Chapter Text
I’m careful the next day, I wear one of the hand-me-downs from Grayson, if only to cover my unhealed knuckles from the previous night. I didn’t bother to bandage them, it’s not like it hurts.
The bandages would also do little to hide the injury, technically it would obscure what the specific injury was, but rather leaves room for curiosity and speculation.
It’s lunch, and I’ve been dreading it. I hadn’t attended dinner last night, and luckily they only left a plate of food outside my door, which I threw out.
Yes, it’s a waste, yes I should’ve eaten it. But I have the liberty of deciding not to, and giving into my petty whims.
It’s childish, it’s unbecoming, it’s everything I’m not supposed to be. Everything Damian Al Ghul isn’t. But I’m not him anymore, I’m nothing, my actions mean nothing. But even when they supposedly did, my efforts were still a waste.
I exit into the hall, it has me squinting for a brief moment, the halls being jarringly brighter than my room.
I tread forward with the poise of someone who knows who they are, someone who’s solid and unmoving, faith and pride in themselves. I walk with purpose. I walk like I always have.
Except now it feels almost foreign, which admittedly is ridiculous. But I’ve learned that my life here, my being here, has turned me rather redundant I suppose.
I’m not who I was, I’m not allowed to be what I had to be. It’s a sudden switch that I’m ashamed to admit I’m not quite used to.
The route to the dining room is much the same. The paintings all perfectly hung, the flowers as vibrant as they are delicate, the rug intricate and plush enough, though a little worn from the years.
I enter the dining area discreetly, where I see two familiar people that create an almost peculiar sight.
Father is absent, though I quickly learn that he has a penchant for arriving late, or not at all if Wayne enterprises requires his presence.
Similarly, Pennyworth is also not present, he is likely finishing preparing lunch, seeing as I arrived a minute before he usually sets it out. Seeing as Pennyworth is one of the few reliable and punctual people in this manor.
Then there are the two wards, except this time it isn’t Timothy nor Jason, who reside here permanently. Their absence was anticipated and I see it as a brief moment of slight calm, though I suppose that’s how I perceive any time they spent at school really.
Instead the oldest of fathers' children, Grayson, and his only daughter, Wayne, sit at the table holding a majorly one sided conversation.
Which seem to be most conversations Wayne participates in, though I can’t say I’ve been any more of a conversationalist.
Grayson, as expected, grins at me. He notices that I’m wearing one of his old sweaters, if the way his eyes light in realisation are a tell. He luckily had the sense not to comment on this fact. I’ve only met the man a few times, each he’s attempted to include me in some way or another. Which is surprisingly, but thankfully, a rare tactic used to persuade me into playing “family” with the Wayne’s.
I see his eyes light with recognition as he notices the sweater I adorn, the one that was once his. His smile becomes a little softer but he doesn’t comment, likely for my sake more than his.
Which is rather preposterous, there’s no need to “spare my feelings”, or whatever justification he has. Though I can’t say I want to discuss it, so perhaps he’s correct in one way.
I’ve long learned that here, in the Wayne manor, the ridiculousness of a fact or perception doesn’t necessarily make it false.
“Damian.” He greets me as I seat myself as far away from the two as possible. He is undeterred, as usual.
“…so, Bruce told us about how you discovered the ball room.” He prompts after my silence with an infuriatingly stubborn smile hammered on his face.
Wayne nods enthusiastically at his comment and too looks at me with hope, that I’ll say something or at least acknowledge their presence.
I only click my tongue in response, turning my head towards one of the windows to watch a bird aimlessly hop and flutter from branch to branch.
“I’m honestly a little jealous, I would’ve killed to have known about it back when I first came here.” Grayson continues undeterred, I hear his chair creek and I can imagine him propping his face on one of his palms. “I’d be mad at Bruce but…I don’t think I should expect anything different anymore.”
“Stubborn.” Cassandra nods in agreement, “to hide…B is scared.” She continues unsure of her wording, I imagine she turns to Grayson for confirmation.
Scared. Fear is such a frivolous thing. It’s such a basesless emotion, formed of false assumptions and panic.
