Chapter Text
It had been six months since Bruce had died. Or disappeared, if you asked Tim. Six months since Damian had swallowed down the fear of again being a child without a home and faced Dick with trembling hands clasped together, telling him that Damian didn’t expect anything. He didn’t expect to be taken care of. He understood that any obligation started and ended with Bruce Wayne.
It hadn’t been a question--quite the opposite, in fact--but that was all Dick heard: a reluctant, scared plea for someone to remember he existed, disguised as a reminder of his own independence. Dick hadn’t said a word, just let the child hide behind his pride, rattling off reasons why he couldn’t expect Dick to keep him. He glanced to the left; Damian had already packed his things neatly into a duffel. He realized, with a jolt, that this conversation had merely been a formality to Damian. An indulgence, maybe. It was clear the kid didn’t want to leave, no matter what elevated excuse he gave.
Dick felt frozen, like his brain had stopped its ability to process new information. He just stood, eyes wide, silent, listening to Damian recite his carefully rehearsed absolution and trying to understand what it all meant. Dick’s relationship with Bruce (like all Robins’) was complicated. Rough around the edges; softened by time in some places, hardened in others. Bruce’s death, like his life, had been cold and impersonal. It left Dick with a deep feeling of becoming unmoored. He felt an unearthing of sorts within him, suddenly finding himself angry over arguments from his adolescence or crying over the time Bruce had bandaged his scraped knees as a child.
Looming over all of it was the mantle Bruce had left behind. When Dick first received the call, he was ashamed to admit that it had been his first thought. He would have to be Batman now. It sent a jolt of cold dread down his nervous system. He knew it would come for him eventually, but he had always imagined it as a passing of the torch; an honor handed down to him when Bruce decided to retire, after Dick had had time to live out his twenties as a period of self-discovery. Instead, Dick had been twenty-four and about to work up the courage to tell Bruce he planned to move to Bludhaven in the Fall, finally ready to leave the nest, to live for himself. But Bruce had died. And Gotham needed Batman.
And Damian was standing in front of him, telling him with everything but his words that he needed a father. Dick felt the blood rushing in his ears as his heart pounded. More responsibility. More pressure. More potential to ruin the only thing Bruce had ever cared about while he was alive: his legacy. Bruce’s relationship with Damian had been awkward and distant. Damian had been desperate for the man’s love, his validation, and Bruce had been terrified and reluctant to give it. Damian’s past remained an unclimable hurdle; Bruce was always scared of Damian’s violence, always meeting the problem with discipline and expectations that mirrored the League’s. Dick had fought with Bruce over it countless times, trying to remind him of the child beneath the League’s training who was so clearly just trying to make his dad proud. Bruce had been trying to raise another miniature soldier… he had done it with Dick, Jason, and Tim… Damian would be no different. But Dick, Jason, and Tim hadn’t been subjected to the League’s training since they could walk. They had a frame of reference for family; they had the tools to understand the way Bruce hid his love in his quick actions, clenched jaw, and rare affections. Damian did not.
Dick knew if he chose to take Damian in, take him on as his Robin, he would not raise the boy like Bruce would have. He would not be the Father that Damian had been promised. He wouldn’t play into Damian’s League-instilled instinct towards regimentation; he wouldn’t hold the boy to standards he had no hope of reaching. He wouldn’t fantasize about the kid one day prowling the same lonely streets he had, that Bruce had, forced into the same grueling fate that inevitably leads to an early death. He would train the kid because he had to, all the while guiding him towards a path with less blood, less violence. Damian liked to draw… an illustrator, maybe.
“--just have two things to ask of you, and then I swear, you will never see me again.” Damian’s prideful, trembling voice cut through Dick’s wide-eyed stupor. His gaze flicked down to the boy’s, finding the top of Damian’s head instead. The kid’s eyes were glued firmly on his hands clasped in front of him. Dick’s expression morphed into confusion as he tried to make his stagnant brain make sense of what Damian was saying. Never see him again? Why would he want Damian to leave?
Damian opened one of his desk drawers, and suddenly one of his little fists was clenched tightly around a handful of envelopes. Dick’s brain was still functioning on the same level as an amnesiac, and he couldn’t do more than blink at Damian dumbly. With a small huff, Damian thrust his fist forward again, still not meeting Dick’s gaze.
