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"Why do I have to go?" Damian asks, surly and accent-thick, it sounds more like a demand and a whine at the same time. Sitting on the kitchen table with his arms crossed, in a green t-shirt that Danny bought him at a whim when he was at a thrift shop, and black shorts, he's never looked more like a kid. There's a little backpack leaning against the table leg, Damian begrudgingly picked it out when they went shopping.
His English has grown in leaps and bounds since Danny found him — er, or more accurately; since Damian was spat out in front of him — and very little did they have to rely on the translator on Danny's phone these days.
Which meant one thing: Damian could start attending school comfortably now. And 'go' was the Amity Smiles Child Care Center. Danny and Jazz went as kids until they were twelve, and through frankly what Danny could only call miracle work, they managed to convince the director to let Damian enroll for the summer.
(“They” being Danny. He loves Mom and Dad — as much as he can these days — but part of the reason he was able to get Damian into daycare was by promising to keep them away from the center as much as possible. The legality of that notwithstanding.)
And it was summer; Damian starts today.
"Because," Danny says, trying and failing to hide the smile pulling on his face, his heart warm and soft and also laughing at Damian's expense; "being cooped up in the house all day isn't good for you, and you're starting school in the fall. And, in Jazz's words,” Danny takes on a distinctively mocking tone, “you need to have interactions with other kids your age for the benefit of your social development,” he relaxes, “besides, it's only for the morning."
Damian's nose scrunches up, and his eyes roll so violently that for a moment, Danny thinks about joking that he'll get his face stuck like that. He holds his tongue; his little brother already looks like he's five seconds away from committing an act of violence.
"I don't need social interaction," Damian sneers, his cheek in his hand; a neverend pool of pride. "I am—"
"The Blood of the Demon Heir, better than everyone else.” Danny cuts off, waving his hand in dismissive circles, his voice returns to a mockingly deep tone. Damian's brown skin darkens in embarrassment, and he scowls at Danny. "I know, bud. But Jazz is right — don't tell her I said that — you should be around kids your age."
Especially when he starts first grade in the fall. Honestly, Danny won't deny that he's not a little nervous to send him to the center. Damian's long since cut the habit of trying to kill or otherwise maim people — his palms twinge at him in a phantom sting, and he pointedly ignores the urge to flex his fingers — but his tongue is as sharp and as cutting as his sword. He still struggles with trying to quell it when he's upset. Vicious child-weapon that he once was, and will never be again.
Danny knows that it comes from a place of fear and defense; that Damian lashes out because that's what he's been taught. That at the end of the day, he doesn't really mean what he says, and he's learning to express himself better. But the other kids don't know that, and kids can be unforgiving and cruel.
Danny just...
His arrhythmic heart sighs, melancholy smogs up in his lungs all bitter and batter-thick.
He doesn't want Damian to be outcasted. He doesn't want him to be alone. The thought makes his chest ache.
Damian sneers again, but says nothing, his shoulders crawling up to hide his ears like a turtle receding into his shell. Danny watches him silently, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own arms crossed. The clock hanging on the wall ticks in their ears — it's almost time to go.
He watches Damian carefully, so he sees it when his little brother's stone-shell pride and petulance shudders, then cracks. The darkened furrow of his brows weaken, and for a moment, slants back.
Ah, Danny thinks, his own shoulders slump. His sad-heart ripples as understanding washes over him. So that's what it is.
He tilts his head. His hair, messy with inconsistent waves and curls, curls that neither his Mom or Dad have, tickle his cheek. Some of his bangs fall into his face. "Hal 'ant easabiatan ya habibi?" He asks, voice low and soft. Just as Damian's English has improved, so has Danny's Arabic. He still stumbles over himself some days, and Damian says his accent is trash, but they can have whole conversations now in Damian's mother tongue.
(Danny is incredibly proud of himself for it.)
Damian's face darkens, his blush spreading across the rest of his face, and he ducks his head down. Grown-out curls, black-brown and springy, fall over his eyes. "La!" He cries, loud and indignant, and not at all convincingly. "La 'asheur bialtawaturi!"
He was nervous. Danny can see it now, in the hunch of his shoulders and the tightness of his face, and faintly, he can feel it too. In the ecto-rich air of the Fentonworks House, it thrums, barely-there and sharp as soap, like a hummingbird behind his lungs.