Fear is a tool, it’s a reality that you can form, a false reality. I’ve been raised to be fearless, which only leaves me with disappointment. I don’t fear, but I still assume. I conjure false ideas, but I never fear them. I prepare, I give them, and usually it’s all for nothing.
I’ve long learned that fear is a burden, even when faced.
“He…yeah, Bruce is, well Bruce. But…he’s gotten better.” Grayson answers with a sigh, I can hear his chair creak as I assume he leans back.
“B tries.” Wayne adds after a beat. It's a hopeful voice, sympathetic.
“He does.” There’s something odd colouring his tone, as if there’s more to be said, but likely necessary. It leaves an odd silence to hang in the air with the implications of what isn’t said, of what they know, and I don’t.
The bird flies away as Pennyworth enters the dining room and then begins to place the dishes onto the table as everyone replies in thanks and greeting to the butler.
I reluctantly turn my head back around to the food, nodding as Pennyworth places my own dishes in front of me. He lingers next to me- looming over- for a few extra moments, and I force myself not to glare at the older man.
I feel his gaze on my profile. It’s something that is a regrettably familiar feeling.
I wait to even touch the utensils. Until the older man pulls back, that is. He lets out a barely audible sigh in the process, a sombre sound.
Grayson miraculously eats in silence for a few minutes. Wayne does as well. But, that, I expected. Unfortunately, I knew that the oldest ward wouldn’t be able to keep his trap shut for more than ten minutes, and I, as usual -regretfully I’ve started to doubt my assumptions- , am correct.
“Hey, Dami…” I give the older man a glower at his pause, “…an.” He finishes a little more strained.
“Mn.” I hum, taking a sip of water, I’m aware my behaviour is anything if not rude and petty, but I’ve grown to not care about such things, about myself.
“You haven’t really left the manor yet…right?” He looks at me with an egging expression. He thankfully had the basic manners to swallow before speaking, I’m almost surprised. Almost.
“No, I’ve neglected to exit.” I reply clipped but humour him with more than single word responses and grunts.
“…At all?” He says and it’s one of the few times the unfaltering joyous grin…falters. Now this is surprising. His smile while still present is far more strained and there’s an inkling of…concern? It’s quite baffling.
I nod curtly and Wayne wears a much more blatant pitiful expression soon after, even setter her utensils down. I only tighten my grip on my own, feeling challenged, bloody knuckles protesting and quivering at the force.
“…well how do you feel about a family outing?” He asks gently, softly, pacifyingly. It leaves me missing his unbridled determination and joy. Which admittedly is something I never thought I’d think.
“I don’t see how my opinion is relevant in family matters.” I reply cooly, continuing to eat, not even giving the satisfaction of a glance.
“Because you’re a part of the family, kiddo.” Grayson replies sounding far too genuine, and even a little tired.
I scoff, stabbing at my meal and staring at it impaled on my fork. My knuckles are just barely visible, but they face me and not Father’s wards, meaning it’s practically irrelevant.
“We want spend time as family, long time.” Wayne tacks on sounding kind, her partially broken English adding a layer of naivety, of course I’m not foolish enough to believe it.
“Yeah, we’ve been busy.” He laughs a little, if feels forced, but that doesn’t negate his intention of seeming friendly.
“And with you being a new addition, we felt it was due time.” Grayson continues with a softer smile, a gentle one. I suppressed the young urge to shift in my seat under his admittedly kind gaze. Just another instance of me wishing that under that glow his smile always carried was the shine of a blade, an ultermotive. But no matter how hard I glared and searched his eyes, they only ever held genuine care.
“We?” I reply sharply, neither seem surprised.
“Yes, we. The family.” Grayson repeats, seeming amused. I find my frown deepening ever so slightly.
I stab at a stray piece of broccoli, idly pressing it into the sauce, basking in the sensation of being watched. I take my time, I admit it’s petty, but I don't have to be above such things any longer. I place the vegetable into my mouth and decide to enjoy the taste of it a little longer than necessary.
“Is my inclusion necessary?” I ask, only after I finish chewing I’m no barbarian even if I may be pretending to be a child.
“Of course.” Grayson answers, not a second early or late.
“Part of the family.” Wayne tacks on, aware of the reasons for not wanting to participate.
