Chapter Text
Damian rubbed at the paint that began to harden between his fingers. The colorful chips peeled away, falling in a flurry of hues onto his rosewood desk. He ignored the mess for now, and focused on the smile that was forming in front of him. He took a moment to study the painting, letting his eyes roam over floppy raven hair and mischievous royal eyes. Carefully, he took a black and darkened the line along the figure’s cheeks and jaw. “Since when did I have to draw Grayson’s jaw so sharp,” Damian mumbled to himself. He pulled opened his desk drawer and retrieved his old sketchbook from within. Flipping through it, he paused at Dick’s sketches only to realized that he’s been slowly sharpening Dick’s features for months now. Jason’s and Tim’s visage also became sharper over time. Jason’s jaw grew stronger, while Tim’s eyes were less round and his cheeks were less abundant. Damian frowned. He’s always prided himself on his observational abilities. It was what he favored most about art, the attention to detail it required. “How could I not see how fast they are aging,” he asked as he stared at his artwork.
“No need to be so harsh on yourself, Master Damian,” another spoke from the doorframe, “I didn’t notice it at first either.” Damian sat down his sketchpad, pushing his chair away from his desk. He eyed Alfred silently and the aged butler smiled slightly in return. “I can barely recall you becoming an adult,” the man said as he stepped inside. He easily placed a hand on the back of Damian’s chair. Meanwhile, his mind reminded him of times when he wasn’t allowed to be so close. “I only remember the insolent child that stomped around and threatened to relieve me of my duties,” the old butler joked, “I never would have guessed that stubborn child would grow to be such a great young man.”
“Tt,” Damian sounded. He drew up a smirk he only used for his enemies, remembering the days when everyone was his enemy. “Don’t get too comfortable, Pennyworth,” he snarked, “My first decree after I obtain my father’s fortune is your forced retirement. Then, I’m replacing you with servants that are worth my presence.” He cracked a soft smile. “That still hasn’t changed,” he said, “ Someone has to force you to stop before you work yourself into an early grave.”
The man chuckled. That speech surely brought back memories. “Master Damian,” he replied, “My grave would be far from an early one.” The Wayne heir gave his butler a sour look, but just as he’s done years before, Alfred ignored it. Instead he smiled softly at his pseudo-grandson. “I’m just glad that everything will be left in good hands,” Alfred said.
“Good hands,” Damian returned, “Are you referring to me?” He picked up his paintbrush and began to delicately shade the shadows that had formed as Dick’s cheekbones became more pronounced. “I doubt that I’ll be a proper replacement,” Damian continued teasingly, “I’m not much for cleaning.” He paused then, his teasing smirk fading as his fingers tightened their hold on his paintbrush. “I’m not much in other areas, either,” he mumbled. The room fell into silence after Damian spoke, the two men watching as Damian painted. “I,” he said into the silence, “I don’t know if I’m doing a good job.” He placed down his paintbrush again and linked his fingers together under his chin. “The others continue to come to me for advice,” he disclosed, “And I’m not quite sure if the advice I give is helpful or harmful.”
Alfred hummed. He wasn’t lying when he said that he never thought that Damian would grow to be as he was. He looked down and couldn’t hold the warmth that flooded him. Damian was so much like Bruce. “Your father thought the same,” Alfred began. The words caused Damian to look up. The old butler looked into the younger’s worried sapphire eyes. “And look at the man you’ve become,” Alfred said proudly, “I’ll tell you as I have told Master Bruce. You’re doing fine, Damian.” The man opened his mouth to refute, but Alfred stopped him. He stooped down as he once did when Damian was young, and placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “I know how hard this is for you, but you truly are doing well. Words cannot describe how incredibly proud of you I am,” he said, “You’ve come far.” The man then rose and smoothed out his creaseless slacks and brushed nothing from his shoulders. “This came for you,” the man said, butler once more, “It came in the mail this morning. You’re not the only one writing letters.”
“How did you know,” Damian began to ask, but he stopped when he was met with a raised eyebrow. Maybe Alfred was the true detective in the Wayne Manor. Instead, Damian simply took the envelope that was handed to him. It was small, crumpled around the edges and covered in chicken scratch. “Terry,” he asked. “Why would he be writing us?”
“Not ‘us’ Master Damian,” Alfred said, “You.”
Indeed, upon closer inspection, Damian found his name only. The letter was addressed to him specifically. “Now I’m even more baffled,” the young heir voiced. He still put his finger under the fold, paint chips catching along the edges and coloring the white envelope various shades of blue. “Why would Terry be writing me,” he asked.
