Work Text:
He was shorter than expected. His hair was the wrong shade of black, more deep onyx than raven. His eyes were the wrong color of blue. The hue was closer to the sky than to sapphires. These were small differences, some may have even called the irregularities inconsequential, but to Damian they were all the proof he needed. There was no way this boy shared the same rare blood in his veins as him. This “Terrance” was no Wayne. He couldn’t even get the coloring correct.
Yet as he stood next to his father, surrounded by reporters and photographers, his inclusion seemed seamless. He stood strong; his shoulders were back, and his head was high. It was posture not that of a street-rat. It was the confidence and power of a Wayne.
Terrance looked on as the cameras flashed. His face was aristocratically neutral. He didn’t even flinch when they directed their lights directly in his sky-blue eyes. It took Damian months to learn how to remain as still for these press conferences. It took him even longer to learn how to present himself in an aristocratic yet personable manner – in a “Wayne-esque” manner. This boy did it effortlessly. It was as if he really was birthed into it.
“So, Mr. Wayne!” One of the reporters shouted over the many clicks of cameras and tape recorders. He stood on his tippy-toes as he desperately battled for the Wayne’s attention. “How do you feel about the sudden discovery of a long-lost son,” the man yelled. The click and movement stopped as the room waited in baited breath for the man to answer. Bruce Wayne, the Prince of Gotham, turned with all the prestige and grace that came with that title. He graced the reporter with a charming smile that was sure to make them all swoon. Damian bit the inner of his bottom lip to hide the irritable gust of air that threatened to come out.
“It’s a surprise,” the eldest Wayne began. He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck and he smiled sheepishly. The reporters fell easily for the lies his father told. Damian nearly bristled when he saw how easy it was to captivate them. They thought nothing of it. They simply smiled at his false innocence, and laughed at his forged immaturity. “However,” Bruce continued. He let his voice drop to show his sincerity, and the laughs disappeared just as the older Wayne wanted them to. “It’s a beautiful surprise," he wistfully whispered. He placed a huge palm upon Terrance’s shoulder, and the crowd cooed at the outward show of affection.
Damian frowned. These "reporters" were simple and unrefined. They had to be to believe such lies. True investigators would have known that Terrance would never let Bruce touch him in such a familial manner. In his eyes he only had one father, and it wasn’t Bruce Wayne, or so he told Damian. However, here in front of the mindless masses Terrance only shared a shy smile to the camera and waved his pale hand with his head bent. He let Bruce finger the hairs that curled around his nape and roughly shuffled his hair. He and his “father” put on an impeccable show.
Despite it all, their power to fool these people intrigued Damian. The smallest of motions, a smile or a gesture influenced an entire crowd of reporters; it was fascinating to see. However, he also knew that he could never replicate that. He could never learn how to be so... artificial. On the other hand, Terrance picked it up with ease. Damian bristled as he was forced to watch. How dare this imposter show up and instantly become better than him?
“Oh wow!” Another reporter from the front round caught sight of Damian's trembling fist, and the heir was disappointed that he let someone so beneath him catch him. “It seems like the youngest Wayne doesn’t like this new revelation,” the reporter remarked. Damian redirected his hatred, staring the man down. The newsman shrank back into the crown to hide from the harsh stare. “I meant nothing of it,” he amended as he staggered back.
Bruce laughed. He laughed, and the sound was so synthetic it pounded painfully within Damian’s ears. “It’s nothing,” the prince commented. He spared both boys fond looks and playfully shook them by their shoulders. “They’re brothers,” he continued, “So of course they’ll fight a little.” He smiled once more, letting his eyes close and soft chuckles slip through is lips. Damian wondered if he’s ever seen his father smile so easily in his life. The crowd didn’t need to examine such thoughts, though. So they nodded easily, nodded as if they understood. They smiled alongside the prince. Pushing Damian aside as though it wasn’t a traumatic ordeal to have someone suddenly appear and uproot everything that they had ever believed. They listened eagerly as the greatest Gothamite spilled stories, twisting the “brother’s” heated arguments into childish disagreements. They laughed as the icon made sport of Damian’s anger – of his misplacement.
Damian couldn’t continue to watch as the crowd continued to bask in Bruce – bask in his easily smiles and endless lies. Instead he decided to spare a glance towards his so-called “brother”. With the cameras now on Bruce, he could easily see him clearly. The pretenses finally dropped, and the boy stood in his truth. The shy smile that he once adorned was replaced with a deep painful frown. It carved into his very soul. It was then that Damian finally noticed – Terrance hated this too.
