Chapter Text
Damian redrew the details of Titus’ snout once again, the shape not quite correct. The right nostril was just slightly larger than the left one, but every time Damian attempted to redraw it, he was never quite satisfied with the result.
Sometimes the nostril was too large, but other too small. Sometimes it was too dark in shading, sometimes too light. Other times it looked completely different from the other nostril.
Overall, Damian was peeved.
He began drawing and shading his trusty dog in the early afternoon, but when he finally lifted his head and looked through the cream-colored curtains Damian noticed the sun disappearing beneath the skyline. Damian simply blinked, then returned back to redrawing the nostrils. Time was not much of an issue for him currently. He could easily finish his homework in the car ride to school. His school grades were superb, anyway.
He was so close. Just a tiny adjustment, then he would be satisfied with the result of the overall snout. “Hm,” he grunted to himself, dragging the pencil on the sketch paper.
When he finally felt satisfied with the nostrils, he shaded the rest of the body. Damian narrowed his eyes when he noticed the uneven paws.
He brought his sketchbook to patrol.
Patrol had been, admittedly, tiring. Damian’s father had been shadowing him the entire him, not even bothering to pretend to trust Damian in any small brawl.
His father was hard for Damian to understand. Not only were the purpose behind some of his actions ambiguous, but his words sometimes betrayed his body language. Yes, Bruce was blunt, but also not fully candid about his true feelings on any matter.
However, Damian always followed his mother in his childhood, so it was only appropriate that the boy not question the meaning behind some of Bruce’s decisions.
But sometimes...
Damian had no patience with the man. And Drake. And Grayson. And Brown. And Thomas. And Gordon. And Todd, when he would visit the manor at all. It was when their words were ambiguous and inconsistent; one minute, they would say one thing, then it would be a completely different thing the next minute. Then they would act offended, coy when Damian demanded for a straightforward answer.
One of those instances was right now.
“Write your report, Damian,” Bruce ordered. Damian’s shoulder’s lessened, then he walked to the cave computer. “After you get patched up.”
Damian grit his teeth. He just told him to write his report. Why was he making this so difficult for Damian? Damian just wanted to be a good soldier.
The boy straightened out his back, then marched over to the medical table. “Why did you not say that first?” Damian demanded. He honestly couldn’t understand his own bratty tone of voice. It didn’t matter anyway, as long as his father answered the question.
Bruce exhaled through his nose. “You should’ve done it anyway. You got injured,” he stated.
Damian -tt-ed, the noise and action comforting and calming for the twelve-year-old. “Barely,” Damian bit out, taking off his tunic and undershirt. It’s true, for him at least. Bruce’s view, however was completely different. The stab wound was more than a cause for alarm.
Bruce pulled back his cowl as he paced to the medical table. Damian had started to clean the wound himself (quite meticulously and with great focus), but Bruce needed to stitch the wound to assure himself that his son was decent. Besides, it would be incredibly difficult for Damian to stitch himself up with one hand. Bruce made sure to take his gloves off before beginning the stitch, as it usually caused Damian to storm off earlier.
As Bruce began his first stitch, Damian didn’t make a single movement or noise, instead scanning around the vast cave. “What?” Bruce asked him suddenly. Still, the boy didn’t twitch.
“What?” Damian bit back. Why is Father acting so vague?
Bruce took a deep breath. “Why are you staring so intensely around the cave? Did you sneak another animal in?” He questioned Damian.
Damian’s brows furrowed. “No. I would like a turkey next, but they make plenty of noise,” he refuted, missing the point entirely.
Bruce paused his stitchings. No, his son was not stupid, but he was just not...socially adept. Like him.
The father continued his stitchings as he repeated, “Why are you staring so intensely around the cave?”
Damian frowned, realizing now what his father was asking. “That is none of your business,” he spat out. Bruce didn’t hesitate on his next stitching.
“It is my business,” Bruce refuted. “In fact, I work in business.”
Damian pulled back his arm, not surprising Bruce in the slightest. This happened during most medical sessions, some just ended shorter than others. The boy had fits of anger, but they were predictable almost to the point of a pattern. Bruce inwardly reminded himself to track them down.
“Why is that relevant to the conversation?!” Damian yelled, narrowing his eyes.
Bruce ground his teeth. “It was a joke, Damian,” he replied calmly.
Damian grunted frustratedly, making that little -tt- noise. Sometimes it drove Bruce insane. “I need to make the report,” Damian said before stomping to the computer and starting a new report.
He typed quickly, as though he already knew exactly what he was going to write. To the very first letter of his report to the last. Bruce placed the needle and thread in a metal tray, then picked up his gloves. “Finish the stitch before bed,” he told his son, who was furiously typing.
Damian made no regard to him, so Bruce slapped him with his gloves. It wasn’t hard enough to make the skin on his uninjured arm red, but it got Damian’s attention. The boy scowled at his father when he looked up at what Bruce lazily smacked him with. “Finish the stitch before bed,” Bruce repeated.
The boy just clenched his jaw, then returned back to his typing. Bruce didn’t move for a moment, and just thought about his son’s behavior over the last two years. A lot of his behaviors and mannerisms were predictable, but had an insignificant cause. It could be something so small, such as sarcasm he couldn’t comprehend or an order that had been changed last minute.
Damian had always been a handful.
I deserve to document my son’s behavior, Bruce decided, then walked to the showers.
Definitely documenting this, Bruce thought as Damian screamed at Tim.
“I asked for you to-“ Damian fumbled on his words, unable to think of a comeback.
“What?” Tim asked back brattily. “You asked for me to stop bouncing my leg, Damian!” The ridiculousness finally revealed.
“Yes!” Damian yelled back, not understanding how ludicrous it was to get this frustrated over such a minimal action.
