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One thing that had been repeated to him ever since Damian had arrived to the Wayne Manor–to Gotham–was “You’re just a kid”.
The phrase was used as an excuse; it was used as a reason, and considered sound and logical. It was treated like it was all that needed to be said.
But Damian wasn’t a child. He’d been raised in the League of Assassins, trained since birth to be an instrument of justice. He was academically years ahead of the infants he shared classes with–probably knew more than the teachers.
He was not a child.
But that’s all everyone had told him.
“You’re just a kid, Damian,” Grayson had once ‘reasoned’ when he’d demanded to know why Grayson refused to grant him access to review the photographic evidence of a particularly gruesome case they’d been working on. “You shouldn’t see stuff like that.”
Damian had answered that he had likely seen much worse, and the sadness in Grayson’s eyes, in the slight sag to his posture, in his words–it confused and upset Damian.
“I know,” he’d said.
Another time he’d been trying to goad a rise of Drake–he’d needed a fight–and Drake had refused to rise to the bait, snapping, “I’m not letting you do this, Demon.”
Damian had yelled at him and told him to explain why not, and Drake had raised his voice back, almost screaming, “Because I am not going to fight a child!”
Of course, Damian had been enraged by the response and lunged for Drake’s throat because of it, and Drake had humored him for all of one swing before dropping him and taking his leave.
Todd had snorted when Damian had tried to fight him, and again had told him, “Get the fuck out of my way, kid. I’m not fighting a toddler.”
Damian stared down at the water, legs hugged close to his chest, and thought.
He wasn’t a child, but he was one. He thought himself to be far superior to other children, but being a child wouldn’t–it shouldn’t be an insult.
Children were happy. They went about their lives without a care or worry in the world aside from Christmas and Easter. They were children, and they were allowed to be, and they were happy.
Damian…
He wasn’t a child. He was someone trapped in a child’s body. He was held hostage to the expectations people had for him–just a little boy who made mistakes, who didn’t understand, who was hardly expected to behave as anything but the child they thought he was.
He wondered if he’d be different if his father had raised him. He wondered if he would want to be different, then realized his answer.
Damian wanted to be different. He didn’t want… He didn’t want to be mature. He didn’t want to know everything he knew. He didn’t want to experience everything he already had.
He wanted to be a child.
But he wasn’t one.