Chapter Text
Damian was ten when his mother sent him to Gotham. She did not explain much at first, only that it was necessary, that he would be safer with his father than within the League.
But Damian was not a child anymore. He noticed the tension hidden beneath her calm expression, the way her guards had doubled over the past months, the increasing frequency of Ra’s al Ghul’s disappearances and secret meetings. Eventually, Talia admitted the truth quietly one evening before his departure. If Ra’s could betray Sparda for power, then there was no guarantee he would not someday betray his own blood as well. Talia no longer trusted her father completely—and that terrified her enough to send Damian away.
Damian hated Wayne Manor almost immediately.
The place was far too loud. Too bright. Too alive. People spoke over each other constantly during meals, conversations spiraling into arguments and jokes that made absolutely no sense to him.
Richard Grayson smiled too much, Todd mocked him relentlessly, Drake asked too many questions, and Cain moved so silently it irritated him on principle alone. Even Bruce Wayne himself seemed unbearably earnest in ways
Damian did not know how to respond to. Worst of all, the chaos felt painfully familiar. Reckless laughter echoing through hallways. Stupid arguments during breakfast. Loud footsteps racing through rooms without care.
The manor reminded him far too much of summers spent with Dante and Vergil, and the realization left something aching sharply inside his chest every single day.
So Damian kept his distance.
He spoke only when necessary, avoided family activities whenever possible, and retreated to silence whenever the others attempted to draw him into conversation.
It was easier that way.
Safer.
People could not betray or abandon you if you never allowed yourself to become attached to them in the first place.
The Waynes mistook his isolation for arrogance at first, then stubbornness, then simple difficulty adjusting.
None of them realized the truth. Damian already knew what it felt like to lose people he loved. He had no intention of surviving it again.
Damian was thirteen when he saw Dante again.
It happened in Central City during what was supposed to be a simple visit. Richard had dragged him along while visiting Wally West, insisting Damian “needed to socialize with people his own age for once.” Damian had informed him that Wally West barely qualified as civilized, let alone good company, but Richard ignored him anyway.
By evening, Damian had separated from the others out of irritation more than anything else.
The city glowed brightly around him, neon signs reflecting against rain-damp pavement as crowds moved through the streets. Damian kept to the quieter roads, stepping into a narrow alleyway to avoid a particularly loud group nearby.
That was when someone crashed directly into him.
Damian reacted on instinct. He caught the attacker’s arm, twisted sharply, and slammed them against the wall before they could recover.
A familiar voice cursed loudly.
“Okay, OW—!”
Damian froze.
The boy staring back at him looked older, rougher around the edges, but unmistakable all the same. White hair fell messily into bright blue eyes Damian had not seen in five years. A worn red coat hung loosely over his shoulders, several weapons strapped carelessly across his back beneath it.
Dante blinked once.
Then his entire face lit up.
“Damian?!”
Before Damian could react, Dante grabbed him in a crushing hug hard enough to nearly knock him over.
“Holy shit, you’re alive!” Dante laughed breathlessly. “I thought—”
Damian stiffened immediately.
Vergil’s voice echoed violently through his head.
Your family is the reason our mother is dead.
Dante pulled back slightly, still grinning in disbelief. “This is insane. How are you here? What’re you doing in Central? Wait—” His eyes widened suddenly. “Have you seriously gotten hotter than me?”
Damian stepped backward.
The movement made Dante pause.
“…Damian?”
Confusion replaced excitement almost instantly.
Damian looked away.
Because all he could think about was the last time he saw Vergil standing alone in that ruined shrine, soaked in rain and grief and fury.
“You should not be happy to see me,” Damian said quietly.
Dante blinked hard. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I heard the words,” Dante replied, brows furrowing. “They just don’t make any sense.”
Damian’s chest tightened painfully.
Dante still looked at him the same way he used to.
Openly.
Trusting.
It made this worse.
“Why are you acting like this?” Dante asked slowly.
Damian stayed silent.
Frustration finally broke across Dante’s face.
“Why won’t you talk to me?!”
The sharpness in his voice echoed through the alley.
“I haven’t seen you in years, Damian!”
Damian shut his eyes briefly.
Then forced the words out.
“Ra’s al Ghul sold your family out.”
