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Damian pushes himself forward, body still screaming from the abuse his run-in with Hawke had put him through. So much of him wants to stop and to rest- to take a moment to breathe, because there’s so much going on right now, and he just hasn’t the time to sort through the clutter of emotions rushing through his brain.
What were those men doing with the book and the vials? What even is that book? How important is it to this tournament- and, the most important question of all: Why are Damian’s self-proclaimed siblings even here?
They shouldn’t have been able to find him. He’d covered his tracks so well; keeping his meetings with Mother safe under lock and key, ditching his old uniform and comms to make sure they couldn’t track him. Anger flares in his chest at the thought that Father had sent them in his stead.
He supposes he should be pleased that he hadn’t come. Damian’s last encounter with his father was far from pleasant- but, he’s doing better now. He’s not squatting in abandoned places anymore, scavenging for blankets and food.
No- he’s got something a little like a friend and he’s finally got something to fight for.
He needs to win the tournament. It doesn’t matter how many times he dies to do it- only once so far, given that the attack leading to his injury had taken place at night. He can die twice more. Then he’s out.
And- in a way, the tournament is better than being at home. He has Rose, here, even if she’s a bit pushy. She just wants him to talk with others. Just like Stephanie and Richard did.
No, Damian tells himself, sharply, as he vaults over another rooftop. Grayson. Brown.
Richard- Grayson forfeited any familiarity when he forgot Damian. Brown, by extent, lost his trust when she refused to come after him. (The rest of them- the rest of them had no reason to, after Alfred. Father blamed him- right? And Todd and Drake never had any reason to care about Damian, beyond the manor.) They didn’t deserve to be referred to with such respect.
(A sorry, wayward argument, Damian knows. He knew that, though he used last names to show people they weren’t his equal, most people used last names as signs of respect. But- they also stood for unfamiliarity. Fitting, considering Damian felt he didn’t even know Ri- Grayson anymore.)
He can hear Grayson’s shout billow behind him. He’s trying to get him to stop, or something- Drake shouts, So we can help you!, and Jason references Ravager again, and something inside of Damian makes him want to scream and shout because he’d thought he could trust her.
Damian lands in a crouch, grapple line flaring out behind him. “It’s the League of Lazarus Tournament,” he says, trying to make himself sound older. Distant. He’s fourteen, now- (is he? What happened to the year he was dead, does he get that year back- (There is a reason why Damian doesn’t like to think of his age)- or will he always be a year older than he feels-). Not a child.
Never a child.
He tells them he needs to get back to it- to the case. That’s all it is. A case. He’s killing again, sure, but no one is really dying- (he stumbles as Jason leaps from a chimney, something in his chest screaming). Father would be disappointed, but Father doesn’t matter.
Damian’s on his own. He’s got a friend who might not actually be his friend and something to focus on.
“It should tell you something that I’m here,” Jason tells him, as he gets closer. “If I can come home, so can you.”
It’s an invitation. An open door, back to Batcow and Alfred and Titus and home. But- the manor will never be home. Not with the memories of his failure pounding in his head. Damian knows as well as Jason does that he has no right going back- so why are they all trying?
Even though he wants to snarl- to bite back an insult- he knows the rage he feels is useless. He throws on a smirk he doesn’t really feel, puts on a self-righteous front, and then dashes ahead. “I’ll make you a deal!” he calls back, one hand wrapping around his mouth. “I’ll return to Gotham without a fight if you can catch me!”
And then he launches himself off of the nearest ledge.
(It feels like being back at home. It feels like long Gotham nights- or even a Blüdhaven ones, spent running around with Grayson while Father’s out on business.)
Drake is the first one who comes close to grabbing him. The Robin uniform he wears is an insult to the both of them, and a small flare of something he can’t quite name burns through his bloodstream. Drake shouldn’t be wearing the R, and not because it’s Damian’s. It’s been years since Damian last thought that way- he’d told Drake as much that it was time he forged his own path.
“Got him!” Drake yelps, fingers snatching the tail of Damian’s coat. Damian shouts and pushes himself upwards, forcing Drake to release his grip.