I find myself clicking my tongue. This is preposterous, mother never brought me on ’outings’, and certainly not for whatever ludicrous reasons the Waynes have.
“Just thought I’d give you a heads up.” Grayson stands, excusing himself after saying his goodbyes. Wayne waves him goodbye and I remain silent and still.
His steps slowly fade away, I don’t move an inch until I can’t hear them at all. I want to excuse myself, but the watchful gaze of Wayne has me remaining firmly in my seat. She is the only one I knew, even if only by ear prior, the one who is all. It was a brief but memorable title, only to soon be replaced with an example of failure.
I remember the lecture grandfather gave me after Cain’s daughter, or ex daughter, ran away quite vividly, especially now. Although, looking back on it, it resembled a threat more than a lecture. That if I dared to betray the league, my family, and waste his efforts to hone me into his perfect weapon. Rather it was that betrayal was not an option and it never would be, I’d be dragged back into his calloused hands regardless of my choices. That he is not as foolish as Cain.
I find it ironic that I ended up in the same place as Cain’s daughter, Cassandra Wayne. I only find it ironic when I don’t think about it for more than a second. In actuality it makes my stomach twist and bile rise in my throat. What would happen to me? Am I safe? Grandfather will surely find me, and I cannot be sure what he’ll do.
“League.” Wayne starts eventually, voicing a thought that had likely plagued her since the moment we met. The statement came with a softness and the usual roughness from the lack of use in her voice. I spare her a glance, I know she was watching me, analysing me, hearing what I haven’t said.
“Yes, do you know who I was?” I raise a brow, technically I should have denied her claim. But I’m desperate for anything real, for the skin I wear to feel more comfortable.
“Body language.” Wayne shakes her head.
“I see.” I drop my gaze back to my half eaten food. My tongue feels leaden in my mouth, words stuck in my throat. The only thing holding them back is pride.
She watches me intently, likely considering what to say, or how to say it in the least amount of words. But I can’t complain, I’ve always appreciated precision.
“You….miss it.” She says softly eventually, the shy temper of her voice filled with sympathy. It only makes my stomach twist.
Sympathy? She cannot sympathise. She came here on her own decision, she became a traitor, she is…a better person than me.
Perhaps it’s only pride that is deceiving me, perhaps her kind brown eyes only hold pity, perhaps she’s nothing like me, perhaps she can be fully accepted into this family.
Perhaps I never will be.
“Yes.” It feels like a no, my mouth is dry, and the scabs and bruises on my knuckles burn.
“Different.” She replies simply. She turns to face me a bit better, pushing her plate to the side to rest her forearm on the table, I resist the urge to frown at the motion.
I nod curtly. I left the urge to give her a dry look as she stated the obvious. America is quite different from the league, but Wayne manor is a whole other planet. It’s quite baffling, how lenient everything is, and how careless everyone seems to be…how free and unstained their hands are.
“But better.” She tacks on, she watches my expression carefully and I stop myself from faltering under her calculating gaze.
I almost scoff, but I don’t. Because I’ve had far too much time to reflect in the few weeks I’ve been here, and even I can admit that growing up here would’ve been more pleasant.
But I can’t say I wish I was raised here, I can’t say I wish mother didn’t abandon and lie to father in favour of remaining loyal to grandfather.
Though the technicality doesn’t change the actuality, I was in fact not raised here, mother did choose blood over love, and I don’t belong.
Cassandra Wayne is a good person, I admit. She chose to be a better and likely happier person over being a powerful and fearless one. She had the potential and tools and decided to leave them behind and become…this.
I watch her intently and perhaps I should remind myself of my statement: here she is fearless because there’s no reason to be scared. I am filled with terror because I am and have never been safe. Even now, I must hide who I am, disregard it due to consequences that I can’t even be sure I care for anymore.
It’s better here then out there, as supposedly grandfather can’t hurt me.
But that is my only reason. I don’t really want to be here. father infuriates me and I don’t care much for his wards. Pennyworth is at least a pleasant conversationalist.
“Do you believe you are better here than with your father or the league?” The question comes out more vulnerable than I’d like to admit. I selfishly wish for her to say no, I am the same person I’ve always been. But I know that my question is redundant because I already know her answer.