“When will you understand, Master Damian,” the older man sighed fondly. Damian eyed the man, waiting for an explanation. In place of one, the butler pulled out an old English coin, allowing it to slide among his knuckles. “You and Master Terrance are two sides of the same coin, Master Damian,” Alfred explained. He then tossed the coin, the two watching it as it flipped. “Well,” Alfred said as he gestured for Damian to catch it. The boy snatched it from the air, placing his palm above it. Alfred smiled, placing his own hand above Damian’s. “No matter if the coin lands on heads or tails,” the wise butler said, “This coin will always have the same value.” Finally, Damian confusion cleared and the stress eased off of his shoulders. “You are not Master Terry,” Alfred said, “But you do not need to be. You, as you are have just as much value.” They were equals. Alfred finally removed their hands and the coin showed tails up. “Have a good night, Master Damian,” Alfred wished as he walked away.
“As do you, Pennyworth,” Damian whispered to the other’s retreating back, “As do you.” He then dipped back into his room and opened Terry’s letter.
Hey Dame,
I’m not too sure
I’m thinking of coming
I miss you guys. I wonder if they boys brought the ceiling down yet.
Joking aside, I re don’t regret leaving, but I’m not quite sure what I’m doing. Living in the manor made me soft. Not used to sleeping on the street anymore and I don’t have a Big Time to show me the ropes this time. I got the hang of it, though. It comes back to you. You never truly forget, you know.
Anyway, I’m just… I don’t know. I know that I’m looking for something, but I don’t know what that is. I just, I want to prove to myself that I’m not Bruce. I’ve been thinking, like really thinking and I’m realizing that the decisions I make hell even this decision to go on this journey is something that Bruce would do. The night gig, the girls, the criminal justice major, even helping the kids, it’s all something Bruce would do.
What would I do?
I have this question, but no way of finding an answer. I just want to know who I am. What would I’d choose. And it’s not just the being a freak clone stuff. It’s everything. Bruce is such a big ass shadow. Have I just been hiding behind it all of this time? I know that we’ve bumped heads, but have I just been giving in. I’m tired of giving in, Dame.
I wish that I was more like you. You do what you want. You found you own path and you always credit me with helping you with that, but that was all you, Dame. You think your own way. You utilize your training, not get buried underneath it. It’s a part of you. Every part of your life is you making the decisions that best suits you, even if it’s not the most… normal… solution. (You so freaking strange btw. Gotta take time to tease you.) I want to be more like that. I want to think for myself. All this time I thought I was.
I can tell now, you know, that I don’t really think for myself. There’s always this little, I don’t know, tingle… reminder in the back of my head telling me to go a certain way, think a certain way. I tried to rob rob I can’t even write it out. When I tried, my body wouldn’t listen to me. I just wouldn’t move. Have I always been this way? I’m not even sure anymore. I’ve stolen things before, mugged a couple of people, but now I can’t. I don’t know what’s going on.
Dame, I just want to be free and I don’t know how.
Sorry, I shouldn’t even be writing (I know you’re Tt-ing in your head right now). I know it’ll do more harm than good, and the others are probably going through it. Don’t tell them that I touched bases. They only have to ask and I’d come back. It wouldn’t be good for me them, you know.
I’m not expecting anything back, but I just needed to get this off of my chest. You’ve always been there for me, so... I don’t know what to do now that you’re not.
I gotta go but thanks for reading my rambles,
Terry
Damian read the letter again before folding it and placing it within his desk drawer. He locked it away along with old photos of his mother and grandfather – things and memories he kept to himself. He then pulled out his pen and paper to write one final letter. This one he was going to send.
Brother,
Firstly, do not write again unless you are writing in order to inform us of your return. You need to cut ties of this place or you will never find your independence.
Secondly, I understand. You know I do. I believe that the only way to ensure that you stand strong in your morals is to have them constantly tested. That is what you’ve done for me. My suggestion advice, is to go to Lady Shiva. She will discipline you and help you gain further control of your body. Though I warn you, she will be the biggest challenge that you will ever face, not only physically but also morally. If your beliefs can stand against her then feel sure that they are yours.
She is of the League and thus have League morals. Be careful and do not look for her. I will send her to you. And before you consider refusing my help, consider it repayment for the help that you have given me. (If you can insist that you did nothing to assist me, then I will do the same.)
Be safe, Brother, and don’t worry for us or the ceiling. I can confidently say that I have things under control here.
Expect one final letter from me with directions and a note to deliver to Lady Shiva. Hang on until then. (And don’t mingle too closely with peasants, I would hate to have to housebreak you again.)
Stay strong Terry,
~DW