now,” Natasha murmurs, slowly reaching out to cup his cheek. He represses a flinch at the touch, and finds that there is such a strange dichotomy when feeling both ache and relief, aversion and willingness. Twisted inside by what feels natural and strange.

Damian is starkly afraid of getting used to it, of being comforted by her. Natasha’s methods aren’t familiar to him, not as brazen and yet soft as her affections are, and they feel bizarre and unnatural. Misplaced. But he doesn’t hate the feeling. He just knows the impermanence of it. That when he leaves this place, just like the cat, he won’t see Natasha again, either.

He sucks in a breath, stunned as it hits him.

His main concern has been getting home, it’s all he should care about. He hasn’t let his mind think about what he’ll be leaving here, but when he looks at the kitten, it’s all he sees. And then he’s reminded by Natasha’s words in the car, the fact that she’s right.

Damian might spend years in this place, but he won’t spend forever here.

Going home, means losing Natasha, and this shouldn’t mean anything to him at all. But it does. It does.

He imagines, for a moment, a life made simpler. A mother who listens and makes time for him, and a cat to call a sister, and uncles who care about him. 

It’s a front, a fabrication, a lie to others. Not a lie for himself to be distracted by or to begin to believe in.

And it’s missing things, missing people. Father isn’t in this simple life, neither his actual mother, or any of his brothers. Damian isn’t allowed these things, was not born for it, or any of what the Avengers have to give him.

What they part with so easily, their time and resources, he can never give anything back in return. Can only take, take, and then leave it all behind. But they don’t even seem to think twice. In their eyes, he is somehow worthy of it.

He wants to be angry about it, but by now he knows the futility of it. These people have not even chipped at his armor, so much as slipped underneath it, and he is soft now, and ready to bleed, belly up for them.

“I don’t know what name she should have,” Damian murmurs.

“Names take time. There’s no rush.”

“I know,” he mumbles. “It took me weeks to name Titus. Father brought him home one day—we had been fighting at the time.” 

Natasha doesn’t respond. She always seems to sense when Damian has more to say but is forming the words still.

“It sounds like we fight a lot,” he says, not sure how to read her expression. He just doesn’t want her to misunderstand, with how much complaining he’s done around her. “It’s not all the time, it’s just... It took a long time to adapt to each other, and there are admittedly still times where we don’t see eye to eye.”

“It happens in most families,” she says to him, relieving him. “Go on, Ptichka.”

Damian steadies himself with a breath, and drops his gaze. “I don’t know what prompted him to do so, but in the beginning, I hated the dog. Not Titus himself, but the way Father gave him to me. It felt conciliatory, presented as a gift, but meant to teach a lesson. That’s what everything he gave to me felt like. In those days, I was attempting to fight against the expectation that I was... feral. Coming to the manor was like entering into a different world entirely, where every single thing I ever knew to be true needed to be reexamined. 

“When I met my father for the first time, it was him who I found lacking, but the longer I stayed, the more I came to realize that the opposite was true. Everything I had been raised to be was full of flaws, and though I had come to the home to learn from my father, it felt as if before I could even begin to learn anything, I needed to divest myself of anything remotely connected to my past. My mother, and grandfather, as well as everyone I had ever known. To be considered acceptable, it felt as if I needed to be a blank slate.

“When he gave me Titus, it felt like a burden. A test of my humanity, where if I failed, it meant I would be entirely without hope of redemption. That I was a few wrong steps away from no longer being seen as a son, but as an inevitable Arkham Asylum patient. I was angry at him, at everyone, but the dog wasn’t at fault for anything, and he followed me, even when I tried to push him away. He reminded me of Goliath, who seemed not to care how bloody my hands became, even if the blood was of his own family.

“And I knew, Father brought this dog into a life where he would bear witness to a great number of tragedies, for all the blood he would see spilled. I named him after Shakespeare's Titus Adronicus, you know. Back then, because of the violence Titus was sure to see, but now it feels like a sort of mocking foreshadowing.”

“Foreshadowing?”

“Titus’s inability to see beyond Roman tradition, beyond duty and loyalty to his family, led to the destruction of everything he loved or fought for. Because it’s impossible to have both. I can’t be loyal to my family, as they are as diametrically divided as one can be, and I can’t adhere to the traditions I have grown up with, or believe in what the al Ghuls regard as honor, because all of it goes against the core beliefs of my father. Against the things I believe in, or I guess, what I want to believe in.”

“Which is?”

“That there has to be some meaning to all of this,” Damian admits with a shuddering breath. “That none of this will be pointless.”

“What will give it meaning?”

“I... I think I know the answer.”

“But you hesitate.”

“I don’t know if I... If I’m worthy.”

“You are.”

“You don’t even know—.”

“I know, Damian, and you’re worthy. I told you. There’s nothing for you to prove.”

He laughs, but it’s somehow watery, despite the fact that his eyes are dry still. “What do you think is the answer?”

Natasha swallows, blinking her eyes and then she reaches for him, tugging him into her arms and squeezing him. “This. Connection. Family.”

Damian presses his face against her warmth and breathes in her scent, grounded by her yet again. He thinks, in a scenario where she doesn’t exist, he would already have lost his mind to the spiral of his emotions.

If there’s anything that he’s learned so far in this world, it’s this: he is not immutable, and he is not invulnerable.

But he’s also not on his own.

With a weak smile forming on his face, Damian pulls back just long enough to say, “Her name is Nadezhda.”

“Oh? Very fitting,” Natasha says, her eyes crinkling from her grin, her hand gently cupping the back of his head.

“For the hope you have given me,” he mumbles shyly, barely above a whisper.

“Now who has a honeyed tongue?" Natasha jokes, wrapping him into a tighter hug.

Still you, he thinks, but doesn’t say. After all, there’ll be plenty of time to remind her of that later.

Chapter Text

Damian wakes up gasping, head spinning.

His hands fly to his chest, dragging them over his stomach, searching for what he can still feel the hollow impression of. He knows it’s a dream—he just woke up, it’s a dream. A conjured feeling. Not real.

There’s a soft meow coming from the foot of his bed.

“Alfred?” Damian calls before he can catch himself, and when he does, when the weeks he’s been in this universe catch up to him in a single second, in the dark of night, where he just dreamt of being stabbed to death, Damian can only release a shuddering breath.

There’s more relief than dread this time.

“Nadezhda,” Damian corrects, reaching towards the curious kitten to scoop her into his arms. “Did I wake you? Hm?”

He peers into her eyes, his sight adjusting to the lack of light, and though it’s still hard to make out, he can sense her alertness.

It mirrors his, and he looks over at the bedside clock to see the time. His sigh fills the air. 

Two hours. Well, he has things he needs to be working on anyways. He will find time to nap later. Damian rises out of bed and quickly sees to taking care of Nadezhda’s needs before seeing to his.

By now, it’s routine; two weeks since her adoption, and the two have been inseparable. Natasha was right. He hadn’t realized how much, but he really needed her, animal companionship providing a sense of tranquillity and connection that he had been missing. It’s easier to bounce back from the nightmares, easier to get out of bed.

Taking care of her is a way to worry about something other than his own problems.

After brushing his teeth, Damian stares into the mirror, ignoring his visible exhaustion. He focuses on his eyes, the shade of pale green he shares with his mother. He pictures the darker, almost hazel green of Natasha’s. He looks at his sharp, angular brows and sees pieces of Father in his expression, the way his jaw is set.

He curls his mouth, smiling, then grimaces immediately, shaking his head. Father doesn’t smile with his teeth, not like Richard does. He tries again, using his fingers to guide the sides of his mouth into the slightly crooked slant that often marks Father’s approval.

But he just can’t seem to get it right, his attempted recreation a poor imitation. Not unlike most of his attempts to be like Father.

Ironically, Pennyworth has told him once that he could have been his father’s twin, even with his darker complexion and different eye color. Damian has a hard time believing it, yet it’s what so many people say, including his mother. That the apple doesn’t fall short from the tree.

But he doesn’t know why he’s thinking of that right now, if it’s somehow better than lingering on the nightmares.

The sword felt so real… Damian quickly pulls his hand away from his chest. The scenes leading up to being impaled are vague, and confusing. Nonsensical details that feel utterly bizarre, unthinkable.

So it is not worth thinking about. 

He scrunches his face, fiercely scowling.

“I am Damian Wayne,” he says to the mirror sternly. “Son of Batman. Son of Talia al Ghul. My family is looking for me. I will return home, and…”

Damian pauses, but only just barely, as this daily mantra gets easier to repeat with time.

“I will destroy Natasha’s fears before I leave.”

.

.

Collins has a new roommate and she is annoying.

“She blows my pheromones away!” Collins says to Damian on their way to the library together, the first he’s hearing of the change. “Her mutation is wind manipulation! She’s also really nice, and kind...”

“Those are synonyms, Collins.”

“Well, I extra mean it, then. I’m doubling down, Damian,” Collins says, uncowed by his dry retort or even the disgust he looks at her with.

After a month of spending a bit of every weekend together, Collins has quickly adjusted to Damian, and doesn’t easily take offense to his blunt or sarcastic responses. It’s been a while since he’s even managed to intimidate her, even by a little.

Damian finds this aspect about her to be strange, but he also thinks a lot of his time amongst the mutants to be weird. 

It’s like stepping into a world where he isn’t all that different, because everyone in attendance has quirks about them that set them apart. Damian doesn’t turn heads, and with the exception of Keller and his cohort, he isn’t on any of the children’s radars to approach. It’s an inexplicable feeling to fade into the background, be so uninteresting that he and the school ‘wallflower’ are undisturbed.

It’s gotten to the point that, rather than stick to Scott the entire time he’s at the school, he spends a few hours in the evening with Collins in the recreation room, where he pulls out the laptop that Stark let him have and they watch movies and anime, discussing them and drafting a watch list for the next weekend.

A couple months ago, if anyone told him he’d be doing this willingly, he’d have scoffed and wrote them a ticket to the Arkham Asylum. A couple years ago, he would have killed them.

The thing is, peculiar as it all is, it’s not bad.

Damian might even like it, because for once he’s spending time with a person who knows nothing of his past, nothing of what he is capable of, and yet, rather than feel as if it’s a farce, he feels as if he’s peering into a world he only ever thought existed out of his reach. It’s a novel thing, one he knows eventually won’t last.

Still, he can’t yet call Collins a friend, and—he would actually kill anyone who learned of this—Damian doesn’t know what would make her a friend, but he’d like to find out how. Experimentally, of course.

Too often, back home, he’s been criticized for his inability to form attachments to those his own age, and although Collins is closer in age to being fourteen than to twelve, the gap is minimal enough that she should still count. In time, he might even come to understand the appeal that children have in forming relationships, and sure, he’s not really a child...

But Damian isn’t as aloof as he pretends to be. He’s done a fair bit of observation of the students in attendance at Gotham Academy, and he has turned his nose up to many of them, remaining cold to the overtures of children just trying to get ahead by befriending a Wayne. From afar, he’s mapped out the rudimentary ties, who is at odds, who is close. He’s watched the children play sports, laugh, bicker or chatter in the halls, and he would, in those moments, feel like there is such a deep, impassible divide between himself and his agemates. 

His self-imposed ostracization maintains a life unimpeded by others, where his school work takes precedence, where things make sense. It has not prepared him for a world where nothing makes sense.

Like this one, that is so utterly different.

He thinks back to months ago, the only time where such norms were called into question, and of a particular child, who he can’t help but linger on thoughts of, especially as Collins opens up, sharing worldviews that feel like an echo of his. They even somewhat share a name.

Colin Wilkes is an orphaned boy who he first met when solving a case of missing and dead children. He likes to think that they’re friends, after everything they’ve gone through together, but there’s still a voice of caution telling him to question how valid that is. Damian has never had friends before, the semantics are lost on him. It’s already been some time since he’s seen the redhead, and now with this potentially years-long stay within this universe, he might as well never see him again.

The thought that Wilkes might just be a memory to him going forward is enough to turn his stomach. Wilkes is a boy with a delusional and foolhardy degree of optimism; he’s been through a tremendous amount of toil and grief in his short life, and yet he’s so different from Damian, who chooses to be callous, unaffected. Wilkes is kind.

Collins is as well. They aren’t all that similar, coming from drastically different lives, but the two are the closest that he’s ever gotten to understanding the concept of friendship. He thinks it’s because of what they do have in common: their weird, easy acceptance of defects in others. A lack of judgement of the flaws in the people around them.

It’s a trait that appeals to Damian, but not in a way that’s easy to explain. He loathes it just as much as he sees the value in it, perhaps even envies it. No, that’s quite it either.

It makes him feel like a sinner, acutely aware of his flaws, yet the lack of bite, the lack of criticism makes it…

Damian shakes his head; he is overthinking these things. He hasn’t been able to shut his brain off, and he knows he has an active mind, but without having cases to solve to act as a distraction, it’s been disastrous for reigning in his wandering thoughts.

Natasha keeps reminding him not to spiral, but it’s difficult not to. This universe he’s come to feels quiet, somehow, making his inner world so much louder. He thinks it’s to blame for how sentimental he has been lately, how much he’s been divulging to the people around him.

He’s talked so much in the past few weeks that he’s getting tired of hearing his own voice; which is frankly why he hangs out with Collins. She can maintain a conversation on her own once she gets started, and as long as he’s listening, she’s satisfied.

It’s peaceful.

It also helps that everyone steers clear of them. The school’s inhabitants are strange around Collins to begin with, and the children mostly avoid her, either spooked by her mutation, or finding her gloomy atmosphere offputting. It doesn’t appear to be out of anything malicious, but the girl is certainly ostracised by her peers, volitionally in the beginning, but now reciprocated. 

Two girls in particular have, at times, glared at Collins, who are the ex-roommates, from what he’s gathered.

The new roommate in question, the nice and kind girl, joined the school earlier in the week, brought in by an alumni of Xavier’s, Danielle Moonstar. The circumstances of the girl’s arrival, as they often are with mutants, is fraught with rejection from society at large.

“It was on the news, didn’t you see? She set off a hurricane in one of her dad’s grocery stores. No one got hurt, but they still arrested her,” Collins informs him after her meditation lesson, bringing the conversation back to where he’d told her to let it go.

“And now she’s here,” Damian surmises. “Did they sentence her to the school?” He asks it sarcastically, but Collins doesn’t appear to pick up on it.

“Oh, no. Dani Moonstar heard about it, went to get her, and brought her here.”

“And the girl just went along with it?” Damian asks skeptically.

“Well, yeah. Sure beats prison.”

“Depends on the prison,” he says dryly. There’s plenty of prisons that would be a cakewalk to escape from.

“I guess. Anyways, a few days into her being here, they paired us up. I was so nervous, it took so much out of me just to talk to her in the beginning. I was so worried I would screw up. I kept meditating, trying to stay as calm as possible, but then—Well, Sofia is kind of like a, well, a whirlwind—.”

“Nice, kind, whirlwind. Your descriptions are thrilling,” he dryly comments, only half-paying attention.

“Exactly. Glad you’re listening,” Collins says with a snicker. “Anyways, back to what I was saying. She’s not really someone who’s easy to wallow around, and I did try to. But she kept talking to me, and when I got worried about my pheromones, that it might be making her interested in me, well, she lifted her hand, and then she just blew them away.”

“Congratulations,” Damian murmurs, for lack of anything else to say when she looks at him for his reaction.

Her brows shoot up. “For what?”

“You may now enjoy your freedom once more, and experience socialization in a school setting without fear that you’ll manipulate the people around you. Of course, just so long as that girl is around.”

“I guess so.” She doesn’t look too certain about the claim. “I suppose it’s nice when she’s around and I don’t have to worry as much, but I think meditation works much better. I feel like it’s in my control. And besides,” she adds, gaze downcast, “I don’t want to be a burden to her that she has to take care of. I want to... actually enjoy having a roommate, not a handler. There’s a big difference.”

Damian glances at her, then away from her, vaguely wondering how she views him, but then decides that it ultimately doesn’t matter.

Instead, he asks with a disgusted curl to his lips, “Is there even anything enjoyable about having a roommate?”

When she asked why he stayed with Scott, he made his opinions on the matter very clear. Scott is a compromise, and it makes the most sense. Why should he take up with a roommate when he’s only present two days out of the week? Admittedly, that logic hasn’t stopped him from talking to Stark about opening his heart—and wallet—to the mutant-children’s educational and housing needs.

It remains to be seen if Stark is at all moved by his suggestion.

“I mean, I think Sofia is a great roomie already,” Collins says cheerfully.

“Good for you,” Damian says, mildly put off. Mundane conversations like these are far from his expertise, and he usually avoids them. Yet he vaguely doesn’t feel the need to extract himself from them when it comes to Collins, nor is he as sharp in his responses.

She’s kind of defenseless, after all. It would just be bullying, and not even the entertaining kind.

It almost makes him long for the times he’s been kidnapped, held at gunpoint, tied up and caged, either by an enemy of Batman’s, Slade Wilson, or some other League member sent by Grandfather. He could outsmart them, kick their asses, and talk shit to their faces.

It’s been a while since he’s had any of that type of fun.

“Aha!”

Damian tenses immediately, angling his head to look at the new voice.

“Sofia!” Collins greets her like a dog wagging its tail.

Speak of the devil.

The intruder is a slightly older lanky looking girl with long brown hair and brown eyes, and the closer she gets, the more she seems to tower over him and Collins, eversomuch. The wind seems to whip around her, her hair and clothing ruffled, yet somehow not unkempt.

“So, is this him?” Sofia asks Collins, her words accented, tone eager, matching Collins’ energy.

Damian raises a brow, gaze flickering between them.

“Damian Romanov,” Collins says, like she’s presenting him. “And this is Sofia Mantega.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mantega says amicably.

Damian hums, assessing her from top to bottom, trying to see what sort of weaknesses she has at a glance. 

Obviously she’s a mere civilian, with no edge to find in her stance or expression, but her wind is a power that he can’t help but feel wary of. He’s seen enough video evidence of Red Tornado’s abilities, and the destructive force of them, to know that aerokinesis isn’t a power to dismiss as a threat. Maybe especially so, because the one wielding it is a teenage girl—one who has already destroyed a supermarket.

“Don’t mind him too much,” Collins says. “He’s usually a grump.”

Mantega narrows her eyes briefly, then seems to brighten, asking him, “You don’t have to answer, but what’s your mutation? No one seems to know, and even Laurie seems confused.”

Damian raises a brow. Her accent, he’s placed it. Her enunciations, the dropping of the ‘s’ in her words, and the general smooth quality, and rhythm... He can’t be certain without hearing her speak in Spanish, but his guess is that she’s either Venezuelan or Colombian.

“The way everyone is talking,” Mantega continues, “they all think you’re some sort of shadow to Mr. Summers. You’re the only weekender, too, and no one’s really seen what you can do, you know? So, what is it?”

Most likely Venezuelan; she speaks quickly in a way that sounds far more Coastal than Andean. 

When she looks at him expectantly, he sighs. “It’s none of your concern,” Damian says firmly.

“Is it sensitive?” Mantega asks, her expression sympathetic. “Laurie was weird about hers, too.”

“I have good reasons to be!” Collins cries.

“Don’t worry. I understand it,” Mantega murmurs. “But I was told to deny the existence of my abilities by my father, and in the American school my father placed me in, when they discovered what I am, they thought to make me feel ashamed. If it weren’t for my mother, my uncles and cousins, those that embraced me, despite everything...”

She trails off, then visibly shakes herself, dark expression turning bright. “It’s because of my mother that I can accept myself, but I know that not everyone can feel that way. Still, I hope that someday the two of you can come to feel differently, because I can tell you that there’s no feeling better than feeling free from the judgment of others.”

Eugh. Damian hates idealists. Especially those that try to push it off on others.

“Maybe someday,” Collins says softly, blue eyes vulnerable.

Some are easier to fool than others, and Damian is not a fool.

Mantega smiles at Collins. “I did come to get you for lunch, by the way.”

“Oh, it is that time, isn’t it. Damian, are you eating with us?” Collins asks.

Very annoying. Normally, after their meditation lesson, they’d go to the cantine together and head to the common room to eat away from the others. That’s been true for every weekend for the past month.

He doesn’t understand how he’s being asked, as if it’s a given that the two girls will eat together, and perhaps he should have predicted this. Girls tend to stick together. Brown, Cain, and Gordon are all in cahoots, and have been for so long. It should have been obvious.

Damian does not want to eat with this new addition.

It must show on his face, because Collins says, “We’ll eat dinner together later, okay? And watch Wolf Children.”

“Just the two of us,” he tells her.

Collins nods, relaxing.

Mantega gets a weird look on her face that Damian doesn’t want to put time into figuring out. He nods to the two of them, and then quickly stalks off to see what Scott is up to, ignoring the eruption of whispers from the girls.

He’s quick to discover Jean Grey hanging off of Scott’s arm, the both of them giggling together like vapid idiots.

Tt. That woman is a scourge, and Scott refuses to believe him.

Rapidly, Damian changes course and heads to the Danger Room instead, willing to kick out anyone who’s taking up space in it.

Which someone very much is, a tall, rugged man with brown hair, and eyes with black sclera and red irises. Gambit. He met this man a few weeks ago, and hated him then. His pungent alacrity and cocky attitude had exuded off of him in waves, the likes of Booster Gold and Guy Gardner. Any man who talks in the third person is bound to be lumped in with idiots like those, even if it is just first impressions.

When Gambit’s gaze lands on Damian, he’s quick to grin and wave, as if seeing an old friend, the type of overt friendliness that Damian hates the most.

“You’re Scott’s kid, ain’t you?”

Damian decides then and there that he needs to limit how much time he’s spending with the leader of the X-Men. At this rate, these people are going to start believing they’re actually related. He already has one fake parental tie, he really doesn’t need another.

“Gambit,” Damian states, tone clipped, gauging the man’s expressions.

“The one and only,” he says proudly. “Here to train? Gambit wouldn’t mind a sparring partner, if you’re interested. Have heard you’re quite the fighter from Logan.”

Damian wages a war within himself for only a second before an idea sparks and he thinks, why not? He nods his assent, and eagerly prepares to punch this man in the face.

.

.

“I would like to commence patrolling,” Damian announces to the dinner table where the Avengers have gathered. He hasn’t yet sat down, a stack of folders in hand that he begins to hand out to the team.

“Didn’t this get dropped, why is it being brought up again?” Barton asks, looking spooked.

“Nothing was dropped. I was merely taking my time to prepare,” Damian says, placing a folder by Barton’s plate with emphasis. “In this packet, I have outlined the identities and histories of many of the gangs responsible for the high rates of crime in various points of the city. I have a schedule on the last page, one I wish to adhere to, where I will patrol the various neighborhoods highlighted—.”

“What the f-udge,” Barton cries, flipping through the pages. “Kid, you’re not trying to take on the fu-fudging mob—.”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, it sure looks like you’re trying to take on the fucking mob.”

“Swear jar,” Stark chimes in while Barton cuts him a dark look.

“I assure you of the fact that I have years of experience—.”

“You’re twelve!”

“I’m not new to this, Barton. I’m well versed in gang warfare. It’s honestly kind of laughable how pedestrian these gangs behave compared to Gotham’s. No one’s yet to affect the city populace with an assortment of gasses to incite fear and laughter, and even the mafia moves in a way that is utterly predictable.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better about this, because it doesn’t.”

Damian scoffs. “Your opinion on the matter is not my concern. I took a step back from patrolling due to the many unknowns I could potentially face, and the unnecessary risks I would be taking on. But through research, I’ve mitigated many of them. It will be much more conducive towards my work here being successful.”

“You can’t completely eliminate unknowns—.”

“I never claimed to. Unfortunately, the tactics I will have to use are rudimentary and dated compared to the level of equipment and conditions I’m used to working with. But as my father did when he was starting out as Batman, I shall prevail in the face of adversity and forge my own path in providing justice.”

Natasha and Stark share a glance, but Natasha doesn’t say a word, her expression thoughtful as she takes the packet and starts flipping through it. The slightest quirk of her brow is the only giveaway that she isn’t as aloof as she’s playing it.

After spending so much time with her, it’s become easier to read her, but there are times where he isn’t sure. She has a formidable poker face.

“You don’t go anywhere near Wilson Fisk,” Stark says as he seems to find the page where the crime lord is mentioned, his tone a bit colder than Damian is used to.

It’s hard not to feel challenged by it, almost offended.

“I did my research,” Damian murmurs. “I also know that Kingpin can’t be dealt with personally, at least not yet. He has too many layers of protection. I had difficulties even hacking into his private network and databases.”

“Why are you hacking Wilson Fisk?” Barton asks, shock evident.

Damian rolls his eyes. “He’s a person of interest. Of course I’m going to attempt it. But don’t worry, I wasn’t detected. I played it safe.”

“You played it safe,” Barton and Stark both echo in the same sarcastic tone.

“You’re matching Daredevil’s route in some places,” Natasha says suddenly, stopping any argument short, her eyes roving over the pages before meeting Damian’s gaze. “Why?”

He’s curious how she knew that, why she’s familiar with the route of a vigilante who sticks primarily to Hell’s Kitchen.

“I plan to make contact,” Damian says honestly. “If he is competent, I believe having an ally who regularly patrols will be critical.”

“It’s not just him, is it?” Natasha asks, already knowing the answer.

“There are others that have a similar operation. Of course, I plan to thoroughly assess them before making contact. I’m not careless.”

“I know you aren’t,” she agrees, but still doesn’t appear thrilled.

“Wait, let me make sure I’m understanding this,” Stark cuts in, looking between Damian and Natasha. “Spitfire is going to head out onto the streets past his bedtime, meet up with a man in a red suit and devil horns, and what, we’re allowing this?”

The eyes in the room go to Natasha, who sits back in her chair, crossing her arms and placing a leg over her knee. She deliberates only for a moment before she nods. “Yes. But allowing is not the word. Damian has agency over what he does with his life, and he has done the work to prove he’s thought about all of this.”

“He’s twelve, ‘Tasha.”

“He is. But he’s intelligent, powerful, and tactical. Not to mention, he isn’t alone . I made a promise, and I’m keeping it.”

“Thank you, Natasha,” Damian says, peeved by the almost cyclical direction this conversation had gone in. If he has to be reminded of his age one more time, he might actually start stabbing people.

Barton in particular is looking like a perfect target.

“So, tonight?”

“Tonight.”

.

.

New York City is smaller than Gotham. There’s about a two million difference in the population, but Gotham has more land to compensate, what with the various islands lining the coast. 

Like Metropolis back home, NYC is verifiably the wealthiest city in the world, but it’s not exactly a thing to boast about, not when there are so many pockets of extreme poverty impacting the civilians. The distribution of the wealth, when Damian dug into the stats, started to make his head dizzy, and he’s the son of a billionaire and grandson of a global supervillain.