“I am…myself.” Wayne nods firmly and confidently. Her words entail that she hadn’t been herself in the league, that she was a different person. Cain then, Wayne now.
As I watch her kind face. It’s ironic. It's the face of a killer, but it doesn’t look like one. Her eyes are bright and clear, honest with nothing to hide. The only thing is a small scar across her jaw. But you could name a number of other things that could’ve caused it. She isn’t the girl -no- weapon I was told of all those years ago.
I nod, and silence follows. I choose to force my gaze on my plate. I don’t want to see her kind, open eyes. All they make me feel is shame, jealousy even. But mostly shame. I don’t wish her away, who she has become, I just wish- foolishly I admit- that I was more like her.
“Free now.” Wayne says, and it takes me an embarrassingly long time to realise she meant me. I’m free. Frankly I’ve never felt more caged, having to pretend to be far more innocent than I am, with every second feeling more guilty, less human, in a way I never have.
In the league, I felt above human, yes. I was a weapon, a valuable tool. Tools in the league were valued above purposeless people. I was useful.
But here? I’m a waste of space. As much as I hate to admit, I'm not useful to my Father, or Todd, or Drake , or any of the other inhabitants. Except, perhaps Pennyworth if his words are honest when he expresses how my presence elevates the early mornings.
Maybe this is freedom, uselessness, no obligations or reason. Just taking up space. If so, I am free, and miserable. Trapped only by my history and current prejudices. Knowledge is something that can destroy, it's also a tool, maybe one of the most valuable tools. Yet I find myself wishing I lacked it, that I really am who mother advertised to father.
I’m my grandfather's grandson. Not my mother’s or father’s son. That boy, their son, their baby is long gone. I just wish father would realise this, like mother has.
“...do not…” Wayne starts, she pauses and inhales shakily and licks her dry lips.
“You don’t have to… pretend anymore. There's nothing to be scared of here, you will not be… hurt for being yourself, accepted.” It takes her an exceedingly long time to push her words out. She speaks or stutters rather with a more than slight tremble, she’s scared to speak, yet she speaks in full almost sentences. For me. She put in the effort to be sure that I understand her words completely, allowing herself to struggle and be vulnerable, so that I can’t misinterpret her. As if I’m worth the trouble. As if she cares about me, when she doesn't even know me, not really.
“You can’t be sure. You don’t know what I've done, or how I've thought." I scoff, but her words and display left my throat feeling tight and my stomach uneasy. It's ridiculous, how can you expose yourself so thoroughly to an almost perfect stranger.
“League, done things…not proud.” Wayne nods, sympathy and pity leaking into her expression. I watch as she gets out of her seat, and I will myself not to tense. She kneels in front of me, and I can't help but feel patronised, even with her kind eyes watching me. I don’t move back, as she doesn’t impose, she gives me distance despite our positions.. It's also horribly nostalgic, of how mother once would kneel and kiss my temple. I miss it, despite myself.
“You…will be accepted here, loved unconditionally, if you let us. Not blamed…for things you could not control.” her voice is low, almost like a whisper, and her words feel practised, like she’s heard them before, memorised them. Her promise to me is one I doubt she can keep.
Love. It's my life's greatest vice and vex. It’s something I desperately wish to earn, yet hate when it's… unconditional. Especially here, when I know my father does love me unconditionally, and I hate it, I hate almost everything about this fact. He loves his son, the boy he thought got miscarried all those years ago. I am no longer this boy. His love feels undeserved, and misdirected. But I also yearn for it. Childishly, I do wish I would let him place a comforting hand on my shoulder, perhaps even hug me, or kiss my temple like mother once did.
Mother no longer does, as she has realised that I am no longer the boy she birthed, raised. No longer her son, but grandfather's weapon. I hate knowing that one day father may too realise that i am not who he thinks i am, that he will also stop loving me and start to look at me with the same look as mother. Rather than his long lost son who he never bonded with, but as the person i’ve been formed into. the person who willingly gave up on my original principals, and safety, because i was scared. i am scared of grandfather. Of what he’d do to that boy if i didn’t forget him and become who he wanted.