It’s a rookie mistake, stopping after that- Damian perches on top of a generator, glaring at Drake. It, too, is a rookie mistake to even open conversation- to say, “You know as well as I do that it’s a foolish decision to wear that R, Timothy.”
He says the name vindictively- but not with ill will towards Drake. Part of him wishes that Grayson were hearing him. That Grayson will connect the dots in that way only he and Alfred ever could, to realize what Damian is trying to say.
“Oh, not this again,” Drake groans. Then- “Wait, Timothy?”
Damian wants to snarl. To turn into something ugly and ferocious. Drake has forgotten their conversation from last year. (Doesn’t matter. Never matters.)
His emotions are jumbling up again. He’s not sure if Drake’s actually the one he’s mad at- or if it’s at himself, or Grayson, or Father. He needs to compartmentalize before everything starts falling apart. One mistake will end with him being shipped off to Gotham, unable to finish this tournament. Damian can’t let that happen.
“You shouldn’t be wearing it,” Damian whispers, closing his eyes.
A beat of silence.
Drake, who’d paused when Damian first spoke, launches himself at Damian. “Someone has to.”
Despite the way his ribs shriek, Damian pushes himself off of the generator and into a backflip, twisting mid-air in the way that Grayson had shown him. He lands on both feet and uses his momentum to push himself faster, just in time for Brown to leap down after him.
“I know how you feel, Damian,” she says, when she nears a little closer. “I’ve always felt like a bit of an outsider, too, but- we’re better together.”
Together? Damian thinks about shouting. Together, like we were when you all abandoned me? When it was just me on my own, trying to get Father’s attention? When it was just me on my own, after Alfred and Grayson and-
A sob bubbles up in his throat. He swallows it back and leaps up, flipping over Brown and Drake’s heads. He grabs at their capes and slams the two together, not trusting his voice at the moment. He doesn’t want to talk to Brown- doesn’t want to admit that she’s right in saying they were better together, but that it hurts to hear her say it.
No one was there for him when his world was falling apart. He acted out and Father came after him to pick up his mess- (to bring him home, to bring his son home, a voice in his head begs him to think)- but Brown did not. She has no right.
No right.
When they’ve both fallen, he shoots off a grapple line and swings off. Grayson joins him at his side, telling him, You can’t outrun me, Damian, but they both know that’s never been true.
He does something cruel- asks him if he was raised by clowns, calls him Ric, cuts his line. Damian doesn’t wait to watch him as he plummets; (doesn’t pause to think about the terror of the fall, of watching the ground approach furiously.)
He dodges the batarangs that follow with a series of elaborate flips (was it Grayson who taught him or the League, was it al Ghul or was it Wayne or was it Grayson-) and snarls, “Et tu, Reject?”, when he lands.
Something jostles and pain flares up. He tries not to curl up on himself.
“Don’t make me tranq you,” Todd says, aiming a gun to his chest. Damian knows it’s not full of real bullets, but a small part of him wishes it were, because then he could pretend it’s not his brother hunting him down and that this is just some thug he’s found in an alley.
“Everyone pretends like you’re so cool just because you’re the Robin who died,” Damian snarls, proud of the way his voice doesn’t waiver. He throws his arms up, trying not to remember the feeling of his heart being torn out of his chest. “Who hasn’t?”
Heretic. Den Darga. Drowning and burning and dying, time and time again, and he knows that doesn’t erase what the Joker did, but he still feels his tens of deaths dig into his arms and it makes him want to drop to his knees.
“You’re trying to make me angry so my aim is off,” Todd replies, calmly.
No. No- he’s trying to ask for help.
As if he deserves it. As if he deserves to have Todd understand what he’s trying to say- understand that he’s died and keeps dying and is going to die twice more, because that’s the limit and he’s not sure he’s strong enough-
Whatever is going on in the tournament- it’s bigger than him.
That scares him.
He pushes back the thought. “I’ve watched you for years, Jason,” he says, and the name feels wrong on his tongue, but he uses it anyway, and pushes forward. “Grayson is the most experienced. Timothy” -understand it, he needs Jason to understand it, just like Grayson would have- “is the smartest. Brown is the bravest.”