Danny can't stop the little, fond smile that forces itself across his lips and upticks the corner of his mouth. "It's okay to be nervous, little brother." He coos, he sounds like Jazz when he says that. He doesn't think she'll mind him borrowing the nickname.
He pushes himself off the counter, and Damian refuses to look at him, hiding behind his hair and in his shoulders. It takes three long strides for him to reach the table, and Danny turns, plants his hands on the ledge, and hoists himself up. Right next to Damian.
His beloved little brother leans into him easily, folding in like origami before Danny’s arm has even wrapped around him. Danny tucks him in close, palm flat against his head so that he can press Damian close to his heart. His ear presses against his ribs.
Danny hunches over him protectively, his chin resting on Damian’s head. This close, Danny can tilt just the slightest bit forward and press his nose into Damian’s curls — he catches the brief hint of sandalwood and amber, and tries not to smile. Little thief, he thinks fondly, Damian’s been stealing his shampoo again.
It’s very easy to take the hand pressed against Damian’s temple and dig his fingers into his scalp, "It's so okay to be nervous, actually,” he tells him, dragging his blunt nails across soft skin, “I was nervous, Jazz was nervous. Everyone gets nervous, it’s natural."
"I’m not everyone." Damian mumbles, small and feeble like he was the night in the OPS Center, realizing that his mom and the League weren't coming for him. Realizing that he was disposable.
Danny's half-working heart squeezes; in grief, in rage, and his faucet eyes sting. He breathes in slow, and gives in to the urge to bury his nose into Damian's hair. "You're right, you're not everyone." He says, and manages to keep his voice strong and steady, because if he's not a pillar for his family, what else is he?
He can feel Damian's gaze flick up to him, and Danny smiles into his black-brown curls. Tilts his head to squish his cheek against him instead, hand dropping to thumb below Damian's lashes. His other arm comes around to trap Damian against his side.
"You're Damian Fenton," because the adoption went through a few weeks ago, and he's still riding that high, "You're my baby brother. O' Artist Extraordinaire, Kickass with a Sword, Vegetarian and Wonderful Co-Ghost Hunter."
Damian tries to stifle a smile, and fails. Score! Triumph gathers in Danny's gut, his smile grows wider. He squeezes Damian tight, and only releases him so he can look him in the eyes. "And if anyone gives you a hard time at school, and I mean anyone—”
Danny has bad memories of the teachers looking the other way when the other kids were bullying him, all because of who his parents were.
And Danny, bleeding heart, bleeding hands, loves his family more than he will ever love himself, will never let Damian experience the same injustice. Not if he can help it.
His eyes narrow, and the buzzy-film of ectoplasm covers his eyes, making them glow, “—you tell me. And as your awesome, great big brother-and-dad-by-biological-technicality, I will handle it."
Damian, wonderfully made, full of light, his little brother Damian, huffs at him in a failed attempt to hide a giggle. A sound that's worth its weight in gold. The scary eyes dissipate, and Danny matches the sound with a cock-eyed, impish grin, dragging Damian into a soul-crushing, too-tight hug. The kind that only annoying older brothers can give. "Got it?"
That gets a proper, if short, laugh out of Damian. He wriggles in Danny's arms, trying to break free. But Danny does calisthenics, his thighs are as big as Damian's head, so it doesn't work. "Understood, now let go!”
Danny laughs brightly, loosens his hold just a smidge, but only so he can adjust his grip and hop off the table with Damian still in arm.
"Never!" He crows, hoisting Damian slightly. One eye flick at the clock, and in one quick move, he secures Damian under one arm like a football, and hooks his foot under the strap of his backpack. Kicking it up, the bag is light as feathers and flings into the air easily. Danny catches it with his free hand, and slings it over his shoulder. "Now, to the car, my boy! Before we're late and Mom and Dad get charged a late fee."
(Danny may have convinced the center to let Damian attend, but it was still Mom and Dad’s money being used, so he should try and be conscious of it.)
Damian groans, childish and dramatic and long, but his face is all squished up with a wide grin and glee. Danny can taste his joy beneath his tongue, it’s sugary sweet and cloying, sticking to his teeth like caramel.
"And, if my little pep talk didn't encourage you," he says, reaching the door to the garage, flipping Damian up onto his hip instead, "if you have a good day today, I'll make you bal mithai when you get back."
Like all kids at the promise of sweets, Damian's eyes widen and glitter. Danny loves seeing Damian be a kid, it's his favorite thing in the world. "I will!"