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Damian Wayne's not perfect, even though he was programmed to be. It feels like a betrayal to his parentage when he spends the dark nights of patrol mulling over this realisation. When he was younger, and haughtier, the thought had never once struck him. He had been so assured in his lineage and his pre-planned genetics. When his mother told him about how special, how chosen , he truly was, down to every fibre of his being, he had taken it into stride. As an al Ghul and a Wayne, he deserved no less and had been taught to only take the best.
Now, he was older.
Instead of the open pavilions of Ra's favoured bases, Damian was faced by frigid walls. The Manor grew cold easily, and hardly ever filled with warmth, courtesy of Gotham's disastrous weather conditions. Dick Grayson had once jokingly proclaimed that Gotham was grey, no matter the season.
Damian no longer viewed it as a mere joke.
Grayson. Where to begin with him? His pseudo parent who filled in for both his mother and father? His older brother who discovered a bottomless void in Damian? His—
The man who gave him a chance, and saw him for the young boy he was.
He knew that, by everyone else's standards, he was difficult. Vegetarian to the boot after being unable to stomach killing an animal, arrogant to the bone, and blessed with a mind that ticked faster than it should. Some days, only his father and Tim Drake could keep up with him.
It frustrated Damian to no end.
His dietary requirements were of little consequence, in all honesty, though Jason Todd delighted in mocking him — for being able to slaughter humans, and not animals. One day, the man went too far in his teasing and Damian saw red.
Todd never visited when he was around after that.
It was a victory that should have left him delirious but, instead, he felt carved out hollow. That’s all he felt, nowadays. And Grayson could tell - he was the only one who ever could - yet his father saw no reason for concern, blaming it on teenage hormones, and citing that Drake had been just as brooding.
Sometimes, Damian hated his father.
He expected better from the legendary Batman. Meeting Bruce Wayne had been a larger mistake than he had ever calculated it to be. A part of him always knew that he was the type to hunger for bigger, and better, things. His father, this impossible god whose image had been immortalised in Damian's mind, turned out to be a sore disappointment. He wondered how Grayson had dealt with this man for over a decade.
To understand Bruce Wayne better, he had once taken a trip to the Wayne Family graveyard. He figured it was high time to acquaint himself with his grandparents. Pennyworth appeared mildly disgruntled when he asked for directions, an uncharacteristic slip of emotion. It seemed he did not want Damian to visit the graves.
Grayson ended up guiding him there.
He stood in silence, Grayson by his side, for three hours. At one point, his brother had deigned to sit cross-legged on the floor but Damian remained standing dutifully. Not even a gentle nudge from his favourite person could get him to relinquish his rigid position.
He ended up understanding his father even less after that visit.
Perhaps Alfred Pennyworth had already foreseen that. The old man was sharp in wit, spry for his age, and ended up knowing all of them better than they knew themselves. Except for Drake. Nobody knew him very well anymore. He was this untouchable enigma, shrouded in loss and mystery, and sometimes his presence alone burned Damian.
Drake was this constant reminder that his father could never love him properly. Not like how he loved the children that he had chosen.
Being the blood son had no credible merit when Bruce had no idea of his existence for the first ten years of his life. According to twisted rumours and his mother's haunted eyes, Bruce had no say in his existence either. It made Damian feel like an irreversible stain; it made him feel like everything he had been raised to defy, and be the polar opposite of.
His lineage should allow him to rule over others, to hold his head up high, and to claim his birthright as the fearsome Batman — literal vengeance. He was the heir of Ra's al Ghul too, though that title meant little when his grandfather tended to offer it to every promising man there was. Even Drake had been offered, numerous times.
At times, Damian felt understood by Cassandra Cain. She never said a word, preferring to speak her truth through movement, but sometimes her eyes shone sadly when they landed on him, and she ruffled his hair the way he liked it. They would spar, and to outsiders, or anybody who wasn’t Grayson, their duels appeared vicious and unforgiving and cutthroat. Efficient and deadly, as assassins should be. She knew the hard life, even if Cassandra had never been given material comforts to make up for the lack of actual comfort.
He supposed Cassandra was stronger than him, in every sense.
Damian bled nowadays. During patrol, Robin would get cocky or angry and both yielded horrendous results. When he lived with his mother and grandfather, the sun blessed him everyday as he trained, and it showed. Living in Gotham meant little to no exposure to the glorious sun, and that had begun to show too. Once, when he was in danger of bleeding out entirely, he groggily thought about how disappointed Talia would be upon seeing her son's skin tone.
His skin was paler than it should ever be.
Damian Wayne was many things, but he was not a fool. Nor would he ever allow himself to be mistaken for one. He would hide his discomfort underneath barbed words and imperious actions. Nobody would be the wiser to his inner turmoil; they would be so eager, practically falling over their feet, to dismiss him as a self-righteous brat.
Damian was okay with that.
That’s what he told himself.
I'm still a victim in my own right,
But I'm the villain in my own eyes.