He stops in front of Todd, peering up at him. Something hitches in his chest. He pretends like he doesn’t want to fall apart.
“You?” Damian breathes in. “You’re the most emotional.”
And then he does something selfish.
He wraps his arms around Todd’s waist and pulls himself flush against him, head resting right over Todd’s heart. It’s off- wrong, almost, because the last time he’d hugged Jason, he only came up to his stomach. It’s the shoes he’s wearing, he knows- he hasn’t grown much in the past few years and he’s almost afraid he never will, but that’s neither here nor there.
It’s almost easy to close his eyes and imagine he’s hugging Father; his body relaxes and the hurt he’s been feeling ebbs back. But- as soon as he realizes he’s thinking of Father, he freezes- that’s not fair to Todd and it’s a childish thought nonetheless. Damian’s not doing this for comfort. (Shouldn’t be, at least.)
He’s doing this, he thinks as he pulls out a taser, to prove that he’s cruel. Todd tucks his head down and tightly wraps his arms around Damian- even though Damian knows he doesn’t deserve it, he wishes he didn’t have to break the hold.
Wishes that he could stay here for forever.
But- no. Grayson is experienced; Drake smart; Brown brave; Todd emotional.
Damian is cruel and cunning and vicious. Damian is bloodthirsty and a killer at heart.
(Damian was raised this way. It’s the way he’ll die, too. Father couldn’t save him, could he?)
The sharp ttzzzzZZT of the taser sounds off and Todd falls to the ground, electricity running over his body. Damian takes off before it’s over, murmuring an apology he knows Todd won’t hear.
Four down. He’s island-bound, now- no one can stop him. No one should even try. This should prove to them that he’s unstoppable. This path he’s taking will not end and he’s better off for it. He doesn’t have to hold back.
He stops at a rooftop overlooking the docks. “There they are,” he tells himself, standing as tall as he dares. (His body cries at the motion, begging for him to curl up small. When his spine was replaced, that had been the most comfortable position.)
“Happy birthday,” says Grayson, holding something out to him. Damian whirls on him, heart pounding out of his chest without his permission. “You think we’d forget?”
Yes, Damian doesn’t say. You did before.
(Alfred had made him a cake. They’d celebrated together, before that robin appeared on the windowsill.)
“You’re late,” Damian says, curtly.
“You weren’t easy to find.”
Good. He hadn’t made himself easy to find- which means, just as they had revealed, it wasn’t a slip-up Damian had made that had brought his family flocking. It had been Rose.
He glances back to the boat, bobbing in the high tide. “You might have convinced the rest of them that I need saving, but I don’t.” I don’t deserve it, Grayson. I’ll never understand why you don’t realize it.
Damian knows it’s a dirty card to play just as he says it- “I wish you’d just trust me.”
Even so, Grayson doesn’t reply. He just holds out the box expectantly and Damian takes it gingerly into his hands. He pulls at the bow carefully- this is the first gift he’s gotten from Grayson since Ric. Since- before Ric. (He thinks about their reunion, when it turned out Grayson was alive. The hug, powerful and safe. He knows he won’t get that sort of gift this time.)
He opens the box. There, inside, sits a black bar- printed on top says, Versus the World.
Damian’s head snaps up to meet Grayson’s gaze, confusion swirling in his chest. He carefully pulls it from the box and lets the box drop to the ground. It’s almost a grounding weight; it half-pulls him to the reality he’s in, quelling his emotions, and half-returns him to a time, years ago, where it was him and Grayson against the world.
“Alfred told me, once, that he knew I could take on the world,” Grayson explains, carefully. His tone is fond, not heart-broken or grief-ridden. Damian’s almost afraid that, if he speaks, his will be. “He made this from a trapeze bar that was in my family’s act- painted it black, for me.”
Grayson painstakingly explains the meaning of the bar- how it helps him remember that he’s from two worlds. Bruce’s and his parents’. Whenever he speaks Alfred’s name, Damian fights not to wince, but he can’t keep it back when tears start prickling in his eyes. He reaches up without thinking and pulls off his mask, cutting Grayson off mid-sentence.