I stay silent. There’s something so horribly personal and genuine about her words, I can't help but feel guilty for disagreeing. I’m not like Wayne. I did not choose to be here, and I doubt I ever would, I am not a good person, and I've long come to terms with this fact.
“Talk to B, help.” she suggests kindly, with a soft but sad smile before standing once more and leaving like Grayson had earlier, abandoning me with her words and my aimless thoughts.
I cautiously peer down at my hands, which are dwarfed by the baggy sleeves. I pull them up until I can see my scabbed and scared hands. I feel my face pinch in a way I'm not quite used to, because no one is here to see my expression, my hands, or my true self.
My hands are the size of, admittedly, a childs, yet they didn’t look like they should belong to a nine year old. The rough calluses and marred skin is a horrible contrast to their feeble size. These are my hands, the hands of a warrior, the hands of someone with so many regrets it becomes a game. Why did mother think someone like me would be better off here? and why now? why so late? why after I learned to crave the blood rather than feel ill.
I suppose it's useless to wonder when the answer likely isn't even satisfactory, and I've had enough disappointment. I can’t even be sure when I'll see mother next, but I'd rather enjoy what little time I'll have with her and embrace the familiarity than interrogate her. But I'm also curious about the league, how it has been reacting to my displacement, is grandfather close to finding me? How safe am I really here?
I stand and pull the sleeves of the borrowed sweater down, pick up my plate which still is decorated with a mess of food as well as my half empty glass of water. I’m aware I'm the only one who insists on putting their own dishes away, but I continue to cling to whatever sense of control I have, even if it is something as simple as putting my own dishes away. I also do it to help pennyworth, but I'd never admit the fondness I've grown to possess.
I entertain the idea of occupying myself in the library while I wait, but that thought is interrupted quickly as I hear a familiar set of footsteps approach as I scrape the remnants of my lunch into the compost.
I turn to meet father’s gaze as I place my dishes into the dishwasher and shut it softly.
“Damian.” he greets, seeming pleased to see me. Despite his soft smile, he looks tired and his hair appears as if he’s been tirelessly combing his hand through it.
Normally, I'd leave it at this, maybe a grunt or a simple greeting in response before continuing to ignore his presence, but Wayne's earlier words ring in my head. “Talk to B, help.” Would talking help? should I satisfy the curiosity that's been itching at me for at least a week, likely longer.
“Father.” I reply as I hold his gaze. I find my fist balling and ears burn as a question forms on my tongue.
“Yes?” he replies, seeming happy i’m confronting him, wanting to speak with him.
“…do you love me?” my words come out painfully raw, and less sure than i ever thought i could sound. I watch his face as every little change appears. Perhaps my wording was a little blunt too. Love is such a strong and vulnerable thing. I know he does love me, I see it in every glance and soft smile he directs at me.
“Of course I love you.” He sounds so unbelievably honest, as well as bewildered and a hint of anger.
“Why wouldn’t I?” He asks evenly, but it’s obvious that my question has upset him somehow. I revel in it slightly, but the knowledge also feels like a knife twisting in my gut. I cannot enjoy anything it seems.
“I’ve done nothing to warrant it.” I answer, honestly and that seems to unnerve him further. He pauses and watches me with a careful almost gentle gaze, it only makes my jaw set.
“Love isn’t…” he starts with a rasp, voice dry but somehow firm, passionate.
“Why do you think that?” He continues with a soft rasp that matches the gentle intensity of his ice blue eyes.
“I haven’t been very…grateful or approachable despite your efforts. Intentionally.” I answer simply. “It seems like a waste of effort.”
“Loving my children will never be a waste, no matter how little or much they reciprocate.” Father replies reverently with a look that is almost indescribable. It doesn’t matter what I’d call his expression, all I know is that it twists my gut.
“You only just met me.” I reply coolly, which is a steep contrast to the boiling in my veins. Finally, I can ask. Finally, I can confront this infuriating man. Though, I have a sneaking suspicion answers are only going to leave me more conflicted. Seeing how that’s the trend.