“Letters. For the others,” he explained quickly. Still, Dick didn’t react, that same dumbstruck expression on his face, but Damian seemed determined to continue.
“If you could see that they received them, I would be grateful.” He still wasn’t looking at Dick. Dick still hadn’t moved to grab the letters; his mouth hung half open, and his stupid brain remained stalled.
“The second thing.” Damian took a breath, somehow making himself look smaller than he already did, before continuing. “I know the easiest way to discard of me would be to hand me back to the League. Back to Grandfather.” Another shaky breath. Again, Dick wished that Damian would look at him. “Do not send me back there. I will go anywhere else you would like; I will live on the streets, I will leave Gotham, just not there.” Damian paused, his tense shoulders trembling slightly before he forced himself to meet Dick’s gaze. “Please.”
The plea shocked movement into Dick’s brain, finally. It was a word Dick seldom heard from Damian. He could count the times on one hand, in fact, and three of them had involved Damian being on the receiving end of a weapon and a lot of blood. It was not a word that came naturally to Damian. It was a word he only used when he had to, when he had no other option but to throw himself on the mercy of another.
Dick blinked a couple of times, as if he had just woken up from a trance, and looked down at Damian like he had grown a second head.
“Why would I be sending you anywhere?” He asked, his voice dumb with confusion. Damian gave a small huff and crossed his arms.
“Were you not listening? I just explained,” he chided, his voice a fraction of its usual biting self. He tightened his hands into fists, a flash of annoyance and hurt crossing his face that he would have to say the words again and wait, again, for Dick to agree. “Any obligation you had to me died with Father. You did not ask for me. Father didn’t even ask for me. It is unfair to expect that now that he is gone, you will… you will…” Damian struggled with the right phrasing. What was it that Damian needed? A home? A mentor? A Batman? A Father?
“I am relieving you of any… perceived responsibility. I am no longer a concern of yours,” he finished, bluntly. He forced himself to hold Dick’s gaze, deciding that if he had to say it again, he wouldn’t be a coward this time and avoid Dick’s reaction.
Dick looked at the letters still clenched in Damian’s fist, at the packed duffel, and at the way his shoulders were so tense, they were practically touching his ears. Then he looked at the kid’s face. Damian’s chin was raised, brow furrowed with a pride that threatened to devour any attempt at pity, but Dick could see the fear plain as day in the way his green eyes widened and his nostrils flared.
“You… you’re not an obligation, Damian,” Dick said it like it was obvious. It was obvious, at least to Dick. Damian, however, flinched at the statement, blinking as if the words surprised him.
“You’re not a… a burden. Did you think--” Dick’s eyes narrowed, but his question was cut off by a retreating Damian.
“You struggle to be honest when the truth is ugly. You always have,” Damian argued, taking a step back, brow furrowed with defiance. He didn’t need this, this song and dance Dick always wanted to do. He didn’t need the soothing, the coddling. It made him feel like a dog who was about to be put down.
“This is the truth, Damian,” Dick countered, replacing Damian’s lost ground with a step forward.
“You were going to leave,” Damian spit out, half accusatory, half hurt. Dick was taking another step forward before he froze, eyes widening.
“How did you--” he mumbled numbly, his brain still trying to get ahead of the revelation.
“Drake told me. You were planning to leave. Finally get out of Gotham. ‘Thinking about himself for once instead of always cleaning up Father’s mistakes’, is what Drake said.” Damian raised his eyes to Dick. He didn’t need to say the rest; Dick already knew where this was going. For someone so outwardly arrogant, Damian had always had a martyring streak, determined to see himself as the root cause of misery.
“Dami--”
“I am Father’s biggest mistake!” Damian cried out with a hurt that had Dick taking a step back, Damian’s little fist pounding into his own chest.
“You are not a mistake, Dames.” Dick’s voice was sad and sincere, its warmth overwhelming Damian, frustrating him, his brow furrowing and chest heaving. Why couldn’t Dick understand what was so clear to him?