Tim put his head in his hands, feeling defeated. “Damian,” he muttered angrily in his hands. “Why do those things bother you so much!?” Tim was obviously annoyed, so Damian was glad that at least Tim’s body was consistent with his words sometimes.
“It is absolutely vexing!” Damian yelled, his words sounding as if they were premeditated.
Tim rolled his eyes. “Well, sorry Prince Damian, but if someone is annoyed by something they usually walk away,” he said. Damian didn’t look directly at Tim, instead fixating his glare on the bats. “Listen to me, Damian!” Tim waved his hands.
Another short moment passed when Damian replied, “I am not legally a prince. Also, you were causing me great irritation!”
Tim stuffed his hands in his hair, frustration boiling over. “Then walk away, Damian!” He yelled.
Damian somehow scowled harder, then scoffed. He didn’t say anything else, and instead began stomping out of the cave. Tim furrowed his eyebrows, confused. Why’d he...Oh.
“Damian,” Tim said the boy’s name, but he continued walking, his shoulders up to his ears and his legs stiff. It was then that Tim realized how much the noise and action had truly stressed out the boy. So much so that he felt no other obligation than to blow up and scream. “I’m sorry.”
Damian finally stopped stomping, then turned back to Tim in a deadly manner. “About what?” Damian spat out.
Tim sighed. He knew what ever he would say, Damian would not approve. “I’m sorry I...” Tim pursed his lips, feeling hopeless, “made you feel stressed,” the young man blurted out.
Instantly, Damian’s face alighted with anger. “You cannot make me feel anything, Drake!” He yelled, pointing his finger accusingly. “I am not-“ Damian fumbled on his words once again. “I am not...” he tried again with no success.
Bruce stepped into the light, the notebook and pen safely tucked into his pants pocket. “Damian, go up to your room,” he ordered calmly. Damian narrowed his eyes at his father, but didn’t object. The boy stormed up the cave stairs, most likely retreating to his bedroom in the manor.
Tim turned lazily to Bruce. “You’ve been there this entire time, haven’t you,” Tim said. It wasn’t a question, but Bruce nodded once anyway.
“I’m observing and documenting Damian’s behavior,” Bruce admitted with no shame.
Tim, as he dragged his feet back to the computer seat, muttered annoyedly, “And they call me the stalker.” Tim paused, then asked Bruce, “Why don’t you just observe through the cameras?”
Bruce’s quirk of the brow was almost unnoticeable. “You can’t tell someone’s true emotions through a camera lens,” he told Tim. Tim nodded slowly, spinning back to the computer screen.
He didn’t need to ask what Damian’s true emotions were; he already knew.
Tim paused his scrolling, however, when another query popped into his head. “Why are you doing all of this?” He asked curiously as he turned his chair around again to face his father-figure.
Bruce deliberated his next words. Should he tell Tim, in case Damian actually does have some medical disorder—or should he let nature run its course so the results be as authentic as possible?
“You’ve already observed me and Damian, why not observe him and Dick?” Tim suggested, somehow knowing what was going through Bruce’s head.
Bruce nodded, taking out the notepad from his back pocket. “Short temper, sensitive to certain sounds and secondary sensations, unable to properly communicate frustrations, unable to distinguish sarcasm, hyposensitivity to pain, extreme concentration on one subject, unable to multi-task, unable to distinguish facial expressions, bursts of anger that usually results in a physical altercations,” Bruce listed off. “Need I say more? I have more,” he commented sarcastically.
Tim just blinked owlishly at Bruce. “You didn’t answer my-“
“Damian has some kind of mental disorder,” Bruce finally admitted. “I need to document my own accounts, then I can go to Dinah for a proper diagnosis.”
Tim’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? You think that something is wrong with him?” He asked, shocked. Suddenly, guilt washed over him. Maybe he treating the boy wrong this entire time. Perhaps he was some sort of cruel brother whom taunted his mentally ill little sibling, not understanding the boy’s perspective at all.
Bruce peered back down at the notepad. “Yes,” he said firmly. He opened his mouth once, hesitated, then said, “If something is wrong, Tim, you haven’t done anything bad.” Tim frowned, so Bruce continued, “We haven’t known, looked into it for over two years. And Talia wasn’t much of a caring mother.”
Tim eyes went downward, the guilt forming in his chest. He felt horrible. For the snide comments, for the physical fights, for the avoidance of the boy altogether. “I’m sorry,” Tim apologized. He honestly didn’t know if it was for Damian, or for causing Bruce such heartache over the years.
“You haven’t done anything wrong, Tim,” Bruce reassured him. Tim bowed his head.
“What do you think it is?”
Bruce sighed deeply, tiredly. “Reactive Attachment Disorder, PTSD, Avoidant Personality Disorder, autism, even OCD,” he listed off.
Tim furrowed his brows. “Why OCD?” He queried.
“He gets obsessive over certain tasks, wants certain things to remain the same every single day,” Bruce explained. Tim made a short humming noise as a reply. “Avoidant Personality Disorder, PTSD, and autism are the most likely however.”
Tim spun his chair back around with wide eyes. “You think he has autism?” He asked, surprised once again. He backtracked when he recognized the slightly judgmental tone in his voice. “I mean,” he recovered, “I never thought once that Damian had some sort of autism.”
Bruce tilted his head in an understanding sort of way. “Aspergers is considered the mild version of autism, although the symptoms still manifest the individual in multiple ways. Most notably, socially,” Bruce elaborated. Tim nodded slowly, his eyes still wide. “I suggest you do your own research, then report back to me and talk about your findings,” Bruce said-no, ordered, his voice flowing as though he were talking about an everyday mission.
Tim nodded slowly, spinning back to the computer and continuing his own research. “I’ll be back in a few days,” Tim told his father-figure.
“Very well.”