“I was there,” Damian says, quietly. His voice breaks. “I saw.”
“I know,” his brother replies. He takes a step forward and reaches for Damian, pulling him flush against him. It’s just as wrong as the hug with Todd was- some childish part of Damian begs him to yank off his shoes so he can rest easily against his brother’s chest, like he used to do, years and years ago.
Damian squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t make himself say anything- can’t make himself hug Grayson back like his life depends on it. Instead, his knees buckle beneath him and he falls, Grayson easing the two of them to the ground. This hold is easier; more familiar. Damian hides his head in the crook of Richard’s neck and begins to cry.
“Shhh,” Richard whispers, pressing his lips against Damian’s hair. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when it happened. I know it doesn’t fix it- but I’m here, now. I can promise I’ll be here now.”
“You can’t,” Damian protests, voice muffled. He chokes on a sob and spits it out harshly. His body shakes and begs for him to stop- the pain is white hot. “You can’t promise that.”
Richard ducks his head down, pressing Damian against him more tightly. Damian loops his arms around his brother’s shoulders and pretends like it isn’t killing him to stay. (It’d kill him to leave, it’d kill him to stay, it’d kill him, in the end, and he’s going to die, that’s the prophecy-)
“I can promise you I’ll find you,” Richard says, finally. “I can promise you that, no matter what happens to me, I will always find you, Damian.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I should.” Richard starts to pull back, but Damian can’t stop the whine in his throat. Besides Jason, he hasn’t been held like this in so, so long. “You deserve good things, Damian, and if I can help give them to you-” His voice wavers, clogged with tears. Damian’s not sure if he wants him to continue on. “That’s it, isn’t it? You think you don’t deserve it?”
(He needed Grayson to understand- to understand why he called Drake Timothy and Richard Grayson; to understand that he mourned him and that by leaving him, Richard had hurt him; that by leaving, Richard had cemented the truth into him. People do not stay. They do not stay, and that is the core of it, and how dare Richard let Damian get so close to him when it’s only going to end with Damian dead, dead, dead-)
Hands find their way onto Damian’s cheeks. “Hey- hey. Breathe, Dames, you’re okay.”
Damian moves his own hands so they’re gripping the tight fabric of Richard’s suit. It’s hard- he winds up scrambling for a hand-hold, more-or-less, until Richard takes his hands into his, rubbing circles over the backs of them with his thumbs.
“I’m going to die,” Damian gasps out. “I’m going to-”
Richard frowns- shakes his head. “You’re okay, Dames, I promise. Come on- in and out, follow my lead.”
(How dare Richard make him trust him, how dare Richard hold him like this, how dare Richard come back into his life and not understand, yet understand perfectly- how dare-)
Damian, at his core, is twelve, thirteen, fourteen, and he can’t. He is going to die or Richard is going to die and they are going to lose each other again, and Damian doesn’t think he’ll be able to survive it. Not again. Never again.
“How-?” he chokes out. How will you find me, how will we stay together?
“How?” Richard repeats, confused. “How…?”
“How will you find me-? Why-?” His voice sounds so small. Damian wants to tear himself apart and fix it; wants to echo Richard’s steadier tone and sound like a carbon copy of his brother. “I don’t-”
Richard tugs him close again. “I can’t tell you how,” he replies, apologetic, “because I don’t plan on losing you again-”
“-the tournament-”
Richard shushes him again. His chin settles atop Damian’s head- he, he realizes, hasn’t felt this safe in months. “I’ll find you because-” With a pause, he takes a moment to solidify his voice, saying the next part with utmost certainty. “Because you’re my Robin.”
He says it like it makes perfect sense. Like it’s the answer to an equation they’ve never been able to solve.
And- the thing is-
It makes perfect sense to Damian. Because: you’re my Robin. Because: you’re my Batman.
Because: we were the greatest.
Damian holds Richard tighter. Unlike with Todd, he doesn’t plan on letting go.