He opened his mouth before closing it And pausing, a furrow between his brows, causing a few wrinkles to appear across his forehead. He looked a little older, sadder, tired in the moment after my words. He carefully approaches me, like I’d run off. Which admittedly isn’t all that far off from what I normally do: avoid father at all costs.
He stops a foot away from me, with a sort of caution in his movements before he crouches before me much like Wayne had earlier.
“I’ve loved you from the moment your mother told me she was pregnant and I can assure you my adoration hasn’t wavered once since.” He explains wholeheartedly with a determination I almost respect.
I find myself frowning as he speaks, and my short nails digging into my palms in a way that should be painful.
“A lot has happened since that moment.” The words feel heavy on my tongue.
“And you’re still my son, after all this time.” He insists, slowly reaching for me. Giving me time to back away, and I feel the urge to do exactly that prickle in my spine. But I force myself to remain planted, I’m no coward.
This soft expression feels like a horrible contrast to the twisting in my chest and my own expression, that I don’t need to see to know it’s pinched.
“And I love you Damian, with all my heart.” He promises fiercely but softly, keeping his voice low. Despite the gentle tone of his voice and otherwise empty kitchen, I don’t find it comforting in the least. My own heart beats loudly in my ears, and I only now release the breath I’d been holding since he reached out. It comes out shuttering and far from controlled.
“You’re perfect.” He states and a hesitant rough finger grazes over my cheek. admittedly, I almost can’t feel it. My eyes are trained to his, but I have an urge to look away. His eyes were soft, a subtle crinkle in the corner of them, and filled with nothing but love. It reminded me of the few precious moments I had with my mother where she felt safe enough to express her own care for me.
It felt good, nice, and horribly undeserved. I’m far from perfect, I’m supposed to be perfect, I had to be. I never truly believed I was perfect, the scars scattering my body testify. I was perfect, but with time came mistakes, each forcing me to remove each tainted weak part of myself.
Grandfather told me it was like I was a slab of titanium, it would need to be melted, hammered, formed and sharpened to become a blade. But now, I can’t help but disagree, with every bit of so-called imperfection being removed, creating a marking across my skin like a brand, leaving me mangled. Only bits of a person, the useful scraps. nothing whole. Broken.
I force myself to take a breath, to ground myself, control my emotions.
“Grayson and Wayne… informed me of the outing you were considering.” I find myself saying with a softness in my tone I didn’t know I possessed, changing the topic. Frankly, I didn’t know how to handle and grapple with my own ideas concerning my father and his family, the last thing I need is to concern myself with his as well.
Father pauses, a little perturbed at the sudden change, a slight disappointment appearing in his features.
“It’s been a while since the whole family was together.” He nods his hand now fully cupping my cheek seeing as I hadn’t shied away from his yet. I could tell he wanted a little more, a deep longing in his eyes he was poorly hiding, likely to hug me or do some other form of parental intimacy. Something that’s horribly unnecessary, but not unwanted. Though I’d much prefer it from my mother rather than the man before me, here, present, scared but brave. My father is a man of contradiction.
“I like animals.” My voice is hesitant and small despite myself, and a large part of me resents it. But I decided to test the waters, see how he’ll react, just how different is father from grandfather. How free am I now?
A small with a chuckle erupts from him breaking the quiet and gentle demeanour he’d been carrying. It's raspy and gravelly, it’s relieved, almost sounding like he could cry, but definitely joyous.
“Alright, how about the zoo? I’m sure there will be no complaints from your siblings.” He suggests.
“I find that acceptable.” I answer my voice more level and stronger than before, and I finally step back and away. His hand stilling in the air before slowly returning to his side, clenching.
I watch his stand and return to his full height and I move to finally exit.
“See you later, son” I don’t answer him, I can’t find it in myself to. I only tear my gaze away from him, and exit the room, my scabbed hand fisting my sweater and my heart beating loudly in my ears, holding a breath I can’t bring myself to let go.
I wonder if this is what mother wanted and if this is exactly what grandfather was training me not to be.
Weak, unsure. emotions I have to face as there’s nothing else to occupy my thoughts.
Just more and more questions with answers I can’t be sure I want, disappointment grappling in my mind and weighing me down.
I return to my room and, for the first time in years, I don’t reach for my blade.