“I was not born, Richard, did you know that? I was developed, a failed experiment from the first breath.” Damian sounded so much older than he was, his words hardened by an age he didn’t have, an age that had been forced into him through cruel training. Dick felt his face twitch as he tried to keep his expression steady, trying to hide the sick feeling in his stomach. He knew Damian was trying to scare him off, trying to make himself out to be a monster just to see if Dick would flinch.
“So what?” He shrugged, trying to move the conversation back into his territory: jokes and ruffled hair and relentless optimism.
“Mother was promised a perfect specimen: a seamless blend of the Bat and the Demon. Father was promised an heir, a blood son, someone worthy of carrying his legacy forward. They received me instead.” Dick felt his throat close when he saw Damian’s chin tremble slightly before he jutted it upward, trying to hide the glint of tears in his eyes.
“I watched them both try to ignore their disappointment, only to watch it fester into resentment. Mother at least had the wisdom to send me away. I… I do not want to watch you resent me, Richard.” Damian’s voice was smaller than usual. He was finding it hard to muster up the blanket of arrogance he usually gave them.
Damian couldn’t look at Dick. He knew it was cowardly, but he didn’t care. He allowed himself to be spared from seeing Dick’s reaction: pity or affirmation, both were equally unbearable. He didn’t want it. That meant he couldn’t see the way Dick’s features twisted into something pained and bewildered. Couldn’t see him blink tears from his eyes, fingers twisting like he wanted to reach for the boy.
“Look at me, Dami.” Dick waited for Damian to turn his face to him, and when he didn’t, Dick crouched down, sighing, peering up at Damian, interrupting his intense gaze at his shoes. “C’mon, kid. Please?”
Damian reluctantly, against his better judgment, raised his head to meet Dick’s sad gaze and kind smile. He couldn’t ignore Dick when he said please like that. He tried to find his usual defiance, but the well was starting to empty.
“No one was going to make you leave, kiddo. We would never do that. You’re our brother.” Damian flinched slightly at the word, his eye twitching. Dick was raising his hands like he was calming a horse. It took everything in Damian not to smack them away. He didn’t want to be soothed or tricked. He wanted honesty, no matter how brutal. He wanted Dick to understand that he wouldn’t survive that rotting resentment a third time.
“I’m… I’m not a brother. Father could see it.” Damian didn’t sound venomous; he sounded uncertain, insecure, distinctly unlike himself. Dick’s face did something complicated, brows knitting together, and mouth dropping into a frown, and for a fraction of a second Damian was terrified Dick might cry, but it was gone as quickly as it came.
“You’re not leaving, Damian. End of story. I don’t care what Bruce thought.” Dick’s voice was tight and final. Damian felt himself nodding on instinct, Dick’s tone bringing back ghosts of patrols past. They were silent for a beat, Dick trying to figure out what to say next, trying to calm the galloping beat in his chest.
“I’m-I’m sorry, Richard,” Damian whispered, his wide green eyes finally meeting Dick’s, and Dick knew that Damian was truly sorry. Sorry that he was a child, sorry he had been thrust upon them, sorry he had been the littlest brother instead of Timothy, sorry his father had died. And Dick knew, in that moment, that if he didn’t course correct--like now--this kid was going to spend the rest of his adolescence convinced he was nothing but baggage.
“Stop it, Dames. What are you apologizing for?” Dick asked, a weak imitation of his usual buoyancy. “I never wanted you to leave. I want you to stay, Dami.” He took a breath, preparing himself to say words that still felt so foreign in his mouth. “I’m Batman now. And Tim… Timmy was Bruce’s Robin. I need a Robin of my own, and Tim needs to leave the nest,” Dick rambled, hoping the kid would put it together on his own, feeling suddenly sheepish. Damian just blinked at him, a brow raised in skepticism.
“Will you be my Robin, Dami? Help me out with the whole Batman thing?” Damian’s eyes widened in surprise, fists opening as he took a small step back. Dick could see the boy’s wheels turning, trying to figure out the angle, to understand the trap.
“Why would you want me? Father… had to. You don’t have to.” Dick could hear the hope veiled in Damian’s venom, the small, small voice pleading for someone to prove him wrong. With a sigh, Dick finally sat, giving his now aching knees a rest and motioning for Damian to do the same.