It’s the hub of capitalism, and when Damian looks out into the sea of advertisements at every corner, from mundane papers, to neon signs, or mega screens in Times Square, it’s hard to escape the ever present consumerism impacting the populace like a mind disease. Well, it’s not like there aren’t parts where that’s true for Gotham, but they’re certainly more overt in the messaging.

The difference is more so in the aesthetics, the visuals of high rising buildings that more than double, maybe triple the amount of skyscrapers back home. There isn’t the same degree of faithfulness to the old roots, either, everything modernized by the cold exterior of glass, reinforced concrete, and steel.

He has not seen a single gargoyle, though Natasha insists there are some places that have them as decoration. She also informs him that the scenery changes depending on the neighborhood, that there’s a lot of diversity in this city, and she cautions him not to assume things so quickly. Not to write anything off.

But Damian can’t help comparing his surroundings to Gotham, and feeling overwhelmed by a rush of longing. 

It’s worse because he’s Robin right now, fully equipped and feeling supercharged by the shadows that are cast all around him. He can sense the city like this, tap into a strange other, and though he doesn’t dare even prod at the sense, the city feels cold and alien to him.

As he gets to know his surroundings, and Natasha tags along with him, it’s hard not to feel out of place in everything. Like he’s... what is that tradition that other kids do annually? The holiday that Gothamites don’t dare to do anymore, but that everyone else in the country doesn’t shut up about... Putting on costumes and going door to door asking strangers for candy—he feels like he has a costume on. That this is theater, and he is performing a mimicry.

There’s something awkward and frivolous about the routes he’s had to take with Natasha in tow. She claims to know how to use a grappling hook, but without visually confirming it and training her in acrobatics, he doesn’t dare take the skyway. So they drive for chunks of it, and her ride is nowhere near as tricked out as the batmobile, and when Damian comes across buildings that look like decent watchpoints, they climb up buildings, and leap over alleys, keeping a watch out for any sign of crime.

Yet it’s an hour in, and they haven’t even really come across any crime to stop. They haven’t caught wind of anything outwardly malicious, seen anything worthy of note. The people are hard to read, admittedly, congregating or stalwartly independent, with varying differences in looks and attitudes. It makes the city loud in a way that Gotham simply isn’t.

It only further makes him feel out of place.

Damian’s face gets increasingly hotter. It reminds him of the times when he would attempt to show his mother his newest skills and happen to fail under her inspection. Then, he would have to either face her light scoldings or her gentle assurances. Either way, embarrassing.

He feels Natasha’s stare at his back, but he doesn’t quite look too long at her, trying to focus more on the patrols than on his embarrassment. All of this would be so much easier back in Gotham...

“Clint would get a kick out of this,” Natasha tells him, her tone airy, after the two have leapt across a building to get to another. “He likes things like this.”

Damian hums, disinterested, more focused on using binoculars to peer over the alleyways and streets. It’s off putting and archaic to do things this way, but the circumstances are what they are. He doesn’t have Oracle in his ear letting him know what any of the crooks are up to, nor does he have the image surveillance of Agent A to rely on. All he has is the data he’s collected, and the power of prediction.

Well, he also has a radio and police scanner that he was able to rewire his comms into picking up, but it’s a method that’s sorely lacking, as it hasn’t given him anything worth making his way towards. The thing is, first responders do their best in relaying pertinent information, but it relies so much on the phone calls that the civilians make, people who don’t often know how to deliver critical details in the wake of high emotion. 

In his world, even when on the outs with his father, he always had some sort of access to tech that would provide him the tools necessary for his goals. He can’t help but long for them now. Here, it’s like scrounging around for tools at the bottom of the tool box. 

It’s uncomfortable. 

Damian, weirdly, is reminded of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. But he shuts that line of thinking down fast. It’s a story Richard told him once to make fun of how picky he is, and ever since he’s had a particular distaste for it. While Richard would say it teasingly, Damian has come to understand that it means he’s spoiled, a term he has become thoroughly familiar with from the conversations he’s heard about himself or read in the papers.

And maybe he is spoiled. He’s certainly feeling like he should have been more grateful for the resources he has taken for granted...

“Perhaps we can invite Clint next time,” Natasha says to the unintended silence he left her with, and Damian grimaces.

“And be lectured the whole time? No thanks. I got enough of that from my father to last a lifetime,” he mutters.

“We can just kick him off the roof if he does. But, did you know? Clint’s a circus kid. He’d be all over learning the grappling hook swings.”

Damian pauses, surprised. “Barton’s a circus kid?”

Natasha smiles, pleased by this reaction, and Damian quickly schools his features into a scowl.

“He joined a traveling circus at a young age, doing knife throwing and archery. Eventually got so good, he caught the attention of several people, and long story short, S.H.I.E.L.D picked him up.”

“You skipped through quite a bit of that story,” he notes.

Natasha shrugs. “Not my story to tell. But I bet if you gave him a chance, he’d tell you.”

“I don’t really care about that Green Arrow wannabe,” he mutters, but doesn’t really mean it. Barton is exhausting to be around, but he’s not the worst. Although, if Natasha intended to act as a bridge between the two of them, she’s being very obvious about it. 

Damian doesn’t even really fault her for her intentions. The two are good friends, after all.

Well, he is annoyed, but he’s trying not to be, and maybe he’s more annoyed by that than anything else. Since when did he care? But even the answer to that seems obvious.

“I think the two of you could enjoy patrolling together if both of you put the swords away,” Natasha remarks.

Tt.

He injects cold into his voice as he sharply tells her, “He’s an asshole with way too much time on his hands. He has a weird morality complex, and he might as well be deaf for all he seems to listen to me...”

Natasha comes to stand beside him, the two of them gazing out at the city streets, and he can sense she’s forming a defense for the archer. She seems to be deliberating on something, and when he glances at her, it’s indecision wrinkling her brows.

His optimism for this night, if any of it was still left, decidedly evaporates. All of his assumptions about patrolling with Natasha have turned out to be wrong, and he’s beginning to realize how naive he’s been.

Why had he been so confident in the otherwise?

“You know, when he gets onto you about your age, it’s not entirely about you,” she begins, earning a doubtful glance. “He feels strongly about the protection of children, and has boundaries he’s unwilling to cross. It’s because he’s actively invested in your life that makes it difficult for him to accept, regardless of your skill and background. 

“Let’s put it this way: if he lets you go and you get hurt, he’ll feel as if that’s on him. His responsibility. Tony won’t say as much, but he’s cut from the same cloth.”

Damian rolls his eyes.

“The difference is, for Tony, he’s not used to having to care— but it’s the opposite for Clint; he always cares. He has a bleeding heart, and not because of any moral superiority. It's more to do with the fact that he’s been hurt, too. He has a greater sense of empathy than most, and it decides a lot of things for him.”

“It sounds self-centered to me,” Damian mutters, then shakes his head. “It’s just strange to me. Even my own family isn’t as stubborn about my activities independent of them.”

Actually, Damian is certain that his family notices his absences. It’s even expected of him. They know when he’s flown the coop, they have to, with how paranoid they are. Even if they don’t, whatever the case, they also don’t usually intervene, with rare exceptions. Agent A will sometimes even abet his escapes. 

Mostly, Damian takes it as a form of confidence in his abilities. Objectively, he has the skills to keep himself safe, to survive. Father has confidence in that, and even if he, at times, worries that Damian might slip back into old ways, it doesn’t keep his father from being fairly relaxed about his comings and goings. It’s all faith, and tenuous trust, something that he never thought he’d be grateful for until having to hear Barton and Stark worry like mother hens over his safety.

“They probably think my family aren’t good people,” Damian murmurs, and then admits, “That’s the most annoying part. It’s an oversimplification of a complex situation, and I don’t understand their need to adhere to the social principle of disallowing me from things due to my age. It doesn’t allow for any leeway, and it’s like they’re looking down on me because I don’t fit into their expectations of a normal child. I hate that feeling…”

“I think those two don’t always know how their attitudes translate,” she murmurs, with some mild exasperation. “But I don’t think that’s how they want to make you feel. If anything, they’ve been made to feel the same way by the people in their lives.”

Yeah, sure. Boo-hoo.

“I’ve been excessively tolerant of them,” Damian murmurs, clicking his tongue. “In the past, for similar transgressions, I would have maimed them.”

“Well, it sounds like you’re making better choices now,” Natasha murmurs with mild sarcasm.

Damian glares at her, but huffs a sigh, bringing the binoculars back to his face. 

He doesn’t quite know if his choices are better now than then, only that they are very different. That he has become different. It remains to be seen whether he is better or worse for it.

Damian can’t help but wonder at what his life could be like if he had earnestly gone back to the League, rejecting the cape and the burden of finding value to all life. Of preserving justice, but not at a cost that is too steep. To feel as if there are prices too heavy, and to know when to stop. To know why, and to believe even when it is difficult.

The line he walks on is a tightrope, but no matter how thin it gets, he can’t let himself fall. He is always a mere step away from losing everything.

Only—.

“Sometimes it feels like I’m… letting myself be disrespected.”

“That you’re being taken advantage of.”

Damian lowers the binoculars to read her expression, his mouth a grim line.

“I’m my own person,” Damian tells her firmly. “I just want my decisions to be respected, because I’m not an idiot. I am so much more than how many days I’ve been alive.”

“I don’t think either of them think you are an idiot. I think it’s more to do with trust—.”

“I don’t know how to earn their trust!” Damian tells her sharply. “Everything else has just been handed to me, money, time, affection, but not their trust. I don’t know what I should do to earn it, or if I should even bother at all.”

At a certain point, he doesn’t see why he should want it, but he does. He wants to be their equal, to have their acknowledgement. To not be perceived as a detraction, but as an addition to the team. To be an Avenger, and not just honorarily.

He wonders if Natasha sees this, if she knows.

“You do what you did at the start of all of this,” Natasha murmurs quietly. “You ask for their help.”

Damian eyes her skeptically.

“Think from their perspective,” she tells him. “They’re wanting yours as well, Ptichka, your reliance on them. Trust is born out of many things, but always collaboratively. Out of the connections we foster, and the troubles we survive together.”

“I suppose,” he lamely murmurs, doubtful, pulling the binoculars up once more. He doesn’t want to speak of this anymore, so he opts for another direction, asking, “Eventually, do you think I can patrol on my own?”

“Ah, am I cramping your style?” Natasha says lightly, and a part of Damian relaxes, that she doesn’t immediately take offense.

He smiles, but doesn’t look at her, catching some movement from below, a man with twitchy eyes, and stuttered footsteps.

“Father will sometimes claim to work best alone,” he murmurs. “He’s a liar.”

“And you?”

“I prefer to be alone,” he says. “But not always. It depends on the company.”

“Oh, yeah? There a criteria for that?”

“Yup. Mostly, on if they can keep up,” he tells her, his smile growing into a grin as he steps off the roof, freefalling.

He shoots his hook on instinct, and for a wonderful moment, he’s flying, swinging in the air, wind whistling through his hair, his cape fluttering behind him—he is Robin, he has purpose, and he’s about to stop a carjacking.

.

.

Turns out, there is still crime in New York City, and in no particular order, he and Natasha find themselves stopping several attempted robberies and physical assaults, turning the perps over to the authorities when able, or letting them off with a warning in some cases. In the process, they end up finding leads on a drug ring that he’s already caught wind of in his initial investigations, and while Damian would normally dig deeper, he decides to follow the trail intermittently, in favor of easing Natasha into vigilantism.

With time, it gets easier having her tag along, the spy proving to be much more creative and competent than he had given her credit for. He knows now not to doubt her abilities; she’s not only a fighter, she’s a remarkable tactician, something that is much harder to come across. More than anything, her physical capabilities and experience, it’s her intelligence that makes her Widow’s bite so deadly.

Proving, once again, that she is the best of the Avengers.

Over the following week, they take to the streets at night, and with each passing night, he comes to really like having this time with her, more than he expected. 

While it may not be anything like he imagined it, the reality isn’t as disappointing as he worried it would be from that first night. Especially as, in the lulls, hopping roofs and walking along the edges of them, they talk as they tended to in post-training sessions, but this time, without any chance of being heard by the others or by Jarvis.

Maybe because of that security, she tells him a bit more of her life. She tells him of a girl named Marina, someone she had once ran away from the Red Room with, before they’d been taken back. She tells him of her dreams of being a ballerina, of peering into windows of women practicing ballet and yearning for it. 

The Red Room may have trained the girls in ballet to help with their precision, discipline, and perseverance, but they did not train in the spirit of performing. Natasha gets a lost look on her face that she shakes off when she speaks the name Marina, but she does not share the fate of the girl.

Damian has a feeling he already knows the answer to it, and he doesn’t ask. 

Instead, he asks seemingly benign investigative questions, receiving answers he pays special attention to as she describes the facilities and surrounding areas, people, and regional accents of those she was trained by. She might have picked up on his intentions, his attempts to glean more information on the Red Room, but he’s at least not as obvious as she is in her quest to get Hawkeye in on their patrols. 

Damian has been particularly stalwart on his stance, but that doesn’t deter her. She ends up talking a fair bit about Barton as a result, but she also always leaves the best parts of the stories out of it, choosing to cast everything into a mystery so that he may be tempted into asking Barton to elaborate. He won’t. Not just yet, anyway.

Admittedly, though Damian hates to say that her methods are working, what he won’t say out loud is that, from the sounds of it, Barton would make for a fairly adept member of the Justice League. The thought is nearly sacreligious, and he would heartily deny it, but he is sort of curious how a patrolling dynamic would be like with Hawkeye, if it would at all be similar to team-up between Green Arrow and Batman.

But even with that, the more Damian learns about Barton, the more he has to admit that he shares less in common with Oliver Queen, and somehow more with Arsenal, with Roy Harper. They might all have a similar attitude, the combination of wise-cracking snarky humor, and whatever-gets-the-job-done level of innovation to solve their problems, but there’s a level of deep-seated insecurities that inform their decision-making. Not to mention the general aura of patheticness that the two share.

His interactions have changed with Barton as a result, but not in any obvious way. Just that Damian has an easier time letting things go, and Barton picks and chooses his battles better. In their free time, they’re watching House together, a dramatization of the medical field that doesn’t exist, to his knowledge, in his world, but that he finds passingly amusing, and Barton especially enjoys to the point he has to replay certain scenes to catch every word.

As the days pass, it begins to feel as if Natasha is working on the archer just as much as she is with Damian, being very conspicuous in her intentions. For now, Damian is remaining obstinate in his stance, but it somehow becomes less because of Barton’s involvement, and more to do with the fact that he likes his time spent with Natasha outside of the tower, having her undivided attention.

Amidst their crime-stopping, he ends up telling her more about his family, present as they are on his mind.

Weirdly, he talks about Stephanie Brown. More specifically, he shares the time he and Brown investigated a string of child kidnappings impacting the middle class.

Setting the scene, he informs her first on Brown’s background, her ill conceived association with the family, and how she had come into the fold. He explains how she is more friend of the family than actual family, but for all blood seems to matter, she might as well be a sister to him, especially so for her brief time as Robin. He tells her of his own standing in the family at the time, the politics of the Bats and the Birds, but vaguely, skirting over the convoluted details in favor of trusting Natasha’s ability to accurately discern most of it on her own from context clues he’s shared with her from the past.

He tells her how Richard, of all people, had given Brown the case to look into, and how… Well, Damian had just strung up a crossing guard on the account of suspicious behavior, a well-timed coincidence, because Richard hadn’t said a word about such a case to him. 

These were the days where trust between them was much harder to give, tenuous and strained, and he was particularly sore when reminded of it. 

He resented Brown immediately, uncomprehending what had compelled Richard to ask for her help above his, especially as his working relationship with Oracle wasn’t in the best of straits, so why had he enlisted the help of the girl under her tutelage?

Regardless, the guard happened to be someone Brown had her own interest in, believing him to be associated, that he was the lookout for the kidnappers. The two argued as all of this came to light, neither of them having worked together before. Neither of them really liked each other, either. 

Eventually, they came to a truce, a decisive choice to collaborate.

Their investigation brought them to a museum, where a school bus full of children were on a field trip in the area. Due to losing line of sight, it called for Damian to go undercover amongst the students, dressed casually, like the American ten year old he never felt like. 

He slipped in seamlessly, and with his sacrifice, they eventually caught sight of the kidnappers subduing and tying up the school’s bus driver. They had done so with the intent to replace him for the trip back, kidnapping the entire class through the method, and when Natasha snorted incredulously at the notion, he had to tell her that crime in Gotham often required the suspension of disbelief. What she thought as illogical, he considered antiquated, even pedestrian.

But back to his story, he tells her of how Robin and Batgirl made it in time to foil the plan, efficiently and safely bringing the bus to a halt and saving the school children from certain doom. That when all was said and done...

Damian hesitates, but he finishes the story.

He tells Natasha of how Brown took him inside of a moon bounce, a whim of hers that he fell prey to . She thought it strange he hadn’t ever experienced being in one, and the American novelty of it had been enough to convince him. It was only jumping around, leaping in the air and feeling weightlessness and buoyancy; they both experience such a thing all the time in their work. It should have lacked luster then, but it oddly felt… special.

Damian very clearly remembers Brown's smile that night. He remembers her laughter and smugness at teasing him, too. He doesn’t tell Natasha about that detail, though, not about the smile or about what it had felt like. There are just some things he doesn’t know how to share, or that feel better kept to himself.

Talking about Brown eventually leads him to talking about Cain, but he doesn’t say much. There’s a lot he can say about her, but he won’t. He shares the details that feel pertinent, that Natasha might relate to, that he relates to. But some part of him also guards details about her, things he doesn’t have the words to describe, or might say too much about him if he were to try.

He tells her about Cassandra’s upbringing, her League-training and the way she hadn’t been allowed to learn language due to her father’s intervention. He tells her that they never met in their League days, as there’s a seven year age gap between the two of them. He tells her about the things Cassandra likes to do with her free time, about the life she has carved for herself by her own strength. He admits to his admiration of her.

What he doesn’t say is that there are times where Damian can’t stand to look at her. Not because of anything she’s done, but that it’s difficult to stand on equal terms with a girl who is so utterly different from him despite all they share in common, her inherent goodness that she was born with a stark, blinding light that seems to further expose the truth of him.  

Father loves Cain like she is his own, and his pride for her is unmistakable, and steadfast. It is hard not to love, hate, and envy her.

The thing is, Damian clearly remembers when they first met. He remembers the mission that they failed, the bomb that he hadn’t been able to disarm in time, that she didn’t trust him with. He remembers his shaking hands, the sweat coming off of his body, and he remembers Cassandra’s arm looped around his middle, pulling him away from the exploding bomb, protecting him.  

He remembers the gut instinct of dread at failing, the destruction of the Wayne Tower cascading around them in a mess of brick, steel, and glass. That dread was quickly followed by revulsion, disgusted with her for saving his life. For the fact that she valued his life above the mission at hand, what had been unthinkable and shocking to him.

He had felt betrayed by her, his expectations that had once soared, plummeting as he came to the stark realization of who Cassandra Cain is, what she is capable of. She is a girl raised like him, in an environment that holds the mission at the height of importance, in a place that determines the strongest to survive and the weak to be preyed upon, and yet when it mattered, she was quick to accept failure and rescue him from his own arrogance, because he couldn’t have disarmed that bomb, not in those circumstances.

That’s the thing about Cain: the preservation of life eclipses everything else. No matter who it is, she will defy the odds to save people, even from themselves.

He vividly remembers her words after he screamed at her, venting his frustrations, damn near trying to choke her before she wrestled him onto his back, her voice painfully earnest as she told him, impossible to ignore, “Don’t forget what matters. You’re alive.”

He doesn’t tell Natasha about any of that, though. He thinks it would be difficult to admit to her that he forgets far more often than he remembers, even now.

All that to say, it’s not like working with any of the Bats, or the Birds, or even any of the other heroes he’s run into in the past, like Blue Beetle or the Guardian. But that’s not a bad thing—even if there are moments still, where he would give anything to be home.

.

.

“You ready?” Scott asks.

Damian nods without hesitation. He’s ready. He’s been ready.

He’s just also... 

“Take it slow, take it easy,” Scott tells him. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

Damian nods his understanding, but also can’t help his skepticism. His mutation is something he still only vaguely understands, his prime experience with it coming from an incident that nearly left him comatose. Meditation might not even be the key to its use either, as emotion seems to have a greater effect, as made clear by Collins’ impact.

But it’s not all emotion either.

“We have a baseline of your body’s natural rhythms," Dr. McCoy says. “Every millisecond, we’ll be receiving a new scan, so whatever you do that engages you with your ability, we will immediately know when that change occurs.”

Damian doesn’t bother responding to that, already uncomfortable by the fact that his body and head are covered with electrode patches, specially made to withstand a great deal of heat and extreme cold.

He’s put this off long enough, though, and he’s also curious, reminded of Mantega’s questions. What can he do? Just what is he capable of now?

Damian closes his eyes. It seems like a good first step, one that allows him to focus on his senses, the new one in particular. 

Shadows are everywhere. More or less, if you look, there will be light sources of all kinds in every direction. But no matter what type, light will always be electromagnetic radiation, a kinetic energy that travels in waves, composed of photons that make up its movements. The absence of light is darkness, where all waves still.

Shadows are seemingly the middle ground between the two, the intersection between light and dark. But it’s a bit different from that.

To create a shadow, an opaque object must be obstructing the light source in some type of way. Depending on how close, shadows can change size, but they will always be substanceless, having no weight or effect that impacts the real world in any meaningful way. Shadows are merely visual aids, adding dimensionality, contrast, and depth to perception, but other than that, what effect can even be achieved by controlling, shaping, or erasing them?

Why is it that there is emotion that he must draw from in order to build that connection? What does a shadow care for it?

But then, emotions are just as shapeless, just as weightless. Perhaps that is enough for there to be resonance. For emotions to be the language of shadows, where substance and physicality has no bearing, Damian thinks there is some sense to that.

But how to tap into that? He thinks back to the initial moments before his out of body experience, the fact that he had been thinking of home. But he’s always thinking of home, of the people and companions that he misses, and it’s not ever made him glow green. He’s actually fallen into quite a few spirals in this universe, all without a green adverse effect.

So, what is it? What is the key?

Damian hates these sorts of rules in powers; metahumans in his world describing their abilities have always sounded fabricated to him, an overcomplicated, wishy-washy mess of rules and logic. Unfortunately, he has one of those abilities, the vague, inexplicable sort that temperamentally works sometimes, and never to do anything helpful.

It’s why he much prefers heroes like, well, his father. People who use their minds to win battles, who fight with their fists, and have labored for their abilities. He had been proud to be part of that type of legacy, that reputation.

Oddly, he is inspired to think of someone that hasn’t crossed his mind in a long time. She exists, like her cousin, in a middle ground, both stupidly overpowered, but not necessarily complicated.

A year or so ago, he’d met Supergirl for the first time on the night of Halloween, when she’d crashed his operation and knocked Killer Croc out. The alien had—incorrectly—assumed he’d needed help with the rogue, but had really just wanted to ask him for the whereabouts of members of his family. She had come in need of a detective for a case he’d already caught wind of, a mass grave discovered in Metropolis’ Suicide Slum. 

Despite not exactly dropping in to enlist his help, with everyone else indisposed for the night for other matters, Damian graciously joined her investigation. Working with someone like Kara Zor-El had been a first for him, taking advantage of her X-Ray vision as he did most of the work in tracking down the identities of the dead, discovering them to all be collegiates enrolled in a Lexcorp Internship.

Eventually, they ruled out Lexcorp’s involvement in their deaths, after questioning Lex Luthor’s personal assistant, Spalding, determining that the perpetrator had to be someone else with a more fitting motive. As it turned out, the remaining interns had decided to take part in a Halloween party—suicidal, certainly, considering how many of them had died, but it was a lead that helped him and Supergirl discover the one responsible, a vengeful Scarecrow, who had a personal gripe with Luthor.

The main reason why Damian is thinking of this now is that, during that party, Supergirl had been affected by an upgraded fear toxin, one that could actually affect the physiology of a Kryptonian, leading her to try to kill him. She was seeing an enemy of her past, not entirely hearing him as she attacked him, fully believing him to be Reactron, and the one responsible for the deaths of the interns.

He’d had to dodge fists and stones flying at him, heat vision blasts, cracks and craters in the earth. It was one thing to see footage, one thing to hear about it from others, it was another thing entirely to be under the wrathful gaze of a Kryptonian, putting his all into avoiding her strikes long enough to talk her out of it.

The thing is, Damian has fought a number of superpowered individuals, but never has he been the one with superpowers. And if all it amounted to was an accelerated healing, Damian knows he would have been much better off.

But it isn’t, and he thinks—no, he knows much more about his abilities than he has been willing to face or acknowledge, especially to himself.

So, when Damian opens his eyes, it’s to lock his gaze with Scott’s, what he can of it, and to attempt to draw strength from knowing he isn’t as alone as he feels.

“You okay, Dames?”

He nods, already stretching out his perception, letting himself feel.

There is more to this. He knows there is.

Everything, from the texture of his linen shorts, to the coolness of the patches on his body, and the shadows his body casts under the illumination of fluorescent lighting. He feels the corners of the room, the shadows that the equipment and furniture cast, and he feels Scott, his shadow, and he hears—

“Go—.”

And from that—the strangest—the—

D̴i̶—̵

̵̼̈́͜M̷͈̯͗e̸͚̕͘—̶̟͐̀ͅ

̶̪̱͚̈́͊̍͂̀͜Ń̸͙͂̉̓—̷̧̘̩͐̀̾͘

̵̨͒S̶̻̩͖̋̃ȉ̸̮̯̠̞ȏ̴̢̱̺͒͝n̵̢̮͙͙̞̎̍̋̑—̷͙͗̔̏̏̈

“Go fuck—.”

Pull. Follow. 

Go.

He is being guided, he is being led, he is racing—

.

.

“Go fuck yourself!”

He can’t see anything. It’s painful.

His throat is raw from his shout, and his limbs, his neck, he is strapped down. He can’t move. He can’t see. If he tries, if he tries to open his eyes—it hurts.

He is so exhausted.

“You pigheaded ignoramous—it’s over and we won! Accept my mercy.”  

He can and can’t recognize that voice. God, his head is splitting, mad, the pain—

“I know your eyesight isn’t what it once was, Cyclops—so let me be blunt. You’re in an adamantium neckbrace connected to an adamantium filament. At any time we want, you can be yanked at great speed into a hole the size of a baseball.”

A pause. The voice is close by, he can feel his proximity, hear his breaths, and his stomach churns at it, at being so near to this man, who he knows yet doesn’t—.