He hated it just as much as Damian did. He hated just as much as Bruce did. Yet unlike Damian, the boy smiled when prompted. He looked up with false admiration. He ducked playfully under Bruce’s hand when the Gotham Prince ruffled his hair, and he rubbed his nape between embarrassing stories. He played the part, just as Bruce did. Damian thought that maybe this “Terrance” was more of a Wayne than Damian liked to admit. If that was so, then what was the worth of a Wayne. Was their worth only measured by how well they could play the part of one? Was blood not enough?
“Young Master Damian.” A soft voice whispered into his ear, accented and well-aged. It was Pennyworth. “It’s almost time to go,” he continued. The voice of his father’s caretaker eased his soul. His shoulders released and lowered away from his ears. The scowl he didn’t feel forming slid off his face. “Hang in there,” he advised. He placed a gloved hand onto Damian’s shoulder and bent further. “I know this is painful to watch,” he said gently, “But it’s almost over.” Damian nodded, his mind unwinding itself and wrapping around the thought that this was almost over.
“I’m sorry,” Damian heard his father speak above the loud drum of the crowd. He raised his hand, the gesture commanding calm and the room instantly fell into silence. “But that’s all the time I have for today,” he stated. The room exploded into ruckus, reporters begging for more time. Bruce only placed his hand where Alfred’s once was on Damian’s shoulder, and place his other hand upon Terrance’s. “But as you can see, my boys are quite tired,” he continued as he ignored their pleads, “I have to get them home.”
The manor was quiet and stifling. The silence stretched dauntingly within her halls. Terrance slipped into the hallways, soaking up the melancholy that seeped from the walls. He let his fingers brush past priceless artifacts and timeless paintings. For the life of him, the street rat couldn’t understand their ‘worth’. There were no memories attached to them, no warmth. They were cold and lifeless, just like everything else that stayed in the Wayne Manor – just like him.
He rounded the corner, entering a room that he couldn’t be bothered to remember the name of, and sat unceremoniously in one of its many couches. “What are you doing in here?” Terrance turned to the additional voice. He spotted Damian in all his Wayne glory. Terrance took in the condescending blue eyes and disapproving frown. They were definitely the markings of a Wayne. “I asked you a question,” the Wayne prince continued, “What are you doing here?”
Terrance placed his five-thousand-dollar loafers onto the priceless chaise, lolling his head lazily to the side to eye the irritated Wayne. He could see the anger roll through Damian. The prince’s fists clenched as he watched Terrance dirty the priceless Victorian style furniture that his – their – grandmother hand-chose. “To be honest with you,” Terrance continued, “I don’t know.” Terrance then sat up from the chaise, letting his shoulders sag. He knew that Damian came for a fight, but Terrance didn’t think had any left in him to give. “You got a problem with me being here,” he said as he looked to his fuming “brother”, “Then take it up with your old man.”
“You should show father more respect than that,” Damian said. However, the words came out without any bite. Instead he eyed Terrance warily, his sapphires rolling over Terrance loose stance and defeated shoulders. “Tell me what’s wrong with you,” he commanded, “Why are you behaving like this?” He walked up to his brother, an angry scowl etching itself onto his face. “Do you not take me seriously, imposter,” he said. He shoved the other, knocking them both into the chaise when Terrance didn’t give any resistance. Damian scrambled back up, moving from the couch in lightening speed. He was not used to Terrance being so docile. “Are,” he began. His face was frowned in concern. “Are you ill,” he asked, “If so, call for Pennyworth, idiot.”
Terrance cracked a rueful smile. He should call for Pennyworth. What happened to calling for his mother when he fell ill? What happened to him nuzzling his little brother? Now he’s dumped into this life where he had to constantly fight his “little brother”, and call for butlers when he was sick. “I’m not sick,” Terrance voiced lowly. Damian closed the distance slightly, the fists that formed at his sides releasing. “I’m tired,” Terrance sighed, “I’m just so tired.” The boy now sat on the edge of the chaise, his head within his palms. “I,” he began. He voice was wet, tears intermingling with his words, “I want to go home.” Terrance sobbed, letting out the pain he’s held since his family’s death. He emerged himself within the hopelessness he felt since he ran to a police officer while covered in his mother’s blood to only be brushed off as another begging street rat. He cried, not caring if Damian was watching on.