Silence.
Dante stared at him blankly.
“The al Ghuls are the reason your life fell apart,” Damian continued hoarsely. “Your mother died because of my grandfather.”
Dante’s expression emptied completely.
“That…” His voice faltered slightly. “That can’t be.”
“It is.”
Damian forced himself to keep going.
“Vergil told me himself.”
Everything changed instantly.
Dante’s eyes widened.
“You saw Vergil?”
Hope hit his expression so suddenly it hurt to look at.
“He’s alive?” Dante grabbed Damian’s shoulders before he could respond. “Damian—where is he? When did you see him? Is he okay?”
Damian froze.
Because in all the years since the attack, he had never once considered this possibility.
Dante did not know.
Of course he didn’t.
The twins had been separated during the attack. Vergil had spent years believing Dante was dead while Dante had done the same.
And now—
Now Dante was looking at him like Damian had just handed him the world back.
“We need to find him,” Dante said breathlessly. “Holy shit—we can actually find him, we—”
“Dante.”
Something in Damian’s voice made him stop.
Dante frowned immediately.
“What?”
Damian swallowed hard.
“You do not understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Vergil hates me.”
Dante blinked once in disbelief.
“What?”
“He knows what my grandfather did.”
The hope in Dante’s face flickered uncertainly.
Damian looked away.
“When I found him, he blamed me for everything.” His voice tightened painfully. “For your mother. For the attack. For all of it.”
Dante slowly let go of his shoulders.
Rainwater dripped steadily from the fire escape overhead, the sound suddenly deafening in the silence between them.
“…Did he try to kill you?” Dante asked quietly.
Damian hesitated.
That hesitation was enough.
Dante exhaled shakily and dragged a hand through his hair.
“Well,” he muttered weakly, “that sounds like Vergil.”
Despite everything, Damian stared at him.
“You are not angry?”
Dante looked at him like the question itself was ridiculous.
“At you?”
“Your mother died because of my family.”
Dante’s expression faltered then.
Pain crossed his face immediately at the mention of Eva, sharp enough that Damian regretted speaking.
But after a long moment, Dante shook his head.
“You were nine,” he said quietly. “What were you supposed to do?”
Damian had no answer for that.
Because for years, part of him had genuinely believed he should have done something anyway.
Dante leaned back against the alley wall heavily, exhaustion suddenly visible beneath his usual energy.
“I spent years thinking I was alone,” he admitted softly. “Then suddenly Vergil’s alive…” He laughed once under his breath, disbelieving. “And now you’re here too.”
Damian’s chest tightened.
“You should still hate me.”
Dante looked toward him again.
“I tried,” he admitted honestly.
Damian froze.
Dante shoved his hands into his coat pockets, gaze dropping toward the wet pavement below.
“After the attack, I hated everybody for a while.” His voice softened slightly. “Demons. Humans. Myself.” He shrugged weakly. “Probably would’ve hated you too if I saw you back then.”
The honesty hurt more than anger would have.
“But?” Damian asked quietly.
Dante looked back at him.
Then, despite everything, he smiled.
Small.
Tired.
Still unmistakably Dante.
“But you’re still my Damian.”
Damian’s throat tightened painfully.
Before he could respond, Dante suddenly straightened slightly, like remembering something important.
“…You eaten yet?”
Damian blinked.
“What?”
Dante shrugged casually, though the faint uncertainty behind it was obvious now.
“I dunno. This feels like a conversation people should have over pizza.”
Damian stared at him in disbelief.
“Dante.”
“What?” Dante said defensively. “We just trauma dumped in an alley for like twenty minutes.”
Damian let out a slow breath through his nose.
Somehow, impossibly, Dante was still Dante.
Five years apart. Years alone. A dead mother, a missing brother, and enough trauma to destroy most people—and somehow he still managed to ask Damian to get pizza immediately after an emotional breakdown.
It hurt.
Because Damian had missed this far more than he realized.
Dante rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly when Damian did not answer immediately. “You can say no, y’know.”
Damian looked at him quietly for a long moment.
Then sighed.
“…Fine.”
Dante’s entire face lit up instantly.
“Oh, thank God.”
“I regret agreeing already.”