“So I would start thinking about some co-operation,” the man murmurs.

He sucks in a breath. His anger is a building inferno, and if he were able, if his eyes were open, if they weren’t fucking sewn shut—if these fucking bastards—

“I will never cooperate with you murdering bigots! The X-Men will—.”

“Oh, nooooo! Not the X-Men!” The voice is mocking and momentarily shrill.

And then there is hot breath and spittle on his face as the man growls out, “There are no more X-Men, dolt. Krakoa is empty! Your transit system shuttered. Your treehouse burned. Your medicines are laced with a ‘kill switch’. Humans are calling for your deaths!”

Despair is there, so much of it, but he doesn’t—can’t believe this man at his word, not all of them. He may be powerless here, but there are still things that can’t be taken from him, not if he doesn’t give it up himself.

His belief in the X-Men is such a thing, and he can’t let go of it.

He’ll be dead before he does.

“It’s Orchis who is urging restraint,” the man continues. “‘Not all mutants,’ we say. But it’s only a matter of time before all the remaining muties are pulled kicking and screaming from whatever hole they’re hiding in—.”

.

.

Damian sits up, hands going to his eyes, a ferocious yell escaping him as he does so.

His fury that had been steadily building, alongside that feeling of helplessness, of despair—the pain, it all felt...

It felt so real.

His hands touch his perfectly intact eyelids, and he blinks rapidly, trying to reason with himself what he has witnessed—no, experienced. What it might mean—.

“Damian,” Scott says, and Damian jerks to look at him, eyes wide, spooked.

Just moments ago, he had been Scott. He had felt his emotions, his fear, his anger, his worry.

And if he leans into that sense of his, if he focuses on Scott’s shadow once again, he thinks he can feel much more than that.

But…

“You’re… have you…”

Damian can’t quite get the question out of his mouth. He is—

On his back again, wiped out despite having done fuck all.

“Food.”

Hungry. Tired.

“Need… food.”

.

.

It should have been clear from the near-coma of the first incident, but his powers take a lot out of him.

“You need to change your diet.”

“I’m not eating meat.”

“Don’t have to,” Dr. McCoy assures him. “But you need to eat more. A lot more. Like, triple to quadruple the amount. Eight to ten thousand calories to be more specific, and to be even more specific, the nutritional values should be high in carbs, fats, and protein.”

Damian grimaces. “I don’t want to eat more. How am I going to find the time?”

“Perhaps, if you live your life not fully engaging with your ability, you could remain at your current baseline, but how likely is that?” Dr. McCoy asks, brows raised.

In Damian’s life? Not very likely.

“Do you want to be at risk of a coma every time you use your ability?” Scott asks, and Damian shakes his head, not quite able to look at him.

The feeling of being him is farther away now, but it’s not entirely gone.

More importantly, the validity of what he had seen and felt is still questionable. Verifiable if he asks questions, maybe, which would be easier if his stomach isn’t vehemently protesting just after filling it with the stew that Jean had brought in before she beat a hasty exit.

That woman knows something. Did she read his mind again? He’s so tired, he wouldn’t have even been able to stop it.

Witch.

“Are there vitamins I can take instead?” Damian asks, shifting his focus. “Can one be made?”

“What do you have against eating?”

“Absolutely nothing, but it’s inconvenient, you have to admit. I’m not a speedster that can gorge myself in seconds. Time is crucial in so much of what I do.”

Scott smiles. “I suppose you have a point there. And to answer your question, I’m sure there’s something we can make for you, some pill that you can take in an emergency that will help.”

Damian nods, but he’s troubled. He can’t even muster the energy to mask it, either.

“Something’s on your mind,” Scott says, reaching to place a hand to his shoulder, and Damian responds with his gut reaction to snatch his hand and shove it away.

“My bad—you need space, I’ll back up.”

Scott’s quick adherence to that, the fact he’s already taking steps back, his understanding and kindness—.

“Have you ever had your eyes sewn shut?” Damian blurts.

“Er...”

“Have you ever been strapped down with adamantium shackles, in a contraption set up to launch your body into a baseball sized hole?”

“Huh?”

“Orchis. Have you heard of it?”

“I—No, Damian. No to everything. Is... Is that what you saw?”

“Saw?” Damian laughs coldly. “No, I felt it. I was... there. I was you, Scott.”

The surprise is evident on both Dr. McCoy and Scott’s face at the new information, apparently very outside of what they had predicted for what Damian to experience.

“I followed your shadow. It was pulling me in, calling... But you don’t know anything about it. So, a dream?”

Even as Damian says it, he knows it not to be true. 

“Or precognition,” Dr. McCoy murmurs, scrutinizing him.

“It’s certainly a form of clairvoyance,” a new voice adds from the doorway, and Damian is hardly surprised to see Professor Xavier, but if it were a surprise, he’d consider it an awful one.

Damian scowls at him. “Stay out of my head,” he warns.

The professor offers him a placating smile that just irritates him further. To the others he says, “What he has seen is certain to be true, but it remains to be seen if it will be the future we bear witness to.” To Damian, he adds, “What you saw, felt, it could have been the future of this Scott, but it could also be the past, present, future of another Scott Summers.”

“We just can’t be certain,” Damian murmurs, dripping with sarcasm, his scowl deepening, feeling deeply uncomfortably by the telepath’s presence.

“No. There isn’t anything that’s certain, only that what you experienced is as real as you are.”

Damian falls silent, staring at the man in front of him warily. What a peculiar way to phrase it.

“You’re real,” Xavier says, as if to mollify him.

“I know I am,” Damian snaps.

“I say so, only in the understanding that in the fledgling moments of learning the extent of a mutation such as yours, there often come with heavy drawbacks. For yours to be a form of clairvoyant precognition, your mind is at considerable risk, especially as you learn control.”

Damian shakes his head. “It’s not... It’s shadows. I can... feel them.”

“A new sense, with a feedback of information you are still unaccustomed to,” Xavier surmises. “It’s no wonder you are overwhelmed.”

“I’m not overwhelmed,” Damian scoffs. “You’re projecting . And if you’re even trying to peek into my head, let’s see how you enjoy life paralyzed from the neck down instead, Baldy.”

Xavier sighs. “I am not trying to antagonize you, Damian. I am trying to empathize.”

“Take your empathy elsewhere, then. I don’t care for it,” he mutters, and then looks at Scott. “Can I have my phone back? I want to call Natasha.”

Scott has a grim look on his face, but he rises and goes to where Damian’s personal effects are before coming back, holding it out.

Damian reaches for it, but Scott’s grip on it doesn’t totally slacken.

“We have to talk about this eventually, but you need rest. Don’t go walking in the shadows again until you’re back here, okay?”

Shadow walking, huh. That’s a way to put it.

Damian nods after a moment, despite his skepticism at complying. Regardless, Scott lets go, satisfied with that response, even as his mouth remains in a thin line.

Well, Damian did just reveal that his eyes would potentially be sewn shut in the future and he’d be strapped to a death contraption. He hadn’t even brought up the worst of it, how mutant racism had gotten so bad that humanity wanted them all dead, that the X-Men had been pushed back to the point of hiding, meaning any number of people could have died between now and then.

But he figures that can be put off for later, when Scott wants to talk. For now, Damian unlocks his phone, finds Natasha’s contact and calls her just as he promised to.

Thankfully for him, she picks up on the first ring, with a wary, “Everything alright, Ptichka?”

He wastes no time.

“Can I come home? The principal’s face is jacked looking, and it’s making my stomach hurt.”

Natasha snorts, but it’s a light sound, not hardy. It still makes Damian’s lips twitch. “If you’re in the principal’s office, did someone pick a fight with you?”

“You don’t think that I picked a fight with someone first?”

“Well, did you?”

“No,” Damian answers softly. “There were no fights. I just—I want to come home. Will you come for me?”

She makes a disappointed humming sound. “Currently tied up at work, but I can send one of the boys.”

“Not Barton.”

Because, of course it’s going to be Barton.

“I’ll see what I can do, Ptichka,” she says with dry humor, and there’s something in her voice, maybe the soft quality of it, or maybe the warmth, it soothes something in him despite everything.

With Xavier in the room, he doesn’t dare let it relax him, but it’s nice to hear her voice.

“Was that all?” Natasha asks.

“When will your work be done?”

“Not too much longer. It’s pretty boring stuff. Just surveillance, mostly.”

“Then can I help with it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not? You help me with Robin. I can help with Black Widow.”

“Hm. A question to pose at a later date, Ptichka. I gotta go. But be safe. I will see you soon.”

“See you soon,” he mutters, sulking as she hangs up.

“It’s for the best, Dames,” Scott says to him. “Don’t get swept up in S.H.I.E.L.D stuff if you don’t have to.”

Damian soundly harrumphs, turning his nose up at the mutant.

He, of all people, shouldn’t say that. Especially because Damian already stands to fall far more into the ‘X-Men stuff’ than anything Natasha might be working on for S.H.I.E.L.D.

Dr. McCoy makes a sound in the back of his throat.

“Well, before this Barton shows up, I’m going to see if I can get you a meal plan worked up,” Dr. McCoy says, injecting some cheer into the atmosphere that feels jarring and misplaced. He rises and leaves the room, just shy of looking like he’s fleeing.

Xavier, for his part, looks pensive.

“I’ll be leaving, as well, but before I do, I just want to say one last thing.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Damian grumbles.

“It’s not a matter of want. It’s imperative, Damian.”

“What then? Just say it already,” he mutters with a groan.

Xavier frowns, his blue eyes much colder now. “You have an ability that has the potential to shape this world,” he says, throwing him entirely off by the claim. “But it isn’t your world. You need to remember that. A lot of lives depend on you understanding that.”

He sucks in a breath, opening his mouth—.

“That’s harsh, Xavier,” Scott says immediately, with a peculiar tone, one that carries an authority that Damian hasn’t heard from him yet. “He has no control over being here. He wants to go home. And more than that, he’s one of us. A mutant. Not to mention that any number of us pose the same risks to this world, even more in some cases—but we don’t let that stop us from still trying to make our dreams of the future a reality.”

Xavier releases a heavy sigh. “You’re not wrong, Scott. But there is so much more—.”

“Then tell us! Tell me what you haven’t told anyone, anyone except Jean, that is.”

“I can’t.”

“Then don’t talk down to Damian, as if it’s his sole responsibility if the future is good or bad. We all share the burden of what is ahead of us. But we share it together. As X-Men. I would have thought you’d believe that, too.”

To that, Xavier gets a heavy look of grief in his eyes, but it changes quickly, to one of a muted, yet still forlorn acceptance. “Things will come to pass as they may. We can only do what we can to prepare, for whichever eventuality finds us.”

With that Xavier leaves them in silence, a pensive one that neither of them seems to dare break, until Damian’s phone begins to buzz.

With a sigh, Damian answers Barton’s call, rather reluctantly, not in any mood to entertain him.

“Hey, kiddo. Looks like I couldn’t reach you directly, like usual. Just calling to let you know I’m on the way—.”

“This isn’t my voicemail, Barton,” Damian mutters, cutting him off.

“Oh, really? I could have sworn—and you never pick up when I call—.”

“Just come quickly,” Damian barks out before hanging up, then turning his gaze to Scott. “You... I...”

Scott seems to understand without words what he’s trying to convey, because for the first time since Damian’s gotten out of his shadow, Scott smiles, even if it’s weak. “Any time, Dames. I got your back.”

There’s a silence again, and Damian wishes he could search this man’s eyes, just to be sure that it’s the truth.

“I’ll remember that,” he settles on saying as everything else seems to fall flat, feeling somehow more inadequate for the fact that he can’t seem to thank the man outright.

But even that is obfuscated by the questions on his mind.

Once again, he wonders just what the point of any of this is, and why it’s him that has to experience it. Just how much stranger will his life get before he can finally see his family again? 

More importantly, at this rate, how recognizable will he even be, when that happens?

Chapter Text

“This is real. I am real,” Damian says to the mirror. “This is real. I am real, and I am Damian Wayne, son of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul. They are looking for me, and they will find me, if I do not find them first. I will go home...”

He looks at his hands. “But before I go, I will destroy Natasha’s fears—.”

“Mreow?” Nadezhda pops up at his feet, a gleam in her eyes.

“Hungry already? But you have one more hour to wait,” he tells her as she swishes her tail at his legs. “Adhering to the schedule is very important, Nadezhda.”

“Mrahh.”

“Societies would crumble without it. Societies have crumbled. I should tell you about them, Nadezhda. While we wait.”

.

.

“Ever shot a bow before?” Barton asks.

Damian lowers the book in his hand, raising a brow. “With my repertoire of skills, you think I haven’t? Of course I have.”

Not to mention, he’s adept with equestrianism as well, able to shoot targets on the back of a horse running forty miles an hour. If Barton thinks his mother left any stone unturned in his education, he is going to have a terrible time in search of gaps.

“Then, come on,” Barton says with a grin, waving an arm. “Let’s go. I thought of it on the car ride yesterday, but we need to get you some fresh air, outside of the city.”

Damian is instantly suspicious, squinting.

“Xavier’s school is decently out of any city limits.”

“It doesn’t kill my point. School is not fresh air. Fresh air is fresh air.”

“Yeah, I’m not understanding what your reference for fresh or air is, but I am curious. Where will you take me?”

“Pennsylvanian countryside. But we’ll go ahead and fly out there.”

“And add to the air pollution in whatever jet you’re thinking of taking? What happened to fresh air?”

“Jet? C’mon, don’t insult me, Spoilsport. I got a Cessna 150 running on a single engine.”

Damian curls his lips. “That’s the tricycle of aircrafts, made for training. I could fly that plane with my eyes closed.”

“Okay, then. Let’s go.”

Damian blinks. “Okay?”

“Yeah, let’s get at it, Showoff. I want to see you put your money where your mouth is.”

He looks at Barton skeptically. “If we’re bringing money into it...”

“Not actual money. How about, the loser gets to pick lunch.”

“Why should the loser get to pick?”

“Because I got the feeling the loser is gonna be you, and you’re gonna be a baby about it.”

“I will not!”

“Prove me wrong then,” Barton says, his grin only getting broader.

“Loser gets to walk home,” Damian grumbles, setting the book aside and following Barton as they make their way out of the tower.

.

.

“Do not do a barrel roll—do not—Damian!”

“It’s a Cessna 150 Aerobat,” he points out at Barton’s stink eye once he’s completed the roll, steadied the plane, and the archer has stopped screaming. “It’s built for it.”

The relevancy of this information doesn’t put a dent in Barton’s dour expression. “You’re wild, kid. And so weird.”

.

.

“Crackshot!” Barton yells, grinning, seeming somehow more excited by Damian’s accuracy with a bow than even he is. “You’re crazy, Damian! One more time!”

Unbeknownst to him, Damian is smiling, too. And it’s a weird one, a little bit too much lip on one side, too much teeth on the other. It feels like a grimace, but the fact of the matter is, to any onlooker, they’d be able to see immediately that the look in his eyes is unmistakably pleased, shining as they are.

He pulls back the bowstring, arrow at the ready, and with the lightest laugh, releases it.

Twhunk!

.

.

“Not many options for food, but because you’re a growing boy, with a meal plan of a body builder—.”

“I’m not going to starve to death if we just eat when we get back to the tower,” Damian remarks.

“Which will be? How long do you want to stay out here?”

Damian squints at Barton. 

This man bears his every thought, his every emotion, and worry, clear at a glance, on his face. Damian has gotten so used to seeing exhausted exasperation creating a haggard appearance of the archer, a sort of tenseness that never seems to go away despite his clinging to levity in the form of wit and willingness to laugh.

He chalked it up to Barton’s role as an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, that his past has made it difficult for him to fully relax, that he clings to a facade to protect himself. It’s always made Damian feel on edge around him, but mostly because he is so easy to see through that it weirdly creates more questions than it does answers. He is so familiar in ways that are jarring, but so strange that even the familiar begins to feel oddly alien—and Damian doesn’t even know what, or who, he is recognizing.

Damian mostly wonders why Barton pretends to be so interested in him, despite being so on guard that it appears to be more a task of babysitting than genuine interest. And yet he always protests otherwise.

He’s been wondering for a while, actually, why Barton in particular has been so insistent on the time they spend together. Rogers and Banner, even Stark, will leave him alone, but Barton won’t.

They fill meaningless hours together on a couch, and Damian will pretend his mind is not on home while Barton attempts to make conversation, undeterred despite the endless blockades that Damian has set up. It nearly makes Damian think himself as the pathetic one; just what has he been so stubborn about? The man hardly appears ruffled by even the worst of his attitude.

And Damian looks at this man now, who’s been warmed by the sun, t-shirt and jeans covered in grime and sweat, blue eyes spirited and bright. He isn’t tense right now, loose and mellow, and Damian finds that he’s the same, that he is similarly sporting soiled clothing—and that he can’t actually remember the last time he has been in a landscape this beautiful, feeling as if there is all the time in the world to enjoy it.

There isn’t, of course, but that’s not the point.

“We can stay a little while longer,” Damian mumbles.

“Hoped you would say that.”

.

.

“I’ll fly us back. Take a nap,” Barton murmurs.

“You just want to avoid walking home,” Damian mutters, even as his eyes sort of begin to droop, hopping into the passenger’s side of the cockpit.

The Pennsylvanian air is cool in the evening, and the rolling hills are beautiful. He hadn’t realized until today, how pretty this version of Earth is, that the beauty of it isn’t any less than his own. It’s enough to make him wistful, longing for the Himalayas that he had left behind years ago. He wonders how different or similar they would appear here, if he were to fly over them.

Each time he’s thought of home, it has been of his family in Gotham or Mother, but never where he’d spent his youth being trained. It’s funny, because there had once been a time where he believed he’d never overcome his homesickness for Nanda Parbat, the elevated mountains and the peaceful isolation within them. Now, it hardly crosses his mind.

There is a peculiar sudden ache in his chest at the realization, and with it comes a sense of fear that he can’t dilute.

Should there come a day where Gotham doesn’t cross his mind? Will it slow from several times a day, to once, to nothing?

“Sure,” Barton agrees, rousing him from his thoughts as he sits in the pilot’s seat. “I would hate to walk home. That’d take hours in any direction I head.”

That snaps his attention.

“There’s only one direction to the tower, Barton.”

“Sure is, bud,” he says.

Damian blinks a blurry eye at Barton. “You have another home?”

Barton smiles. “‘Course I do. I didn’t always free-load with Tony. You could say it’s as new to you as it is to me, living with a billionaire.”

Damian doesn’t correct him, doesn’t say that it isn’t new to him at all. Mostly because he’s observing Barton. 

He hasn’t given Barton’s personal life much thought, but this is a man who got his start in the circus, and now, apparently, has another home that even his files hadn’t mentioned. There are a lot of things that he has heard now, that he wouldn’t have expected by looking at him.

“Why do you stay? If you have another home to go to.”

“And miss hanging out with you? Of course I’m sticking around.”

It sounds like a deflection but also weirdly honest.

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“No, Damian,” Barton says, getting a strangely focused look in his eyes. “You do know that I like you, right?”

“You do?” He feels wide awake now, thrown by the direction of this conversation. It’s blunt, and too forward, nothing at all like the style his family speaks with. Any of them. It makes him uneasy, trying to figure out where the hidden meaning in his words must be, and if Barton is trying to trick him.

But Damian’s gut says there is no trick, and that more than anything throws him off.

“Yeah. You’re kind of hilarious,” the archer says, casual and direct. “Plus, you’re fun to tease. It’s like having the little brother I never had, but always wanted.”

“You’re too old to be my brother,” Damian says, if only for the fact that Barton has pissed him off one too many times by bringing up his age.

“And you’re a little hellion,” Barton retorts, grinning, blue eyes twinkling. “But you’re also pretty great. I don’t think I’ll ever meet a better twelve year old child assassin turned vigilante of justice from another universe.”

“I’ll be the only one you meet.”

“God willing,” Barton agrees, starting up the plane.

Tt!

Annoyed, but not quite knowing why, Damian settles into his seat, mulling over the day, but even that bit of annoyance fades quickly during the plane ride.

Eased by the warmth of the sun overhead as it begins to set, and still smelling the earth and countryside stuck to their clothes, he’s thinking of Barton smiling at him, of the unconventional conversations they've shared. And he thinks also of the silences that, for once, didn’t feel oppressively bleak or weighed down with the past or future. All together, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever felt so far away from his problems, and it makes it difficult for him to keep his head up, to keep from nodding off.

So, if he falls asleep in the plane, only stirring as Barton lands on the top of Stark Tower, and doesn’t immediately open his eyes, that he lets Barton get him out of his seatbelt, that he’s curious why Barton hasn’t shaken him ‘awake’—that he’s so gentle as pulls Damian into his arms, picking him up like he weighs nothing...

Barton leans his lax body against his chest, Damian’s head settling into the crook of his neck, and the archer secures him with an arm crossed under his thighs, and a hand on his back. It’s a hold that is strangely tender, and practiced, like Barton has done this a million times before. Damian doesn’t know why, but he keeps his eyes squeezed shut. It will be the end of the world if anyone knows he isn’t sleeping, and he doesn’t care if there’s no sense in that.

It’s genuinely no one’s business but his own that Barton carries him down to his room, and that the sound of Barton’s breathing and heartbeat lulls Damian back to sleep, that he doesn’t even stir when Barton tucks him into bed—.

Not a word of it will ever be spoken of, but he’ll come to think about this day, and the moments within it, a lot, and always with an inexplicable sadness that he can’t quite understand the reason for.

.

.

Tuesday, Damian is in his room, sketching absent-mindedly as his thoughts stay sporadic.

He spent most of his morning and afternoon following up leads for on-going cases, researching into the Red Room and digging into the Soviet Armed Forces, and updating his to-do list. But it has only made his rumination worse; his mind is all over the place and he’s trying to focus, but after the umpteenth dead-end, unable to get anything tangible to use, he determines he needs a break. He figures drawing will help, like it usually does back home.

It’s a rare evening where most of the Avengers are out, and he’s taking advantage of having some independence from them. It’s in moments like these that he is reminded how clingy the Avengers are, how constant their attention is, where one seems to replace the other, seeking him out in turns. It’s a wonder Damian has managed to get any work done at all.

But this reprieve feels rather nice. There’s the warmth of a kitten asleep in his lap, and he’s playing music off of his phone, listening to a Visual Kei band that Collins recommended. Damian is finding that he likes it more than he expected to, but he had already liked the group’s opener for an anime he and Collins had been watching last weekend.

It’s fitting for the atmosphere, easy listening as his pencil flies across the sketchbook.

He’s story-boarding, using the crude tools Collins had given him to do so, outlining his first weeks in this new world, and all the people he has met. Damian has drawn his vague impressions of the rogue who hit him, inconclusive as his memory is, the figure more shadow than realized, and he could almost swear that at one point he had seen the face, but the details are lost to him, and he fills them in with heavy-handed cross-hatched black.

Damian also draws the invasion, much more detailed, his memory of it a lot more vivid and clear when he closes his eyes. The aliens and their weaponry, the destroyed buildings, and the horrified looks on people’s faces. Environments have always been easy for Damian to draw; an art teacher—not Ravi, one of the specialized educators Mother selected—had emphasized landscapes, articulating the importance of dimension and perspective, lighting and shadow.

Faces are a little harder for him, depending on who it is. His family is a breeze; he’s been drawing them for ages now, his memory of their faces imprinted not only in his mind but by muscle memory. He’s fairly adept at composite drawings, too, vague sketches used in investigations, but it’s not to the point that he would say he’s mastered it. He can’t immediately draw someone’s exact face from memory alone.

More than anything, it’s new people that are the most difficult, especially in the beginning, tending to jeer towards the uncanny valley as he figures out the details. He may have an eidetic memory, but it doesn’t translate to the page, like there’s a block between his mind and his fingers. 

It doesn’t matter though; drawing is the only thing he’s really acknowledged as a hobby, where perfection isn’t something to wage war within himself over. It’s not like he’ll die if he draws someone a little more cockeyed than they are...

He thinks this, but he’s been doodling the Avengers’ faces on and off for several hours, trying to take what’s in his mind and replicate it by hand, doing his utmost not to miss anything important, that’s identifying. It’s not so much to remember them all by, it’s so he won’t forget. Sure, he isn’t going to die if it’s not perfect, but... Mother’s influence is still strong in these moments.

He has a great deal of his time in the world storyboarded in the form of stick-figures and vague amorphous shapes, and with time, he’s defining them, adding when he’s ready to.

There is a spread of torn out pages in front of him, not all of them people from this world, but also those of the faces he misses back home, what he’s been drawing in spaces of uncertainty. When he sees them, there’s an odd motivation that inspires him to keep sketching, and he imagines coming home with this sketchbook, something material to remember his time here by.

The concept of drawing his experiences here felt weird in the beginning. Only, after spending time with Collins and rereading her manga stash, the inspiration had taken hold and has yet to fade. It feels important, somehow, to be chronicling these memories. Whether to take it back with him, or even to leave it, he doesn’t know yet.

Art has always been a way to work through his thoughts, to get them to paper and express the things he can’t find words for. He’s gone from painting ugly, macabre deaths, twisted scenes from his past, to scenes from his investigations with Richard, and then later, with Father. His style has changed a lot, too, especially with this project. Sketching Avenger portraits aside, the comic itself isn’t nearly so life-like, as he prefers not to unnecessarily bog the pages down, especially with the lack of quality in the tools he’s using. The cheap paper means sacrifices must be made.

It’s as he’s sketching Natasha’s face, shading in the shadows of her hair, when he hears a knock at the door.

From the knock alone, he knows it isn’t Natasha, and his suspicions are confirmed when Stark pokes his head in.

Damian stares without greeting him.

“Kiddo,” Stark says, upbeat, fully entering now that Damian hasn’t outright yelled or made any comments. “I came over to—oh?”

Stark pulls up short, looking at Damian’s art, his eyes passing over the storyboards and the myriad of sketches that aren’t as orderly as he usually keeps them. Almost belatedly, Damian realizes that he’s surrounded himself mostly with the sketches of people back home. Oracle, Brown, Todd, Pennyworth, Cain, Thompkins, Alfred, Titus, Goliath, Gordon, Father, Mother—but there’s a very unkempt doodle blob that’s meant to be Red Robin, and a thoroughly detailed full-bodied Nightwing next to it that stands out the most, the blue eye-catching amidst the black and reds.

Damian attempts to discreetly cover it by nudging another page over it, but it seems to only draw more attention to it as Stark snatches it up.

“Hey—.”

Stark scrutinizes the page. “Just putting two and two together here, Shortstack,” he says, leaning against the desk, looking amused, “These are your brothers—but you have a third one, where’s he?”

