Archive of Our Own

Dick tugs off his cowl, his sweat-soaked hair flopping back into place. He’ll never get used to the hundred-pound leather batsuit; he has no clue how Bruce managed to feel more comfortable in this thing than in his own skin. It’s like wearing a sweaty head-to-toe smock. “Stop being difficult about this, Damian.”

“Stop treating me like a child,” the literal child challenges.

“Sorry to break it to you, but you are a child.”

Damian rips off his own mask as he stomps through the Batcave, shoving past Alfred like his anger has eaten all of the polite genes in his body. Or maybe he’s thrown more off balance than he cares to admit. “Fuck you.”

Dick sighs. “Alfred, will you please check his head? He got hit with a baseball bat on patrol. I think he has a concussion.”

“I do not have a concussion. You’re simply so irritating that it makes my head spin.”

“Alfred, tell him he has a concussion.”

“Master Damian—”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Pennyworth. I’m fine.”

Damian doesn’t even bother properly putting away his costume. He throws his gloves and cape on the ground as he goes upstairs, leaving the pieces of his costume to be picked up by someone else. Dick is still working on teaching him the whole “respect” thing.

Dick rubs the back of his neck, massages out the cricks. He’s so exhausted wrangling this kid day in, day out. They’ve only been patrolling together for three days and it’s a constant battle to reign Damian in, keep him from doing something he’ll regret.

Dick understands how Damian is feeling. Of course he’s hurt over his father’s death, no matter how little time they had together before it happened. Dick gets loss, knows exactly what it’s like to lose a parent at a young age. And he wants to help the kid, but he’s woefully out of his depth here. He’s never done this before.

Even with Jason and Tim, Bruce was the primary mentor/father figure. Dick was just the cool older brother who gave good hugs and was always around to talk shit about said mentor/father figure. Now Dick is the mentor/father figure. He’s not cut out for this.

“I’d advise you to be patient with the boy,” Alfred tells him. “He is going through a loss, just as you are. Not to mention the violent tendencies he is still overcoming.”

“I’ve been patient. He’s just not getting it.”

“Need I remind you that you posed your own challenge when you first came to live with us? Master Bruce must have spent weeks breaking down your walls and getting you to open up to us.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “I was never this difficult when I was Damian’s age.”

“Trust me, you were. But Bruce adapted. He realized that if he wanted to get through to you, he needed to work with you, rather than against you.”

“And that worked?”

“With time.” Alfred puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Be gentle with him. Damian may be an assassin, but beneath all that he is still a boy who lost his father. Keep that in mind when you talk to him, hm?” He hands Dick an ice pack. “Good luck.”

Damian is perfectly fine. No one in the League of Assassins ever took a day off because of a little concussion, if it even is that.

He sits on his bed, having changed out of his Robin uniform and into some pajamas. He was about to brush his teeth, but his head is spinning too much to stand at the moment. It feels like he’s on a carnival ride, but it’s fine. He’s fine. He can get stabbed five times and not break a sweat. He can handle a small head injury.

Then, like it’s teasing him on purpose, his stomach cartwheels and Damian goes pale. He bounds up and runs to the bathroom. He makes it there just in time to vomit, retching up his pre-patrol dinner.

Someone knocks on the door. “Damian? Are you okay?”

Damian chokes on bile, willing the dizziness to subside. “Go away, Grayson.”

There’s a sigh on the other side of the door. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t”—Damian pitches forward and vomits again—“I don’t need any help.” How many times does he need to say it? He was just fine before Grayson decided to meddle in his life, acting like he cares.

The nausea eventually passes. Damian stands on shaky legs, squinting against the brightness of the bathroom. When he leaves he finds Grayson sitting on his bed with an ice pack and a bottle of ibuprofen.

“How are you feeling?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” Dick holds out the pills. “Here. For the headache.”

“I don’t have a headache.” Even though he does.

“Humor me.”

Reluctantly, Damian takes the pills. Not because his head hurts badly enough to warrant painkillers, of course not. But if he gives in, maybe Grayson will stop whining and leave him alone. He just wants to go to sleep. The lights in here are even brighter than in the bathroom, but to turn them off while Grayson is still here would be broadcasting his weakness.

Damian climbs onto the bed, keeping a safe distance. Grayson tries to give him the ice pack, but Damian swats him away. “I don’t need that.”

“Your head hurts.”

“I can handle it.”

Grayson sighs again. “Just let me check your head and make sure it’s a minor concussion. Two seconds.”

“I’m fine.” How many times does Damian need to say it?

“You’re not.”

Damian’s eyes narrow. “Don’t try and tell me what I’m feeling. My well-being is none of your business.”

“Actually, it is my business. We’re partners now, which makes your health my responsibility. That’s how being Batman and Robin works.”

Damian scoffs. “Don’t pretend that being Batman gives you any real authority. You aren’t anywhere near my father’s level.”

“I know I’m not, but I’m trying my best. If we’re going to be a team, then I need you to meet me halfway.”

Damian can’t help but snort. “Suddenly we’re a team? If you really trusted me, you would believe me when I say I’m fine. You wouldn’t coddle me against my will, treating me like a helpless child.”

“You are a child, Damian. You’re a ten-year-old boy. Like it or not, you’re a child. And right now, my job is to keep you safe. That means making sure you’re okay whenever a thug with a baseball bat whacks you in the skull. That’s my job.”

“I can take care of myself!”

“No, actually, you can’t! If tonight is any indication, I can’t trust you to look after your own health. And I know I’m annoying and the worst person on the face of the earth for daring to help you, but kiddo—”

Damian’s head snaps to face him, his body going rigid. “Don’t call me that. I am not your son, and you are not my father!”

Dick flinches like he’s been struck. “That’s—Damian, I’m not—” He stops. Closes his eyes, takes a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, quieter this time. “I’m not trying to replace your dad. Our dad. That’s not what I want.”

“Whatever.” Damian pulls his pillow over his face, trying to drown out the sights and sounds around him. “Just go away.”

For once, Grayson allows himself to be stern when he says, “No. We’re talking about this now. Take off the pillow and look at me.” For some absurd reason, Damian finds himself obeying. It’s the first time Grayson has shown to have anything resembling a spine in the last three days.

“I’m not Bruce,” he says. “I couldn’t be him if I tried. But just because Bruce is...because he’s gone, that doesn’t mean we’re going to forget about him. I will never forget him for as long as I live, and I know you won’t either. You deserve to have your father, and I know exactly how you feel now that he’s gone. But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere if I can help it. I’ll be whatever you need, if that’s a brother or a mentor or a Batman.” He looks into Damian’s eyes, open and sincere. “I promise you, Damian, I will never take your father’s place if you don’t want me to.”

Damian keeps his expression carefully unchanged. “Good.”

“But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to guide you and keep you safe however I can. So, how about this: I won’t try and take Bruce’s place as your dad, and you let me help you when you need it. Like when you have a head injury, for example.” He sticks out his hand. “Deal?”

After a moment of deliberation, Damian shakes his hand. “Deal.”