The Wayne prince sat next to his sobbing brother. He watched, unable to react, but surely able to relate. When he joined his father, he too left everything behind. He knew what it was like to miss home. However, whether Terrance like it or not, he was a Wayne. “Stop his insufferable crying,” the prince commanded. Terrance instantly stopped with a snort, the command shocking him out of his sorrow. Anger burned in his baby blues and the boy began to argue – fight, but Damian stopped him. “I understand,” he said, “When I came to this manor, I had nothing, but the expectations Mother placed upon me and my pride.” The anger drained from Terrance eyes as he listened. Never had two just sat and talked. “I had everything stripped from me,” Damian continued, “My mother tongue, the food I was accustomed to eating, the way I behaved.” He sighed then, leaning back casually upon the chaise and allowing their knees to touch. “I had to become more "Wayne-like”,” Damian explained. Terrance nodded on the side of him. “So I understand,” Damian said, “For a long time all I wanted was to go home, where I fitted in.” The other finally looked to Terrance and gave him an evil smile. “That’s why I hate you so much,” he commented, “You instantly fitted here. You don’t even have to try.”
Terrance laughed then. His face was still wet and his eyes were still red, but he laughed loudly and cheerfully – genuinely. “You think I fit in,” Terrance asked incredulously. He turned his body and tucked his leg in so he could fully face Damian. “You truly think that I don’t try,” he continued. He laughed again. “Oh god,” he said, “Every single day in this place is a fucking struggle.” He paused to place his hands over his mouth. “Shit,” he said, “Sorry for cursing.” Damian raised an eyebrow. “You see what I mean,” Terrance exclaimed, “I’m no Wayne! I curse like a fucking sailor, I’m always ready for a fight, and I can’t even began to tell you how many times Alfred had to come and correct me.”
Damian cracked a smile of his own. He knew about those grueling etiquette lessons. He remembered the sting of Alfred’s words when he made a mistake. His smile became a soft chuckle as he lamented over his own stupidity. “You say that you are no Wayne,” Damian began. He looked Terrance in the eyes, for the first time appreciating the different shade they were and the deep richness of his hair. He celebrated the fact that in the end he would be taller than him. They may be different, but they are also alike. “Neither am I,” he admitted. Damian, with his tanned skin and accented English, his serious and unapproachable demeanor, was no Wayne.
“To be honest with you,” Terrance started. He then wrapped an arm brotherly around Damian, nudging him. “I don’t think any of us are a “Wayne”,” he voiced, “Not even Bruce.” Damian paused at the accusation. “No one acts more than him,” he explained. He then stared out into the middle of the room, his eyes lost in thought. “He follows a template,” Terrance thought aloud, “Possibly copying what his father did, just like we’re copying him. It makes me wonder what is a Wayne.”
“At its worst, a role.” Both boys sprung apart at the added voice. Bruce stood at the doorway, the suit he wore earlier long forgotten. Instead he stood in a sweat stained black V-neck and matching sweatpants, and his raven-onyx locks were matted to his forehead. He was back to his usual self – serious and daunting. He was so far removed from the man they saw at the press conference that it impossible to believe that they were the same man. Then again, maybe they weren't the same man.
Bruce easily entered the room, the man instantly noticing the unusual camaraderie that exuded from his boys. He heard their question as he walked pass the door, and thought it time for him to intervene. “At its best,” he continued, “A Wayne is a representation of positivity and of hope.” He walked up to his boys and kneeled to their level. “Being a Wayne is our duty,” he said, “Our job, it doesn't not encompass who we are.” He stood then, the semblance of a smile ghosting across his features. “I’m happy the two of you finally realized how alike you were. Alfred wanted me to step in, but I trusted the two of you would be able to figure it out on your own.” With that he left, leaving the boys to explore their new-found friendship.
“So,” Terrance said a while after Bruce left, “you’re Arabic, right.” Damian paused before nodding unsurely. People usually tease him for his Arabic roots. “Can you show me some of your food,” he asked, “I heard it was good.”
Damian blinked. He wasn't expecting that. Though, he quickly pulled himself back together and shrugged nonchalantly. They both saw through that farce, though. “As long as you make this “goulash” you keep talking about your mother making.”
“Deal,” Terrance said as he put his hand out to shake. Damian took it, noting that this might be the first time he’s deliberately touched him without punching him. “And oh,” Terrance spoke again, “Call me Terry. Terry McGinnis-Wayne.”
“Damian al Ghul-Wayne.”