Damian doesn’t say a word, choosing to glare.

Stark ignores his ire, sarcastically adding, “You really don’t make your favorite obvious, do you?”

“What did you come in here for?” Damian finally asks, but even that is ignored as Stark picks up stacks of the loose sketches, pilfering through them.

“Alright—Daddy Bats is this big guy, for sure,” Stark comments.

“Batman.”

Stark snorts. “Okay, because that’s a name that strikes fear into crook’s hearts.”

“Says the man who goes by a moniker that’s not even accurate, Gold-Titanium Alloy Man.”

He shrugs. “Well, mine gets style points.”

Damian scoffs. “My father has a cemented reputation that he built through skill alone. He has no super powers, other than having immense wealth, and he’s dedicated his entire life to the cause, ever since the age of eight.”

Stark gives him a sharp look. “And the lives of his children, too?”

“That’s not as much of a gotcha as you’d like to believe,” Damian murmurs.

“Why not?”

“Because the first thing that a Robin learns to do is rebel,” he says. “We all have our own reasons for what we do, and none of us are idiots. Although some certainly act like they are…”

“Is the idiot you're alluding to this derpy one?” Stark asks, lifting up a scribbled Red Robin. 

Annoyed, Damian shakes his head, grudgingly admitting, “Drake performs his role as a vigilante with moderate success. He has many flaws, but being an idiot isn’t one of them.”

There’s an uncomfortable pang in his chest when he thinks about Drake, but it’s hard to tell if it’s because he misses anything about him, or if he’s wondering if Drake is back home celebrating his disappearance—which moreover ties into wondering why he should care?

They are not as hostile as they have been in the past, granted, have even engaged in team-ups on the field, and don’t immediately fight on sight anymore. They’re also capable of amicable discussions concerning topics they mutually find interest in—but it’s still a stretch to say that they’ve entirely gotten over the bad blood of the past. It’s an even larger stretch to say they like each other, no matter if there’s been some reconciliation since their initial grudges.

But does he see Drake as a brother? Does he miss him as a part of his family? Or is there something else attached to it?

The answer isn’t as clear as it should be, and Damian isn’t keen on thinking too deeply as to why, especially not with Stark in the room.

“He’s the one you have a chip on your shoulder for,” Stark points out, hitting uncomfortably close. “You have this way of saying his name, unlike everyone else you talk about. What’d he do?”

Damian opens his mouth, but with a click, he clamps it shut.

The lack of an answer only makes Stark more curious, his eyes widening, and then he says, “Something you did.”

“I was a bit rambunctious when first coming to live with my father,” Damian says wryly.

Stark arches a brow. “Meaning?”

“I might have tried to kill him once or twice,” he answers, studying Stark’s reaction. “I threw a dead man’s head with a bomb in its mouth at him. I’ve also cut the line on his grappling gun.”

“Huh.”

Stark’s face scrunches, like he’s trying to guess whether or not Damian is joking.

“Was there a reason... Or?”

“He was Robin at the time, and I attempted to take the mantle by force,” Damian explains mechanically. “It’s a method that would have worked very well in the League, but Father did not approve. Ultimately, he did not trust me for a long time afterwards, but eventually I became Robin, and my relationship with Drake has seen some minimal improvements since then.”

Stark stares at him for a few beats of silence, and then, more under his breath, says, “Stones, glass houses.”

Oh.

Damian inhales sharply.

“I think if there’s anyone from my world that can find me, it’s him,” he blurts, not quite paying attention to Stark anymore. 

He hadn’t expected himself to admit it, let alone say it, but as soon as it hits the air, the weird, inexplicable bubble of emotion that had been growing inside him bursts. 

It’s all his mind can think of, fixate on, like a magnet—it’s not as sudden as he likes to think it is, but it overcomes him in an instant. This is something that has been brewing, that he’s been repressing, refusing to—.

“He solved my father’s disappearance when everyone else thought he’d died. If there’s any doubt that I’m dead or alive, Drake will... Drake will...”

But Drake won’t.

[                        ]

[                        ]

Drake—

will—

Won’t—

[                        ]

“...mian.”

“...amian—.”

Damian blinks, Stark’s hands on his shoulders, like they were primed to shake him. Stark looks concerned, all humor in his face gone. It’s more unsettling than it has any right to be, to see him like this.

“Kid, you got a little green there.”

The words sound like an echo and Damian has to physically shake himself—he’s nauseated, stomach churning, and his head hurts, but with a few deep breaths, he regains more of his bearing.

“I’m not Banner, you don’t have to be so alarmed,” Damian mutters, quietly distressed by the unexpected nature of this momentary blip. He doesn’t know what to make of it at all, he hadn’t really experienced much at all this time. No trip to weird shadow dimensions, just...

Nothingness.

Last time he got to see Richard... He almost feels cheated. If he did see something, would it have been Drake? Or someone else?

Stark blows a breath out, relieved, but it’s quickly followed by an incredulous laugh. “Considering the fact that we don’t know what your green means, I say I got good reason to be nervous. What if it’s contagious?”

Damian snorts. “I didn’t take you to be worried about such things.”

“Hey, contrary to your claims, I’m not an idiot, and technically you could be carrying a weird multi-dimensional disease for all I know.”

“Paranoid, then.”

“Pot meet kettle.”

Damian, despite himself, smiles at Stark.

And then Stark has the audacity to ruffle his hair, a bewildering attack he genuinely hadn’t been expecting.

“Aww, you’re scowling again—.”

“Go away! I have tolerated you enough,” Damian grumbles, batting at his hands and leaning away.

“What? No way, I wanna see more of your art. Is this one me?” Stark asks, reaching over Damian’s shoulder and pointing to the only goatee’d man on the page. “Where’s my sunglasses?”

“You didn’t have them on.”

“Is that any excuse? Where’s the creative license in this?” Stark asks, but then abruptly snatches the entirety of the sketchpad. “Hold on—is this...”

Damian’s entire face is aflame, but he stays stockstill, unwilling to be ashamed.

“Robin and the Avengers, Battle for New York...” Stark reads out loud, flipping through the pages. “Robin and the Avengers, New Connections... Robin and the X-Men, Emotional Mutants. Robin and Black Widow, Similarties—these are working titles, right?”

“Stark—.”

“Because it should really be The Avengers and Robin. Alphabetical, level of importance—.”

Damian leaps at the man, and shows admirable restraint in how gentle he is while doing so as he grabs for the sketchbook.

“Nope—too short!” Stark says with a laugh, lifting the book up high.

“If you weren’t practically geriatric, I would—!”

“Geriatric! That’s a low blow, kid.”

“If you value your life at all, Stark, you would hand that back to me,” Damian grouses, holding out his palm.

Stark sniffs, but gives him a considering look. “I’d like to see more of your art. I had no idea you could draw.”

His saying so is a bit funny, mostly for being such a common reaction. He’s surprised a lot of people with his abilities, but for some reason, it’s less for his combat capabilities, and more for his artistic skills. No one ever suspects it from him, and he isn’t sure if he should be taking insult to these assumptions.

“Here,” Stark says, passing the sketchbook over. “But seriously, is there anything you can’t do?”

Damian frowns, and then he recalls what Natasha had said before, about asking for help. 

He scrutinizes Stark’s face, acknowledging his genuine enjoyment of his art, and then, reluctantly, he turns back to the desk to reach for his other side project, one he had started working on weeks ago in the midst of trying to modify the already existing tech in his suit to work in this world. He’d felt compelled to draw out gadgets and tools he remembered from home, contemplating recreating them, but he’d felt reluctant to divulge what he felt weren’t his creations to share.

But if he’s going to be here a while... And if he wants Robin to actually bring about the justice he knows he could with the right foundation...

Stark is not merely Iron Man, he’s the man who created the suit, as well as designing and inventing a slew of weapons, programs, and prototypes. He’s amassed an incredible fortune with his skillset, and it’s not as if it hasn’t crossed his mind to show him before, but it’s weirdly only now that it feels like an opportunity. Like perhaps it’d be alright to share it with Stark, indulging, for once, in trust.

“These are schematics,” Damian says, passing the notebook over to Stark, who has his brows raised, confused by the suddenness of it. “These are very important to me. My father developed these over a decade, with assistance from my... From a lot of people. I was studying these before I came here, so they may not be perfect, but if you could assist me...”

Stark has the book in his hand, and he’s flipping through the pages of the composition notebook that Damian had nabbed from an office. He’s quiet, eyes focused, unusually serious as he takes long looks at each schematic, running his finger over some of them, and then he looks at Damian and asks, “Your father drives a tank called the Batmobile around his city?”

“I was more interested in the Batcycle,” Damian deflects, never minding the fact that calling the Batmobile a tank is both understating its capabilities and exaggerating its size. “Page four, Stark. I need something to get around fast with.”

Stark blinks are rapid. “You’re already zipping through Manhattan on what’s practically a shoe-string!”

“It’s high-tensile wire,” he corrects, and then very seriously, asks, “Will you help me or not?”

He gets a long stare in response, Stark rubbing at his goatee and cocking his head this way and that, weighing his thoughts and options. It’s a tense moment that seems to only end when he blows a breath out and laughs. “What the hell, alright. But I help you, and I get to put my own spin on the Batcycle—which is getting renamed, Squirt. No kid under my roof is going around calling their ride a Batcycle, or, God forbid, Batbike.”

“The Robins don’t really use the bat motif nearly as much as you think we do,” Damian mutters, unimpressed with Stark’s disgust. “What are you planning on adding to the bike?”

“For one, Jarvis, and a way to contact me or the team. A lot of safety functions. This is going to require a lot of development before I let you out on the streets with it, but hey, we work on it together, and soon you’ll be giving your poor adoptive mother heart palpitations.”

Damian wrinkles his nose, but he doesn’t exactly mind the direction Stark is taking this in. As long as he gets a fast new bike out of the deal, he doesn’t really care what the man puts in it.

“But before all that,” Stark says, putting a hand to Damian’s shoulder. “The others are busy tonight, but how about the two of us take Pepper out for dinner? That is, if you’re feeling up to it after turning green—.”

“You don’t want to go out with just Potts?” he asks surprised, both because he hadn’t realized how late in the day it had gotten, and also because Stark doesn’t typically go out of his way to invite him out. Probably more due to the fact that as a group, they’re more likely to opt for takeout than dining out.

“Just thought it’d be nice for the three of us to hang out for once,” Stark explains with a shrug, playing it off for casualness to the point that it mostly feels awkward.

“Alright,” Damian agrees, still skeptical, still suspicious, but not exactly reluctant.

“Great! Get a cap on, and some shorts, maybe a pair of dunks. We go casual to the max, and no one’s going to guess who we are.”

Damian snorts. Whatever Stark attempts, no disguise will ever be enough. He’d have to shave his beard if he wants to actually get away with being unnoticed, which isn’t very likely. But, with Potts coming along, he’s sure she’ll have a plan for the worst case, and opts not to worry about it.

He also opts not to think too much about his little mutation slipup, mostly because he doesn’t truly understand the trigger or what happened during it. Fortunately, in the midst of his subsequent conversation with Stark, he’d already recovered from the worst of the backlash, which he takes to mean it either wasn’t too big of a deal, or his augmented diet plan is working.

Leaning towards the latter, he’ll have good news to take to Beast when he gets back to the school.

.

.

On Wednesday, Scott calls, and the two vaguely skirt over the topic they aren’t discussing, until it becomes very clear it’s what they’re discussing. Scott is just checking in, after all, and if he is awkwardly asking to confirm that Orchis was the name, and how was it spelled, and was it just his eyelids sewn or was his mouth also sewn shut—Damian, at that point, tells him to shut up and listen, recounting the experience step by step, in a much clearer state of mind since getting distance and time away from the school.

“You experienced it from the first person,” Scott murmurs, a vague tone of worry still discernable even with his voice compressed through the phone. “From my perspective.”

“Yes.”

“You felt everything I felt, heard everything I felt, and it was an experience of mine that hasn’t occurred, but has the potential to. That’s—.”

“It won’t happen,” Damian swears.

Scott sighs. “That’s not typically how these things work, Dames, but at least I got a heads up, so thanks. I’m just sorry that you—.”

“It won’t happen,” he growls into the phone, succinctly ending the call.

He already has Natasha’s fears to make obsolete, Damian is more than capable of multitasking and taking down Scott’s enemies while he's at it.

“Right, Nadezhda? Follow me. I think we have more research to do,” he says, leaping to his feet from bed, and waiting expectantly for the kitten to stretch her limbs after her nap.

“Mreo.” The sound is a very agreeable one, and she hops off the pillow to trot after Damian.

.

.

Natasha is beaming.

“Have fun, you two,” she’s saying, and Damian is looking to the stars and moon to guide him.

“Oh, we will, won’t we, Bud?”

“I’m not your bud.”

“Yeah, not with that attitude,” Barton remarks. “But look, we’re already meeting each other half way tonight. Is being called Bud really that awful?”

“Yes. It is,” Damian mutters. “Call me Robin.”

“What about Rob? Or Bobby. Bin. Binny? Robby—”

“Robin!” Damian snaps. “It’s Robin or nothing!”

“The name is very important to him. It’s not hard to just get it right, Hawkeye.”

While Damian appreciates the sentiment, hearing Natasha defend him makes his cheeks burn.

“I will try my best,” Hawkeye says, hand dropping to Damian’s head and ruffling his hair before his hand can get swatted away. “Okay, Robin. Show me the ropes, kid. I’ll follow your lead on this.”

Damian eyes him sharply, and then rolls them after seeing the man’s earnest expression.

“Just keep up.”

.

.

Natasha is usually right about things, and it gets annoying sometimes. For instance, Hawkeye being a halfway decent vigilante. For all he protested against Damian’s patrols, he’s suitable to them, unlike most of the Avengers. The roots are there; the ego, will, and a strong sense for justice. It’s a mix that all heroes should have, incrementally, of course.

The combination of justice and ego is what takes a bystander and makes them act, but it’s willpower that makes or breaks a vigilante, especially the greenhorns. The job is a tough one, after all, and it’s self-inflicted, life-ruining, and doesn’t pay the bills, as Brown has said when Damian asked why she insisted on attending college. 

It’s not for the faint of heart, and neither is it for those that don’t have that gut instinct to leap in, not away—which, in other words, someone sacrificial and dumb. But that’s why the ego is so important. Vigilantes are typically assholes, varying in severity, but assholes that do good things, mostly. Whether it’s rooted in narcissism or not, Damian doesn’t care to differentiate, but it’s important that the person under the cape, metaphorical or not, has the ego that is determined to shape the world, having a dream or delusion that things can get better, for everyone, despite the fact that things only seem to get worse—.

“Why’s the name Robin so important to you?” Barton asks out of the blue.

Damian gives him a cutting look from the corner of his eye, gauging Barton’s seriousness.

“It’s a... It’s a family name,” Damian murmurs, his tone controlled, stoic in the face. “It’s the childhood nickname of the first Robin.”

A melancholy falls over him as he thinks of Richard, and he closes his eyes briefly to reorganize his thoughts.

“Sounds like there’s more to it than that,” Barton points out.

They’re standing at the top of a mid-size building, not as high up as Damian prefers discussions like these, but any higher, and he’s not certain if Hawkeye can keep up. His work with the grappling gun is adequate, but still rudimentary, moments where his mind takes over his body and it’s like there’s a disconnect between the two. He’s great with burst movement, but not so much continuous momentum. His trajectories need a lot of work, too, his aim fantastic but his landings crude. He’s skilled enough to avoid injury, but not so much to be efficient.

It’s a fast way to get killed, falling. Damian doesn’t actually want to see Barton hurt, despite what he may say about the archer, but the fact of the matter is, for growing up in a circus, Barton wasn’t a child acrobat, and any similar skills seemed to be picked up later in life, through his work as an agent. It means there’s gaps, but just like Natasha said before, Barton’s enjoying himself, and is a quick study.

It helps that the night has been slow—Wednesdays normally are, even back in Gotham. 

It means that they’ve mostly spent their time investigating cases Damian’s been working on with Natasha, catching Hawkeye up to speed, pleasantly surprised when the archer has ideas of his own. It feels more collaborative than Damian had expected it to be.

But regardless, there is a lull in their current investigation, on a stakeout to watch the mark that Damian suspects to be responsible for a suspicious death. 

He clears his throat.

“His name is Richard Grayson,” Damian says. “He’s the first, first to be taken in, first to be trained, first to move on.”

Always moving. Never standing still.

“But I was his Robin,” he murmurs, and he meets Barton’s curious gaze. “He took on our father’s mantle when it was believed that he had died, but when Father returned, he returned to Nightwing, left Gotham, left... me.”

“You miss him.”

Damian sighs, hating how obvious he is. “It’s strange. I didn’t know I was capable of it.”

“Of what?”

He shakes his head. “It’s stupid.”

“Whatever you say can’t be any dumber than most of what leaves my mouth, especially if you’re the judge,” Barton points out, and despite everything, Damian feels a smile creep onto his face, because he isn’t exactly wrong.

“I just didn’t think I’d ever understand why he left. I worked with him, I was his partner. There was a time that I thought I knew everything to know about him, that we had a tacit understanding of each other. But in reality, I was only given half of the story, and I couldn’t see that. Not until coming here.

“He never wanted to be Batman. He’d done so much to leave, to grow up from Robin, to expunge himself of ties to my father, to his past. He made a new name for himself, and he makes a difference as Nightwing, without being under someone else’s shadow, and he cares about people, about their lives and he... Richard is... He’s a performer. He never stops, not for anyone, maybe even himself, and I spent years at his side. I should understand him better than anyone, but I was only chasing glimpses of the man underneath, the man he had to bury to be Batman, to be my Batman.

“I don’t think he ever let me in, Barton. Not at all. And I still remember, when Father returned, how strange it suddenly was to be around him. He became a stranger with Richard’s face, like our time together never existed—and... and if I can’t... What if...”

Damian sucks in a breath, and his lungs are rattled, his shoulders curling in.

There’s a fluctuation in his chest, that bubble, that weird emotional—.

“Hey, hey,” Barton murmurs, grabbing a hold of him, and Damian has to grit his teeth and force his head to move to meet the archer’s gaze.

“What if he... What if I go back and...”

There's a repetitive clicking sound that he’s hearing, and it takes longer than is reasonable for him to realize that it’s coming from him, from his chattering teeth.

It’s like his neuron synapses are misfiring, the wrong information getting passed, or blockaded—like his cognition is becoming paralyzed, disorienting him.

His mind is so far away that it’s hard to still his own shaking body, but he tries, and he tries to stay, to keep his control. He can’t let his mind blip again. But the thought of Richard forgetting him, of him not caring anymore, it’s scarier than anything Damian has faced before, and he hadn’t quite realized how possible that reality could—.

“Damian. Damian, listen to me. Kid,” Barton pleads. “Whatever you’re thinking, whatever doomsday thought you’re letting take space in your head, it’s not real. Richard—.”

Damian squeezes his eyes shut, focusing with all his might on existing in the moment.

“Dick. Everyone—calls—him—Dick,” Damian grounds out through his teeth. “Except—me.”

“Dick, then. And look, there it is. He lets you call him something special. Because you’re special to him. And I bet when you go home, he’s going to be so relieved, and he’s going to scoop you up into his arms, and I—I know he’ll be crying, bawling his eyes out. Because I bet he’s going crazy right now, missing you. Parents always miss their kids, like their vital organs are missing, like all the air in the room is gone, and—.”

Barton’s voice chokes up and when Damian opens his eyes again, it’s to catch a glimpse of tears in the archer’s eyes, but he doesn’t get the closest look at his expression, because soon he’s getting crushed in a hug.

It helps.

It’s good like this, because if it were any looser, if the hold weren’t so tight, Damian wouldn’t have remembered that there have been times that Richard hugged him like this, too. They’ve been through so much that it’s hard to even remember why, but it has to mean something, that he really does matter to Richard, more than something he’s trying to convince himself of.

He pictures an embrace like this one, maybe several of them, waiting for him when he gets home—and it’s enough, for now, to ease his rapid shaking, bringing him away from his sudden panic, to regain control over his mind.

When he’s stilled long enough, Barton pulls away to look at his face, despite the fact that his eyes aren’t visible through his domino mask. He cups his face. “You with me, kid?”

Damian nods. He still feels a little floaty, but he’s not—. 

He’s okay. He just needs a second. Or two.

“Good. We’re calling it a night here, okay? I bet Nat is still up, we can ask her to join us when we get back. How does hot chocolate sound to you?”

Damian blinks. “But the investigation—.”

“Is not important right now.”

“What about—?”

“Early night. No bartering. Now, let’s get going. If it’s bothering you so much, we can get out earlier tomorrow than we did tonight. Or stay out later, your pick.”

Damian really doesn’t understand this man. Just when he thinks he has an idea...

“It’s a suitable compromise, I suppose,” he finally agrees, realizing that the archer has essentially agreed to patrol with him again.

Barton grins. “I did say we were meeting each other half way tonight.”

Damian huffs. “Whatever. Your face is annoying.”

The archer snorts. “Sure, kid. Say that when I beat you home.”

“You can’t beat me.”

“Oh, yeah? Prove it.”

They lock gazes, and a charged pause fills the air, heavy with all that they just experienced, but also laden with the traces of a challenge to rejuvenate them, then—

Damian darts away, getting a running start, and then leaps. 

He is airborne, gliding, his cape catching the wind and for just a moment, he’s in flight. 

In the next second, he shoots his grappling gun, hits its mark, and he’s swinging, air whizzing through his hair, past his ears, and despite everything, the tears still at the rim of his eyes, Damian is somehow smiling.

Because when he’s Robin, even worlds away, Richard is almost with him, like he’s in his peripheral view, just barely out of sight.

.

.

There’s a new mutant at the school the next time Damian goes to Xavier’s, and it also comes to his attention that though most American schools are ending for summer vacation, the mutants have an all-year curriculum, which seems to be done more out of necessity than want. There are many children here who would not have a home otherwise, and many whose education has been interrupted and needs the time to be caught up to speed amongst peers.

Another realization Damian has come to is that new mutants arriving every week is something of the status quo; part of how his own entrance didn’t cause as much stir as his going to Gotham Academy first had. Other than the squabble with Keller, the student body largely overlooks him, perhaps doesn’t even know his name, and definitely doesn’t know what his mutation is. It’s a relief most days.

For once, Damian isn’t the weird one in the room. To be strange and other is the very basis of how everyone has come to reside at the school. Not even his skin tone, his accent, or his physical features is remarkable enough to have any aspersions cast against him; there are children with all sorts of different physical variations to the point that it’s absurd, like a boy made of rock, and a boy with the beak, claws, and wings of an avian.

Damian practically walks like a ghost in the halls of the school, only ever stopped by Collins and her dreaded roommate, who has become a staple at her side, as well as Scott and Dr. McCoy. Gambit will also stop him, somehow unaware of how annoying Damian finds him. Oddly, over time, Damian has made more connections with the faculty than the student body, and if it weren’t for Collins, he wouldn’t speak to any of the children.

She’s also how he knows any of the current events of the school.

Which is the only reason that Damian knows that the current new student’s name is Kevin Ford. Her curiosity over the various swirling rumors regarding the taciturn boy, who might as well be carrying a cloud of misery around with him, are relayed to him in quiet conversations, and Mantega isn’t around. If she were, Collins says that the aeropath would accuse her of having a crush, but she doesn’t, she’s merely drawn in by the mystery. At most, pitying him.

The main thing of any note about him is that Ford wears all black, and doesn’t allow any of his skin to be exposed, hinting at a mutation with skin to skin contact. He walks around with a gaunt expression and blank eyes; it’s a look of trauma that Damian can immediately recognize. He must have killed someone, potentially someone close. 

Anyone might consider that a reach, and Damian would acknowledge the lack of any supporting evidence, but it’s a sort of gut instinct that he can’t shake. Sort of how he knew that Natasha was an assassin at first sight.

That curl to Ford’s shoulders, shame and anguish roiled into one, Damian can’t dismiss those things as meaning anything less, and strangely, it’s his shadows that more than confirm it for him. It’s the way they blur at the edges, like they’re shaking, quivering. There is a lot of raw emotion carried within them, as if he’s mentally stuck in his memories. 

If Damian wanted to, he could shadow walk through Kevin’s memories, see everything for himself. The certainty of that sits in his bones, makes him leery at the thought of it. Like he’s anything remotely like the telepaths he’s been meeting...

But ultimately, Damian could care less about the boy, and while vaguely curious over what his power would show him, he decides to practice what he’s been preaching to the telepaths around him and exercise control while he has it.

In a way, his is an ability that could expose secrets, trauma, and while the potential benefits of the ability isn’t lost to Damian, he has learned enough, from various members of his family, that picking his targets wisely would be a far better utilization of his time and ability.

A random mutant child is very much not a target. 

.

.

“Sit.” Click! “Paw.” Click! “Very good, Nadezhda.”

Damian offers the cat a treat. It’s very basic training, but he’s never seen the point in doing much more than the fundamentals. At least, not without the proper interest and enthusiasm from whichever companion he is teaching.

“I can’t believe the cat is actually listening to you,” Barton says from across the room, on Stark’s sofa.

There is apparently to be a team meeting, but being punctual seems to be an area of lack for the team of superheroes. Only Barton and Dr. Banner have shown up so far, and while technically Damian isn't part of the team, Natasha has asked for him to be in attendance.

So, Damian brought Nadezhda with him, and a good thing, too, because most of the team, including those that called for the meeting, are running late.

“She is still a kitten, so she doesn’t always listen,” Damian responds to Barton. “But that is the way of things.”

“She’s cute,” Dr. Banner says, and when Damian looks at him, he wonders how much sleep the man is getting, for him to have such heavy bags around his eyes.

The man always seems to be weighed down by his worries, his internal wrestling with the Hulk, or whatever demons are in his past. As of late, he hasn’t spent as much time as he used to in R&D, though he does make an effort to join most of the dinners. Damian sort of appreciates the man for it, that he creates a sense of space, but not to the point that it feels as if he’s being avoided.

Still, he wonders just what Bruce Banner has going on that his shadows feel so... ill.

Damian avoids thinking about, or noticing, his shadow sense as much as possible, but Banner makes it hard. He might as well call himself—ludicrous though it may be—an aura-reader with how vague any explanation is, how incredibly difficult it would be to define it to anyone in his family back home. But, truthfully, some people cast larger shadows than others, and in Banner’s case, attached to them are stronger emotions.

If Damian had to guess, this man has definitely attempted— 

A biting cold nips his skin, but it’s long since invaded his insides, his quick breaths coming out in plumes. There’s a crystal clear silence in the air, and the quiet, more than anything, makes what he’s about to do so much easier.

His hands shake; in one of them is a gun—.

—to kill himself in the past.