“Bruce only gave me Robin after he found me trying to kill a guy, you know?” From the look on Damian’s face, Dick could tell that Damian definitely did not know.
“The man who murdered my parents.” Dick’s expression darkened a bit as he spoke. “It was right after Bruce took me in. I was just barely older than you. Tracked the guy down… brought one of Alfred’s kitchen knives with me, like that would have done anything,” Dick huffed out an airy laugh, running a hand through his hair as if clearing away the memory. “When Bruce--Batman found me, that was when he gave me Robin. I had just lost my parents. I was lost. I didn’t know who I was, what my function as a child was now that they were gone.” Dick’s eyes met Damian’s and found uncertainty staring back. Damian’s anger had melted away, replaced with a confused, frustrated kind of hope.
“My mother is alive, Richard,” he whispered, but it wasn’t cruel; he just sounded timid. A weak reminder that despite the pain she had put him through, he still loved her, at least a little bit. That didn’t change the fact that Damian’s parents may not be dead, but they were most certainly gone. The confused, nervous look in Damian’s eyes made Dick’s heart feel like it was going to snap.
“I felt… untethered without them. Scared of my future, scared of myself… the anger and fear I felt. Robin gave me something to hold onto. A reason to put on the tights in the morning.” Dick smirked, but the light didn’t reach his eyes as he searched Damian’s face for some sign of understanding. Damian flinched slightly, and Dick could tell he recognized the feeling. It was a feeling of helplessness that Damian instinctively recoiled from. One that had been haunting him since Bruce died, and he realized that his capabilities couldn’t change the cold fact that he was a child. And in Gotham, children needed guardians to exist.
But Damian didn’t want Dick to give him this because he thought Damian needed it. He wanted to earn it, to fight for it, to win it, bloody and bruised and triumphant. That’s how it had been in the League. That’s how it had been with Father. Everything is earned. Nothing is given. Damian was about to open his mouth to protest, to insist that he didn’t need this pity, but Dick wasn’t finished.
“Now Bruce is gone, and I feel that again. I feel angry that he left. Angry that I have to be Batman.” Dick peered at Damian, seeing his eyes widen at the mention of Dick’s frustration. Dick got angry. Hell, Dick got angry more often than any other member of the team. As a teen, he used to raise hell, screaming at Bruce until his face was red. He mellowed out the older he got (the farther he got away from Bruce), and by the time Damian came along, Dick had mastered the art of hiding his rage. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
“Yeah, kiddo. I’m pissed. I know you are, too.” Damian gave a small nod, eyes narrowing skeptically. “And I’m also scared. I’m really, really fucking scared. I don’t know how to be Batman. Look at me, Dames, I’m, like, the farthest thing possible from Bruce. I’m not even big enough to fit into his gear.” Dick watched Damian’s eyebrow raise in suspicion, his observant mind pinging as it realized the vulnerable shift in Dick’s voice. Dick knew that Damian would never accept help, would never accept a place given to him out of obligation or pity or anything remotely close to the two.
“I need you, Dami. I need you to help me, to be my Robin, to keep me from making a complete fool of myself. Can you do that, kiddo?” Dick asked, a hopeful smile on his lips as he watched Damian reel back in surprise and consider his offer with the same weight he imagined world leaders considered treaties.
Finally, after a few moments of silence that felt like eons to Dick--just enough time for his nervous mind to question if Damian would even say yes, if he even wanted to be Dick’s at all--Damian nodded timidly, his eyes still full of suspicion and doubt, but Dick would take it. Dick’s smile brightened, no longer forced, and he let out a sigh.
“That’s great, Dames. Thank you, kid.” Dick relished watching Damian puff his chest out a bit, a tinge of crimson creeping up his collar at Dick’s gratitude.
“You are in sore need of a tactician. Acrobatics are not an answer to everything, Richard,” Damian grumbled, trying to cover up the blush that was starting to creep up his cheeks. Dick laughed and ruffled Damian’s hair, unfazed by Damian’s swatting and muttered protests.
“Go ahead and unpack those bags, kiddo. And you can keep the letters; we won’t be needing those anytime soon.”