“Too late.” Dante grinned, throwing an arm around Damian’s shoulders before he could avoid it. “C’mon, rich boy. You’re buying.”
—°—
Damian was sixteen when he started secretly maintaining contact with Dante.
After their encounter in Central City, something had shifted—irreversibly, inconveniently, and against Damian’s better judgment. What began as tense exchanges turned into reluctant coordination, and eventually into a pattern neither of them openly acknowledged: Dante would surface from whatever job he was doing, leave a message through discreet channels, and Damian would ensure money, supplies, or information reached him without drawing attention.
Dante refused to stop hunting demons.
He also refused Damian’s offer to live under his protection.
“I’m not homeless,” Dante had insisted once, offended, while sitting cross-legged on the floor of one of Damian’s secure safehouses in Gotham. “I’m just… professionally mobile.”
“You are unstable,” Damian had replied flatly.
“I prefer the term ‘adaptable.’”
Fortunately, Dante had crossed paths with a man named Morrison, who—after witnessing Dante tear through a demonic infestation with what could only be described as enthusiastic violence—decided to formalize the chaos into an actual business structure. It was not elegant, but it worked.
And it gave Dante something resembling stability.
It also gave Damian something to monitor.
Which is why, on this particular night, Dante was sprawled across the couch in Damian’s Gotham safehouse like he owned it.
“So,” Dante announced, stretching his arms over his head with a grin, “how about Dante’s Super Awesome Demon Hunting Business?”
Damian did not look up from the tablet in his hands.
“No.”
Dante blinked. “That was fast.”
“It is a terrible name.”
“It’s catchy.”
“It is childish.”
“It’s branding.”
Damian finally looked at him, expression unimpressed. “It sounds unserious.”
Dante pointed at him immediately. “You wear a cape and dress like a bird-themed assassin.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“It’s extremely relevant.”
Damian exhaled through his nose, clearly restraining the urge to physically remove Dante from his furniture.
Over the years, Damian had purchased multiple properties across Gotham specifically designed as neutral meeting points—safehouses with minimal surveillance, secure communication lines, and enough space to accommodate Dante’s unpredictable arrivals. In theory, they were strategic assets.
In practice, they had become Dante’s personal resting stops between jobs.
Which meant they were frequently subjected to things like this.
Dante rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one hand. “Okay, fine. What about Dante’s Amazing Services?”
Damian paused.
Then slowly turned his head.
“That sounds like a brothel.”
Dante froze for half a second.
Then he burst out laughing.
“WHAT? No it doesn’t!”
“It absolutely does.”
“It sounds heroic!”
“It sounds illegal.”
Dante sat up, still laughing, pointing at him like he was personally offended. “You have the imagination of a tax auditor.”
“I have standards.”
“You have trauma.”
“That is unrelated.”
“It is extremely related.”
Damian returned to his tablet with visible irritation, though the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth betrayed him slightly.
Dante watched him for a moment, still grinning, before swinging his legs off the couch and leaning forward.
“Okay, serious option,” he said, tone shifting just enough to suggest he was actually thinking now. “What if we just… don’t name it anything stupid?”
Damian didn’t look up. “That would require you to stop speaking.”
Dante nodded thoughtfully. “So we’re screwed.”
“Yes.”
A brief silence settled between them.
Not uncomfortable.
Familiar.
Dante leaned back again, staring at the ceiling. “You ever think about how weird this is?”
Damian finally glanced over.
“Define ‘this.’”
“Us,” Dante said simply. “All of it.”
Damian did not answer immediately.
Because there were too many versions of “us” to count anymore.
Children on rooftops.
Runaways in ruined shrines.
Two survivors and a ghost they were still chasing.
Instead, Damian closed his tablet and set it aside.
“You are distracting me,” he said.
Dante grinned again. “You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
“Same thing.”
Damian stood up, walking toward the kitchen area of the safehouse without acknowledging that statement.
Behind him, Dante called out casually, “Hey.”
Damian paused slightly.
Dante’s tone had shifted—lighter, but softer underneath.
“You think we’ll actually find him?”
Damian did not turn around immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.
“Yes.”
A beat.
“We will.”
Dante hummed in approval like that was the only answer worth giving.
“Good,” he said. “Because I’m gonna drag him into this business whether he likes it or not.”