“...mian?”

Damian blinks, jolting as he realizes he’s lost time and his awareness, and also that—

He lost control.

Something that anyone could do, and think nothing of it. Only, Damian doesn’t. Awareness is how he is still alive, and he’s not... He hasn’t really been using his abilities for a reason, namely because—

With a weird flip of anxiety in his stomach, Damian realizes that Rogers has entered the room, that Nadezhda has left his side to greet him, and... he hadn’t spent nearly enough time in thought for those things to happen without his noticing.

It happened so suddenly—faster than he could have reacted, and...

“You okay, bud?” Barton asks. “You look spooked.”

But not green? Barton would mention if he turned green, right? But if he didn’t, then...

It’s the first week of July. Summer. Stark keeps the tower temperature controlled.

Damian feels cold.

He rises to his feet, moving towards Barton, but then swerves to snatch Nadezhda into his arms first, and then indelicately throws himself onto the couch, jostling the archer.

Barton swings an arm around his shoulders seemingly without thought, and with that one motion, the cold seems to dissipate some. But the emotions, it’s like they’re sticking to him still. 

Nadezhda mewls, her blue eyes curious as ever, but quickly finding comfort in Damian’s arms as she settles in them without much fuss. A bit inspired by this, he leans more of his weight against Barton’s side, prepared for any sign of rejection or discomfort, poised to pull away.

But Barton seems to relax further, exhaling a held breath.

He has to take his mind away from Banner, to proverbially shake him off, and with time, it gets easier, like he’s gaining distance from the memory, from the cold.

“All good?”

“I’m bored,” Damian tells him, a weak excuse to seek comfort for. And that’s what he’s doing, isn’t it? Seeking comfort, because he’s scared. 

Is this what Scott meant when he said that telepaths abilities were more like a sense that couldn’t be turned off? Is his ability telepathic? 

But before Damian can worry too much about the semantics, Barton says, “‘Tasha just texted, they’ll be here soon.”

“Do we know why we’re all being gathered?” Rogers asks, joining them on the couch, sitting on Barton’s other side.

“Have no more clue than you do, Cap.”

And no sooner than those words hit the air, does the sound of the imminent arrival of several footsteps fill the air. It’s moments later that Natasha comes into view, bringing clarity and relief at the sight of her, followed by Stark, and then two more individuals after that.

Damian sits up, straightening his spine, gaze glancing at the woman and landing on the man, who appears the most familiar, what with his black eyepatch and bald head. 

He’s seen this man before. A security I.D, if he were to guess.

“So, this is Robin?” the man asks, practically rolling his eyes. “He’s skinny.”

“Shrimpy is more the word,” Stark corrects him, divesting himself of his coat and undoing the top button at his throat. He loosens his tie and looks at Damian. “Relax, Spitfire. You look ready to pounce.”

An understatement. His gut says to be on alert, high alert.

“I presume you to be Director Nicholas Fury.”

“You presume correctly,” the man says with no small amount of sarcasm.

Damian looks accusingly at Natasha. “I thought you didn’t want me involved with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“I don’t,” she says, crossing her arms, and arching a brow at Fury. “What did you say this wasn’t going to be, again?”

“It’s a long overdue meeting, is what it is,” the brunette woman quickly chimes in.

“It’s a scolding, actually,” Fury mutters.

Damian huffs a small sigh, unimpressed with the intimidating figure the man is trying to cut.

The thing is, anyone who has spent any time in Gotham wouldn’t be shaken. At least, not after you’ve met or been around the Joker. Once you’ve seen the tragedies left in that man’s wake, seen the extent of his insanity, how depraved a man can be, having borne witness to the chaos, seen what psychotic apathy paired with creative sadism looks like—no one quite holds up under comparison.

Damian doesn’t even hold the Joker in any high esteem, either, hardly impressed by a man who gets his rocks off tormenting his father or bludgeoning a kid to death—but he begrudgingly has to admit that he is one of the few people he has ever felt afraid of, that still has the ability to unnerve him.

Fury, by that standard, is like a barking dog, and Damian has plenty of experience on how to handle those.

“Our kid has never done anything wrong in his life, so if you’re wanting to scold him, you gotta talk to me, capiche?” Stark says, stepping up to Fury, who arches a brow.

“Is it the hacking?” Banner asks. “We’ve told him to lay off of it, but I’ll admit, we’ve not really been all that firm. Damian is very bright—it’s hard not to just sit back and see how far he’ll—.”

“The hacking is only the half of it .” Fury scowls, and then swings his glare towards Damian. “Are you out of your damn mind?”

Tt.

“Fury, what are you really here for?” Damian asks coldly, ignoring the pointless question. “Because if it were the hacking, day one, you should have come and questioned me—but you didn’t. You even allowed one of your agents to assist in forging an identity for me. All without us ever having met. Which, while generous, still doesn’t explain why.”

Damian has always been leery and curious over this fact. It’s not often that a government agency would do such a thing out of the kindness of its heart. There’s always something to it, some sort of lead that’s been buried. His forerunning theory has been that it’s to keep an eye on him, but it doesn’t feel like a complete answer by any means.

“This world is very different,” Damian continues. “In mine, I would have been brought in for questioning and imprisoned, not functionally adopted and babied. While I'm aware that Xavier’s assessment of my mind confirmed my story, I haven’t understood how it could be enough evidence to trust me, especially for a man in your position. So like the woman said, this meeting is rather overdue.”

“Maria Hill,” the brunette introduces herself. “The intention wasn’t to wait this long. We understand exactly what it means for you to be in this world, Damian. The multiverse is something we have only scraped the surface of, but we know it exists, how dangerous the potential impact could be. That you’ve come here from another world, and the timing of it—we have been looking into it, based on the information you’ve given the team.”

“Meaning, you decided to trust your agents to keep me in check.”

“That’s the team’s function,” Fury says. “They’re a team formed to protect and safeguard the world from both domestic and extraterrestrial threats, but we’ll go ahead and add interdimensional, and multiversal to the list.”

“Err, I don’t know how equipped you think we are, Nick, but interdimensional, multiversal, whatever, I didn’t sign up for. Did you, Nat? Clint?” Stark points a finger at the agents, who each shrug. “You guys are useless. Have you any self preservation?”

“Quite a bit, actually,” Natasha says. “Wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Oh, Nat. I didn’t take you for an optimist.”

“News to you, then.”

“Tony, shut the hell up,” Fury gripes, and swings his glare back to Damian. 

Damian arches a brow, arms folded obstinately.

“If I had any doubts about you being a snot-nosed pre-teenaged punk,” Fury begins, “those doubts died when I started seeing your nightly exploits in the news. The fact that you involved two of my agents—.” Natasha rolls her eyes. “—is the least of it. Do you realize what you’re doing? Have you thought, at all, how this impacts people?”

“I’m helping people.”

“You think you’re helping people, but you’re making yourself a target. You know what the news cycle is saying about you?”

Damian sighs. “What does it matter? Most of those idiots think I’m Stark’s hidden heir, which goes to show how little they know. It’s splash articles, fluff, nothing serious.”

“When it comes to public perception, I wouldn’t say it’s nothing serious, Robin.”

“Stark just needs to put out a public statement,” Damian mutters. “Surprised Potts hasn’t already.”

“It’s not whoever is your father, kid. It’s the fact that you’re a child vigilante. There are videos of you swinging through the city with a grappling gun, and countless more of you decking full grown men in the face. The people are talking. You are building a reputation for yourself that you are doing nothing to mitigate.”

“Building a reputation is the point,” Damian retorts.

The answer does nothing to convince Fury. “Need I remind you, you are a visitor to this world .”

“So people keep saying, but clearly, I’m going to be here a while,” he mutters. “You think I’m just going to sit around while I wait for Stark to unlock the secrets of the universe?”

“If you were smart, you’d keep your trap shut, too.”

“Well, I won’t. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m helping the same people you’re purporting to protect.”

“You’re setting out a lure,” Fury accuses. “You’re only trying to gain relevance to draw out the person who sent you here.”

“It’s crossed my mind as a potential benefit, but it’s not been at all effective, so it hardly counts as a sole motive behind my acts as Robin.”

“So, what, you do it all out of the kindness of your heart, stopping bank robberies, assisting pregnant ladies, and saving kittens from trees—.”

“Irrelevant. Do you ask the surgeon saving your life if he’s doing it out of kindness or for the money that gets deposited in his bank account on a biweekly schedule? I’m helping people, Fury.”

“For how long? To what end? And how far will you go?”

“I don’t know,” Damian admits. “But I have to do something. I can’t ignore the world just because it’s not mine.”

Fury stares at him. “Why do you care?”

The question is more loaded than it has any right to be.

Why does Damian care? Why does Damian care...

In his mind, there are a sea of moments, ubiquitous and unremarkable, but important. To Damian.

And really, it’s what he’s been thinking of all week, isn’t it? Robin, who and what Robin is, what the mantle means under his ownership. The people he’s inherited it from, the people he’s followed the leadership of... The values that come with it, and the ones he wants to create.

Voiced out loud, none of his reasons would make a lick of sense, either, spanning over years, his lifetime, the good and the bad. That the answer has come at the cost of never quite being enough, but striving for it. Of not knowing innocence, but that the loss of it is a call that the bird hears and responds to, seeking to shelter what is left of it in others, to preserve hope when it’s hardest to hold onto.

That it’s taken a long time for him to get to this point, that if he lets himself regress now, backslide into apathy and—.

But that isn’t an answer he can give, it is too intimate, and too vague and abstract.

Why does he care to help people, is not a question he’d ever have been asked a year ago. Hell, two months ago, when he was still in Gotham, no one would ask such a thing. It didn’t need to be asked, because—.

“Because I came to this world as Robin,” Damian blurts, and he feels like he’s said it so many times, but it’s now that it clicks. “It’s a legacy.”

He didn’t always protect the legacy or reputation that Richard trailblazed in Gotham, but he’s had plenty of time, plenty of experiences that he understands what it is now, what it means for others, but more importantly, what it means for him now that it’s his.

Emboldened, he adds, “I didn’t just pop out of thin air, Fury. I am my mother and father’s son, but unlike the others, I’m Robin’s Robin. I may blaze my own path here, but it’s not without them. Not without any of them. ”

“But you understand that none of us know what that legacy is or looks like. Your family could be losers for all we know, playing dress up and pretending—.”

Tt!

“You’re trying to rile me up,” Damian mutters, balefully glaring at him. “But it isn’t going to work.”

“Do you even care about your family anymore?” Fury asks, arching a brow. “It seems to me that you’re all too happy to have replaced them. You’re forging a new life here, a new identity. You’ve already got a new mom, new dad, and—.”

“What is the point—.”

“Are you even trying anymore? To get home?”—

“Nick.”

“Fury!”

“Stop badgering him—.”

—“I am trying.”

Fury looks unfazed by the chorus of voices interjecting, stepping in closer, towering over Damian, who stares mutinously back.

“I am trying,” Damian repeats.

“I heard in the beginning the hell you were raising, that you willfully implanted yourself here, attached yourself to Stark’s side to get him to build you a miracle machine—but how does that mean that you’re trying? You’re not even doing anything, expecting it all to be done by others—.”

“I’m doing what I can with what I have.”

“Do you know this for a fact? You’re a mutant—but you’re not from this world. How do you figure out the chances of that? Awakening those abilities on your arrival, coming to this place on that day, by such an outlandish method—.”

Damian breathes out, calming his ire. “I’m not lying.”

“You aren’t, but do you even know your memories to be real? I’ve heard about all the research you’ve been doing, but from all of the jacksquat that you’ve been finding, doesn’t that tell you something?”

“That this isn’t my world, you fucking asshole.”

“Who brought you here?” Fury asks, tone cold. “You have no idea. You won’t find anything, because there’s nothing to find. Your memories are implanted, your story a fabrication. Damian Wayne exists just as much as Damian Romanov—.”

The sudden cock of the gun brings an eerie quiet to the room, but it’s the sound of a second gun that freezes it.

Natasha holds her pistol out, expression blank, eyes trained on Fury’s face. Hill has pulled a gun of her own out, which, while first aimed at Natasha, has changed direction towards Damian.

“Careful there, Nat,” Fury says with a laugh, visibly unaffected by the threat.

“I didn’t bring you up here to psychologically torture my kid. Back away from him. Now.”

He snorts. “This ain’t torture, Nat.”

“No. It’s a boring game that you’re playing to rile me up with. It doesn’t matter to you at all whether my story is real or not. All you could care about is the security risks. The multiverse itself poses potential problems, threats that you can’t account for. If my story is real, your job gets a lot more complicated, but if it’s like you said, a fabrication, that I’m an implant, it narrows the scope to something a bit more manageable.”

“Well, what proof do you have that the things you think are true, are true?”

Damian shifts, deliberating—and in one, two, three swift moves, he knocks Hill’s pistol out of her hands, catching it out of the air and twists, arm out, staring down the barrel at Fury.

He doesn’t look impressed, unruffled. “Is killing me going to win you any favors?”

“The proof I have,” Damian murmurs. “I won’t give you a reason to switch that eyepatch to a blindfold, even if your face is pissing me off.”

“How is that proof?”

“The things I have survived can’t be replicated. The way I was raised, trained, the things I have done, believed in. My existence isn’t something I have to prove to you, or rationalize to your understanding. The question you asked was what is my proof, and there’s my answer. I won’t shoot you, no matter how tempting it is.”

For a long moment, Fury stares at him, mulling over his words.

The room is tense, quiet, with glances being shared amongst the adults, Hill rubbing her wrist.

And then Fury begins to laugh—crazed, deep belly laughs, a sound that deeply disturbs Damian but only for the fact that laughter always sounds weird to him, negative influences like the Joker and Professor Pyg being responsible.

“You’re something else entirely,” Fury says with no small amounts of derision, his laughter peetering out. “Mutant boy from another universe—you’re right. It doesn’t matter to me what the truth is, so long as the team is prepared for all eventualities, up to and including your potential as a mole.”

“We’ll deal with these things when they become relevant,” Rogers says, stepping up to Fury. “But we all know this boy. We trust him. Try to trust us.”

Damian hadn’t been expecting Rogers to be the one to speak up on his behalf, and it throws him off momentarily, especially as it reminds him of Rogers initial ask for trust in that first week, when everything was so confusing and strange.

It’s an odd realization of the time that has passed, how things are so different from then, when he didn’t care about any of them. It hasn’t even been that long either, in the grand scheme, and yet…

Fury rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m not here to harass him or take him away. But this isn’t a normal kid, and these are extreme circumstances—.”

“Who cares?” Barton cuts him off sharply, working his jaw. “Damian—.”

“Is a temporary add-on,” Fury mutters. “But you’ve all let your judgement slip. The team has imprinted on him like he’s a small puppy you found in the rain, but this isn’t a puppy you get to keep.”

A strange pause fills the air as Fury looks his way around the room, meeting the gazes of the Avengers.

“We all already know this,” Stark says, tone upbeat despite his vexed expression. “If you spent any amount of time with him, you’d know that he never shuts up about home or his family. But ultimately, you didn’t come all this way to beat a dead horse, did you? So, let’s collectively move on. Do you want to do the honors, or should I?”

Fury crosses his arms, nodding. “I’ll let you do the announcement for this one. It’s your building after all.”

At that, Natasha flicks the safety on her gun and reholsters it before holding her hand out towards Damian. Her ask is clear to him. With a shrug, he passes the pistol over, watching her inspect it.

He doesn’t expect that any announcement Stark could make would really have anything to do with him, and he’s right, because Stark says, apropos of any build up, “Stark Towers is officially getting a name change, and it’s in the works to be redeveloped. As you guys already know, it’s been under renovations due to the damages incurred during the invasion, so it’ll be killing two birds with one stone to make this place into what it’s already been these last couple of months.”

“Which is?” Barton prompts.

“Avengers Tower; our HQ for all things heroic and, er, avenging.”

“It’s a tax write off,” Natasha murmurs with a half-smile. 

“Hey—it is, but it’s not the only reason. I believe in this team, damn it.”

“Coming from the guy who refused to join the team in the beginning, several times if I remember correctly.”

“You can’t blame a skeptic for being skeptical,” Stark says, wryly smiling. “Only a suicidal idiot would be gung-ho about joining a team made to take on armageddon-level threats.”

“An alien invasion is far from armageddon,” Damian dryly remarks.

“Oh, and you’re familiar with armageddon.”

Damian shrugs. “Once, back when Richard was still Batman, there were black rings of power used to resurrect the dead of many heroes and figures associated with them. For example, the dead parents of both Richard and Drake. They had been called back to an animated state due to the work of the Lord of Unliving, Nekron. He’s a foe of the Lantern Corps, and he’s the physical manifestation of the concept of death as a cosmic certainty…”

In the resulting silence and blank expressions, Damian hears and sees the way his summary hasn’t done much to provide the understanding he had been expecting. It’s one of those moments where Damian gets a reality check how different their worlds really are. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s currently doing what he can do to get home, he’d feel envious at how simple their lives are.

With a sigh, he adds, “Suffice to say, I would take aliens above zombies any day of the week.”

“Damian, have you ever talked to a therapist before?”

He blinks at Banner, perplexed.

“Oh, boy,” Banner exhales. “We can revisit this later. Or you and Nat could talk, I don’t know. It’s nice you shared that with us, though.”

Damian cringes, face getting hot. “What? Share—No, I was just—.”

“Trying to brag,” Stark says knowingly. “The problem is, kid, your brags aren’t brags at all. They’re alarming.”

“It’s not bragging—I was just bringing up an example. I didn’t even fight Nekron, either. The extent of my involvement was just being possessed by a spectre called Deadman to share information with Richard, and the most action I saw was torching Black Lanterns and zombies with a flamethrower before I got sidelined into protecting Richard’s ex-girlfriend and her father. Richard took Drake with him to fight back the rest of the Black Lanterns in Gotham.”

All he receives is more blank stares, to the point that Damian weirdly feels embarrassed, self defensive.

Barton breaks the silence: “Your whole world is crazy. Here I thought Loki was bad.”

“Two things can be true at once,” Natasha grumbles, eyes flashing.

“And maybe I stand corrected,” Fury adds, considering Damian. “No spy organization in their right minds would hope to implant a story like that, unless they’re some failed hack comic book writer.”

With that, the man nods at Hill, a sign to go, who’s too busy frowning at Natasha to acknowledge it.

Natasha arches a brow.

“You gonna hand my gun back?” Hill asks acerbically.

“Confiscated.”

“The safety was on, I wasn’t going to shoot him,” Hill claims, which Damian knows to be true, but doesn’t feel the need to corroborate with her. “C’mon, it’s my custom Smith & Wesson, Nat.”

“Next time you value a weapon around me, don’t be pointing it at my kid,” Natasha warns her with a smile, her eyes alight with a precious glint as she moves to usher Hill out after Fury, who was already making his way to leave.

“It was a graduation gift—.”

“Well, it’s mine now,” Natasha succinctly cuts her off, practically shoving her out the door, Hill’s expression aggravated, but seemingly unwilling to fight too hard against Natasha.

A fairly wise decision, considering Natasha’s capabilities.

With Fury and Hill gone, several Avengers turn to look at him.

“Are we tabling the therapy talk for now?” Banner asks, his gaze sympathetic, and it’s strange to receive sympathy from the man, after that brief moment where Damian had experienced his suffering. It only makes his words more hypocritical, and more aggravating.

“If anyone in this room needs therapy, it’s not me,” Damian grumbles with a glare his way, picking up Nadezhda and holding her against his chest.

“I think that maybe we could all use some sort of counsel,” Rogers murmurs. “But there's a nuance to it, of course. As long as he’s well-adjusted—.”

“I’m perfectly well-adjusted,” Damian insists.

A weird quiet fills the air.

“I am!”

Tt.

“All of you are idiots,” he bites out, making to leave.

“In your situation, well-adjusted doesn’t exist,” Stark calls to him.

“Ugh, shut up! So annoying,” Damian mutters, leaving quickly enough that it might look like fleeing.

When people say such things, it’s really hard to know what expectations they’re holding above him, what their idea of Damian is and what he’s lacking.

He thinks of their reactions to Nekron, the way it felt absurd in front of them, like he was telling a tall tale.

Fury and Xavier are right—he really can’t forget that he doesn’t belong here, no matter how nice the people are.

.

.

“I thought I might find you up here,” Stark says.

Damian glances at the Iron Man suit and shrugs, his gaze going back to the cityscape.

“Jarvis told me, actually,” Stark admits. “He showed me the footage, too. Crazy moves for someone so shrimpy. You have, like, no fear of heights, don’t you?”

Damian sighs. “What do you want, Stark?”

“To talk.”

“Well, I don’t want to.”

“Too bad,” Stark sing-songs. “I came all this way, and you’re on my roof.”

Damian side-eyes him before rolling them. “What do you even wish to discuss?”

Stark hums, and the sound is slightly modulated. It tickles at Damian’s ears uncomfortably, the pause feeling loaded. Like he’s about to be lectured.

But Stark disengages the suit and carefully steps out to join Damian, wobbling and trying to keep steady as he hugs the building before carefully lowering himself next to Damian.

The wind is ruffling Stark’s hair and clothes, and he’s without his signature sunglasses, appearing weirdly vulnerable because of it. Stark has a sort of unmistakable face. He looks like no one Damian’s ever known before, and a large part of it is actually because of his eyes, rather than his goatee.

“Why are you all the way up here?” Stark asks as his fear seems to ebb, his gaze cast out at the city before bringing it back to Damian’s face.

“Felt like it.”

“Is that what you do back home? Pick the highest point to brood?”

Damian shakes his head. “The highest point is Wayne Tower, and it’d be too obvious.”

“Gotcha. But you brood somewhere. Any self-respecting preteen has to have a place to get away from everything, so where is it? Tell me about it.”

“I don’t really… There’s not really any time to brood. I keep busy.”

Stark hums. “I’ve noticed that. You don’t like to take things slow or do anything by halves.”

Damian shakes his head. “I don’t know why you’re saying that. All I’ve done here is… Useless. Pointless.”

“So, you are thinking about the things Fury said.”

He falls quiet at that. He’s thinking about the things Xavier said, too. The pragmatist in him thinks they aren’t exactly wrong, that they’re only reminding him what he needs to know, to not forget. He doesn’t belong here. He shouldn’t bother involving himself in these people’s lives.

What if it’s a mistake? All of it?

“I’m sorry,” Stark says suddenly, a surprise.

“Sorry?”

“I wish I could just whip up the machine that gets you home. I know you miss it.”

“It’s not something you should apologize for.”

“Maybe not, but against popular belief, I…”

“You have a heart," he mutters with a bit more sarcasm than intended.

“A conscience,” Stark corrects, and when Damian looks over at him, he sees how awkward the man truly is. How far out of his depth he is.

He wonders why Stark is doing this.

“Tell me about home, Damian,” he murmurs, unable to hear his thoughts.

There’s a loaded silence, only filled with the wind in the air and distant faraway sounds of the city. It’s isolating but it’s also freeing, just like it is back home. Damian has come to feel safer up high than he ever has below. But no matter how similar—.

“Gotham isn’t anything like New York City,” Damian begins.

“Not Gothic enough?” Stark says it like a joke.

“Yes,” Damian agrees.

“Oh.”

“The buildings there are tall, that’s similar. But the shapes are all off. Everything here is sharp angles, and ugly.”

“Is that a dig at the tower, Spitfire?”

“And it’s so much brighter at night here,” Damian continues, ignoring the joke. “The lights are all fake, fluorescent and neon, everywhere, obnoxiously loud. The activity is ceaseless, people up at all hours of the day, like moths milling around a light source. Back home, at certain hours, if you were caught out at night, it could mean death. A mugging would mean you’ve gotten off lightly. Even better if the police actually care to investigate and book the culprit.”

“This city ain’t too different then. Killings happen all the time, here, too.”

“It’s a difference of scale, of corruption. You say that because you haven’t seen it. Not yet, perhaps. I hear Gotham was a nice place, a long time before I was born, before all the gang wars started happening, or the damage that the rogues have caused. But it is different, Stark. You haven’t seen it, how a city looks at night with only streetlights on, sometimes not even that, without even the stars to act as a guide. Civilians are so used to the danger that they react to new threats like it’s routine. It makes them both more prepared, but somehow more vulnerable, because they get braver, more stupid when they feel comfortable in the danger.”

“And that’s why Robin is so important there, why you’re dressed like a traffic light. To help guide people to safety when it's gone dark.”

Damian casts a wary glance at him. “Yes.”

“You did it for two years.”

“Almost three.”

“Do you see yourself always being Robin? What about outside of the suit? Where do you see yourself in ten years, when you’re old enough to drink and nothing holding you back?”

He almost points out that drinking laws have never been a mark of adulthood for him, but he knows that isn’t the point of the question. So, he answers honestly:

“I… I see myself as Batman, taking on my father’s crusade against crime.”

“Is that what your father wants?”

Damian knows the answer to that. Father doesn’t want anyone but him to be Batman, but it doesn’t matter: “It’s what I want.”

“Nah. I don’t see it,” Stark murmurs, a know-it-all look in his eye.

“You don’t see it,” Damian echoes flatly, unimpressed.

“Take it from someone who wanted to be just like his dad once, too. It’s a good thing. We can’t all be Great Men like Howard Stark and, er, Mr. Wayne—.”

“Bruce Wayne.”

Stark cringes. “God, he sounds like a James Bond alias.”

“Who?”

“Double-O-Seven? Nothing? Alright, looks like we have some required watching to do together later, but back to the very excellent point I am making. We can’t be Great Men.”

“Is this supposed to be uplifting in some way? You came out here for—.”

“Shush! I’m making up this speech as I go, cut me some slack, kid.” Stark clears his throat. “Now, as I was saying. We can’t be Great Men, and that’s okay. There. That sounds good, doesn’t it? Scott Summers isn’t the only guy around with wisdom to share.”

Damian snorts. “Yeah, very poignant and cogently delivered.”

Stark gives him a nudge with his shoulder. “The point is, you don’t have to be great. You don’t have to be Batman, or the Heir to Terrible Naming Conventions. You just have to be you, Damian, and take a look inside to figure out what you really want.”

“That’s—.”

“Corny, I know. But, honestly, do you know how many people in the world don’t care? There’s a lot. Too many, in fact. I’ve made billions because of it. Now, see, you aren’t like that, not at all. And I’ve been asking myself, how can you not realize that? The whole team knows it! But somehow you’re still blind to it.”

“You’re starting to sound like Natasha.”

That seems to catch him off guard, but he huffs and says, “Good. Is that woman ever wrong?”

“But you don’t—.”

“For God’s sake, kid, I have funded and enabled wars. They call me the Merchant of Death.”

A hush falls over them.

Tony brings a hand to his face, roughly dragging it down his cheeks and jaw. He curses under his breath, and then turns his entire body towards Damian.

“Without even knowing, or, fuck, even caring, I have allowed for people en masse to be slaughtered with the weapons my company manufactured, weapons I designed,” he continues, his voice hoarse. “And I’ve benefited from it! There is so much that I have failed at in this life. I chose complacency every time it was offered, for decades. I got carried away by desires and chased goals that never could make me happy, and I—Damian, when I see you, damn it all, I feel as if there’s still hope for the future. For—I never—Christ, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. I’m not the speeches and words guy, I hardly even know if you actually even need me to say anything. I just...”

Damian doesn’t often provide comfort to others, vastly out of his depth. He hears the wallowing in Stark’s tone and wants to deny his doubts, wants to tell him how—.

“I don’t need speeches, Stark. I have found that action presides above all, and… I—.”

“Hold on, I found it,” Stark cuts in, straightening out his back. “The words I need to say, and you need to listen to me, because I’m only going to throw this at you once, and you need to remember it. Are you listening?”

“I’m not deaf. You have me boxed in here. I have to listen to you.”

“Shush. You’re listening, not running your mouth.”

Damian cuts him a dark look.

Stark lets a pause sit in the air, and then says, with conviction, “You are not a monster.”

The firmness of the words throw Damian off and he’s momentarily caught speechless.

“The things you’ve done to get you to this point, the environment that you were raised in, all of it. The cruel things you have said, the people you have hurt. None of it makes you a monster. It doesn’t make you irredeemable.”

“Then what does it make me?”

“It makes you flawed. Human. You will continue to make mistakes. You will continually fail in life, sometimes more often than you will succeed. You are never going to reach every expectation that the people in your life have set on your shoulders, and that is okay. Because you don’t have to be great. You shouldn’t feel that if you don’t hit the mark someone else set for you, that it makes you worthless. Because you’re not alive for the sake of filling a role that you haven’t chosen for yourself. There is much more to life than any of what you’ve been convinced that it is, or could be.

“At the end of the day, Damian, you just have to… get out of bed, try not to fall into despair, fill your stomach, and spend time with the people you want to. And when you decide to be a hero, you still remember that you’re important, too. Your life isn’t worth any less than the person you’re helping. You are important. You will always be important. You matter to me, to Nat, to all the others who’ve met you here, and I bet my very vast fortune that you matter to the people in your universe, too. 

“Just as you are, Damian, you matter.”

A silence falls between them, one that Damian can’t fill, not only because he doesn’t have the words to respond with, but also because it feels as if Stark is speaking directly to all the questions weighing on his mind, the ones he keeps to himself, ashamed of.

Then, Stark laughs, the silence and the mood that had filled it dissipating in seconds. “Hah! Beat that, Scott Summers. Maybe I am a speeches guy, after all.”

The utter stupidity of it all. 

Damian snorts, and then immediately bursts into laughter to join Stark’s, the noise creaking and unnatural, coming out in gasps and wheezes.

Stark is so—.

Damian’s entire body shakes, and through his fit of laughter, he asks, baffled, “Stark, you’re a billionaire genius, what could you—what could you possibly need to—compete with Scott for?”

“Well, to start with, the man is unfairly good-looking, and the red quartz sunglasses! He has to have washboard abs and the chiseled jaw of a magazine model with a mystery of allure that money can’t buy,” Stark says, aggravated, sliding his gaze back to Damian to say, “And to top it all off, he gets to be called Scott and I get ‘Stark’.”

Damian blinks at Stark’s attempted mocking of the way he says his name.

“Stark!” The man fumes. “Now, I haven’t said anything about it because you address everyone by their last names—and I respect the power move for what it is, don’t get me wrong. But you call Nat ‘Natasha’, and you call Scott ‘Scott’, and I get—my dad’s name.”

“Howard Stark,” Damian says tonelessly.

“Yeah, the Howard Stark.” Stark sighs, shifting to sweep his legs over the ledge, dangling them alongside Damian’s.

“You don’t like your father, do you?”

“How’d you get that impression?”

Damian shakes his head. “A baseless assumption.”

Stark gets a strange look on his face. Consternation and reluctant acceptance. 

“It’s not entirely baseless,” he admits. “I had a complicated relationship with the guy,” Stark murmurs with a shrug. “Hard to really feel like he was my dad, to be honest. I had to share him with the world, and I never ranked very high on his list of priorities.” Stark nudges into Damian’s shoulder, casting him a conspiratorial look before leaning away again. “He was not a man who cared for ‘one on one’s, either. Sometimes it feels like I hardly knew him.”

“Oh.” Damian swallows past a weird lump in his throat, an uncomfortable flutter in his chest.

“Which was fine, actually. When he was around, it was... somehow worse.”

“Why was it worse?”

His question seems to jolt Stark as he comes back to himself, drawing away from the memories he might have had on his mind. His gaze flickers to Damian and then back to the skyline. “I shouldn’t be talking about this with you, honestly.” Stark scoffs at himself. “Unloading all of this on an actual child—I hit new lows every day.”

“Why was it worse?” Damian repeats, not caring to see Stark pointlessly beat himself up.

Stark’s eyes return to his, and he must see something there, because he says after a moment of debate, “It’s hard being near someone you just want to be loved by, but all they want is for you to be... Everything you aren’t.”

Oh.

“I... I see,” Damian murmurs.

Stark is unruffled by his lackluster response. He rolls his shoulders, and lays back, gazing up at the night sky. The Arc Reactor in his chest seems to glow brighter somehow.

“You know,” Stark begins, unbothered by Damian’s gaze, “I never—I mean, I knew it would happen, that I would take over what my father left, but even now, when it’s been decades since he died, it still feels like the shoes don’t fit. When people call me Stark, I can’t help feeling like I need to look over my shoulder to see if my dad is around. I’m forty-two and I still feel that way.”

“Is Tony short for another name?” Damian asks quietly, laying on his back to share the view with Stark.

“Ah, you’re not getting a fast one on me, kid. I’d really like it if you called me Tony.”

“But it’s a nickname. It's a derivative of something . Is it Antonio? Anton? Anthony? Antonius? It has to be one of them,” Damian says, and then adds, contemplatively, “It’s an Etruscan name meaning worthy of praise. Did you know?”

Stark chuckles. “I didn’t. Suits me, doesn’t it?”

“Not really,” Damian grumbles, sort of lying. “But which one is it?”

“Anthony,” Stark admits with a long drawn out sigh. “But you can’t call me that, no one will know who you’re even talking about or to. It also doesn’t feel like my name.”

In this case, Damian has to agree with him. Anthony doesn’t suit Tony at all. If he were to call him by it, it would feel like putting a mask of someone else’s face over Tony’s, forcing him into a charade. Tony’s most striking trait is his authenticity, his inability to pretend. Anthony feels like a lie, somehow.

Names convey a lot of hidden meanings. Damian likes to be careful with them, because he’s been raised to be.

“It’s a good name, though,” he ends up saying.

“For somebody else, sure,” Tony agrees.

The two let a silence fall between them, their feet dangling off the edge of Stark Tower, their backs on the cool slabs of concrete, faces pointed toward the infinite space before them. The night feels cool and the sound of the city is faraway up here, away from the distant police sirens and honking cars.

For once, he feels like he can relax, some tightness in his shoulders unworking itself as he mulls over the things Tony has said to him tonight.

“Damian,” Stark murmurs a few minutes later, his tone soft, barely a disturbance at all. “It’s Greek, right?”

He nods. “Damianos. Conquer, master, overcome, tame.”

“Who named you?”

“My mother. It was her aspiration for me that we may conquer the world together.”

“My mother named me, too,” Tony says, for once not making a joke like Damian had been unintentionally bracing for. “I’m starting to think we have a lot more in common than I realized, Spitfire.”

“Hm.” Damian isn’t too sure about the claim, but he also can’t deny it either. Sometimes he just wants to be stubborn about things, even if he knows it isn’t practical.

“I guess that’s why I wanted to talk to you,” Tony murmurs. “I wanted to tell you things that I think I would have wanted to hear at your age.” He awkwardly scratches at his chin, adding, “But you can take it or leave it.”

“It’s good advice,” Damian surprises himself by blurting.

“Really? I thought, well, I hoped... When I pictured myself coming up here, all I could imagine was that we’d be arguing.”

“You’re only annoying sometimes, Tony.” Damian lightly wrinkles his nose at saying his name, but it’s discomfiting in a strangely pleasant way.

“Oh, just sometimes?”

Damian smiles, but doesn’t add anything else.

He’s struck by the thought that there are now three people in this world that he dares to call by their first name. He’s known them for such a short time, but as willfully distant as he’s tried to be, it has been impossible for him to escape the sense of quiet assurance from these people, whose belief in him somehow remains steadfast, without ever having made him do anything to earn it. 

It’s almost addictive, the sense that these are people who want him around, as opposed to being forced to look after him, pawned off to with a quick change of hands. 

He doesn’t have to keep his back straight here, his shoulders tense, poised to attack. He doesn’t have to be prepared to leap to his defense at every other word out of his mouth, that they actually want to understand him, and aren’t filled with any hidden agendas or weighted down by any complicated, soured histories that make it hard to like Damian.

The underlying tacit understanding he has with the Avengers is something he feels he only really had with Richard, when they were at their best. It’s peculiar, strange, oddly relieving, and nearly unbelievable that so many people of this universe actually care about him. Him.

Even if they don’t need to.

“That’s good that it’s only sometimes,” Tony remarks. “I thought you couldn’t stand me.”

“I find you to be tolerable.”

“Tolerable, eh? Tough crowd.”

Damian turns his burning face enough that he can’t see Tony in his peripheral vision. “I generally find family to be tolerable.”

“You generally find family—oh, kid, get over here,” Tony says, reaching over to pull his body into the side of him. Damian lets himself be tugged, rolling to face him, his forehead lightly knocking against the Arc Reactor, blue light briefly flashing through his vision before he closes his eyes and nestles in closer.

Tony puts his hand on his head, and it feels nothing like the gentle, deft touch of Natasha’s. 

Tony’s hand has weight to it, but there’s also a shake in his fingers, an uncertainty that creates a vague awkwardness in the way he shows affection. For Damian, who’s only really experienced physical affection from Richard, bits at a time from Father and Mother, and now Natasha, it inspires a weird, wiggling feeling in his chest.

It doesn’t feel bad, though.

It almost feels like the wiggling feeling is unrolling something heavy in his chest that he’s only now realizing had been there. A knot getting worked out, uncoiling.

He huffs out a breath, and realizes how easy it is to breathe, curling into Tony’s side and holding onto his shirt.

Damian inexplicably feels like a child, being this vulnerable, this defenseless. Yet the feeling arises without the usual instinctive resistance. The answer as to why, reveals itself in a soft, content sigh.

He feels safe.

Chapter Text

Natasha stares across the table at Fury, working her jaw, deliberating on the disaster of the Avengers Tower reveal. 

Not many people can pull a gun on their boss and still have a working relationship with them, but Fury isn’t just any boss, and it’s not the worst thing she’s ever done. 

“I wanted to see him under pressure, how he’d handle himself,” Fury tells her with a shrug, eyes on the bottle of whiskey he’s brought out. “Instead, you surprised me.”

“I surprised you?” Natasha somehow doesn’t buy that. In the many years she’s worked for him, he’s hardly been shocked by anything, his paranoia leeching into even the most mundane of his relationships. His position requires him to see the worst in people. It's hard to shock someone who spends his free time predicting worst case scenarios, and developing contingencies for the contingencies.

But Fury’s eyes on her are vaguely amused.

“You care about him,” Fury states, before swallowing the shot he pours himself.

“He’s under my protection,” she reminds him, but she knows herself how it sounds. It’s not a very good deflection of the truth. While she’s admitted it to Tony before, in front of Fury it feels strange to get the words out of her mouth. To say: I’m compromised.

It’s harder with authority, it feels like admitting to failure. Of course, Fury is nothing like Dreykov, but Natasha spent all of her life completing tasks for others, and doing them perfectly—it eats at her ego to outright say she failed, especially for reasons that feel intimate and personal to fess up.

“That’s not all. You would have pulled the trigger,” he says, meeting her gaze, lifting his brow, as if daring her to deny it.

Natasha could lie to him. She doesn’t often with Fury, but she could.

Instead, she reaches for the bottle of bourbon, pours out a shot of her own, and pauses after bringing it to her mouth.

The reality of it is that she isn’t certain she would have shot him. Natasha typically raises her gun only if she’s prepared to use it—she’s killed friends before as well, for no good reason other than what the Widow program deemed important to impress into her mind, and even years after, when the Red Room had long been put to rest in the past. These things together might mean the answer is yes. But she’s—well, she thought—that she’s progressed beyond that.

Yet, she thinks of the flash of hurt she’d noticed in Damian’s eyes, and her stomach twists. Fury had hit a nerve, and she’d regressed, an instinct she didn’t even know she had overcoming her.

Some part of her knew that Fury was speaking in such a manner for a reason—whether he believed his words or not, doesn’t matter.

Her reluctance to tell the truth to Fury about this puzzles her, but as does her inability to lie. There are times where anything that leaves her mouth exists in a state where it could be either or, where she isn’t the arbiter, where she doesn’t know who is. 

Truth becomes nebulous, something truth should never be.

She throws back the shot, warm as it goes down her throat, and sets the glass face down on the table.

“You know how the Goddess Athena was born?” she asks, more rhetorically. It’s a famous story after all, and even Fury, whose interests don’t typically lean towards Greek Mythology—more Norse these days, incidently—would still be aware of what she’s referring to.

Fury inclines his head, giving her the space to continue.

“She was born fully clad in armor, emerging from his skull, primed for battle,” Natasha says.

“Is this you implying the boy is something straight out of your mind?”

Natasha smiles, a diluted one. “Sounds funny when said out loud. And unrealistic—a stretch of the imagination of something that’s made more implausible the more you think about it.”

“I didn’t realize you wanted kids.”

Natasha has a cold pit in her stomach, but her smile doesn’t budge. “I could never dream of such a thing, Nick.”

“But there’s something about him that’s making you dream.”

Natasha snorts. “Dreams are for children,” she wryly rebuffs him. “What we have are better described as nightmares.”

His lip curls into a smile at her remark. “And his aren’t? I know a trained killer when I see one. It’s in the eyes.”

“It’s in more than the eyes,” she mutters, thinking of the way Damian walks, breathes, holds himself. She wonders if she made it as obvious at his age.

Natasha doesn’t remember being twelve enough to be sure.

“He’s a free agent,” Fury points out, like that hasn’t been painstakingly obvious to her. “With mutant powers, and combat training—which he’s using to zip along the city to play hero, dragging you and Clint around with him, making a spectacle of my operatives.”

Natasha snorts—of course he would see it that way.

She might have seen it that way, too, before Damian came into her life. But since patrols with Robin, her outlook has changed, altered in the face of his concentrated effort. She has seen Damian pour the same focus of looking for a lost pet as looking for a missing person—something in that, at its core, makes him more than she ever was at his age.

Certainly not much of a killer anymore, or the threat that Fury thinks he might become.

“Well,” she murmurs dryly, “if you intended that show from earlier to be a wake up call, it isn’t necessary. I know you think we can’t be objective about this, that we’re all compromised by his puppy dog eyes, but things are not so simple.”

“You’ve told more convincing lies than that before, Romanov, if you’re about to claim otherwise.”

She shakes her head.

“Have you ever wondered what the team would look like without him around?” Natasha doesn’t wait for a response before pressing on, “I have. I’ve thought about it a lot.

“Because we all would have split. We were splitting. There was hardly a team at all. One victory shawarma and Tony couldn’t stand the city, wanted to go to his house in L.A. Hole up there until the next big thing—and yet he stayed, because I asked that we look for Damian. 

“And Steve, he was prepared to forge a new path on his own, to see how drastically the world has changed, to room in some beaten up flat and keep his head down until you barked orders. But he came to the tower, because he recognized Damian’s plight, how it mirrors his own. Both of them are caught in a different world than they grew up in, displaced, and he knows things can be better handled with friends.

“As for Bruce, he wanted nothing to do with any of us before the invasion, and he’s still the hardest to nail down, but he stays because he knows that what was working for him before, total isolation, isn’t cutting it anymore. Do you get that?”

“You think this kid is the glue, the bandaid to all of your guy’s problems,” Fury concludes, tone derisive.

“I think he gives the team perspective,” Natasha corrects. “Hope.”

“Hope? That kid? Doesn’t really give off those vibes to me.”

Natasha’s smile grows. “You and I both know that looks are deceiving.”

He inclines his head.

When he lets the silence linger, she adds, “That’s what the Avengers are sort of like, right? Aside from Cap, the rest of us are far from inspirational—we’re all making amends for something we’ve fucked up, more ragtag than an actual team. 

“No one but you could’ve dreamed it into existence, but he’s the one turning that dream into reality, and he’s not even trying to, it’s a mere side-effect—and it’s because Damian is… Just like us, but better. He’s dedicated, persistent, and brave. Bullheaded, even. And he has so much heart, despite what he’s endured. The team more than sees that, we feel it.”

He reminds her so much of little Yelena, and God knows she failed her.

Sighing, Natasha concludes in a soft voice, “Damian is coping with the only way he knows how, with more grace than any kid should ever need to have. He’s moving forward here because he has to, not because he’s given up on his life back home, and we’re all aware of that.”

It’s a peculiar silence that chills the air, and Natasha can only let it linger in fear of what else she might say, what else she might admit to.

Eventually, Fury breaks the silence, his voice uncomfortably gentle, “I’m not entirely cold hearted, Nat, I know what you see in him.”

When she meets his gaze, all she sees is pity.

“Take it from a friend,” Fury murmurs, “you’re signing yourself up for a broken heart—and here I thought you had too much self preservation for that.”

“It’s a good thing pain only makes us stronger,” she tells him mechanically.

A motto taken from Melina, someone who had once been her pretend-mom. There have even been times where she has believed it to be true, where she seemed to only have made it out of the hell in her past because of that belief—but when the words catch the air, when she sees the doubt in Fury’s face, Natasha feels a lump form in her throat.

“I won’t interfere where he’s concerned. You’ve made your point perfectly clear with that fiasco from before,” Fury says, a bit of mock in his delivery. 

“Well, good.”

.

.

Tony has awful taste in music. 

Yet, it’s unfortunately growing on Damian the more time he spends in Tony’s workshop.

Something like The Rolling Stone’s, ‘Start Me Up’ will blare from the speakers, and Tony will move to the rhythmic beat of the bass and drums as he moves around his workspace, in constant jittery motion, and when he’s working on something he’s particularly enthusiastic about, it shows. 

Just by adding the music he likes to the mix, his work somehow turns into a performance that Damian has front row seats to, one that he has to work very hard not to laugh at. If he so much as curls his lips into the semblance of a smile, it only incites Tony to take it further, to be more extreme in his antics.

It’s in blaring contrast to all of the irritatingly long conversations and going-no-where arguments about multi-dimensional theories they’ve had in the same space, and Damian begins to realize that while Tony has claim to an incredible intellect, he’d much rather use it to pursue creating what amounts to expensive, dangerous, fully loaded toys. 

Damian’s bike is no exception to this.

Suddenly, Tony is all ideas, where before it was like pulling teeth to get him to talk—this only serves to further cast doubt on Damian’s belief that Tony will be the one to get him home, but Damian doesn’t allow himself to linger on that. Not right now.

They work on the body of it together, which seems to be a new experience for Tony, and is unusual for Damian as well. 

He’s helped his father before, once or twice, but it’s different; they worked in silence for the most part, keeping any idle conversation on current cases they were investigating. Any music that was put on in the background was operatic, and quiet.

Of course, things were different if Drake was around. Drake has equitable taste in music to Tony, raucous, punchy, aggressive. But at least Drake has the decency not to listen to so much blatantly euphemistic lyricism in the music he plays on the speaker, and not nearly as loud either.

With Tony, however, the only consistency is that there is never a quiet moment, something that Damian feels equal parts grateful for and mildly resentful of. 

After their conversation on the roof, Tony’s been kind of weird—weird, even for him. Like he’s embarrassed, but trying not to show it. He appears almost nervous or awkward around Damian, but not as if he’s uncomfortable, because there’s a light in his gaze, a sparkle of mischief that gets brighter each time Damian makes a quip back to any of his jokes.

It makes Damian feel a little weird, but not bad. Just that… Well, it’s sort of nice. Unexpectedly.

Now, Tony isn’t really the guy you think of when it comes to emotional vulnerability, and for having talked about the things that they did, as honestly as they did, Tony tries too hard to pretend that the status quo hasn’t been affected—so much that it’s obvious that the status quo very much has. That’s made obvious from the way Tony’s famous snark has softened into something more fatuous, and puerile. Silly. He’s not really trying to rile Damian up or trying to one-up him, focused more on the project at hand and teaching him things about engineering that Damian actually hadn’t known before.

But the conversations stay thin, and guarded. Things might have changed a little bit between them, but the lines are still there. 

Strangely, it’s the sort of distant-closeness that feels familiar, even bittersweet. It reminds him of when Father first returned, and when Richard stepped back into the mantle of Nightwing. A faux-casualness, a surface-level camaraderie that allowed for jokes, for team-ups, but if Damian prodded too deeply, asked for too much, or said something a little too revealing, Richard would disappear.

The next time they’d see each other, it would be as if nothing had happened. Frankly, he’s not certain they’ve really grown past... that.

But Richard and Tony don’t really share all that much in common, aside from a dating preference for redheads, showing off, and quick-wit.

Regardless, Damian’s starting to understand Tony a bit more than he would have a few months ago, not being nearly as critical of the man as he would have been.

Damian is similarly not the most… adept at things like feeling, and talking about said feelings… 

But he’s been getting a lot of practice with Natasha and Barton on their patrols.

It’s peculiar, actually. Damian will talk to them about anything and everything that comes to mind, prepared to either be dismissed or ignored, and somehow leave their conversations knowing he hasn’t been misunderstood, that conclusions about him haven’t been jumped to. They don’t really have any reason to, no preconceived notions that make them assume the worst in his motives. He hasn’t really had to defend himself.

Which, perhaps, is the reason why Damian can’t bear his teeth the same way as he does with his family back home, why he’s so tolerant of their idiosyncrasies and willfulness in treating him like a child.

These people don’t assume the worst in him. Not even when learning of the terrible things he’s done. They see him now, not as he was—and that’s jarring, too. He’s different. In ways that he has yet to even inspect.

It’s in large part due to Natasha, that’s evident from the way she speaks to him and about him, narrowing in on the smallest details to establish the exact cause of his words and behavior, understanding his lines of logic better than anyone he’s ever met before. She doesn’t assume the worst, because she already understands.

She understands him.

It’s so tacit, the way she navigates their conversations. He’s known people for years and none of them have gotten so close to him, so quickly.

The only other person Damian has ever experienced that with has been his mother, and even then, he has always kept it private, has never given voice to it; there are times he feels as if there is a barrier between them, a language he isn’t fluent enough in, the connection between them frayed in the wake of other influences. 

But there are no other influences here.

And without Natasha, Damian knows he’d never have gotten past that initial conversation with Tony. He’d have been doomed to stay with the X-Men, or have gotten by some other means, and maybe that would have been decent, but it wouldn’t…

It wouldn’t be this.

Building bikes in Tony’s development lab, taking a plane out to nowhere to shoot arrows with Barton, leaping across buildings and taking down criminals, watching movies and playing board games, family dinners every night, and talking without interference or need to whittle himself down to be palatable.

It’s so different here, and he’s looked into the mirror often enough in this world to see that he’s slowly starting to see those differences make changes in his reflection. Like he is malleable, despite his belief in the past that he would be a killer masquerading innocence in perpetuity.

He sees Natasha and feels like he can slow down, just a bit. That he doesn’t have to race into the unknown anymore, chasing after someone who is just as lost.

Instead, there is only the disarming relief of being guided in the dark by someone who can see clearly, who chooses to walk side by side, careful and patient. It’s reaching safety, finally exhaling after holding a breath in too long, tense muscles relaxing.

Natasha became that person when Damian hadn’t even been looking, and it’s under her influence that he can be here, with Tony, and not feel resentful of his circumstances. That he can afford to take his mind off of home at all.

Truthfully, Damian knows that he’s been strange, too, just like Tony. His behavior has become increasingly lackadaisical, downright indolent as each day passes. Lazy and sluggish. At least by his standards, he is unimpassioned, carried by the motions, by the cyclical schedule he has created for himself.

He feels like he is caught in a state of transience, spurned into action and enlivened by his work as Robin, but made to slow down to a leisure pace in his personal life. As Damian. 

If it were a seed sown from his conversation with Xavier, it was watered and sprouted by Fury’s words.

It’s obvious to them, and it’s obvious to him; for the first time in his life, Damian is directionless. 

He’s not really… The thing is, Damian isn’t used to being listless—hasn’t really experienced this sort of slow style of living, where there aren't a million fires to put out in every direction, that there isn’t really a need to split himself into multiple directions to keep up with the world.

Oh, if he looked for them, he’s certain he’ll find them, but somehow in the tower, it’s here that he can actually sort of… enjoy where he’s at, even if he can’t quite enjoy his enjoyment. He’s having fun, and he shouldn’t be.

He knows it won’t last. 

None of this will last. All life is impermanent, transient, and so are the memories.

But still, Damian thinks that even in the face of perpetual change, from working together with Tony and not talking about the obvious, he’ll always remember this:

Loud music, dumb lyrics, Dum-e spinning its arm in confusion, and Tony, grinning like the two of them are in on a hilarious joke together. 

Certainly, the music sucks, but when it’s all you can really hear in the room other than the sound of powered equipment and Tony’s shouting, the nice thing is that it disguises any of the wheezing laughter that escapes Damian by surprise—laughter he’d readily and vehemently deny if anyone made any mention of it.

Eventually, Natasha shows up with a half smile, takeout in hand. The bike is temporarily pushed aside to be worked on later, and another ‘family’ dinner is had amongst him and the Avengers.

Only, this time, Tony says something truly absurd, Barton agrees, and while Natasha tries to corral them with Rogers’ questionable support, Damian has a moment where he can’t stifle his laughter anymore and it breaks out of him, uncontrolled and unruly, so much so that there are tears that well in his eyes, that his ribs and stomach protest, and his face hurts—

And photos, several of them, are taken—

“Aw! Wook at his wittle teefies!” Barton exclaims, and Natasha fixes her gaze on him with unmasked astonishment after scrutinizing the photographic evidence of his brief loss of bodily and mental function, asking, in disbelief, “Damian, do you still have baby teeth left?”

Most intolerable moment in this world yet.

.

.

After a few deeply unbearable days in which Damian unthought every nice thought he’s ever had about the Avengers, he finally agreed to leave a dental record in this world for an unnecessary dentist appointment, confirming that yes, while he had a few baby teeth, they weren’t a cause for immediate alarm, but to reassess for the need of future braces after they fell out.

Braces! Not happening.

Drake and Todd would never let him live—.

It will simply not happen, no matter what the dentist or Natasha say. He is allowed crooked teeth if he so wishes!

.

.

One doctor appointment somehow leads to speculation about his inoculations or lack thereof.

“Have you ever been vaccinated?”

To which Damian has to think, were any of the shots he received growing up vaccinations for diseases? Certainly his mother and grandfather studied medicine, holistic and modern, and adding that Mother would not risk his health, he’s sure that he has received some immunizations, but he’s not certain of which or how many.

In the face of doubt, Damian hotly retorts, “Does it matter? I’m a mutant. I doubt that I’ll ever have to worry about disease again.”

Natasha doesn’t like this answer very much, her expression quietly grim. Like this, her similarity to his mother becomes apparent once more.

“We should all just be thankful that he didn’t bring some all-life-on-Earth-destroying disease with him when he landed here,” Tony unhelpfully adds. “Didn’t he once mention there being zombies in his world?”

Damian glares.

“What?” Tony asks defensively. “I was listening to you when you were talking about that Nekro dude.”

“Nekron,” he corrects, mildly surprised by how close Tony was. “Except, he doesn’t need to use viruses to reanimate the dead. As the Lord of Unliving, he has certain powers that allow him to target who he brings back, and they aren’t mindless, either. He retains control over them and they do his bidding, but a semblance of the person returns. Although, it is a bit difficult to say whether it’s actually them, or just parts of them that were brought back incorrectly.”

“And he’s like... a big bad, right? A villain in your world?”

Damian shrugs. “I never had to fight him personally, but I read the case files from the Justice League. Nekron has a vital weakness. He may seem all powerful, and indestructible. After all, he is an amortal—not alive. He can’t die because he’s already dead, and because of that, he isn’t meant to exist in the land of the living. To even interact with life, he requires a connection to be made, and once that connection is severed, he returns to the Land of Unliving, and he becomes about as deadly as the concept of death.”

“Spooky,” Banner murmurs, mulling over Damian’s explanation, when a peculiar shine enters his eyes. “What sort of connection would have to be made?”

Damian considers this and answers, “Something like a tear in space-time, or a mortal host.”

“Or... both?”

Tony blinks. “Jolly Green, are you thinking...?”

 “Damian, what are the chances that you’re—”

He scoffs. “That I was punched through a space-time tear, and that I, what, became a host to something? What could I possibly be the host of?” 

“I was thinking more along the lines of you being a link,” Banner clarifies. “Not that you have a parasitic connection with anything, but that you might have very well been punched into a tear through into an alternate reality, and that you were able to survive the process by becoming the connection between your world and ours.”

Damian doesn’t like this line of logic.

“Are you implying that to get home, I have to destroy myself?” Damian asks caustically. “Because that’s what I’m hearing. But to begin with, what you’re saying is absurd. How do I become the link when I wouldn’t even, couldn’t even—”

Damian cuts himself off, taking a deep breath.

“I hadn’t thought it all the way through,” Banner acknowledges, his expression pinched, his smile tight.

“Alright, alright, before the both of you turn green, let’s just bin the conversation altogether,” Tony jumps in, and then to Natasha, says, “Yeesh, didn’t know vaccinations was such a hot-button issue.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns, but the corner of her mouth is rising.

“Hey, it’s called dispelling the tension,” he remarks with a grin.

Damian scrunches his nose, looking between three adults and mutters with a groan, “Insufferable.”

“Yet tolerable?” Tony asks, his smile wide, but waning, something uncertain sneaking its way through despite the confidence he’s trying to project.

It dawns on Damian then, the veritable fact that tolerable has now entered Tony’s vernacular not as its intended meaning, but as a substitute for familial affirmation.

Face suddenly hot, he considers making a hasty exit, but hesitates, finding that he almost feels… not unhappy, about this.

“Yeah,” he finally agrees, not meeting anyone’s eyes, that weird squirmy feeling welling up inside him, making it considerably more difficult to remain aloof. “Still tolerable.”

.

.

“Just makes me a little leery, is all,” Barton says, peering over Damian’s shoulder at the files spread on the table.

“What does?” he asks, only half paying attention to the archer, most of his focus on mentally cataloguing dates and locations, making his way through the various missing persons and kidnapping cases—a percentage that has skyrocketed from the last month, even from an already alarming rate per capita.

Damian’s certain there’s a connection in nearly all of the cases, even if the victims aren’t necessarily homogenous, at least at first glance. 

“It’s a lot of kids,” Barton points out.

He glances at Barton, sighing. “Up to eighty percent of them are, that’s correct. However, the oldest recorded case is age twenty. Also, though there’s a handful of outliers, the majority of them are female.”

Barton frowns. “You think it’s a human trafficking operation.”

“That’s the only thing I’m certain of,” Damian grumbles, stewing in his thoughts.

If Drake had the same information, what would he glean from this? If Father were here, what would his next steps be? Damian has ideas, some guesses, but he talks himself in and out of believing what would be the most logical path forward, and if Batman would agree. If Red Robin would figure the root of all of this much faster...

Well, he at least knows what Richard would do.

But with the Avengers still sticking to Robin like glue, it certainly curtails anything that would be too risky, greatly limiting the potential of his next move.

That is, if Robin continues humoring the Avengers...

“The locations are too varied... The timing is also...” Damian taps his finger on the table. “The motive can’t be deduced just yet either, even if it appears like something obvious. It’s also unclear how many bodies and assets are involved. It takes a lot of manpower, money, and dirty connections to cover up something like this.”

“Oh, you think there’s a cover up?”

“Barton, of course there’s a cover up; the police force is composed of idiots, but not braindead idiots. At the very least, they have amygdalas that work well—or poorly—enough to be persuaded by bribes. Because a lot has been done to keep the cases separate, to appear random. 

“For the confirmed kidnappings, none of the vehicles sighted in the area are ever the same, as well as the time and place never being repeated. As for those that have just simply vanished, last known sightings are just as all over the place. Clearly, someone is getting paid to tamper with the records, or even with the evidence itself.”

“But what if it isn’t all connected—.”

“That's what they want you to think,” Damian grouses.

“When in doubt, Occam’s Razor,” Tony interrupts, his footsteps heralding his entrance into the study, standing in the doorway dressed in grimy street clothes, oil stains making disordered appearances all over his pants, shirt, and skin. He’s grinning with a weirdly feverish glint in his eyes as Damian looks back at him disdainfully.

“The simplest answer is that there’s a cover up being organized,” Damian shoots back. “The assumptions I’m making are rooted in experience.”

“Sure, kid,” Tony agrees. “More importantly, I got something to show you, if you can put the detective work away for just a sec.”

“Your apparent apathy is dooming the lives of dozens of children, and is part of a larger societal brain disease amongst the upper echelon that is slowly leading this world right into the maws of certain death,” Damian bluntly informs him. “But sure, let’s entertain what you have to show me.”

Tony’s grin stretches wider. “You won’t be saying that for long! Now, up, up!”

.

.

“You didn’t,” Clint says.

“Well, it wasn’t just me, Spitfire drew up the designs, and helped with the body and frame. So, technically, we did it—I just finished it. And happened to also make an Iron Kid helmet in to keep his little noggin safe.”

Clint gives him a blank look. “Tony—do you have a death wish?”

“Eh, it’s not like Nat will kill me.”

“Dude, she literally would have off’d Nick just last week. For rudely heckling him.”

A pause.

“She did do that, didn’t she...”

Clint scoffs, disgusted. “But, hey, at least you can watch him drive fifty over the speed limit on the streets of New York from the comfort of the Tower,” he adds cheerfully, clapping Tony’s shoulder as they watch on the screen Damian do exactly what he described.

Tony grins.

“Don’t worry—there are nanny controls. Just watch. Jarvis, lower the speed, but don’t make it obvious.”

There’s a brief pause, then:

“Would if I could, Sir.”

An awkward silence fills the air, broken only by a quiet, “What could you possibly mean by that?”

Jarvis sounds mostly miffed, but traces of amazement sneak in, as he answers, “It means I can’t. Damian did some tinkering of his own before taking the bike out for a test run.”

Tony swivels around, looking in every direction. “How? When? And you couldn’t have said anything?”

“He has exceptional sleight of hand,” Jarvis succinctly answers, as if it explains everything. “He also knows the schema just as well as you do, and had ample time in the lab to do what he liked by way of circumventing your safety precautions.”

Clint and Tony meet each other’s gaze, seeing their conflicted awe and terror be mirrored.

That kid is so grounded—don’t know how any of us will convince him of that, but he’s so grounded when he gets back.

Wordlessly, they turn back to the screen, leaning in, synced up by their shared disbelief as they witness the ease in which Damian navigates the traffic he’s splitting through, racing, weaving and—.

Damian’s comms come to life, the roar of the bike and the excited whooping holler of a twelve year old on a motorcycle fills the room, echoing in their heads.

“Will you make it out to my funeral?” Tony asks grimly. “Do you think it’ll be a closed casket viewing or open?”

“Tony, I think there’s an obvious solution here that you’re not capitalizing on yet,” Clint murmurs, a clever glint in his eyes.

Tony raises his brows, expectant.

“Nat likes bikes, too.”

She likes...

Oh!

It’s ingenious.

“Like mother, like son,” Tony agrees, plans already quickly forming in his head on how to get a new bike ready by the time Nat returns. He has a good few hours left, with plenty of material, and he’s already built one bike—which, hell, he’s made Iron Man suits on shorter deadlines, and this feels as good an opportunity as any to flex his ability to work under pressure after so many weeks—months—of banging his head against the wall.

“This thing got a mic?” Clint asks, scrutinizing the board of commands in front of him.

“Hotkeys right here,” Tony points out, reaching over to press down on it, saying, “Heya, kid? I know you can hear me. Cool your jets—I don’t want to spend the evening bailing you out of jail after a high speed chase with the NYPD.”

Damian laughs outright, the sound adorable and heartwarming, especially for how long it’s taken to get such a reaction out of him. 

“I wouldn’t get caught!” Damian shouts, all confidence.

Which, by now, Tony’s leaning towards believing him. At any given point that Tony’s tried to call any of the kid’s bluffs, it’s only ever ended with him looking like a jackass. He doesn’t think he’s ever met a kid more self-assured and capable before, and from how he says it, there’s nothing in the world that Damian thinks is impossible.

Tony’s not sure how much to chalk it up to youthful arrogance, but it certainly does make him weirdly sentimental.

Before Tony can respond, Clint bats his hand away, ignoring Tony’s glare in favor of pressing down on the key, saying in shockingly convincing dad tone, “Damian, before mother hen here has a heart attack, get back to the tower. And reign the speed in.”

 “I’m fine,” Damian grumbles.

“We’re telling Nat if you don’t keep it at the speed limit,” Clint calmly threatens, but makes a pained face at Tony.

Damian clicks his tongue, but it weirdly does the trick as Clint and Tony watch the speedometer ease off to something more reasonable.

“It’s also a test drive, Spitfire. So, before some unforeseen issue in the bike presents itself and I have to go collect you in the suit, take that exit coming up—”

“The bike’s fine,” Damian says. “No, it’s better than fine. It’s perfect. So, stop worrying. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

Tony has a terrifying realization. 

Well, several—

Oh, god, is he parent, is this what being a parent is like, this is definitely not fun-uncle territory, this is, how dare this smart-mouthed kid deflect a request he made because maybe he does feel a little too anxious with that kid on the streets riding a motorized vehicle, you never know who’s out on the roads, what their recklessness can—

He meets Clint’s gaze. 

“I’ve created a monster. Given him wings. What if gets to close to the sun and they melt—”

Clint doesn’t appear nearly as worried as Tony thinks he should be. 

“Oh, but if you think about it, you technically gave him metal wings. Those can actually fly,” Clint says, patting his shoulder. “Honestly, this is Damian we’re worrying about. He’s not just any random kid off the street that you gave a motorized vehicle to.”

“Clint. Are you actually trying to imply that he’s fine where he’s at? I thought you would have been even more freaked out than I... than I would be if I were the type to freak out about this sort of thing. Which I’m not.”

“Very convincing, Tony, but listen, after a few patrols with the kid, you start to sort of just believe that he’s capable of anything. If he says he’s been driving since before he was ten, I’m inclined to believe him at this point.”

“Right,” Tony mutters, unconvinced.

“At least you have eyes on him,” Clint points out. “You could fly out to him at any point in time if he needs help.”

Tony nods. This makes sense. 

Just as Clint mentioned, this is Damian. Not just any twelve year old—he’s not as helpless as his baby face would imply. And Damian knows how to ask for help, somehow, despite his general bullheadedness.

Tony sighs, then looks again to Clint. “Are you sticking around? It looks like I have another bike to build, and a kid to watch from the corner of my eye.”

“Nah,” Clint says, a peculiar look on his face. “I’m gonna follow up some leads for Robin.”

Tony blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh. “I don’t know if I buy his theory, but it’s kids, Tony. I owe it to him and to them to get some boots on the ground. Could turn out to be nothing, but the chance it becomes something, I want to...”

For a moment, Tony doesn’t know what to say, then, a strange moment of clarity-enlightenment comes upon him. His vision gets crisper, the lights appear brighter, and it’s as if he’s really seeing Clint—and not just Clint, but them. 

In his mind, he sees Natasha, he sees Bruce, and Steve. He sees Thor, and he sees Rhodey, too. Damian. The Avengers. What they could be. Actual heroes, and not a hodge-podge team pulled together to fly by the seat of their pants in end-of-the-world scenarios Fury has dreamed up.

Or maybe it’s just insomnia and having not slept for over a day.

One blink and the illusion is dispelled, but something about it lingers.

“Let me know if I can do anything,” Tony says to Clint, meaning it.

Clint smiles, patting Tony’s shoulder, and turns to head out.

As he watches Clint leave, a surrealness overcomes him, the bizarreness of his current day life sinking in. 

Just a few short months ago, such an evening would have been unthinkable. Offering help, making something for someone, for several someones, creating things with his own hands, rather than throwing money at it. It’s a weird feeling.

Perplexing, and foreign.

Two years ago, he had none of this. Wouldn’t have wanted it. Frankly, didn’t deserve it.

Now, Tony thinks of the rooftop conversation he had with Damian, being scared shitless and praying he wasn’t making it obvious, his fear multifaceted for reasons he still doesn’t have the mental fortitude to examine.

Being in the tower after everything that happened in May, Tony still has moments where he freezes, where his mind and his emotions get away from him—nights, quite a few of them, that are sleepless and filled with the busy work of Iron Man suit improvements, are also filled with schemas brought to him by a boy quite literally of out this world. 

Tony thinks, too, of equations that will make the impossible possible, trying to solve for a missing link he still doesn’t believe exists.

He looks at Damian, thinks, what an insane, colossally impossible, terrifying thing to survive, to come out the other end of, alive and intact. It’s the type of luck that is beyond Tony’s estimation—and to try and make lightning strike twice? No—something even more improbable than 1 in 9 million. A phenomenon that has never happened before, and if he’s honest, doesn’t think could happen again.

Anything he creates, he wonders if it’ll be—

Damian’s faith in him is waning. He’s starting to see for himself what putting trust in Tony Stark actually gets people. Disappointment is definitely far more likely, and Tony knew that from the start. The bike is mere consolation for that.

Yet, despite that, Tony feels like he can keep trying.

Even with shaking hands, and doubts that seem endless, Tony still has the power to try—and maybe... Maybe trying is important. That it can mean something, in spite of the failures, or even because of...

It’s been fun, though. 

Whatever the future holds, it’s been nice, being a part of something like the Avengers. He never imagined it could be anything like this, suddenly having a home filled with friends that are fast becoming irreplaceable to him, that feel almost like, well—that, hell, might even end up somewhere on the will he keeps meaning to update. 

And here he thought only Pepper had the patience to put up with him.

After checking on Damian, confirming that, yes, he’s not in mortal danger, Tony finds himself smiling to himself, rifling through the CDs he has in his workshop before landing decisively on Queen. 

Then, to the voice of Freddie Mercury, crooning, “I want it all,” Tony quickly gets to work on using whatever bits and bolts he has laying around to fasten together a new bike for Mama Nat.

“Here’s to the future for the dreams of youth. I want it all. I want it all. I want it...”

.

.

“Mutations often form out of a survival instinct, where the mutation answers a need. Many powers are unlocked in moments of extreme duress, and the mutation is born out of the body’s revolutionary response to the stimuli. Adapting to meet perceived needs. Yours is rather interesting, with that in mind.”

Dr. McCoy pauses, and when Damian stares balefully back, he presses on, saying, “It’s safe to assume that you mutated when you came to this world. You explained a sort of atomization of your body, and a sequential recreation of it as soon as you made it to this reality—we can take from that several deductions.  The genetic composition in your world could be similar, and the X-gene could behave differently there, be dormant. Perhaps undetectable. 

“It’s hard to confirm, seeing as we don’t have access to the before and afters of your DNA. But regardless, there is another potential for your recreation, such as if that gene were to be generated after your arrival, and simultaneously, the intensity of the trauma your body endured, created the most opportune moment to cue that gene into triggering your mutation.”

Damian crosses his arms. So pointless.

“It doesn’t matter to me if the gene did or didn’t exist in me,” Damian mutters. “There are somehow the same people that exist in this world and mine, as well as similar histories. If I were to try and tally the differences and similarities, I’d go insane.”

Dr.McCoy is uncowed by this, smiling ruefully. “Truthfully, it’s fascinating to me. Your world is potentially an alternate of ours—perhaps one where the X-gene never awakens. You see, mutants have existed for the entirety of human history, but if we could confirm whether or not you had the gene already, it would narrow down the scope of how distant your reality is from ours.”

Damian considers Dr. McCoy’s words and realizes he actually does have a point—he has also added a perspective that he has largely been ignoring in his conversations with Tony about the multiverse. That his genetic profile could lead to his way home is startling, and retrospectively feels as if it should have been more obvious to him.

“Your mutation itself is fascinating,” Dr. McCoy murmurs. “The readings of your body when you become green, for lack of a better description, is astounding. What I’ve determined from the stats is nothing short of remarkable, but put simply, the state your body enters in is, alarmingly, that of a constant disintegration, but at the same time, hyper-regenerative. 

“It’s no wonder it pushes you to such an extreme state of exhaustion, as it’s like you're in a flux state of existence, both incredibly vulnerable, but functionally immortal until you are brought back to equilibrium.”

Dr. McCoy is grinning as he says all of this, and doesn’t so much as skip a beat once revealing that little tidbit about Damian’s potential to not die, already moving on, saying, “Now, this is merely conjecture, but if I were to guess, that very same atomization and reformation that you endured that first day is occurring at a much smaller scale when you utilize your mutation.”

Damian stares at Dr. McCoy. 

The man clearly expects a response, and Damian scoffs, delivering a very dry, sarcastic one, “I think I would be able to tell if that were the case.”

“Would you?” Dr. McCoy’s smile turns weirdly sympathetic.

“Damian, your mutation is two-fold,” Grey abruptly jumps in, not looking up from the clipboard in her hands. “What Hank covered was that of your physical form, but your brain scans showed some interesting results, too. They’ve corroborated the experiences that you’ve told Scott about.”

“Yeah, sure, my brain scans,” Damian mutters, suspicious at her lack of eye contact.

“Jean is correct. While your abilities, body and mind, do appear to have some correlation, I don’t believe them to be mutually exclusive. Your description of this new sense of yours, the shadows that you can see and feel, and what you’re capable of by exacting control—.”

“It’s not control,” Damian corrects. “It’s... Communication. Without words, and I feel at times like it...”

Grey scribbles something on the paper.

“Like it steers me more than anything else,” he warily admits.

“Would you say this shadow sense was an immediate sense or was it awakened later into your time here?” Dr. McCoy asks.

Damian hesitates, eyes on the pen in Grey’s hand, how it stills, her gaze flickering to meet his, but only briefly.

He can’t tell why she’s being so skittish around him—they’ve not talked much since that first meeting, but he didn’t think he’s done enough to make her so wary of him. If all it took to make her afraid of him was standing up for himself, he really doesn’t know what Scott sees in this woman.

“It wasn’t immediate,” Damian murmurs after a stretch of silence.

“I feel this distinction is important in understanding the relationship between your abilities. There is a synergy between them, certainly, but they aren’t one in the same. And with that in mind, I believe that you could eventually manifest one without the use of the other, thus limiting the strain your body is put under.”

“But what if one is the reason I’m capable of the other?” Damian asks, troubled, and with frustration creeping into his voice. “What if I fail to go green, and my body ceases to exist, like I lose myself to the shadows entirely?”

“You feel as if these shadows are controlling you,” Dr. McCoy murmurs. “As if they are overwhelming you.”

Damian hesitates, but ends up nodding, unable to entirely shake the memory of getting pulled into Banner’s suicide attempt—what it felt like to be him in those moments where he felt so desperate to end everything. Neither can he shake what he’d felt in Scott’s body, or that barest brief second where he’d seen Richard.

None of those things seem to have enough in common for Damian to understand what’s happening. One is potentially in the past, one in the potential future, and one... utterly inconclusive. Had he glimpsed his world’s present at that moment when he’d seen Richard? Or had that been fictitious, something his mind created to torment him with?

He could ask Banner about what he’d seen, to at least confirm if he’d even attempted before. He won’t, but he could.

That’s something to puzzle over as well—Damian of the past wouldn’t have hesitated to question the man, uncowed by the idea of the man’s potential to turn into the Hulk. Now? 

It feels shameful.

“Jean, would you like to share your thoughts on that?” Dr. McCoy asks, and Damian glances between the two of them.

Grey hums, finally looking up from her clipboard. “Damian, you said you could communicate with it, as if it’s something other from you.”

“It…” Damian trails off, trying to gauge her expression. Her eyes are cold and not quite meeting his, her smile polite, expectant of his reply. Reminds him of teachers he’s had before.

“Can you always feel it?” Grey asks softly. “As if you always have some sense for it, but the strength of the presence ebbs and flows in power, existing in the background even without conscious thought.”

“A bit,” he admits, still cagey of her.

It’s been this way from the start, from the first moment he met her. He hates being around her—and he can’t even blame all of it on her being a telepath. There’s something else to it, but the words don’t come to mind to explain it.

“Are you able to tune it? If you were to try, could you turn it off completely, or even potentially max it out?”

Damian shifts. “I’m not sure.”

Grey nods. “Could you describe the otherness? What made you feel that way in particular?”

“Other isn’t the best word for it. It’s difficult to explain,” Damian mumbles. “The shadows are me. But also not. Like I could control them, if I tried, but they’re also capable of pulling me places. For instance, when I went into Scott’s shadow, I didn’t do that on purpose. I wasn’t even intentionally targeting him, and before I could even try to make sense of the shadows, I was already in his head.”

“In his head?” Grey echoes, her brows wrinkling.

Damian feels the scowl on his face deepen, as she echoes his words. There’s another way to put it that’s more accurate, but it makes his stomach churn.

Eventually, he grudgingly adds, “Him. I was him.”

Jean hums. “Was there any sense of separation? Could you identify your own voice, or was it entirely taken over by Scott’s?”

“It was mostly Scott. He knew the man who was torturing him, so I felt like I knew him, too, but some part of me didn’t know, and that part was barely a whisper.” He drums his fingers on his knee, and very softly concludes, “I was a whisper.”

There’s a pause, but not a long one.

“It’s certainly a psionic mutation, a variation of telepathy,” Grey concludes, her hand jotting down several things on the clipboard. “But it sounds tangential. For you to have some precognitive capabilities as well, one that lends itself so heavily towards first hand experiences... Clairvoyant empathy. Extrasensory perception. You travel through shadows to do so, which sounds like a modified astral projection, potentially a construct of the mind...” 

Her eyes snap to his. 

“Have you tried becoming a shadow?”

Damian cuts her a dark look. “No.”

“I wonder if your body is capable of it,” Grey murmurs. “It should be, actually. It would explain the cause of your disintegration. The green appears to reform you faster than you can fall apart.”

“I’m okay with that, actually,” Damian decides. “I don’t think I need to find out what happens if I let my body destroy itself.”

“What if it means you could go home?”

Damian feels his stomach clench.

He thinks of what Banner said before, about links. About being a link.

Grey doesn’t wait for a response, adding, “If your mind is capable of traveling through memories, imagine what you’d be capable of if you could bring your body with you.”

“What if I don’t reform?” Damian asks sharply.

Grey cocks her head, studying him. “I won’t deny the possibility. From your report, you seem to have a weak sense of self, which creates the potential that you might lose yourself entirely to the shadows—but when you came to this world in the first place, you experienced something similar, no?”

“My sense of self isn’t weak,” Damian snaps.

“Normally, I would agree, but when you felt that man attempt to kill himself, you felt like a whisper then, too,” Grey points out.

Damian stills.

The room falls quiet.

Then, a quiet, “Oh, Jean.” Dr. McCoy looks pleadingly at Grey, but it’s too late.

“You bitch,” Damian snarls, readying to leap at her as he shoots from his seat.

“I’m sorry!” Grey cries, hands out, and a psychic wall forming in front of Damian, halting him. “But you were practically shouting it!”

“I told you to stay out of my head!”

“I am!” Grey groans. “I am trying to. I am holding as much as I can back, Damian, but I can’t block everything!”

“What are you blaming me for?”

“I’m not blaming you.”

“It sounds like you are.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Damian, Jean isn’t intentionally trying to get into your head,” Dr. McCoy says. “Her telepathy is a somewhat new ability for her, too.”

“I thought you guys mutate in puberty,” Damian grumbles, not buying it.

Dr. McCoy shrugs. “It’s complicated, especially for Jean.”

He arches a brow, incredulous as he stares at Grey, waiting.

“I don’t have to explain it to you,” Grey mutters, but then, as if reconsidering it, shakes her head, groaning. “Damian, you are truly the most difficult child in all the worlds, I swear.”

“Is that supposed to even sting? Because your insults are lame, Marvel Girl.”

Grey huffs. “Not an insult if it’s just a factual statement.”

Damian fakes a yawn, unimpressed by her comeback.

“Actually, I’m not doing this,” Grey says, standing up. “I’m not arguing with a twelve year old. I’m just not doing it. Not even for Scott.”

“Jean, maybe he needs to know—.”

“I think he’s already in perfectly capable hands,” Grey cuts him off. “I’m sure anything I could say would only be quickly dismissed, anyway.”

Damian crosses his arms. “If it’s worth listening to, that wouldn’t be the case.”

“Worth listening to,” Jean echoes, glaring at him. “Damian, you are lost! You aren’t meant to be here at all, and I’m trying to help you make sense of your new abilities, because I know how terrifying they can be. So maybe, if you would care to get over yourself, you’d realize I could help.”

Tt.

“I was ten years old when my best friend Annie died in front of me,” Grey blurts upon hearing him click his tongue. “Only, I experienced dying with her, Damian. My mind linked to hers in her final moments and I thought I was dying. Does that ring a bell to you?”

Damian shifts uncomfortably.

“That pull that you experience? I know what it’s like, more than you could possibly imagine. That otherness? That power that is you, but isn’t, lying in wait to take control, where you begin to lose sight of who you are if you give in to it, where you’re afraid you will never be the same afterwards—I have experience with that.

“And I may not have all the answers, but I can guide you, if you’d let me.”

Damian stares, unconvinced.

“Do you think Scott is going to teach you how to use your mind? Or any of the Avengers? Who do you know in this world that can guide you, beyond the use of words, or stupid suggestions—because I could do so much more than skim your memories, Damian Wayne, if you’d just—.”

“Is that supposed to sound like something other than a threat?”

“I could—.”

“YOU COULD DESTROY ME.”

Damian stares at Grey, breathing fast.

Grey stares back, stunned, before understanding lights her expression.

“You feel me, too,” she realizes.

“It’s—.” 

Damian hates this. He hates this so much.

“You’re afraid of me,” she whispers, an unexpected hurt in her voice.

“I feel… I feel the fire,” he spits out. “If you get too close, if you—I don’t—I can’t defend myself from... that.”

“You can,” she says firmly, eyes filled with conviction. “Damian, you have to.”

To his ears, it sounds as if she’s speaking more to another conversation than this one, one he knows he hasn’t ever had with her before. But is that any surprise?

Grey is a freak of nature, a supernatural force, and her powers aren’t confined to the physical. But Damian gets the oddest feeling, one that mounts with equal resistance and eagerness, that he’s just like her—if not already, he could be... 

Will be—

“Just think about it,” Grey murmurs, visibly drawing back, smoothing her hair and adjusting her clothes, clearly trying to gather herself, despite not appearing all that rumpled to begin with. She’s not looking at him anymore, but she adds, “I don’t want to hurt you, Damian, and I won’t tell you to trust me, but I do want to help.”

“Why?”

Grey’s eyes are cast to the floor, and Damian can see the strange tremor in her shadow, followed quickly by an abrupt hairraising dread, shivers running down his back, sweat breaking out over his skin, stomach twisting into knots.

He’s on high alert now; there’s a threat in the room, a formidable one—frightening and oppressive, and it feels—feels hungry—

(Grey knows something. She knows something.)

Damian forcefully snaps his mind back into focus, the effort of it alone causing blood to spurt from his nose.

He curses loudly, fingers coming up to pinch his nose as he hears the shuffle of two adults looking for something to help him clean up with.

Despite having had a plethora of bloody noses throughout his life, he’s still agitated, particularly so when his head begins to throb.

“You alright?” Grey asks, and the sound of her voice triggers a hot flash of fury that he has to grind his teeth to dial back.

Damian rises, pushing past the both of them and beats a hasty exit, grumbling under his breath, desperately trying to contain his confusing anger. There’s no logical need for it—she didn’t lie. He doesn’t belong. He might even have a credible path home now, power within him that can take him back. That should mean something. He should want to work with her.

If he could just learn how to control it.

Really, it’s his fault that he’s not trying harder. Because he should be. Day one in this world and nothing could have kept him from getting home, nothing else mattered.

He is suddenly struck with a desperate desire to be anywhere else, to be far from everyone, everything.

To be nothing, to maybe even be no one.

.

.

Damian Romanov is not like anyone else in the entire world.

Laurie knows this to be true, that even in a school full of mutant children from all corners of the globe, he’s unique. He has secrets. Ones that she knows she doesn’t stand a chance in peeling away, and that she, frankly, doesn’t care to know if he’s not gonna be the one to tell her.

Sure, she’s curious. Hard not to be when she’s been seeing him on a weekly basis and barely understands where he’s been living his whole life. She’s seen his mom, someone he doesn’t bear the strongest resemblance to, and he never really talks about having a dad, so she assumes he’s out of the picture. But he has a sea of uncles, of which she’s only really seen one, but that one was enough to confirm the truth of at least one of his secrets.

Damian Romanov is Robin. 

He’s the kid with a cape that had fought alongside the Avengers during the invasion—because hello? Tony Stark being some random kid’s uncle and there being a suspiciously dark haired kid teaming up with Iron Man’s team? There’s really no other conclusion that makes sense.

She’d seen him on the television that day, and back then, Laurie would never have guessed he’d become her friend. 

He’d fought like a trained killer, slashing his sword at the aliens and moving faster than she could blink, cape fluttering with all his graceful movements, light as a dancer on his feet. She’s seen street footage online of people interacting with him that day, heard that same accented and austere voice giving directions and helping people get to safety.

Robin is still in the news, too, popping up nearly every night for handling crime of all sorts, and while Damian doesn’t talk about it, she keeps that secret for him, whether he knows she knows or not.

Besides, knowing that Damian moonlights as a kid hero at night doesn’t really change all that much. At least not where she’s concerned.

She finds him sitting beneath a tree, just barely protected from the rainy conditions, the downpour softened by the branches and leaves that are hanging on even with the early onset of autumn.

Laurie had spent some time looking for him, but she’s glad she found him at all; Damian has disappeared a couple of times before, and no amount of effort has enabled her to find him then, but this time is different. She can sense it.

He looks up at her approach and she bites her lip, surprised to see the smeared blood on his face and tries not to leap to conclusions. It’s easy to think it’s from a fight, but that doesn’t feel right. 

While Damian doesn’t really get along well with most of the other students, after the fiasco with Julian and his friends, everyone sort of just leaves him alone. Especially so, knowing he’s so close to Mr. Summers—no one wants to get on the bad side of the X-Men’s leader. Not to mention, his fighting prowess has built a reputation that precedes him, enough to make even the older, and more dangerous students wary of him. 

Then, of course, there’s the way he carries himself. He slinks around like a panther, eyes critical and wary, taking in everything with blatant skepticism. There’s a regality to it, an upturned nose, like he’s a domineering, spoiled prince and everyone he sees is beneath him. He’s blunt when he opens his mouth, speaks his mind clearly and concisely, judgementally, doesn’t really smile much to anyone—well, not unless it’s a smirk, and he’s showing off. 

Damian just feels threatening, practically screaming, ‘Back off’, like he’s prepared to fight at even the slightest hint of provocation.

Although, strangely, Laurie has always thought that his behaviour in public is more a reflection of his perceived safety at any given moment, that his outward disposition is a mask he uses as armor to deflect for any and all attacks. Like he can’t relax.

After all, when it’s just the two of them, he... Well, he’s not suddenly all smiles and laughter, but when he’s amused, his eyes do catch a twinkle, and the edges of them crinkle, and when something is truly hilarious to him, rare as it is, he cackles. Loudly.

Laurie, admittedly, feels protective of him, especially of the joy that seems so momentary and fragile. She’ll never admit it—Damian would think it’s ridiculous, but truthfully... Maybe too often, she worries about him.

Like right now, seeing him alone, blood on his face, taking cover from the rain under a tree.

Damian’s green eyes are difficult to read, his long lashes casting a shadow over them as he stares off into the distance. He’s not quite seeing things, Laurie thinks. Not even her. He’s thinking hard about something, and while this is far from the first time she’s seen him upset, it is the first time she’s found him so far away from the school.

“Hey there,” she greets, readjusting her grip on the umbrella.

For a moment, there’s a ringing silence, filled only with the patter of rain, then:

“You were looking for me,” Damian murmurs, suspicion thinning his voice into a throaty whisper.

“Yeah,” she says, and steps a little closer to him, halting only when she can see him tense up at her approach. Imagining it as a boundary, she decisively kneels down on the wet, soggy grass, resting the rod of the umbrella on her shoulder.

“Why?” he asks, watching her.

Laurie hums. “Well, you weren’t at dinner. I looked for you, but you weren’t there. Have you eaten?”

“Not hungry.”

A low, ill timed rumble reveals the lie, but Laurie plays dumb. There are more important matters right now, after all.

“Damian, do you want to go to my house? ” Laurie asks. “It’s not very far from here, and we won’t be noticed if we sneak away right now, I don’t think.”

He tuts, curling his lip. “What would be the point?”

Undeterred, she answers, injecting eagerness into her voice, “You could meet my mom. Oh! And I can show you my room. I have a whole shelf of manga and novels that I think you’ll like and… And there’s a trampoline in the backyard! It’s right beside a walnut tree, and by now, there’s probably a lot of nuts that we can gather and have for a snack…”

Laurie can see from the look on his face that what she’s described could practically be a form of torture—which, maybe another time, he would have been interested, but it dawns on her that it might not be what he needs right now.

She needs to pivot.

“Let’s go to the Danger Room,” she blurts.

Except that doesn’t make him look thrilled at all.

“Collins, stop.”

“I—.”

“It’s annoying,” he snaps.

She flinches, but tells herself to stand firm, to not feel hurt by his rejection. 

He’s right to express himself… 

She’s definitely not making the situation any better. 

Maybe... 

Maybe she should have just left him alone, never gone searching…

Damian’s lips curl in disgust, eyes flashing. “Is Mantega not around to take up your idle time?”

He says Sofia’s last name like an insult, a habitual occurrence that Laurie doesn’t quite understand or know how to deal with, just that it makes her uncomfortable. 

It makes her feel like she’s a bad friend, because she doesn’t understand his hostility.  There are many moments like this one where she simply doesn’t get Damian, no matter how hard she tries to.

“I just wanted to hang out with you,” she mumbles.

When he falls silent to that, she has to take a deep breath to center herself, to reign in any ugly emotions that might seep through to him.

Laurie steels her resolve once again, thinking of the past few months and all that he’s taught her. The way he has unknowingly built her up, and that she can dare to withstand this—she can weather Damian’s storm with him. Like they’ve done together before.

Exhaling slowly, she evens out her breathing, and gazes at him, seeing him as he is.

A hard shell protecting something very fragile, guarding something painful.

“Um, I can tell that you’re upset about something,” she begins. “I won’t make you talk about it, but I… I would help you take your mind off of it, if you’d let me.”

At that, Damian wordlessly stares at her.

“We can also just, um, meditate.”

A shine enters his eyes then, and somehow it feels sudden, out of nowhere that his stoic expression crumbles. He releases a shaky breath, cheeks and the rims of his eyes redden.

“You’re sad about something,” she mumbles before she can think better of it.

Damian doesn’t answer, squeezing his eyes shut. But his silence is more damning than anything he could have said.

Laurie feels a tug on her heart, seeing his misery and realizes that there is nothing she can do for it. Not even that she is useless at this moment, but that she might even be the worst person for this.

Tears spring to her eyes and she blinks them away, reminding herself, even in this circumstance—no, especially in this circumstance, she needs to keep her emotions in check.

She’s hurt Damian before with her mutation. She won’t let it happen again.

“I’ll listen, if you want to talk about it,” she tells him weakly.

Damian shakes his head.

“Alright. Um... Do you want me to leave?”

He seems to consider the question, but ultimately shakes his head again.

For a moment, Laurie isn’t sure of herself, indecisive in whether or not to get closer, to talk or to stay quiet.

Then, struck by the sound of the rain and a strange inexplicable feeling that he might agree, Laurie says, “I think my favorite movie we’ve watched together is Wolf Children, because it made me think of my mom.”

She gauges Damian’s reaction, and when he doesn’t say anything, when he even appears to be a little interested, she continues, “My dad is a mutant, and he used his mutation on her, the one that I inherited from him. Made her feel like she was in love with him for years, and they even got married. But it wasn’t until she became pregnant with me that she realized how she’d been manipulated, when she became aware of how her entire life had been ruined by him... 

“At least in Wolf Children, Hana and the Wolf Man were in love. He didn’t deceive her. He showed her who he was, and he worked so hard for their family before he died. He wanted to cherish his wife and kids so badly... But my dad doesn’t even know I exist.”

Damian flinches, almost imperceptively if she hadn’t been looking closely enough.

“My mom never told him about me, of course,” she continues, voice soft. “She left as soon as she realized what he’d been doing to her, and I understand it, I do. But when I see movies like that, where the families actually love each other, I get really sad afterwards. I start to imagine if things could have been simpler—if my dad wasn’t my dad at all, that my mom could have fallen in love with someone. And maybe I wouldn’t be born at all, and maybe that would have been better...”

Laurie has to shake herself, take a deep breath, and meet Damian’s stricken gaze to admit:

“Because I’m scared of myself. I’m scared I’ll be just like him when I get older. And those kids in the movie, where they have to decide to live as either a wolf or a human, where they both start off so different from each other, but they get older and suddenly their perspectives are switched. The wild wolf girl wants to live as a human, and the gentle boy leaves the human world to be a wolf—I just... I don’t think we get a choice, as mutants. Like, my abilities are inherent, genetic, and what does that say about me?

“If I wanted to, I could make anyone in the world like me. I could get people to give me things. I could make people afraid. I could make it that people want to do the things I tell them to. And what if, right now I’m just pretending to be a Yuki, but that I’m really an Ame? What if, in the future, I give in to that nature I was born to and I use my powers to manipulate people and then... I just forget the way my mom has tried to nurture me, and I become just like my dad.”

Laurie shakes her head. “That’s why I’m here, by the way. My mom lives in Salem Center because she wants to stay close, but at the same time, she doesn’t want me to come home too often. We uprooted our whole lives to come here, and I know she's hoping that being at Xavier’s will help me stay good, but... Ever since I became a mutant, she doesn’t look me in the eyes anymore. I think it’s because she’s starting to see all the similarities I share with my dad. She can’t ignore the signs anymore, and—and neither can I...”

“To become like my father is the highest esteem I can think of,” Damian murmurs when she falls silent. “But it’s impossible for me, and I think it’s impossible for you, too.”

“You do?” 

“You care too much, Collins. About everything. Needlessly, if I’m frank.”

Laurie finds herself relaxing enough to crack a smile. “So do you, Damian.”

He blinks, perplexed. “Me?” 

“Yeah, you’re just like Yuki. Except, I think you got so smart because you studied so much, didn’t have any fun, your whole life, and now you’re trying too hard to hide the wolf inside of you.”

Damian wrinkles his nose. “I think you’re forgetting the point of that movie’s ending.”

“Am I?”

“Yuki and Ame both chose the life that felt right for them. Their dad literally says so in that scene where Hana is unconscious, that the kids were raised well. Yuki leaves to live in the dormitory to study, and Ame lives in the forest near to their childhood home. Hana is content in the end because she knows her kids are where they want to be, and she’s allowed them the dignity of their choices.”

“You don’t even know what kind of wolf you are anymore,” Laurie says sadly. “Obviously I know they’re all happy in the end, but I’m just pointing out that I don’t think you’re exactly choosing to live where you’re the happiest.”

“Well, you aren’t either.”

“My mom makes me live here.”

“Excuses. What you need is raw determination, Collins. You sneak out and arrive home continuously, no matter how many times she drives you back here. You make yourself clear, and you do not waver. She can’t control where you are, and, really, what can she do, short of shackling you?” Damian shakes his head. “Only, you’re far too afraid of your own agency for that. Because you’re afraid that one step out of line will mean you’re the same as your father.”

Laurie flinches. “Hey!”

Damian presses on, adding, “You at least have some choice, even if you’re neglecting to make them. I’m actually stuck here.”

She furrows her brows, confused. “You only spend weekends here, and you don’t even go to classes regularly.”

“I’m not talking about Xavier’s,” he mutters, a dejected look filling his expression. “It’s this world.”

Laurie freezes, the situation feeling like it has become much more dire than it had been previously. “Damian,” she starts cautiously, “you don’t... You’re not suicidal, are you?”

His face scrunches, confused, and then blinks, comprehension dawning on him, and he shakes his head. “Killing myself will not resolve anything. I’m being very literal when I say that this world is keeping me from being where I wish I could go.”

“Which is?”

“Home,” he answers vaguely, raising more questions for Laurie, but before she can get a chance to ask, he says, “Wolf Children made me think of my family, too. How dysfunctional it all is. And maybe you’re right. I didn’t have much fun in my youth. After all, I was raised to be lethal, not to enjoy things.”

“The more I know about you, the less sense you make to me,” Laurie mumbles, stricken by the solemn way he spoke, and what he’d alluded to in his words. “The home you want to return to isn’t in this world, and it’s also a place where you can’t have fun. None of this is adding up.”

“I see you’re finally developing discernment, Collins,” he remarks with a wry smile.

“I’ve met your mom. She seemed so nice, and like she really cares about you...”

“Collins, I’m adopted,” he says, and he’s smirking, like it should have been obvious.

She blinks owlishly. In retrospect, maybe it should have been...

More seriously, he adds, “The people here are incredibly kind and generous. Somehow, to them, I’m worthy of it. But it’s not as simple back home, the people there are more complicated—I’m more complicated, and yet I still miss it. I even miss all the problems. I miss fighting with my brothers, and I miss my father and the way he’d say everything but the point, just talking around it, because it annoyed everyone, but I think it’s the only time I ever really understood him better than anyone else did. And I miss him glaring at me when I’d make mistakes, because sometimes I scared the shit out of him, but he couldn’t just say that.

“And I miss my mother, too. A lot. More than I can even put into words. And I thought of her when we watched that movie, and I worry that, unlike Hana, she isn’t content to be alone, and if she were to discover that I’ve gone missing in another universe, that...”

Laurie startles. “Damian—another universe?”

He nods, dejected. “I don’t want to talk about it, though.”

“Oh. Okay,” Laurie agrees.

“I have to believe they’re looking for me,” is what he says before she can add anything more, barely above a whisper. “I have to believe they haven’t given up. But that’s so selfish, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s really not,” she tells him, not just to comfort him, but to speak the truth.

“I have to keep trying, too,” he mumbles, like he hasn’t heard her. “I can’t give up on going back.”

Laurie falls silent.

That’s when Damian looks up, meets her gaze, and asks, “Collins, what does it mean to belong somewhere?”

“I... I don’t think I’m the right person to ask,” she mumbles. “They call me a wallflower for a reason—I don’t, um, belong in most places.”

“But in the places that you do, what does that mean to you?”

Laurie shrugs. “I think it’s just... I think it’s just when you’re in a place that you’re accepted. For who you are. That you don’t have to change yourself to fit in. That you’re liked, flaws and all.”

“What if you want to change? Or that you have changed, and you might be unrecognizable?”

“Then, you belong where you’re recognized?” Laurie winces, uncertain of her words. “But really, I think that some part of you won’t change, no matter what.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Not good or bad, or things that are choices, but the stuff that makes you, you. The way you talk, the things you find funny, what you pay attention to, and the dreams you got. That no matter how much you reinvent yourself, some part of you remains the same, because you’ll always need soil to grow from, and the soil didn’t just come from nowhere. It’s our history, our start. Like, um, family, sort of.”

“I suppose this makes me a repotted plant,” Damian mutters.

“It’s not a perfect analogy,” Laurie says with a beleaguered sigh. “But if I’m honest, belonging is more about the people you’re surrounded by. How much or how little you stick out or blend in. How valued you are, to the people you love.”

Damian takes these words in quietly, then nods, mulling it over.

“It’s sort of a Hallmark answer,” Laurie mumbles, embarrassed.

“Hallmark?”

“A channel on TV,” she explains. “You’ve never heard of it?”

Damian shakes his head.

“Oh my gosh! We should watch Hallmark movies together—the Christmas ones, especially!”

He cringes immediately. “Collins, you should know, I don’t really celebrate Christmas...”

This doesn’t curb her delight. “Oh, don’t worry about that. You’ll find them hilarious—that, or you’ll be so frustrated, that I’ll find it hilarious.”

“What in the world are you—.”

“Get up. First, we’ll get you warm, and then fed, and then we’re so watching A Season for Miracles—Mom and I watched that last year, and it was actually sort of okay.”

“If this film isn’t sufficiently entertaining, there will be consequences,” Damian vows darkly, even as he follows her direction.

“Knowing you,” Laurie says with a grin, “you’re going to absolutely hate it!”

Damian groans, but stays at her side as they walk back to Xavier’s, and she feels, for once, just a little bit proud of herself.

.

.

Natasha picks him up like usual, a smile on her face that works like a miraculous cure as soon as Damian sees it, any tension in his body rolling off of him as he climbs into the passenger seat of the car and puts on his seatbelt.

“Have a good weekend?” she asks, to which he shrugs, not really wanting to discuss it.

“Can we watch something together when we get home?” Damian ends up asking instead. “Collins and I watched it some time ago, and I would like to know your thoughts.”

“Sure, Ptichka,” Natasha agrees readily, sounding and looking vaguely amused. Actually, now that he’s looking a little closer at her, she seems a bit…

Tired.

“Did you have a good weekend?” Damian asks, searching her face now that he’s spotted the weariness she’d been attempting to hide.

It’s her turn to shrug. “Just did some leg work for Fury. Nothing too difficult.”

“One of these days, you should take me with you. We already patrol together.”

“You don’t need to involve yourself in any of it,” she gently rebuffs him. Yet again.

Tt. 

“What if I want to?”

“Your plate is full enough as it is,” she murmurs, then squints at him. “Which, Clint’s been doing some leg work of his own, did you know?”

Damian scrunches his face. “Huh?”

“For Robin’s big case,” she clarifies.

The connection is immediate, and so is the shock. “He is?”

“Yes, Ptichka. He followed your hunch, and what do you think he’s found?”

Damian sees her grim expression and feels his stomach sink.

“I was right,” he says softly, a heavy weight settling over him.

“Robin’s big case is too big for just Robin, Black Widow, and Hawkeye,” Natasha murmurs with a sidelong glance at him. “Now, the Avengers are still... new, as a whole, to all of this. But the team has agreed to help after seeing the evidence Clint brought home. Even Fury.”

“Fury?” Now, that’s a surprise. “But you’re not taking me off the case, right? Because I won’t tolerate it. Not even if it’s you.”

Natasha shakes her head. “Of course not—but Tony’s got a surprise for you when we get back.”

“Is it something I should mentally prepare myself for?”

At that, she laughs. “Maybe? But honestly, for once, I think Tony’s got his heart, and his head, in the right place.”

“Oh,” is all he can let out before falling quiet, a mix of emotions making it hard to think and plan.

.

.

The surprise is a new suit.

“It’s more covert,” Tony explains. “It’s impact resistant, tensile fabric. Very hard to tear through. I nearly made it red, but it’s black for several reasons. Mostly sentimental, but to anyone else, it’s all strategy. You still got the Robin suit—no one’s taking it away from you. But this is for when you’re rolling with us. For the big stuff.”

“Wait, what are the sentimental reasons?” Damian asks, throat tight.

“Matching with Mama,” Tony clarifies with a chin jerk towards Natasha. “And Papa, from your world. Batman wears black, right?”

“Oh. Yes, he does. Mother does as well, on occasion.”

“Perfect! Do you like it?” Tony prompts, already wincing like he’s preparing for rejection.

“You put the R on the wrong side,” Damian can’t help but point out, palming the red emblazoned R over his left pec.

The R isn’t where it belongs, he thinks, flinching.

Robin isn't where he belongs.

“Oh, fuck,” Tony groans, wiping a hand over his face. “That’s fucking obvious now that you’ve said it. But we can change it—.”

“No,” Damian quickly interrupts. “It can stay where it’s at. It’s good here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he says, stepping towards Tony—and then he’s throwing his arms around him, pressing his face into his chest, knocking his brow into the Arc Reactor, squeezing his ribcage.

“What’s this for? I haven’t even shown you the best part!” Even saying this, Tony still reciprocates, arms coming around Damian, laughter bubbling up in him and reverberating through Damian when he lets it loose, loud guffaws echoing in the room, made louder by the others in the room chiming in.

Damian squeezes tighter, eyes closed, afraid of what he might do if he let go, if he opened his eyes.

“You don’t want to see your new helmet?” Tony prompts. “I upgraded it from the Iron Kid version. This one is all black, bullet proof, and Jarvis is installed, connecting you to the rest of the team’s comms. We can send video messages to each other, too. Even if I’m out as Iron Man, you have direct contact—even Pepper is jealous of that, trust me.”

“He’s sort of downplaying the helmet’s capabilities, if you can believe it,” Natasha chimes in.

“He’s also overplaying my jealousy,” Miss Potts adds with a laugh.

But, honestly, Damian could care less about all of that.

“Thank you,” he says, soft and sincere, and it quiets the room.

For a moment, there is a silence that hangs over everyone, but it doesn’t last incredibly long, because Tony breaks it.

He reaches up to ruffle Damian’s hair, then leans down, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re welcome,” he says, voice a low rumble.

“Okay, you’ve had your moment, now it’s everyone’s turn,” Clint announces, the first to throw his arms around Damian and Tony. “Get over here, Nat.”

“A group hug, really?” Natasha says, but still walks over, and winds up getting pulled in by Tony reaching an arm around her, pushing her into Damian.

“Pep!” Tony yells. “You gotta join, too. I see you trying to walk away.”

“A group hug of all of us will get too crowded,” Miss Potts rebuffs him. “Besides, I was walking to grab my phone. To take a picture.”

“Oh, what a great idea! God, I do love how your mind works,” Tony readily accepts this change of plans. “Put a timer on it, so you can get in the picture, too.”

“Will do, but let’s get into position first,” she says.

“Right, right... Clint, help me lift Damian. We’ll get him to sit on our shoulders, Nat and Pepper can be in the middle. Steve to my left, Bruce to your right—how’s that?”

“I don’t want to sit on anyone’s bony shoulders,” Damian grumbles.

“I think it’d be cute,” Natasha remarks, eyes twinkling. “Just one picture? The next one we take, you can be in front of me.”

Damian considers this proposition, and finds that it’s not as great of a sacrifice as he pretends it’ll be when he says yes.

Several photos are taken before they move onto the more important things, and in spite of the frivolity, there is something inaugural about the fiasco of family photos. It’s daunting, each second that passes inundated with his worries and doubts, his questions. The time that trickles becomes more important, heavy—but the pressure doesn't overwhelm him.

One by one, each person in the room seems to take a bit of weight onto themselves when they meet his gaze, accepting him, and one by one, as Pepper keeps resetting the timer and running back to the group, it gets easier for him to carry it, too.

In every photo, Damian is smiling.

.

.

art by my sister <3

art by Mamamia28102552 on twitter <3!!!

commissioned art by hexadonis on twitter!!